Twenty-one
Ruith looked at the map on the table in front of him and struggled to commit it to memory. It was difficult, which it shouldn’t have been given that he had slept well the night before. He had spent a lifetime memorizing spells and lore and endless lists of names, in the beginning because it had been expected and later because he had found the discipline of it to be rather bracing.
Now, though, his discipline—and his wits—were failing him at a most inconvenient time. He couldn’t imagine Sarah wouldn’t remember everything she’d seen, but in a moment of duress, it was always wise to have more than one person in a company with the journey’s route at their fingertips.
He looked up, then jumped a little. King Uachdaran was standing on the other side of the table, watching him with his dark, shrewd eyes.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Ruith said wearily. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I planned it that way,” Uachdaran said, “on the off chance you were rifling through my private books.”
“I will admit, King Uachdaran, that I’ve been too tired to even contemplate the like.”
“Don’t expect any pity from me,” Uachdaran said with a snort. “You’d sleep better if you allowed that lass of yours some peace, but I can see why you want to keep her close.” He considered, then reached inside the purse hanging from his belt and pulled out a scrap of parchment. He held it out. “I thought you might be interested in this.”
Ruith took it, though he knew before he touched it what it was: another piece of his father’s spell of Diminishing. He looked at the king. “Where was it found?”
“Outside my gates.” He handed over another. “This was brought back by one of my scouts last night. Someone, I daresay, knows you’re here.”
Ruith accepted the second offering with even less enthusiasm. “And the direction this was found in?”
“North,” Uachdaran said, “and a bit east. Toward An-uallach.”
Ruith chewed on his words until they became dust in his mouth. “Then I’m being led.”
“I would say aye,” Uachdaran agreed. “You and that gel of yours.”
Ruith considered. “Why her?” he asked, finally.
“Because she sees, for one thing,” Uachdaran said without hesitation. “As for the rest—” He shrugged. “You of all people should know that things are not always as they seem.”
Ruith leaned gingerly against the sideboard behind him and considered things he hadn’t had time to before. “Your historian seemed surprised to see Sarah.”
“He’s skittish.”
Ruith couldn’t argue, because he’d said much the same thing to Sarah. “But he’s been following her, as if he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She is exceptionally lovely, I’ll admit, but he must know she is ... ah ...”
“Spoken for?” Uachdaran asked politely. “You could only hope, my boy.”
“I do,” Ruith said fervently, “but that still doesn’t clear up the mystery of his interest. And whilst we’re about the happy work of discussing things that puzzle me, why do the runes on the sword I brought you match the runes on Sarah’s knives that I found for her in Gilean? Why was there no message attached to the blade, yet you understood what Soilléir had been trying to tell you?”
Uachdaran only looked at him steadily. And silently, damn him.
“Master Eachdraidh seems to be unusually interested in the histories of Cothromaiche,” Ruith continued. “He told Sarah several of their tales, I believe.”
“He’s always interested in a good tale. Or an intriguing mystery.”
Ruith frowned. When that didn’t help him any, he frowned a bit more. “I didn’t realize they had any mysteries in Cothromaiche.”
“Only one,” Uachdaran said with a smirk, “which would be how that young rogue Soilléir managed to slip out with all those spells of essence changing before his great-grandfather was the wiser.”
Ruith tried another tack. “I understand that the runes on our blades are theirs, but they aren’t a simple rendering of their tongue.”
“Are the runes of Tòrr Dòrainn any different?” Uachdaran asked pointedly. “Even ones on a simple blade would take a body years to unravel—being, as they are, unnecessarily complicated—then a lifetime to understand. Yet somehow your grandfather and his get seem to use them easily enough.”
“But they’ve been taught what they mean.”
“Then I suppose you’d best look for someone to teach you how to read what’s on your blade, hadn’t you? But don’t look at me. I’ve no patience for that sort of rot. I prefer my blades to bear words of power and might in a tongue that’s easily recognized as it finds home in a lad’s gut.”
“There is a certain beauty to that sort of simplicity,” Ruith agreed. He considered a bit longer, then made Uachdaran a small bow. “I believe, Your Majesty, that whilst Sarah is happily occupied with your granddaughter this morning, I will make a little visit to your bard.”
“Don’t render him unfit for supper.”
“I won’t.” Ruith made him another bow, then took up his quest for answers he hadn’t thought he would need but now found himself quite anxious to have.
He knocked on Master Eachdraidh’s door, then opened it before the man could escape out some hidden passageway. The historian was sitting in front of the fire, poring over a book he subsequently dumped into the fire in his surprise. Ruith rescued it, restored it, then handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” Eachdraidh said faintly. “I’m grateful—”
“How grateful?”
Eachdraidh eyed the door, but Ruith sat down in the chair across from him and affected a pose he hoped bespoke plans for a long visit. Eachdraidh hesitated, then sighed.
