The White Spell

One

The port town of Sàraichte was a locale with absolutely no redeeming features.

The list of its flaws was long and well-examined. It wasn't as large as Tòsan, nor as elegant as Taohb na Mara; it was a city of unremarkable size that one tended to forget as quickly as possible in order to erase the unfortunate memory of having passed through it. Its harbor was endlessly needing a good dredging whilst its inhabitants seemed to be perpetually needing a good bath. The food was terrible, the accommodations disgusting, and the scenery flat and uninspiring. There was only one thing about the place that spared it from the need for a good razing.

The stables of Briàghde.

Léirsinn of Sàraichte leaned against an outer wall of Briàghde's labyrinth of stalls and considered the truth of that. She wasn't one to be effusive with praise or stingy with censure, which left her looking at the bare facts to judge them on merit alone. And the simple fact was, the horses that came from the stables in which she stood were absolutely beyond compare.

She knew this because she was responsible for it.

It wasn't something she thought about very often, actually, for a variety of reasons that left her feeling rather uncomfortable if she gave too much thought to them. But the weather was brisk, the barn cats feisty, and the horses very full of themselves. If that had infected her with a bit more spirit than she usually dared allow herself, so be it. Besides, she was the only one inside her head, so perhaps she could be permitted a bracing bit of truth to enjoy privately.

And the truth was, she was damned good at working horses. It was in her blood, or so she understood, which she supposed helped quite a bit. The rest of it was simply years of seeing horse after horse come through Fuadain of Sàraichte's stables and watching how they matured. She'd had the good sense to know which horsemen to listen to in her youth and perhaps even better sense to keep her mouth shut when it would have been easier to call other men who thought they knew horses idiots.

She was growing rather tired of that last bit, actually.

But biting her tongue allowed her to continue to watch what came and went in Lord Fuadain's stables and, better still, quietly have charge of their training. Of course she never spoke her opinions aloud, but she and the stable master, Slaidear, had come to an understanding a decade ago. He would stroke his chin and consider the beast on display before him, glance her way to see if she raised a single eyebrow or not, then take her opinion as his own and offer an aye or nay as necessary.

Many fine animals were turned away as a result, left with no choice but to find homes with lesser masters. Only the most spectacular beasts were invited to stay to either be bred or trained, sometimes both. The fees charged for either privilege were so high, Léirsinn was frankly amazed anyone managed to pay them. But they seemed to, and gladly.

Of course, she saw no share of that gold, but she couldn't have realistically expected anything else. Fuadain was her uncle, as it happened, but she was one of his much lesser relations by marriage. She was fortunate to have a roof over her head and enough to eat. She had incomparable horses to train, though, which made up for quite a bit.

As did the sea, which was perhaps the one redeeming feature of Sàraichte. She could see the faint sparkle of it from where she stood. If she'd had money enough, she would have built a house near it, with an enormous barn and a path that led to the shore where she could have ridden a different horse each day along the edge of the water. She would have had peace and quiet and the freedom to think whatever thoughts she cared to without having to guard her expressions.

With any luck she would have that, though perhaps not as quickly as she would have liked. She looked down at the coins she held in her hand. It was her se'nnight's pay, those three coins that would scarce buy her a decent meal at the worst pub in town. But she would add them to the rest of what she had, as usual, and continue on as she always did.

She pushed away from the wall and walked into the stables, noting the condition of the floors between rows of stalls-one might eat off them if one were so inclined-and the condition of the horses housed inside those stalls-one might ride them to the ends of the earth if one were so inclined. She tried not to think about that possibility very often, lest the temptation prove to be more than she could bear.

The stables were less populated by lads than usual, but perhaps they'd snuck off for a bit of rest. She couldn't blame them. The work was endless and they didn't have the privilege of riding any of the horses they tended. The work was endless for her as well, but she was at least allowed to ride what she tended. If she generally limited herself to riding the finest horses in the barn, who could blame her?

She made her way without undue haste to her private tack room. In truth, the damned place was no larger than her uncle's smallest wardrobe, but it was hers alone and there was a lock on her door. She was fortunate to have that much and she knew it.

She entered, then closed the door behind her purposefully, as if she indeed had many important things to do. She lit a lantern, then kept herself busy doing absolutely nothing for another few minutes until she was as certain as she could be that she wouldn't be interrupted.

She carefully removed a stack of dusty, ancient saddle pads to reveal a very worn box full of half-used bottles of horse liniment. She looked at the nastiest of the lot but didn't disturb it until she had made certain it hadn't been moved by someone else. Finding everything to be as it should have been, she lifted the bottle and looked at what lay underneath it.

A key.

That key opened a lock that was found on a box that wasn't found on her uncle's property, a scheme that had been casually suggested to her a handful of years earlier by someone in town. She'd agreed just as casually that such seemed like a fine idea. The box in question, tended by that same trustworthy soul in town, was full of more silver than gold, but the modest collection of coins was hers, ruthlessly saved against a time when she might find it useful. She didn't want to admit that she couldn't imagine when such a day might come, but it had seemed a bit like having a loft stacked with a winter's worth of hay. Security was nothing to be sneered at.

She deposited her trio of coins next to the key, then replaced everything in a way that left no indication that it had been moved. She sat down on a stool that still rocked despite the attempts she'd made over the years to file the legs to the same length. Her pay would be safe enough until she was able to get to town and put the coins where they needed to go. She took a deep breath, then let herself think thoughts that seemed so dangerous, she rarely entertained them. But since it had been that sort of day so far, she continued on with the anarchy.

She was going to get herself and her grandfather out of Sàraichte.

