Arclath tensed but managed to quell his urge to thrust the warm and curvaceous body away from him.

“Ah-uh-damn you, wizard! Can’t I talk to my Rune without you stepping between us?”

“Lad,” the wizard’s growl answered him, Amarune’s eyes fixed on him, “ye can. Hopefully-with but a very few exceptions-ye will. Ye see, I’ll be using thy lass as little as possible and seeking a suitable replacement to ride. Ye have my word on that.”

“Your word?” Arclath said bitterly. “And what is that worth? My own has been… somewhat devalued.”

“Lad, I like this as little as ye do, and thy lady’s not exactly blissful about it, either. She’s my descendant, mind, and I want her unhurt in body and mind, so I’ll try to take very good care of her. I say ‘unhurt’ because she is, after all, in here with me and aware of everything. That I have violated her as few have been violated, I grant. I’ve tried to apologize for what there can be no proper apology for, and failed, but she’s seen my need and reasons in my thoughts and accepts them. She’ll tell ye so, though ye’re just going to have to accept her word when she tells ye it’s her speaking and not me. If ye do not, I see her soon bidding ye begone, noble name and wealth or not. Now, can there be peace between us?”

Arclath stared thoughtfully into the eyes of the mask dancer so close to his. The woman he’d come to love, so swiftly and deeply that he was still a little disbelieving. Had the wizard used a little love magic? But no, he’d been nowhere around when… or had he?

Shards and stars, did any of that matter? He did love his Rune, more than he’d ever loved anyone before, and-and what could he do to thwart this Old Mage, anyhail?

Nothing. Nothing at all, but be there for his Amarune and hope she won clear of Elminster soon, unharmed. Or as unscathed as possible.