Dreamspinner (41 page)

“Hmmm,” Ceana said thoughtfully. “Well, he has his reasons for keeping things secret, I suppose, but don’t we all?” She looked at Aisling. “You have secrets, my gel. Deadly ones.”

Aisling found absolutely nothing to say to that.

“Not to worry,” Ceana said with a smile. “I am an old woman who knows how to keep her own counsel. There are no great tasks left for me in this world but to take my pleasure at my wheel and pour my love for all things beautiful into my yarn. I have often wished, though, that I could spin other things. The blush of love, the scent of roses on a warm summer’s afternoon, the first chill of fall as it settles in the trees.” She looked at Aisling. “Dreams, perhaps.”

“Dreams,” Aisling whispered. “Why would anyone want to spin dreams?”

Ceana smiled. “’Tis just a thought that came to me just now. I don’t know why.” She fingered the wool she was holding, a royal purple shot through with golden threads. “If I
truly
had my wish, I would spin all those things out of thin air, then string an invisible loom with them.” She smiled at Aisling. “I might even be tempted to weave, then.”

“They would have to be fairly lovely things to convince me,” Aisling said doubtfully.

Ceana laughed. “I’m sure they would, my gel. I’m sure they would.” She rubbed her hands together briskly, suddenly. “Let’s be about our work, Aisling. I have much to teach you and time is short.”

Aisling reached out and gingerly touched the wheel again, on the off chance the curse hadn’t noticed her cheek the first time. But the result was the same, namely nothing at all. The wheel was simply wood under her hand, nothing more. She took a deep breath, then looked at Mistress Ceana.

“I am ready.”

“I think, my gel, that you are.”

R
ùnach paced through the hallways of Tor Neroche, finding that doing so was far more unsettling than it should have been. The last time he’d been there, he’d been a youth of ten-and-three, come with his mother who had made the journey to visit the queen just after Mhorghain’s birth. He thought he remembered them having put Mhorghain and Miach to nap together in adjoining cribs, but he could have been wrong. He’d been too busy making clandestine forays into the library whilst enduring priggish lecturing from the crown prince Adhémar about sneaking into places he shouldn’t have to know for certain.

He thought he might have pointed out to Miach’s eldest brother that filching his father’s sour wine was a more grievous sin than looking for something to read, but he couldn’t be sure. He
was
fairly sure, however, that he’d bloodied Adhémar’s nose at one point, but that had been nothing more than he’d deserved. He had been, he had to admit, a bit hot-tempered in his youth. Fortunately a score of years locked away in Buidseachd had tempered that a bit.

Now, he simply felt cold as he walked through the passageways and felt as if he were walking over his own grave.

At least Aisling had found something pleasant to do. Actually, perhaps
pleasant
was grossly understating it. The wench was obsessed. Fortunately, she had found in Mistress Ceana a kindred soul who was equally enamored of all things woolly. Rùnach had seen them both fed lunch, napped on a cot Mistress Ceana had insisted be brought in and set under the window for his pleasure, then dragged himself to the kitchens for supper for the three of them.

He’d started to ask Aisling if she didn’t want to at least take a walk after supper, but he had watched her blossom right there before his eyes, as if she’d been a seed that had been planted in some magic-saturated soil. He had taken her hand, bowed low over it, extended the same courtesy to Mistress Ceana, then left them to their work.

He’d considered the library, but his afternoon’s labors there had been too useless and depressing to return to. Though he’d tried to make it seem a bit of a contest earlier in the day, sitting with Aisling at opposite ends of a very long table, and exchanging the occasional knowing look, it had seemed less and less like a game and more like death waiting for him around the corner.

He had to have answers and he had to have them soon.

He paused at the bottom of a long, circular stairway and looked up into the darkness. No one barred his way, so he began to climb. He climbed until he could climb no more and stood on a landing outside a door. He knocked, because he at least had that much good breeding left in him.

