The Prince of Souls (The Nine Kingdoms Book 12) Page 8
Léirsinn was invited to sit with quite a bit more consideration, then a sturdy spell of protection was cast up in front of her.
Acair made note of both spells that had been used, then inquired after Léirsinn’s comfort—gentleman first, mage second, when one’s beloved was in the vicinity—but before he could get himself fully turned around and offer a few pre-duel niceties, he came face-to-face with the reality that on the list of Uachdaran of Léige’s virtues, Nerochian ideals of fair play did not make an appearance.
He realized that, of course, only after he’d found himself flung back against a wall that he wasn’t entirely certain hadn’t given him a bit of a shove away from itself to leave him crumpled on the polished stone floor in front of it.
He imagined he wouldn’t have been any more winded if the king had simply dropped a chunk of rock on him. Stars spun about his head, his chest screamed for more sweet, breathable air, and his tum took several violent turns arse over teakettle until it settled back into its proper place. He closed his eyes until he was certain he wasn’t dead, then opened them and looked up.
The king was leaning over him, peering down at him with an expression of disappointment. “You’re still breathing.”
“Barely,” Acair gasped.
“I imagine you don’t find yourself in this position very often.”
“I wouldn’t admit it if I had.”
“Then get up, you fool, and show me something more than your poorest efforts.”
Well, that was offensive. Fortunately, Acair had endured far worse taunts than that. He crawled unsteadily back to his feet and moved a goodly distance away from that unforgiving wall behind him, giving himself time to find his footing. It was galling to realize he was hesitating, but too many months of being polite had apparently undermined his very foundations. He looked at the king.
“In truth, King Uachdaran, I hesitate to use what I could.”
The king rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly think, boy, that you can best me?”
“I do know spells—”
“You know childrens’ charms.”
Acair was fairly certain he’d said the same thing to Mansourah of Neroche and could see why the prince had looked so annoyed at the time.
“You cannot harm me with your puny spells,” the king continued with a shrug, “though you can certainly try.”
“I have my father’s spell of Diminishing,” Acair bluffed. He decided that adding mostly would likely not improve his situation any, so perhaps that was something he could keep to himself.
“Bah,” the king said, waving his hand dismissively. “Useless.”
“There are many who would disagree with you, Your Majesty,” Acair said. “Those missing all their magic thanks to my father’s poorest efforts might find themselves atop that list.”
“Your father, wean, is a pompous ass who didn’t have the wit to manage what he unleashed.”
“He is,” Acair agreed, “but I am not my father.”
“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”
There was that. Acair decided he’d done all he could to err on the side of politeness, then found himself far too busy trying to fend off the spells the king was suddenly hurling his way to do much of anything besides keep himself alive.
As he’d noted before, Uachdaran of Léige wasn’t afraid of the dark.
He found himself immediately caught between the need to use magic to keep the king from slaying him and the reality that using any magic which would cause the spell of death he’d been cursed with to fall upon him and snuff out his life. Added to that were the additional problems of not wanting to offend even unruly, unsettling monarchs by using rather nasty spells himself, as well as not wishing to use said nasty spells lest that woman fifty paces from him lose her last illusions about any finer character traits he might or might not have possessed.
Fortunately—or perhaps not, given the circumstances—the choice was made for him. He watched something vile coming his way and cast up the first spell of defense that came to mind—a rather quotidian piece of Wexham—half expecting the result to be finding himself ceasing to breathe not thanks to the king, but rather that damned spell sitting next to his lady.
He glanced in that direction rather unwillingly, then frowned in surprise. The king hadn’t been lying about his ability to contain things, that was obvious. His minder spell was making noises of disgust and looked to be experimenting with a rude gesture or two, but it was obviously quite firmly attached to its perch.
What was the world coming to when a spindly fingered spell of death couldn’t be bothered to hop to its feet and be about its business? It was insulting—
And that, he supposed, was going to be the last useless thought he was going to be thinking for quite some time.
Regardless of whatever else he might have been, Uachdaran of Léige was a first-rate mage. Acair wished desperately for the ability to divide himself in two so that one of him might engage in a friendly duel with the king whilst the other could take copious notes of every spell used. There was hardly time to admire the king’s offerings and memorize them properly before he was forced to answer back with spells of his own.
The king’s hoard was a veritable symphony of sharp things: painful, relentless, unforgiving. One spell was hardly sent off to do its worst before half a dozen others took shape, each seeking out the perfect spot guaranteed to inflict the most damage. Acair found himself stretching for things he didn’t normally use merely to keep the king at bay. Some prissy elven princeling couldn’t have fared better, surely.
Even with as exhausted as he still was, the pleasure of having his magic once again within reach was greater than he’d thought it would be. What was even better was the opportunity to, as his mother would have said, get his hands dirty.
