Dreamspinner Page 6

  “Sounds terrible,” Rùnach said, trying to imbue his tone with just enough sympathy to allow the captain to feel as if he’d been heard, but not enough to encourage him. “Bad ale, no doubt.”

  That the captain didn’t respond to that but plunged straight into a description of his troubling nocturnal visions said something perhaps about the seriousness of them. Rùnach tried to pay attention, but truly he had no desire to listen to anyone’s dreams of barnacles and leaky hulls and—

  Rùnach held up his hand suddenly. “What did you say?”

  The captain frowned, as if he were slightly disappointed in Rùnach’s ability to listen. “I said I had dreams of streams running through my belowdecks.”

  “I’m no seaman,” Rùnach said, “but aren’t mice generally the only thing running belowdecks?”

  Captain Burke drew himself up. “Not on my ship. Well,” he amended, “not often. And if it were just mice troubling my dreams, I wouldn’t be so unsettled. Unfortunately, ’tis those streams that won’t leave me be.”

  It was obvious that the captain wasn’t going to let him be until he’d unburdened himself fully, so Rùnach leaned back against the railing alongside his host and folded his arms over his chest, settling in for what he could tell would be a fairly long conversation.

  “Are these ordinary streams, or something different?” he asked politely.

  “Well, that’s just the thing,” the captain said slowly. He looked at Rùnach. “Apart from the fact that they’re running places they shouldn’t, there’s what they seem to be made of that’s alarming.”

  Rùnach felt time slow. He supposed that sensation might have been exacerbated by the slowing of the ship as it rolled into port, but then again, perhaps not. He couldn’t say that he had retained many of the gifts he’d taken for granted in his former life, but he’d seemingly been blessed with a pair of them. He could see perfectly well in the dark, something not even his father could manage, and he had a nose for…well, it was almost as if he could sense the trails left by magic before that magic had carved its way into whatever surface it would choose.

  He managed to suppress the urge to flee simply because there was nowhere to flee to. He gave Captain Burke a look he hoped wasn’t too pained. “And what do you think these rivers are made of?”

  The good captain looked as uncomfortable as Rùnach felt. He had to take a deep breath, seemingly bolster his courage with a selection of hearty curses, and scowl fiercely at a ship’s mate or two before he spat out the word with as much haste as possible.

  “Magic.”

  Of course. Rùnach decided that the most sensible course for him would be to get as far away from his companion and his speculations as quickly as possible. “How interesting,” he managed, though he found it anything but.

  “Or it might have been dreams.” He looked at Rùnach. “Rivers of dreams found within a dream.”

  Rùnach shivered. He shouldn’t have found any of it unsettling. He wasn’t troubled by dreams from his past or his future, a fact for which he was enormously grateful at the moment. The truth was, his life was nothing but easy movement from one blissful night’s sleep to the next. And soon his days were going to be filled with the hard, honest work of a man doing things in a perfectly normal way, which would lead to more restful nights’ sleeps thanks to an abundance of honest toil. Dreams about rivers and magic and rivers of magic—

  “They seemed to be pulling at my ship,” Captain Burke continued thoughtfully. “Pulling it apart at the seams, if you like, one board at a time—nay, but a splinter at a time, eating away at the foundations of it all.” He looked at Rùnach. “A mystery, isn’t it?”

  Rùnach didn’t like the picture that painted for him. He’d had enough experience in a former lifetime with magic lurking beneath foundations of all sorts of things to be happy he would never need encounter it again.

  “It is indeed a mystery,” he agreed, and it was one he had no interest in investigating further. “I’m sure it will all clear itself up soon enough.” He fished about in his pocket and pulled out a gold coin. “Give that to the little lad with no boots, won’t you? He’ll need gear, I imagine.”

  The captain looked faintly disappointed—perhaps he had hoped for a solution to his restless nights—but he took the coin just the same. “He’s been sewing for what silver pennies I’m willing to give him, but I’ll give him this as well. Very generous, my lord.”

  “I told you,” Rùnach said, “I am no lord.”

  The captain shrugged. “Quality displays itself.”

  “You might be surprised,” Rùnach said under his breath, but he supposed the captain hadn’t heard him for his sudden bellowing at one of his men. Rùnach was happy to see him go off to attend to his own affairs and leave tales of his nightly perturbations behind.

  Rivers of magic, rivers of dreams. What rot. The sooner he was away from a man who dreamed either, the happier he would be.

  The ship docked, and none too soon to Rùnach’s mind. He suppressed the urge to look for that scrawny lad and make certain he reached his destination in safety. It was none of his business. He instead walked over to the side of the ship and put himself at the head of the line to disembark, because he had things to be doing and no time to aid foolish boys who should have remained at home. He had the work of a simple soldier before him. No overwhelming quests, no dangerous forays into places better left unexplored, no marching off into the gloom to right wrongs that could be better righted by someone else.

  And no rivers of magic and dreams running inside banks no mortal could see.

  Nay, he would gain Weger’s mark over his brow, see what glory and riches it brought him, then live out his life in relative obscurity in some place where he wouldn’t have to think too often about what he had been.

  It was much safer that way.