“Come!”

He opened the door and found none other than the illustrious king of Neroche sitting in front of his fire. Miach was looking at him in a way that suddenly made him very nervous.

“Waiting for me, were you?” Rùnach managed.

“I thought you might be wandering abroad this evening,” Miach said with a smile. “Is your lady still spinning, or has she worn her spinning mistress out?”

“She’s still there, but I told her I would fetch her in an hour and
insist that she sleep.” He shrugged. “And speaking of the opinions of women, what does your bride think of your spending your evenings in your hovel here?”

“I made a special trip just for you, so she approves. And just so you know, I don’t spend
all
my evenings here.”

“Of which I imagine she also approves,” Rùnach said, shutting the door behind him and casting himself down into the empty chair in front of the fire. “Our mothers are pleased with the match, I’m sure.”

“Are you?”

“I am.” He accepted a cup of ale from his brother-in-law, sat back, then sighed. “Get on with the bludgeoning.”

“Me?” Miach asked innocently. “Why would I bludgeon?”

Rùnach pursed his lips. “Because you are who you are and you know Soilléir of Cothromaiche very well. I am continually appalled by the similarities between the two of you.”

Miach only watched him steadily, a small smile playing around his mouth. “You know what she is, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“Aisling.”

Rùnach shot him a look. “A girl, thank you. I haven’t been so long at Buidseachd that I can’t recognize one when I see one.”

Miach looked at him for a moment or two, then rose and set his cup on the mantel. “Very well, think what you like. I’m going to bed.”

Rùnach gaped at him. “That’s it?”

Miach only raised his eyebrow briefly. “Lock up when you’ve stewed enough, would you?”

Rùnach pondered that.

H
e was still pondering the next day in the lists. He didn’t like to reduce his life to simple reports worthy of an assistant bard’s practice diary, but there had been little progress to speak of on any front. He had slept a discreet distance away from Aisling in front of their fire, then escorted her to Mistress Ceana’s chamber
at first light. He had encountered one of Miach’s older brothers in the passageway, which had left him grinding his teeth as he realized Mansourah of Neroche had taken one look at Aisling and apparently fallen immediately under her spell. It hadn’t helped matters at all when Mansourah had introduced himself and Aisling had realized he was the soldier Weger had recommended she seek out. Rùnach had sent Mansourah one way and Aisling the other. Knowing she was closeted with Neroche’s master spinner—and hoping that wasn’t a mistake of epic proportions—had left him free to trot out to the lists to try to find answers.

His sister was terrifying the garrison, so he took the opportunity to terrify the hapless king of Neroche. He was happy to find that he remembered several things Weger had taught him, though less than surprised to find Miach knew those same things. He finally leaned on his sword and looked at his sister’s husband.

“I’m biting. What is she?”

“A girl.”

Rùnach growled. At least he thought he growled. It was difficult to tell what he was doing when all he wanted to do was wipe the smirk off Miach’s face.

“You know,” he said shortly, “you annoyed me when you were a lad. You haven’t improved since then.”

“I repaired your hands.”

“And left me with a broken tooth thanks to the rivet in the leather strap you gave me to chew on whilst you were about it!”

“I fixed that as well.”

Rùnach looked over his shoulder to make sure no observant gel with shorn hair was standing behind him, eavesdropping with abandon, then leaned closer to his brother-in-law. “Let me lay out for you, King Mochriadhemiach, all the problems that sit arranged pleasingly on a trencher before me. Perhaps then you can stop smirking long enough to examine them with me.”

“You’re testy.”

Rùnach ignored him. “Why no one saw fit to tell me that Lothar was lounging negligently at Gobhann, I don’t know—”

“Didn’t we tell you?”

“Nay, you bloody well didn’t tell me!” Rùnach shouted. He took a deep breath. “Nay, you didn’t tell me, but no matter. I found that out all on my own. Somehow he managed to free himself and find me, all whilst I was singularly unable to protect a helpless woman.”