Spells were exchanged, insults were hurled, and threats breathed out with enthusiasm. He was fairly certain the king might have smiled once, but it had been a feral thing that would have sent shivers down his spine if he’d had the energy for it. He thought he personally might have laughed at least twice.
It was also possible, he supposed, that he might have lost his temper at one point and sent a spell slithering the king’s way that was rather beyond the pale. Even the king lifted an eyebrow over it before he ground it under his heel. Acair glanced to his right and made his greatest mistake of the evening.
Léirsinn was watching him, her face white.
He dropped his rather vulgar if not perfectly impenetrable spell of protection in embarrassment and almost died as a result.
The king hurled a piece of magic at him that slammed into him so hard, he thought his soul might have been knocked out of his admittedly weary form. He went flying, landed flat on his back, then slid across a floor that wasn’t nearly as smooth as he would have expected it to be given whose floor it was. He came to a stop with his head against the toes of Léirsinn’s boots, looked up at her, and wondered if the present moment—the one where he was likely not going to draw in all that many more breaths—might be the proper one for a maudlin sentiment.
“I love you,” he said, because it was the best he could do on short notice and, truthfully, he thought he might not have another opportunity to lay bare his tender heart.
Her mouth fell open. “You’re daft.”
“The king is going to kill me,” he said. “I’m sure of it, horse or no horse. I thought you should know how I feel before he kicks me like a piece of refuse off toward the East.”
She gestured quickly toward the middle of the chamber. “He’s coming to perhaps do just that.”
Acair lifted his head to find the king standing at his feet, holding out his hand. He wasn’t entirely sure the man wasn’t hiding a clutch of nettles up his sleeve for use at just such an advantageous moment, but clasped the king’s hand just the same. He was hauled to his feet without much care.
Acair uncrossed his eyes long enough to find none other than Aonarach of Durial standing just inside the door looking terribly unconcerned about the possibility of being slain by a spell gone astray. He knew the lad, of course, and had seen him loitering uselessly in various locales, looking discontented and dangerous. There were rumors linking him to dark deeds, but who had time to keep up with the ins and outs of dwarvish palace intrigue?
Well, he did when it suited him, though his reward for having indulged in the same during a previous visit to Durial had been a princess-wielded chair against the side of his head.
“Aonarach, see what you can do to him,” the king said with an off-handed wave. “Just short of slaying him, of course.”
“If you like, Grandfather.”
Acair would have pointed out that no one had asked his opinion on anything, but he imagined that would have been a waste of breath. He also would have liked a quiet moment with Léirsinn to at least apologize for what she’d seen, but perhaps there was no point there either. He was who he was. No number of apologies would change that.
And at the moment, his main concern was keeping himself alive. Aonarach had obviously learned his manners from his grandfather. Acair supposed the only reason he hadn’t been again flung against an unyielding wall was because he had been prepared for just that. He put his focus where it needed to be and contented himself with the thought of taking a bit of exercise with someone who didn’t have the power to order his death for hurt feelings.
He suspected that in hindsight, he would count that as the moment when his stay in Léige truly went south.
After that initial bit of bad form on Aonarach’s part, the duel carried on in the normal way. Acair hadn’t expected anything terribly exciting from one of Uachdaran’s lesser progeny and he wasn’t disappointed.
What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was a long-fingered bit of magic that reached out toward him, freezing him in place, stretching into the very essence of him—
“Where in blazes did you find that?” the king demanded.
The spell simply vanished as if it hadn’t been there. Acair leaned over with his hands on his knees and fought not to lose his supper right there. He sucked in desperately needed breaths for a moment or two, then heaved himself upright, fully expecting to find the king striding out to chastise his grandson. But Uachdaran wasn’t watching Aonarach, nor was he wearing an expression of fury.
Acair found that the king was watching him without any expression at all.
“That spell, Grandfather?” Aonarach asked mildly. “I can’t remember exactly. I overheard someone using it recently, but I seem to have missed the final few words.”
“Daft child, have you learned nothing from watching this bastard’s father?” Uachdaran asked.
“Aye, what not to do if one wants the ultimate prize.”
Acair folded his arms very deliberately over his chest and looked at the king’s grandson as if he’d been a butler who had just spilled a bit of wine on his best shirt. What he wanted to do was gape at the fool and demand to know where he had found a spell that was uncomfortably similar to the one Cruihniche of Fàs had written in Léirsinn’s book.
Where in the hell had the lad come by that?
“This is an outrage,” the king said. “But outrages are best left for daytime, I always say. We’ll discuss this tomorrow after breakfast.”
Acair felt as if he’d been suddenly dropped into a dinner party where he knew no one and the usual rules of decorum were completely changed. Uachdaran of Léige had a reputation for dealing out immediate justice, not putting it off until after the next meal.