  It was almost dawn—after a night spent walking thanks to that irascible stallion of his who had given him a final view of his tail feathers as he’d flown off to do heaven only knew what—before he realized that he was being followed.

  He cursed his stupidity. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t accustomed to looking over his shoulder to see what lurked in the shadows. When one lived in a university full of mages, one tended to want to know what was loitering out of sight. Why he hadn’t been just as aware in a forest of ancient trees, he couldn’t have said. Perhaps the lack of sleep on board Burke’s ship had been more detrimental to his wits than he’d suspected it would be.

  He continued on for a bit until the opportunity to duck into the shadows appeared, then he slipped off the road to his left. He stood behind a sturdy tree and waited for his would-be companion to pass him.

  He was somehow not terribly surprised to find it was the lad whose passage he’d paid for. Of course, the youth was again without either cloak or boots. He was limping along at a good pace, though, so perhaps he’d managed breakfast before he’d been robbed again. That haste didn’t seem to be keeping him warm, something Rùnach could understand. Even for spring, it was damned cold still.

  He opened his mouth to call out, then shut it with a snap. To his surprise, not only had he been followed, but his follower was being followed. Rùnach reached out and yanked the lad directly in front of him off the road and into the shadows, then clamped a hand over his mouth before the boy could so much as squeak. He endured a feeble elbow in his gut, but then even his captive seemed to sense there was something amiss, for he went completely still.

  And in that moment, Rùnach realized something very important.

  The lad he was holding captive was not a lad.

  He saved that as something to think about later and concentrated on the man sauntering down the road toward them. The man had neither sword nor bow, which made Rùnach very uneasy. He would be the first to admit that he was a very poor judge of who had magic and who didn’t, but the sight of a man walking through the woods without any sort of protection bespoke either bravado Rùnach wasn’t interested in challenging or
magic he didn’t want to encounter.

  He held his breath as the man in the road stopped, tilted his head to one side, and listened for things perhaps only he could hear. He frowned thoughtfully, then walked on.

  The lad—or, rather, the lass—Rùnach was holding tried to pull away from him. He tightened his arm around her waist.

  “Scream if you like,” he breathed, “and alert that man out there to our location. I guarantee he’ll have much more in mind than simply joining us for the breaking of our fast.”

  She went still again. Rùnach stood with her in the dark, grateful for the shadows of the trees, and waited until he could see the man no longer.

  He considered the possible identity of that traveler for a moment or two, then shook his head. There were many dark-haired men in the world, many who looked as if they had a hint of elven blood flowing through their veins, perhaps even a few who looked as if they might have sprung out of Ceangail—

  Nay, it was impossible. It was still quite dark and whilst his sight in the dark was excellent, he was extremely weary and, he could admit now that he was no longer on board, still a little seasick. He was imagining things. He had not just seen whom he’d thought he’d seen.

  He waited a bit longer just to be safe, then removed his hand from his companion’s mouth. She jerked away from him and spun around to face him. She was bleeding down the side of her head, which led him to believe she had had a bad night. He started to reach out to touch her head only to have her duck away from his hand.

  “And just what was that about?” she demanded in a furious whisper, gesturing down the road.

  Rùnach wasn’t sure if she was angry with him or terrified by what she’d seen. Given that she’d apparently been robbed thrice in the past se’nnight, perhaps she had more reasons for fury than he wanted to know. Or perhaps she thought she might warm herself with a bit of perfectly reasonable indignation.

  “That was about you following me,” he returned, quite reasonably he thought, “and someone else following you. I didn’t care for the dance, so I decided to make a change to the pattern.”

  She put her shoulders back. “I wasn’t following you. I simply happened to be going in your direction.”

  Rùnach suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, then undid the catch of his cloak. He reached out and swung it around her shoulders, then started to fasten the clasp for her before it occurred to him that he wouldn’t have done the like for any lad he knew. He pulled back quickly, then returned to folding his arms over his chest. It was a handy thing, that, because it kept him from reaching out to finger either her shorn hair or her very pale cheeks.

  And then he realized what she’d said.

  “My direction,” he echoed. “To where?”

  “That, good sir, is none of your business,” she said, lifting her chin. “And while your generosity does you credit, I cannot accept this—”

  “Keep the cloak,” he said shortly, “and save me the sight of your shivering self whilst we discuss exactly where you think you’re going on this road that only leads to one place.”

  She stepped backward. “I must be on my way. I fear I cannot repay you for the cloak.”

  “No need,” he said, waving away her words, “but let us discuss this road you’re thinking of taking—”

  “Again, none of your affair.” She nodded firmly, as if she perhaps sought to convince them both of her determination. “I have business.”

  He watched her turn and walk out onto the road, then considered a bit more. He supposed it was possible that she was fleeing something unsavoury—an unfortunate betrothal, or an iron-handed father, or perhaps even a controlling mother—but that would surely lead her to seek refuge with a grandmother or a great-aunt who would be equal to the task of sheltering her from such annoying relatives. He supposed it was possible that there existed the odd hamlet tucked along the coast, supplier of meat and wool for those who braved Gobhann’s unforgiving walls. Perhaps the lass before him was simply on her way to such a place.

