(eng) Lynn Kurland - Nine Kingdoms 11 by The Dreamer's Song

Author:The Dreamer's Song [Song, The Dreamer's]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Ten

The witchwoman of Fàs wasn’t humming any longer.

Acair reshelved a rather tattered copy of Scenic Byways in Durial, shuddering over the content as he did so, and realized that not only had his mother stopped humming, she had deserted him entirely. He looked about himself in her rather substantial library only to find himself quite alone.

He leaned his shoulder against bookshelves that would likely remain standing long after the world had ended—his mother had her priorities, to be sure—and wondered when she had abandoned him to his own devices.

He had started his search for the obscure and perilous directly after luncheon. He had been joined by his mother and Léirsinn whilst leaving Mansourah of Neroche the unenviable task of trying to entertain two women who would likely wind up brawling over him.

He was fairly sure that after a pair of hours, Léirsinn had pled the excuse of more barn work as a means of escape, something for which he absolutely couldn’t blame her. His mother, however, had remained in the trenches with him. She had entertained him with an admittedly impressive repertoire of Durialian drinking songs for the better part of the afternoon, most of the time merely humming the tune, pausing now and again to burst forth into a verse or two before descending into wheezing laughter over the lyrics.

His mother was, he had to admit, a woman of extremely eclectic tastes.

He wasn’t sure when she’d left him or, more to the point, where she’d gone, which meant he needed to find her before she said or did something untoward and sent Léirsinn fleeing off into the gloom. His horse-mad miss had refused to divulge what she and his dam had spoken of in the barn, but he was certain it couldn’t have been good.

He made his way to the parlor, but it was full of prince and rapacious cousin multiplied by two, so he withdrew silently before he was noticed. The passageways were distressingly free of any red-haired vixens, so he settled for a hasty trip to the kitchen.

It was unfortunately lacking the woman he lo—er, was rather fond of, but his mother was definitely there, sitting in her rocker near the hearth. She was knitting heaven only knew what, but he didn’t see shards of glass sparkling in her yarn by light of the fire so he supposed it might be something as innocuous as a scarf.

His spellish companion was slouched in a chair—actually, it was slouched in what Acair noted was the chair he’d always sat in as a lad. That thing there was looking more like a surly youth with every day that passed, which he supposed he should have found damned unnerving.

He needed to bump find maker of that bloody thing up on his list of things to attend to.

He leaned against a bit of wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house and allowed himself to entertain memories he hadn’t in decades, maudlin fool that he was. He would have to share them with Léirsinn later, perhaps as his good deed for the day.

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