“I didn’t,” Acair managed. “I believe I might want to learn a bit.” And by a bit, he meant more than just making a derivative of something he’d found carved into the ruins of a foundation stone he’d had tossed in the rubbish heap before his own foundations had been laid.
“We had a lexicon, rather heavy and substantial, though I’d have to look for it. Their language is almost forgotten, though dredging it up might be something you’d be interested in.” The prince recrossed his legs. “Very fine horse people there, of course, which, Mistress Léirsinn, might appeal to you. Unfortunately, there was trouble several centuries ago. The exact dates escape me, but I could find them later, if you like.”
“Brilliant idea,” Acair put in, deciding he might have to retrieve that lexicon he’d reshelved so badly.
The prince frowned at him, no doubt on principle, then continued. “Tosdach of Briàghde was traveling through An Caol with his son—”
“Tosdach?” Léirsinn. “My grandfather? Er, I mean—”
“Your step-father’s father? Yes, that is correct. His son, your step-father Saoradh, met your mother as he and his father were traveling hereabouts. Your mother was a delightful woman, my dear, and having three young children…” He smiled gently. “I believe, romantic that I am, that it was love at first sight. Saoradh didn’t have your father’s eye for horses, of course, but perhaps that didn’t matter. There is a part of me that always believed that your mother was the keener horsewoman. Not to disparage your sire, of course.”
“Was she from An Caol, then?” Acair asked. He might have thought the prince a very silly man, but His Royal Highness did have a way of sniffing out connections that even Fionne of Fàs might have admired.
“Fògarrach,” Coimheadair said. “Near An Cèin, which I’m sure you know. An Caol was originally settled by the last few stragglers from Ionad-teàrmainn, which you might not know.”
“I didn’t,” Acair said. “Your research is impressive, Your Highness.”
The prince looked pleased. “Fògarrach’s people aren’t elvish, but there are the occasional star-crossed love matches. I believe Ceannairceach of Léige can attest to the lure of that.”
Acair chuckled politely. “I believe she can and I paid a steep price for her happiness.”
“So I hear. Léirsinn, my dear, a glass of sherry perhaps?”
“I’m fine—”
A bellowing in the distance that sounded far too much like the call of a hunting horn had the prince jumping to his feet. Acair was almost tempted to mention that His Highness looked a bit like a fox who knew his time was up, but alas, he had grown soft so he forbore. He was beginning to suspect he would never again be his old self, full of vim, vigor, and acerbic remarks.
“My father,” Prince Coimheadair announced. “You should hide.” He pointed to a tapestry to the right of the fireplace. “There’s a closet behind that. My sire will never look.”
Acair caught the books the prince tossed at him and leapt with Léirsinn toward safety. His Highness held the tapestry for them until Acair managed to find the latch and open the door, then he dropped it. They barely had time to stuff themselves inside and pull the door to before the braying reached the library itself.
“Pitiful,” Acair whispered. “No copies and no decent sense of subterfuge. ’Tis a wonder the whole damned place hasn’t been overrun before now!”
The words were scarce out of his mouth before he realized a rather unsettling fact.
They were not alone in their closet.
A faint ball of werelight appeared over their heads and he looked to his left to find none other than Soilléir of Cothromaiche, youngest son of the crown prince and possessor of a countenance that was just slightly green, standing there looking profoundly guilty.
“You!” he exclaimed, understanding at that moment why he was the recipient of that greeting so often.
“My lord Acair,” Soilléir said, inclining his head politely. “Mistress Léirsinn. We might want to forgo pleasantries for another moment or two.”
Acair clamped his lips shut simply to keep himself from wasting breath swearing. That was a welcome distraction, given the straitness of their quarters. He was himself not a small man. Soilléir, unfortunately, was not a slight fellow either. He supposed if either of them had tended to portliness like Sladaiche, the current arrangement might have been a bit more tolerable. At least that way they could have elbowed pudge instead of muscle.
The single thing that saved his annoying companion from death was the fact that he’d had the good sense to put Léirsinn on his right as they crowded into that bloody closet. If he’d had to contemplate that damned whoreson being closer to her than was polite…
“You’re growling,” Léirsinn breathed.
It could have been much worse, he supposed, but he decided that wasn’t worth mentioning at the moment, either. For all he knew, any breathing out threats, no matter how richly they might have been deserved, would leave them all suffocating before Seannair managed to finish complaining about his latest hunt and trundle off to bed.
“Death,” he mouthed at Soilléir.
Not so much as a snort in return. Perhaps the prince had heard that threat more than once.
Eventually, silence fell out in the library. Acair elbowed Soilléir with perhaps a bit more vigor than the moment called for.
“Go look.”
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“You live here!”
“Sshh,” Soilléir said, sounding more like a guilty youth than a man of mature years full of spells that gave the rest of the world nightmares.
“You cannot tell me you’re afeared of your grandsire,” Acair whispered furiously.
“He’ll cut me from his will.”
Acair heard Léirsinn laugh softly which was likely the only thing that saved the mage to his left from a proper throttling. He suspected Soilléir was vexing him on purpose, but there was no room to get his hands up and around the man’s throat, so perhaps there was nothing to be done but keep a tally of abuses to be repaid later.
He concentrated on simply breathing lightly until the silence had gone on for what felt like hours. He glared at Soilléir.
“Do you need a wee glass to scry the scene to make certain they’re gone or are your ears enough?”
Soilléir said nothing, but Acair flattered himself that if the werelight had been brighter, he would have been able to see a flicker of fear in the man’s eyes.