  He sighed heavily. Obviously he was going to have to take time and see her safely to wherever she was going. He stepped out onto the road and started after his self-appointed charge. It took him no time at all to catch up with her, then he walked beside her, keeping a careful eye on the road ahead. He saw no other traveler, which was only mildly reassuring. The woods were thick, and dawn not yet arrived. He watched her as they walked, wondering what she was about. She was continuing doggedly on her way, ignoring him for the most part save for those wary looks she occasionally favored him with.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked finally.

  She quickened her pace and said nothing.

  “There isn’t much to the west,” he noted.

  She glanced at him briefly. “I appreciate the aid, but I’ll be fine on my own from here. Manly business ahead, and all that.”

  “Manly business?”

  “Aye,” she said firmly. “Manly business of a sort I must keep to myself.”

  Well, he couldn’t imagine she could have any business save plying a needle on some poor tunic, so he contented himself with the thought that she was no doubt traveling toward some sort of landhold where she would seek refuge from whatever simple, womanly concern had been too much for her. Nothing else made sense.

  He shouldered his pack, then almost went sprawling. He caught himself heavily on one leg, then turned, his sword halfway from its sheath before he realized it was simply his damned horse nosing him so enthusiastically.

  The subsequent whicker sounded too much like a laugh for Rùnach’s taste.

  The woman next to him gasped. “Where did that come from? You didn’t have him on the ship.”

  “You would be surprised where a man might acquire a horse,” Rùnach said grimly. He took up his journey again, ignoring the way his mount continued to clomp along behind him, and tried to concentrate instead on where he was going.

  He resigned himself eventually to the necessity of depositing his companion at her destination, for it didn’t look as if she would merely trot off the road toward it on her own. He supposed he would also need to think of her as a him for at least the duration of their acquaintance, which he hoped would be very brief. He had business of his own, the business of getting on with his very ordinary, unremarkable life. He had neither the time nor the heart to look after a lass who should have been safely ensconced in her father’s house.

  Time wore on, and his patience wore thin. She didn’t seem to be preparing to leave the road and pick her way through the woods to her aunt’s house, so when the wood had ended, he stopped and looked at her.

  “Don’t you have family in the area, then?” he asked, feeling rather exasperated.

  “Nay,” she said, looking at him in confusion. “Why would you think that?”

  “Then where are you going?” He gestured impatiently to his left. “There?”

  She followed his pointing finger, then her jaw went slack. Rùnach followed her gaze and had to agree. It was one thing to think about Gobhann from the comfort of a decent seat in front of a roaring fire; it was another thing entirely to stand several hundred paces from the place and realize that there was nothing to it save unrelenting grey walls topped by unrelenting grey clouds. Did Weger attract that sort of weather simply by virtue of who he was, or was there a spell set over the place that cast it perpetually into gloom? Rùnach didn’t suppose he wanted to know, though he wouldn’t have been surprised by either.

  Mhorghain had warned him it was a bit sparse, but his sister was obviously a master of understatement. At least at Buidseachd there had been ample heat, an excellent kitchen, and a generously stocked library. He didn’t dare hold out any hope for any of the three inside what faced him. The walls were sheer, the front gates forbidding, and the general aspect enough to give one pause.

  But if what lay within was the purchase price for the rest of a useful life, he would pay it gladly.

  He looked at his companion, who had turned the c
olor of her hair, which he discovered, thanks to a rapidly lightening sky, was so pale a yellow as to be almost white. She was filthy, as if she’d been rolling in the street and failed to find any sort of mirror to use in ridding her face of the smudges on her cheeks and nose. Her hair looked as if it had been much longer at some point and then cut carelessly with a knife. He started to suggest that she perhaps trot back the way she’d come when she turned and looked at him.

  And then he, who hadn’t dreamed in a score of years, felt himself falling into a dream without any hope of saving himself.

  He clutched at Iteach’s mane and was actually rather glad for his mount’s rather pointed snorting directly into his ear. He shook his head, looked at the beast in annoyance, then found himself helplessly looking into eyes that were neither green, nor blue, nor grey, nor any other color he could name. They were all those things, only possessing a sort of translucence that left him feeling as if he weren’t quite firmly settled inside his poor form.

  Very well, so he couldn’t say she was beautiful, though perhaps that had to do less with the fairness of her face than with the fact that she looked to be under extreme duress. But nay, she wasn’t beautiful. Then again, in all his years before he’d gone with his family to the well, he had seen more than his share of absolutely breathtaking women. He supposed in the arrogance of his youth he had been well aware of the fairness of his own visage, the lure of his magic, and the appeal of his parentage. Beautiful women, elvish or not, had put themselves in his way, hoping to catch his eye. He had even considered coming to an understanding with one of them, a princess of Cothromaiche. It was possible that he had enjoyed those attentions perhaps more than he should have.

  But at no time had he ever looked at a woman and—

  He shook his head sharply. He was weary, that was it. Weary and frustrated and needing to have found a barn and slept the night before instead of having spent it walking. The wench was naught but a silly gel who would have been better served to have found a simple, unremarkable man to wed and settled down to making his suppers and providing him with sons.