Ye gads, what was his grandmother about and why didn’t she have better locks on her hidden cubbies?
He continued on past that thought before he had time to speculate on what his brothers might do with such a thing. He had his own way of taking bits of his own power and infusing them onto whatever talisman suited him, but that was less essence changing than it was essence slathering. There he was simply taking the same sort of energy he would have thrown behind a spell and more or less wrapping it around his chosen bits and bobs.
This, however…he took a deep breath. This particular spell made his own look like a village witch’s charm. He could hardly stop himself from trying it out to see just exactly where its limits might lie. He looked to his right and found his ever-present companion crouched on the floor, peeking over the arm of the divan at him as if it might be suffering a bit of unease.
He understood. The spell was terrifying.
He memorized it without hesitation, of course, then repeated it silently, checking himself against what he was reading. He mouthed the last word and found himself rather glad, all things considered, that he’d memorized the bloody thing before the damned page caught fire.
He was so startled by that turn of events that he flipped the book up in the air and thoroughly failed at making a grab for it on its way down. It landed, quite fortuitously, face-down against the rug there. He supposed there was no sense in not smothering the flames by means of his boot placed gingerly atop the cover.
He waited until he thought a proper amount of time had passed before he picked the book up and turned it over, then swore when he realized that the whole business had been nothing more than the words having burned themselves off the page. The paper bore absolutely no sign of having recently been alight.
Theatrics. It ran in the family.
He ignored that damned spell next to him, squeaking as it hid, and considered what his grandmother’s purpose had been in giving him something so dangerous. Even merely repeating the words in his mind set up a merry dance between them and whatever Cothromaichian spell Soilléir had used to bring him back from the brink of death. Perhaps Cruihniche of Fàs had simply wanted to make him miserable.
Essence changing or essence meddling. He could hardly wait to have the time to investigate the difference between the two.
He turned another page, fully expecting to find there a few words of comfort and encouragement.
Instead, he found a map.
He was, as it happened, not unfamiliar with maps. He was also not unfamiliar with the making of maps. He had taken his half-brother Rùnach’s book of spells, removed those valiant attempts from inside the covers, then inserted a map of his own making in their place. That map had been a curious one, he had to admit, full of scratches that he’d made based on a few furtive glances over the shoulder of a very famous cartographer, Casan of Frith-rathad. The man lived far too close to Bruadair for his comfort, but it had been worth the fraying of his nerves to pose as a servant long enough to eavesdrop for a fortnight.
He didn’t suppose it was a place he would venture again without very good reason indeed.
A furtive tap sounded against the door. He frowned, torn. There were things on his grandmother’s map that he suspected he needed to investigate further, never mind that they left him feeling as if he might like a lengthy lie-down sooner rather than later.
But perhaps trouble was afoot. He heaved himself up from the sofa, paid the price in a robust sway that almost left him cracking his head against the footpost of Léirsinn’s bed, then staggered over to answer the knock. He held his Gran’s scribblings casually behind his back and opened the door, hoping it was someone with food.
It was instead someone with a book.
He didn’t imagine that collection would be nearly as interesting—or as perilous—as what he currently held, but there was no sense in spurning something that might turn out to be useful. He recognized his guest as Eachdraidh, bard to King Uachdaran and guardian of the king’s most perilous tomes. Master Eachdraidh also kept a history of the dwarvish kingdom, though why Uachdaran needed someone to jot down the happenings of his realm when the very stones of his foundation couldn’t seem to shut up about the glory and riches of the same he didn’t know.
He wasn’t one to question those sorts of things, though—at least not within earshot of the local monarch—so he put on his most disarming smile and prepared to, as his mother would have said, make nice.
“Master Eachdraidh,” he said politely, “what an unexpected pleasure.”
The dwarf looked as though he considered the encounter anything but, though he held out a book just the same. Acair decided perhaps that rescuing it before it landed on the floor might count as his good deed for the day. He looked at the king’s bard.
“A loan, I assume?”
Eachdraidh shook his head. “’Tis a gift,” he said. “From the king.”
Acair supposed Eachdraidh wouldn’t make anything of his grandmother’s scribblings, so he tucked them under the new acquisition and opened the latter to find a rather pointed title.
Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish
or
When Bad Mages Come to a Worse End
He would have laughed, but he knew he was still swimming in deep waters where the king was concerned. He nodded thoughtfully.
“Very kind,” he noted.
“His Majesty thought you might find it, erm, instructive.”
Acair imagined the king had been substantially less restrained about what he thought might be gleaned from said offering, but that was also something likely better left unsaid.
“Please convey my deepest gratitude to the king,” he said. “I’m certain I will come away not only edified but properly warned.”
“I daresay,” Eachdraidh said nervously, “that such was His Majesty’s intention.”
Acair was utterly unoffended. He was, as it happened, free of the king’s dungeon and still breathing. He was willing to endure quite a bit of abuse for the privilege. He held the door open and looked at Master Eachdraidh.
“Do you care to come in and take your ease by the fire?”
The dwarf looked as if he’d just been invited to hobnob with a collection of lads who likely had taken up a fair bit of ink in the book he’d delivered. He squeaked, shook his head quickly, then turned and hoofed it back down the passageway. Acair sighed, nodded to his guardsmen, then shut the door.
He rested his hand against the wood and considered the rest of what was left of his afternoon. He supposed Master Ollamh wouldn’t return unless forced, which left him with nothing to do but stay out of trouble.
So difficult, truly.
He resumed his seat on the sofa, considered his reading choices, then opened the king’s book. A cursory glance left him encountering many of the usual suspects, which was unfortunately uninteresting enough that he simply sat there, staring at nothing for far longer than he likely should have. The sad truth was he was just too tired to muster up any sort of enthusiasm for what he held in his hands. His robust apology surely should have earned him something more substantial, shouldn’t it? It was almost as if that apology had been for naught—