Acair suspected that point had been found several days ago when he’d thought Léirsinn would never wake again. As an uncomfortable counterpoint to that, he decided it was useless to inquire how close to dead the king wanted him. If he emerged from his current scrape with any of his bones still intact, he would be fortunate indeed.
But the thought of using even a fraction of his own magic was intoxicating. He flexed his fingers before he could stop himself, though hard on the heels of that thought came another, less palatable one. He could trot out his best spells, true, but that sort of display would reveal more of what he could do than anyone watching might want to see. That would be doubly true, he feared, given whom he would be fending off.
“She’ll have to know what you are eventually,” Uachdaran said mildly.
Acair met the king’s gaze. “I would prefer to put that off for as long as possible, if it’s all the same to you.”
The king looked as if he might have liked to offer a bit of comfort, but ’twas obviously neither the time nor place.
“She can stay and watch if she likes, though I wouldn’t recommend it. I might miss with a spell and leave your innards decorating one of my walls.”
“I thought you wanted that pony,” Acair said before he thought better of it.
The king smiled. “Hearn said to leave you alive. He didn’t say I couldn’t rough you up a bit, now did he?”
That was unfortunately all too true. That happy thought kept him company as he watched the king order his wispy purveyor of death to go take a seat on a slab of stone jutting out of one wall. Perhaps that served as a gallery for spectators, though why a body would want to see what the king was truly able to do was anyone’s guess.
Well, he would have been that body in a Diarmailtian minute, but he would have preferred to have been well-rested and taking notes, not standing unprotected in the king’s sights.
A far different sort of spell dropped down in front of his keeper, leaving it spinning itself about and hissing furiously. Despite its nefarious designs, though, that shadowy creature was no fool. It cast the king an uneasy look, then helped itself to a seat on that bench-like rock where it commenced gnawing on its fingers.
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.