“She’s not helpless.” Miach smiled. “She is lovely—and all the more lovely for not thinking herself so.”

Rùnach frowned. “You shouldn’t be looking.”

“I’m scouting out a future sister-in-law,” Miach said mildly. “I’m just wondering if you understand the path that lies before her.”

“And you do?” Rùnach said shortly. “And just so you know, I’m not sure I’m equal to expressing how desperately I would like to loathe you for your damned sight.”

Miach only smiled briefly, then his smile faded. “There is something stirring,” he said slowly. He hesitated, then looked around himself. “I don’t think it wise to speak of it here.” He paused. “Something slippery that I can’t quite see.”

“Heaven help us, then.”

“Or you, rather,” Miach said seriously. He chewed on his words a bit longer, then shook his head. “I’ll say no more at present. I think you should be careful, both with yourself and with that gel of yours.”

“She is not mine,” Rùnach said, though it was odd, wasn’t it, how he found that he was wondering where she was and what she was doing. He would have put his hand to his head to check for undue warmth there, but then Miach would have thought he was feeling for Weger’s mark.

“I suppose you could ask for aid,” Miach mused. “In keeping both you and Aisling safe.”

“From whom?” Rùnach asked grimly. “You, newly wed? Ruith, newly wed and fresh from a battle with my sire? One of my elvish cousins who would shudder delicately at the sight of anything to do with anything created from anything but Fadaire?”

“I only said you
could
,” Miach pointed out, “I didn’t say you
should.
”

“Can I assume you have suggestions for me?”

“Perish the thought,” Miach said, holding up his hand in surrender. “I was just making idle conversation.”

Rùnach chewed on his words for quite some time before he spoke again. “Who is she?”

“How would I know?”

Rùnach suppressed the urge to take his fist and plow it into Miach’s nose. “You’re obnoxious.”

“My wife doesn’t think I’m obnoxious.”

“She’s dazzled by your crown,” Rùnach said, though he knew nothing could be further from the truth. He sighed deeply. “Very well, I concede the battle. Where do I go to find out who she is?”

“You’re asking me?” Miach said, blinking owlishly. “What would I know of anything?”

“I didn’t allow Rigaud and Gille to beat you often enough. A mistake I shall obviously pay for long into my old age.” He inclined his head. “If His Majesty will excuse me?”

“Where’re you off to?”

Rùnach only snorted at him and walked away, because it was safer that way—for Miach. He walked back to the keep, pulling his hood over his face yet again, and continued on to his chamber. He had a wash, donned fresh clothes—for which he would unfortunately have to thank Miach—and made for the library.

He started down into the bowels of the castle and had to admit he was rather glad that he could trot down the stairs instead of having to limp down them, and that his hand as it skimmed along the metal railing could not only feel the terrible chill of the iron but grasp it occasionally as the need arose. He walked in, nodded to the head librarian, then went immediately to where he thought he might find what he was looking for.

He had only been at it for a quarter hour before a small, sharp-eyed man appeared as if by magic by his side. Rùnach realized too late that his head was bare and his face uncovered. He stopped himself midway in pulling his hood forward and looked at his companion.

“I am a simple traveler,” he said, shooting the man a look that
said he would be wise to agree, “and am here thanks to the king’s graciousness. Who are you?”

The man’s eyes were alight with excitement. “I am Feòcallan,” he whispered, “special researcher to His Majesty, King Mochriadhemiach, who is a kind and generous ruler, especially benevolent to those who love books.”

Rùnach almost smiled. “So he is,” he agreed.

“What might I help His—er, I mean, the
goodman
—what can I help him find?”

Rùnach found himself, for a change, without a single idea. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’m looking for something, but I’m not sure what.”

“I fear, Your—ah, I mean,
sir
, that we don’t have a section entitled
Not Sure What
.”