His mother leaned forward, obviously ready to dish. Bless the woman, she had always been willing to get her hands dirty discussing things that would have made another witch swoon into her cauldron.
“Shall we discuss what’s left of the victim, or what the working of that spell does to the mage?” she asked. “Well, to your sire, actually, given that he used it so often that the effects might be more readily examined.”
“Exactly that,” Acair agreed. “We can say without quibbling what was left of those he plied his trade upon, which wasn’t much.”
“Lumps of sorrow and misery,” she agreed. “Just my sorts of lads, but you know me.”
Indeed, he did. He looked at her thoughtfully. “So, what is your opinion on what the working of that spell did to him? Did he lose parts of his soul in the bargain?”
She shrugged again. “There was so little of his black soul left by the time I met him, I don’t know if I could answer that properly. Did he have no soul to start with, or did Diminishing cost him what he had left?” She looked at him with eyes that saw far too clearly. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what Ruamharaiche’s well took of him when he lost control of himself there, if he had so little soul left. I understand he certainly didn’t lose any of his power, but there had to have been a cost of some kind.”
“I’m not traipsing to Shettlestoune to ask him,” Acair said grimly.
“Don’t look at me for that answer,” she said. “I’m not even sure knowing the particulars would aid you, not that he would admit what it had cost him. If you want my advice, think on that name I gave you.”
“Sladaiche.”
“I believe that’s the one.”
“From whence did he hail, did you say?”
“I didn’t say.” She pulled his cup away from him. “Best toddle on off and find out for yourself.”
He rose, leaned over and kissed her cheek, then leapt back and dashed for the door before she cuffed him.
“Oh,” she said, “one last thing.”
He had to admit he didn’t care for the tone of her voice or how just the sound of those words seemed to bring everything in the world to a grinding halt. He turned around and looked at her with a fair bit of reluctance. “Dare I ask?”
“I think you should go visit your grandmother.”
He staggered. He staggered into the doorframe, true, which he supposed was the only thing keeping him on his feet. “You cannot be serious.”
“Think on what her library contains. I have limited myself to an unvarnished and factual record of the Nine Kingdoms, but she has collected an entirely different sort of thing. You should know, having nosed about in her library more often than you should have. Potions, oddities, rare and unusual books that might or might not have anything to do with the world as we see it.” She nodded knowingly. “Faery tales aren’t always what they seem to be.”
“You want me to take my life in my hands and slip inside her house to look through her collection of children’s books?” Acair asked incredulously.
“Dolt, where do you think those stories come from?” she asked in exasperation. “The man you may or may not be hunting faded out of all histories centuries ago. For all I know, he’s older than that ageless prince from Cothromaiche. He was the stuff of legend when your sire started investigating him and that was centuries ago. If Gair could have found him, he would have. I suspect he’s likely a miserable seller of porridge located on the same street as your tailor, hiding in plain sight.”
“My late tailor, you mean,” Acair said, “but the point is still well taken.” He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “And you think Granny will tell me where he is?”
“I think your grandmother, my wee brat, will slay you the moment she claps eyes on you. She’s bitterly disappointed in the way you turned out. You also nicked one too many of her little figurines. She paid a great deal for them from Roland of Gairn and his progeny, and you know how rare they are. A woman doesn’t forgive that sort of thing.”
“They made excellent hostess gifts.”
“Which put her in the position of seeing her treasures in the glass cabinets of various noblewomen she loathes whilst she was unable to, for the sake of decorum, announce that the goods in question were actually hers.”
Acair supposed it might be wise not to mention the other things he’d liberated from his maternal grandmother’s cache of things he’d been certain she would never miss.
“I understand she has a tome called The Book of Oddities and Disgusting Spells,” his mother said placidly. She picked up her knitting. “Right up the old alleyway where you’re concerned, I imagine.”
He considered. “Think she would let me have a look at it?”
“Of course not.” His mother snorted. “As I told you before, if you show your pretty face at her gates, she’ll slay you as soon as look at you.”
He tsk-tsked her. “Are you suggesting, Mother mine, that I sneak over the walls and do a bit of burgling?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, but make certain you take note of any new spells she has guarding her walls. She’s terribly stingy with what she invents, which I find surprising considering how popular my diaries are. You would think she might want to figure prominently in one or two, but there you have it. Relatives are a mystery.”
He couldn’t have agreed more. He made her a low bow, then steered himself in the direction of loud weeping. He paused at the doorway of the fancy parlor and shook his head over the scene of devastation that greeted him. Mansourah was standing in the middle of the chamber, drenched to the skin by two wailing workers of magics that should have had him weeping. Acair cleared his throat loudly.
“You do know, ladies, that Prince Mansourah’s twin, Turah, is even more handsome than he is.”
His cousins turned and looked at him as one.
“Is he?” they asked, also in unison.
He suppressed the urge to shiver and instead carried on with the business of getting his little company underway. “Indeed he is, so there’s plenty of Nerochian royalty to go around. No need to fight over this one when there’s more to be had at home—and definitely a better specimen. I’d rush off and see for myself if I were you two.”
The breeze left by their passing came close to knocking him off his feet, but at least the deed was done. Mansourah walked unsteadily over to him.
“I should kill you for the insult, but instead I find myself wanting to kiss your boots.”
“Hold that thought,” Acair advised. “I would also suggest not going home for a bit. They’ll lose interest after a while, but I have the feeling that might take longer than you’d care for. You might want to warn your brother.”
Mansourah smiled briefly. “Or I might not.”
Acair looked on him with a friendlier eye and would have complimented him on that lack of brotherly compassion, but he didn’t want to offer praise too soon. A few more opportunities to do a foul turn instead of a good one, then they might have something to discuss.