He stopped just short of scratching his head over what seemed so profoundly odd about the situation—and not odd in a way that left him wanting to indulge in a sardonic smile over someone else’s having been maneuvered into place for nefarious purposes. It seemed, oddly enough, that Uachdaran had been wanting to rifle through his grandson’s pockets—magically speaking—to see what sorts of foul things the lad was keeping there and had been waiting for just the right mage to come along—
He felt his mouth fall open in what he was certain was a terribly unattractive manner. He had just been used like an everyday handkerchief—not even a monogrammed sort—with intention of being subsequently tossed aside without care.
That was offensive.
Not that he hadn’t done that kind of thing to others more than once in the past, but he’d had good reason and the mage—perhaps mages and a handful of crown-wearing lads, his memory occasionally failed him on those kinds of details—had deserved what he’d gotten. But surely King Uachdaran followed some sort of monarchial standard when it came to making use of his guests in such a callous fashion.
More to the point, why was the king allowing his grandson to show off his wares, as it were, when those wares were so perilous?
“Sleep for what’s left of the night,” Uachdaran ordered brusquely. “Or, in your case, Master Acair, don’t. I still owe you for a very large number of sleepless nights.”
Acair cleared his throat and tried not to choke on his next words. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I’ve been a bit busy—”
“You’ll unbusy yourself and be grateful if I leave you alive enough to do so. Go put those rivers back where they belong and stop using the others that run under my hall.”
Acair nodded. He’d caused the king sleepless nights over more than one thing and he was definitely at the man’s mercy.
“As you say, Your Majesty, I’ll need to still be breathing to huff out the odd spell or two.”
“I said I’d leave you alive and so I shall. But that will change abruptly if I find you in my solar, horse or no horse.”
“I wouldn’t dream of intruding there,” Acair said.
The king actually rolled his eyes. “Your ability to lie is only eclipsed by your cache of truly disgusting spells.”
Acair would have relished the compliment, but his need to correct the record took precedence.
“I never lie,” he said. “’Tis my greatest failing.”
The king grunted. “I’m certain that’s what you tell yourself. Mistress Léirsinn, bring your lad back here tomorrow and have him teach you how to manage your fire-making. He has skill enough for that, I’ll warrant. Aonarach, come along.”
Acair didn’t spare the breath to protest, mostly because the king had already walked away, his grandson in tow. He also didn’t argue when Léirsinn caught him before he went down to his knees, though that was a near thing. He put his arms around her, leaned his forehead against hers, and shook right along with her.
“Forgive me,” he said, giving voice to those accursed words as easily as if he’d been doing the like since the very moment he could speak. “In truth, I wish you hadn’t seen any of that.”
She pushed away far enough to draw his arm around her shoulders, then put her other arm around his waist.
“You talk too much,” she said.
He thought he might have to do more than just talk to keep her safe in the future. He didn’t anticipate another encounter with the king in his chamber of horrors, but should it occur, he would absolutely keep her out of the damned spot.
It occurred to him a short time later as he faced the guardsmen standing in front of her door, that locking her in that bedchamber might suit. With any luck at all, he might be able to enlist the aid of those lads there, one of whom he had most definitely encountered before.
“My apologies,” he said without thinking, then shook his head. Three in one night. The world was truly going to split in two soon.
The dwarvish guardsmen didn’t look to be in a forgiving mood, especially the one who looked as if he might be suffering from a colossal headache. The Nerochian coins Acair slipped out of his sleev
e and handed over seemed to at least soothe the worst of the ruffled feathers. He walked into Léirsinn’s chamber with her, then didn’t protest when she pushed him over onto a sofa that looked a far sight cleaner than how he’d left it. Magic had its uses, to be sure.
She brought wine and poured herself a glass with a very unsteady hand. If she downed the entire goblet without pause, he was too much the gentleman to make any untoward remarks about it. It helped, he supposed, that he was also dispensing with good manners to simply drink from the bottle with rather rustic and uncouth gulps.
“Why did the king do that?” she asked.
“Beyond giving me a chance to preen and display for you?” he asked wearily. “I haven’t a clue.”
That wasn’t the truth, of course, and he was appalled that the lie had tripped so easily off his tongue. He would be damned, however, before he voiced his thoughts.
“I thought he was going to kill you.”
“He doesn’t dare,” Acair said seriously. “He wants that horse very badly.”
She was silent for quite a while. “Those were very vile things going on below,” she said finally.
“I am a very vile mage.”
Her only response was to yawn, which he supposed was rather benign all things considered.
“I think you’re quite a lovely man with terrible spells,” she said sleepily. “You take the bed. I’ll guard your granny’s notes.”
“They’re under your pillow,” he said, “and I am a gentleman. I’ll take the floor.”
She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder. “Acair, I don’t think I can move.”
And if she continued to say his name that way, without curses and hastily spat charms of ward attached, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
She fished about in her pocket, then handed him his spell of death. “You might want that.”