“I understand Léirsinn is outside trying to convince your pony not to stomp you to death when he sees you,” Mansourah offered. “The sooner we interrupt her, the better.”
Acair shook his head in wonder at the way things were looking up. Nastiness from a prince of Neroche, a mystery from his mother, and a potential bit of excitement at his Gran’s. He thought it best to bid his mother a final good-bye, collect Léirsinn and Mansourah, and march off into the pleasant morning light whilst the winds were so favorable.
He didn’t imagine that would last.
? ? ?
Several hours later, he was making his way through the forest to the north of his sire’s rotting, bastard-brother-infested keep and marveling at how quickly the worm, as the saying went, had turned. He felt exactly as if he were walking over his own grave.
It was absolutely ridiculous, of course, but that was his life of late. No magic, no mischief, and no ability to properly astonish the glorious woman walking next to him, never mind giving that cloying prince of Neroche a proper send-off. All he could do was crawl about like a pitiful mortal, wondering when the next mighty mage would find him in the way and squash him like a bug.
Things had to change, and quickly.
That was precisely why he was stooping to the madness his mother had suggested of traipsing hither and yon to collect the bits of himself he had apparently left behind whilst about his three favorite activities, a list he supposed he didn’t need to make for himself. He could hardly bring himself to think on any of them without indulging in a heavy sigh. So much havoc going undone was such a terrible waste. Telling his companions about his escapades had lifted his spirits briefly, but now he was back to the dull business of keeping himself alive long enough to have his magic back.
It took less time to reach the site of his initial foray into true shady-doings than he’d anticipated, though he supposed he should have expected that. He had been a lad of tender years, after all, venturing forth from Ceangail on his own two feet in deference to stealth. The appropriate spot had seemed quite a distance to him at the time, but he now realized that it was closer than he should have been comfortable with. He held up his hand to stop his companions, hoping they would ignore how that hand trembled.
“We’re here.”
Mansourah, to his credit, only frowned at the house sitting there on the sunnier side of the slope. Acair had little idea what sorts of things that lad there had combined as a strapping youth, but he imagined it had included what for those Nerochian lads might be counted as the occasional bad deed. Cutting the blooms off their mother’s rosebushes, pushing over the occasional snoozing bovine, filching the odd bottle of wine from their father’s stash of that nasty stuff from Penrhyn, who knew? It seemed to be the extent of the imagination of those northern lads, so he couldn’t mock them for it. One lived with one’s failings as best one could.
“Have you never been back here?” Léirsinn murmured.
“Return to the scene of such a prattish crime?” he said with as much disdain as he could muster, which unfortunately wasn’t much. “Nay. I only revisit scenes of past triumphs. This doesn’t qualify.”
He supposed he didn’t need to add that he was finding those visits increasingly difficult to make during daylight hours, but what was there to be done? He was a black mage extraordinaire and some people just had no ability to enjoy the odd ribald jest or the nicking of an irreplaceable portrait. That was hardly his fault.
But returning to a place languishing in the middle of trees that he was sure clung to life through sheer willpower alone? Preposterous. It looked nothing more than what it was: a modest country house set on a small landhold where the owner had likely died without heirs, no doubt a fortnight or two after he’d taken a tumble off an orchard ladder.
Acair steadfastly refused to think about the fact that he had knocked just such a man off just such a ladder. That crotchety old bastard had been a mage. He certainly should have been able to take care of himself.
“Well, what now?”
“An excellent question, young Mansourah,” Acair said absently. “I think a brief turn about the old place might suit.”
“If you say so,” Mansourah said doubtfully.
Acair excused himself and went to do just that. A careful scouting of the border of the orchard and house convinced him only that he’d been a fool to even set foot near the place, deliciously tempting rumors aside. If he’d had the wit the gods had given a common garden slug—something his mother was convinced he didn’t possess—he never would have bothered.
He rejoined his companions, checked briefly for any untoward familiarity with Léirsinn on Mansourah’s part that would spell the end of the man’s life, then frowned.
“I don’t see anything, but perhaps I’m not seeing what’s there.” He looked at Mansourah. “Don’t suppose you’d care to have a look about, old bean?”
Mansourah took his bow in his hand, shifted his quiver of arrows to quite possibly a more advantageous locale on his back, then melted into the shadows of the forest.
“How does he do that?” Léirsinn asked, sounding a bit more breathless than circumstances warranted.
“It’s likely how he manages free ale,” Acair said sourly. “He sneaks up and poaches it whilst the lad who paid for it is distracted. I’m sure his technique has been perfected in just such spots as that rather rough pub we frequented in Neroche.”
She gave him a chiding look. “I believe he’s a very skilled bowhunter.”
“Yet still so unwed,” Acair said, shaking his head. “One wonders why, doesn’t one?”
“One does,” she agreed. “One is also a little surprised there isn’t a line of noblewomen forming somewhere for your eligible self.”
“I’m surprised by that as well,” he said honestly. “I think there might be, but the trouble is I’ve yet to encounter anyone from that very long line whose first instinct was to stab me with a pitchfork. I might have to look further afield.”
She smiled and he had to remind himself quite sharply not to fall into those limpid leaf-green pools she called eyes.
“You might,” she agreed.
He reached for her hand and tucked it under his elbow before he dropped to his knees right there on that carpet of fallen pine needles and spewed out a maudlin sentiment or two. Her fingers were freezing and that in spite of the winter clothing—completely black, of course—his mother had so thoughtfully provided for them. If he and Léirsinn looked a bit like a pair of ne’er-do-wells out for a bit of burgling, well, his mother was nothing if not practical.
Mansourah, of course, would need to travel a few more leagues out of Fionne of Fàs’s sights before he dared discard the lovely ermine-trimmed cloak and boots he was sporting. At least the man had managed to escape without committing to wed either of the twins he’d left sobbing into their porridge.