Well, he might run later, when he was back to his old self and could swoop Léirsinn up and nip off the battlefield in dragonshape, but—
He straightened only to deeply regret it. He would have toppled over if he hadn’t suddenly found a glorious horse miss at his side, pulling his arm over her shoulders and keeping him upright. Soilléir exerted himself to give him a shove when he almost lost his balance in that direction, but no more. He added that to the list of things he wouldn’t be thanking the worthless whoreson for, then glanced at his love.
Her cheeks were wet, but her eyes were full of wonder. He smiled in spite of himself.
“Brother and sister, I assume?”
“Can you believe it?”
“Tonight, darling, I think I can believe quite a few things. Ah, and you remember His Majesty, the king of Tòrr Dòrainn?”
He wanted to listen to Léirsinn introduce His Maj to her brother and sister and he supposed he should have made note of their names, but all he could do was breathe and hope he wouldn’t faint. Sladaiche was no more, apparently, and he supposed they now knew what the spell was he’d been looking for, but there was still the mystery of the shadows on the ground that perhaps might never be solved.
He had also lost something in the process, more than even a spell of death would have taken out of him.
There were odd things afoot in the Nine Kingdoms.
He realized that Sìle had taken Léirsinn’s hand and gently placed a rune there, telling her that it would give her comfort and strength when she had a need for the same. He watched it glow with a golden hue so fiery that he wasn’t entirely certain the damned thing wasn’t made of fire.
Fitting.
Sìle glared at him. “Your hand as well.”
All the tortures the elven king could place upon him sprang immediately to mind, tortures he imagined would reach new heights of misery thanks to that damned spell still lodged in his black heart.
“Ah,” he managed, “thank you just the same—”
“Your hand, damn you!”
Acair studied the king and wondered how he might extricate himself from his current conundrum without either bolting or feigning an artful swoon. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any hope of escape. He held out his hand, not entirely certain Sìle wouldn’t just lop it off for the sport of it.
Sìle looked at him from under bushy eyebrows. “I know what you did.”
The possibilities were endless there, weren’t they? If he felt rather than heard Soilléir snort, well, he supposed he deserved it.
“For my Mhorghain,” Sìle clarified.
Damnation, the pollen was never ending in the south. Far past time to get himself back north where the chill might keep the damned trees and flowers from troubling him overmuch.
Acair cleared his throat. “It was, Your Majesty,” he managed, “the least I could do.”
Sìle grunted. “I daresay it was, but still. And so you know, she’s the one who told me about it. Perhaps she thought I might encounter you on some deserted byway and decide the world might be a better place without you.”
“Very kind of her—”
“Shut up,” Sìle growled, “and hold still.”
Acair found quite suddenly that there were still stars enough in the world to set up a wild and chaotic swirling about his head. The pain in his hand was blinding, but mercifully brief. He looked down at his hand—his skin was red as hellfire, to be honest—and watched as three separate runes flashed silver and gold, then faded. The skin on the back of his hand returned to its normal perfect coloration, albeit with those runes still faintly visible. He could still pinch the odd, priceless knick-knack without impertinent remarks about his grooming, thankfully.
He looked at the king. “Your Majesty?”
Sìle shrugged. “Figure it out yourself.”
“Would my father know?”
“Go ask him. Take notes of his reaction and send word.”
Acair was tempted to invite the irascible monarch to make the journey with him, but perhaps ’twas too soon. The old elf didn’t look particularly chummy, but it had been a long evening so far.
Sìle looked at Soilléir. “My bit’s done and my debt to this wee bastard paid.”
“What did you gift him?” Soilléir asked.
“I vow I’ve forgotten already,” Sìle said, seemingly stopping just short of scratching his head. “An irresistible impulse to endlessly go about doing good, or perhaps an inability to memorize any more spells. Can’t say I remember at the moment.”
Acair was certain of many things and none more than elves had very poor taste in jest. He listened to Soilléir and Sìle exchange the usual sort of pleasantries the moment called for and he should have participated in, but he found that all he could do was stare stupidly at the back of his hand at lines that were so beautiful he could hardly manage a coherent thought.
“What do they mean?” Léirsinn whispered.
“Haven’t a clue,” he murmured.
What he suspected was they were akin to those tangled spells his dam handed off to overeager youth who came to beg something intricate and mysterious from her. Those pieces of magic were nothing more than endless loops that ended where they began, leaving the mage unsatisfied and the spell worthless. His mother never failed to chortle as those same annoying yobs wandered off into the forest with their brows knitted and their faces fair buried against the spells in their hands. More than one lad had returned to his dam’s house with a great knot in his forehead from where he’d encountered some immoveable object or other.
Sìle’s gift was likely just the same. He would spend years trying to unravel the damned runes, sneaking into libraries where he shouldn’t go, trotting off occasionally on the proverbial wild goose chase, only to find out after decades of the same that what he possessed was nothing more than directions to the king’s most unkempt privy.
He wouldn’t have been surprised.
He thought he might be wise to ignore the way that damned spell wrapped around his heart seemed to recognize a fellow coconspirator, calling to it with a sweet song of Fadaire—
“I believe he’s cursed me,” he wheezed.
Léirsinn put her arms around his waist and leaned her head companionably against his shoulder. “You do look a little green.”
“I’ve had a long day,” he said. “Worry over you, of course.”
“You’re an awful man.”