“I might,” he agreed quietly, “though I’m not sure I can describe the lengths I will go to before I ask you to put yourself in harm’s way for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, attempting to sound brisk and businesslike. “You’re a ruthless, evil mage with a terrible reputation who I’m certain never worries about the state of his companions. That, and you hid behind me in Angesand and the library without a second thought which tells us both all we need to know about your true feelings.”
He smiled wearily. “I can only hope to avoid that sort of thing in the future.”
She would have happily continued to poke at him, but the expression on his face stopped her. “What did you find that was worse, Acair?” she asked, not at all interested in the answer but knowing she had no choice but to have it.
He paused, then sighed. “My mother thinks a truly vile little black mage who lived eons ago has slithered forth again and is making trouble. Stealing souls and that sort of rot.”
She blinked. “What?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t suggest it to her, she suggested it to me. Utter rubbish, of course.”
That wasn’t the word she would have chosen. She wasn’t sure what to call what she’d just heard, but she thought terrifying might be close to the mark.
“Does she think he’s making those spots of shadow?”
“I believe so, but I also think she may have been overcome by her recent matchmaking success, resulting in her making assumptions she shouldn’t. I’m sure she’s mistaken.”
She suspected he wasn’t sure at all. She continued on with him for a bit longer, waiting for him to spew out what she was certain he hadn’t yet told her.
“About those spots,” he said slowly.
She stopped and looked at him. “What?”
“My mother believes that in order to fight their maker, I must go round to scenes of past triumphs and collect pieces of myself I left there.” He glanced at her. “So I’ll have as much of my black soul as possible available for the final fight.”
She retrieved her jaw from where it was hanging halfway to her chest. “That’s completely daft.”
“Thank you,” he said with feeling. “I agree.”
She supposed the time to point out to him that a pool of shadow had ripped off a piece of his soul—his words, not hers—back in Sàraichte was not the present moment. It was likely the last place he wanted to return to. She watched him watch the forest for a bit, then cleared her throat.
“So,” she began, “what now?”
He sighed deeply and looked at her. “I believe we should visit the scene of my first triumph, namely the cottage of the mage whose spell I stole right off his mantel.”
She found she had absolutely nothing to say to that. The thought of Acair potentially knowing who seemed to be setting snares designed to steal souls was terrible enough. Having to scurry around to places where he hadn’t been on his best behavior was likely going to be dangerous, if not fatal.
Believing that souls could be lost, collected, or used against another in a battle of magic was almost more than she, even with her newfound acceptance of a reality that had never been hers, could begin to believe.
“If the house still exists,” he said carefully, “I suppose it would be as good a place as any to start.”
She nodded, but could only hope it wouldn’t be the place that finished them.
Twelve
Acair stood near the fire in his mother’s kitchen and contemplated the dregs of something in his cup that might have risen to the level of poison with a goodly nudge. He had been at the activity for longer than he should have, but he was having thoughts that he wasn’t sure he cared for, he who had never backed away from any unpleasant thought before. He had been up before dawn—an alarming trend he would put a stop to just as soon as his life was again his to call his own—pacing and wringing his hands.
Chasing after bits of his lost soul? Looking for a mage who collected souls like he himself collected spells? Yet another indeterminate number of leagues spent with that pampered puss, Mansourah of Neroche?
Appalling.
He noted something out of the corner of his eye and was relieved to find it was his mother, not some new spell of death bent on his destruction. She was watching him far too closely for his peace of mind, which should have been unsettling all on its own, but there you had it. His mother was terrifying.
He rather liked that about her, truth be told.
“Aye?” he asked warily.
“Just watching the wheels turn,” she said with a shrug.
Well, if she was going to do that, there was no reason in not clearing up a few last-minute things with her. “There is something that still puzzles me,” he admitted.
“Why that red-haired vixen tolerates you?” she asked. “Me too, but perhaps she took a blow to the head recently and lost all sense.”
He pursed his lips. “I try not to discuss it with her.”
“Wouldn’t want to scare her off.” She walked into her kitchen, took the cup from him, then refilled it before she sat it and herself down at the table. She pushed it into an empty spot and nodded. “Tell Mother about your confusion, lad, and we’ll see if superior wit and wisdom can carry the day.”
“And if not?”
“Well, I’ll make a note of it and rejoice after you’re gone, of course.” She patted her hair. “I’m on my best behavior for the moment. Never know when that luscious piece of goodness from Neroche might stumble into me kitchen for coffee and a biscuit or two.” She lifted her eyebrows briefly. “I have a reputation for hospitality to maintain, you know.”
Her reputation included mostly tales of what—and who—she buried in her garden, but he supposed that wasn’t a useful thing to bring up at the moment. He sat down, sipped, gasped, then leaned his elbows on the table to avoid falling off his chair. The woman’s coffee rivaled the king of Durial’s ale for its vileness. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain the two of them didn’t have some sort of foul contest going to see who could brew the most undrinkable swill possible. It took him a moment or two to regain his composure, but when he thought he could speak with any success, he looked at his dam.
“Let us concede the point that a mage loses a part of his soul when he works black magic.”
“Not all dark spells, of course. Just the truly vile ones.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve made a list of those.”
“Didn’t suppose I needed to, especially where you’re concerned,” she said, “but we’ll discuss that later. Go on. You’re having thoughts and I don’t want to interrupt such a monumental event.”
He would have scowled at her, but he was too unsettled to—an unsettling turn of events in and of itself.
“Let’s agree on more dire pieces of magic,” he said. “We could argue spells of death, surely, but I say we concentrate on Diminishing.”