The truth was, she didn't need a house by the sea. She wasn't even sure she needed a house. All she needed was enough money to collect her grandfather from her uncle's manor and spirit them both away to somewhere safe. Her grandfather's frail condition demanded a place where she could find work and he could be cared for, but that was done easily enough. A town with a decent barn and a fair supply of women skilled in the arts of physicking would serve. Perhaps in time she might even find someone willing to try to heal him, for enough gold. She seriously doubted she would find anyone to do it out of the goodness of his heart-

A knock startled her so badly, she almost fell off her stool. She took a deep, steadying breath, then rose and opened the door. "Aye?"

Her head groomsman, Doghail, stood there. "Thought you should know that Fuadain's in a temper," he said in a low voice.

"When is he not?" she asked lightly.

"Aye, well, he seems to be in a particularly difficult mood today. You might want to keep that in mind."

Léirsinn didn't even consider arguing with that assessment. Doghail was a short, thin man who had spent the bulk of his life racing horses for this lord or that. He was wiry, malnourished, and canny as hell. The horses did his bidding without hesitation. She understood that. When he pulled her up with a pinky finger on her reins, she never hesitated to pause. If he said her uncle was in a temper, she was going to keep her ears forward-

She shook her head. Perhaps she had spent too much time in the company of horses. She was starting to think like one.

"I sense something afoot," Doghail added. "He's sacked half the lads for imagined slights." He paused. "I just wanted you to know what was blowing your way so you'd be prepared."

She stepped outside her closet and pulled the door shut behind her. "Where is he now?"

"Entertaining up at the house, but one of the kitchen lads scampered down to tell me that they're almost finished with their port."

"But 'tis barely noon," she said in surprise. "Into their cups so early?"

"Aye," he said grimly, "and if that doesn't give you pause, I don't know what will."

She shook her head less in surprise than resignation. Her uncle was very fond of his drink. If he'd already been in a temper that morning, she almost hesitated to think what he would be in by the time he and his luncheon companion stumbled through her doors. She looked at Doghail.

"Where's Slaidear?"

"At Himself's elbow," Doghail said in disgust. "Where else?"

Where, indeed? Why Fuadain had ever made Slaidear his stable master-nay, there was no point in revisiting that piece of stupidity because she knew exactly why her uncle had done the like. Master Slaidear might have known next to nothing about horses, but the man knew how to flatter a lord with mercurial moods.

She had complained about Slaidear's lack of knowledge to a stable hand when she'd first arrived in Sàraichte-once. That lad, who had long since laid himself down in a mouldering grave, had put her some deep knowledge, as he would have said, and told her to keep her bloody mouth shut and her eyes and ears open. And she, a poor shivering, sniveling child of eleven summers, had had the wit to listen.

That had been almost a score of years ago and she had never once regretted forming that habit.

As it happened, in time she had managed to gain Slaidear's trust. If he used her taste in ponies to secure his own place, so much the better. She was free to train what she liked whilst someone else was paying for it. There was a certain beauty in that, which likely said something about her that she didn't want to examine too closely.

She looked at Doghail. "Any ideas what he'll want to see?"

"His companion is a genteel gentleman," Doghail said knowingly.

She laughed a little in spite of herself. "No money but quite a title, is that what you're getting at?"

"Exactly." He squinted back down the way. "I imagine we'll have word from Slaidear at any moment on which horses to prepare. Somehow, I suspect they might be the same ones you would think of."

"Funny thing, that," she said. "Very well, let's settle on a simple beast who wouldn't mind a life in modest surroundings. If we flank him with a less desirable pair of nags, he'll shine well enough."

"Tell me which ones and I'll ready them."

She considered, named a trio of horses she thought might suit, then watched Doghail walk off to do what he did best. Unfortunately that left her with nothing to do but linger in the passageway and wait.

She wandered down toward the entry to the barn, leaned back against a handy wall, and contented herself with yet another recalculating of her funds.

Would that it took more time than it did.

She straightened immediately at the sight of her uncle marching purposely toward the barn, his guest in tow. She waited without shifting until he arrived, then strove not to flinch as he stopped in front of her.

"What are you doing lazing about?" he demanded.

She made him a small bow. "I was simply waiting here to attend your pleasure, as always, and await Master Slaidear's instructions."

"I should think so," Fuadain huffed. He looked at his companion. "Come, Lord Aidan, and we'll endure a bit of dust to see what Slaidear has produced."

Léirsinn held back as her uncle and his obviously inebriated companion walked rather unsteadily into the barn. Slaidear looked at her quickly as he hung back behind the pair. She nodded ever so slightly and he continued on, obviously reassured.

She suppressed the urge to sigh. Her uncle was at least a bit lordly looking, his unsavory self aside. He was tall, with silver hair and a noble brow. Slaidear, on the other hand, was a short, round little fellow who looked as if he belonged on the edges of a tale about hard-working dwarves, not up to his ears in the demanding labor of overseeing a large barn full of extremely valuable horses.

Then again, he knew what to say and when to say it. Perhaps that made up for his lack of wit.

She realized with a start that there were no stable hands rushing to go hold the horses Doghail had surely selected. There was only Doghail, standing at the gate to the arena, waiting for her with only one horse in tow. She cursed under her breath and walked swiftly down the aisle to meet him.

"No lads?" she asked, feeling a little breathless.

"Later," he said, handing her the reins. "I'll go tack up the other two. Save the best for last, aye?"

She nodded, put her questions aside, then led a perfectly serviceable but hardly spectacular gelding into the arena. A lad came skidding through the dirt to hand her the pair of gloves she'd apparently dropped in her haste, then backed away at a curse from Slaidear. If that one avoided a right proper sacking, she would be surprised. She consigned him to whatever fate awaited him without hesitation and turned her attentions to her own business.