“Grateful enough for several tales,” he said. “If His Highness wishes.”
“I wouldn’t trouble you for that much,” Ruith said smoothly. “I would simply like to have the one you told Sarah yesterday, the one about the lovers from Cothromaiche whose romance ended badly.”
Eachdraidh looked as if he would rather have been facing Uachdaran in his lists, but he’d apparently resigned himself to being trapped.
“They were slain,” Eachdraidh said hollowly, “so it wasn’t exactly that the romance ended badly, it was just that it ended prematurely.” He paused and seemed to be looking for the right thing to say. “They were terribly happy, or so I understand, for as long as they were wed.”
“What befell them?”
“They were slain.”
“By whom?”
“By a neighbor.”
Ruith considered the countries that bordered Cothromaiche. There was Gairn to the west, then Bruadair to the northwest where the forests were full of dreams and spells and things that sensible souls avoided. There was nothing to the east but endless plain claimed by no one at all. But to the south ...
An-uallach.
Ruith rubbed his arms suddenly, wishing Uachdaran could do a better job at keeping the bloody place warm. He looked at Eachdraidh.
“Which neighbor was responsible?”
Eachdraidh shifted uncomfortably. “Ah,” he said, “I’m not sure ...”
“You led Sarah to believe it was a king, but there are no kings in Bruadair or Gairn—at least none who would sit on the Council. That leaves Morag of An-uallach.”
Eachdraidh fidgeted, then let out a deep, shuddering breath. “So it does, Your Highness.”
Ruith stared into the fire for a bit. Interesting that Eachdraidh should feel compelled to tell Sarah a tale of Cothromaiche. Uncanny that to An-uallach he was apparently being led, for reasons he couldn’t see.
He looked at Eachdraidh. “What were the names of this hapless pair?”
“Athair and Sorcha,” Eachdraidh said nervously. “They had a wee gel. Don’t remember her name, though.”
A lie, Ruith thought. “And what did this unfortunate pair look like?” He paused. “Did you ever meet them, Master Eachdraidh?”
Eachdraidh looked profoundly miserable. “Athair was a great friend of King Uachdaran’s granddaughter Dreachail’s husband, so aye, I knew him. And his bride, Sorcha. Athair was tall and fair-haired. Handsome enough for a lad, I suppose.”
“And his lady?”
Eachdraidh swallowed convulsively. “Flame-haired. Green-eyed.” He swallowed again. “About your lady’s height.”
Ruith caught his jaw before it fell to his chest. He wasn’t one to engage in idle speculation—his long bouts of it during his youth accompanied by Miach of Neroche as they speculated on the caches of spells they might plunder if given the opportunity aside—but in this instance, he couldn’t stop himself.
Soilléir of Cothromaiche had given Sarah not only a book of his people’s poetry but the means to learn his language, ostensibly to read runes that Uachdaran himself had said could only be read after considerable teaching from one who knew more than just the language. He himself had been sent to Léige to deliver a sword inscribed with the same runes only to have the king shrug it aside whilst his bard followed Sarah about as if he were looking at a ghost.
Further, Uachdaran had made Sarah a crown. Ruith had supposed it had been for his sake, but he wondered now if he had been wrong. Soilléir had treated them with a level of care that had been far above what Ruith could have reasonably expected even given Soilléir’s undeniable affection for his mother, going so far as to give them horses that were truly beyond price.
Why?
He was beginning to consider things that couldn’t possibly be true, but then again, the world was full of impossible things. Such as an elven prince who had denied his birthright falling in love with a weaver of cloth who could see things in broad daylight that eluded even the most powerful.
He leaned forward and looked at Eachdraidh seriously. “How old was the wee gel when her parents were slain?”
“Not yet two summers, or so I’ve been told.”
“Are you telling me you never saw the child?”
“N-n-nay,” Eachdraidh managed. “I mean, aye, Your H-highness. I-I never saw h-her.”
Ruith sat back. Another lie, but he suspected if he pressed the man, Eachdraidh would burst into tears. “I don’t suppose you have any books on Cothromaichian genealogy, do you?”
Eachdraidh shook his head nervously.
“I see,” Ruith said, and he did. And he also knew where he might find just such a thing.
A pity it was in Sarah’s pack.
And then something utterly unthinkable occurred to him. He looked at Eachdraidh sharply. “What was the name of Athair’s father?”
Eachdraidh opened his mouth to speak, then shut it with a snap. He stood up suddenly and looked behind Ruith. “My lady,” he said, inclining his head.
Ruith looked over his shoulder, expecting to see one of Uachdaran’s granddaughters.
He was mistaken.
It was Sarah.
He rose immediately and walked over to her. He reached for her hand and smiled at her. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I was afraid you had snuck off to Uachdaran’s solar,” she said quietly. “I was coming to save you from yourself.”
“I was just intimidating Eachdraidh for you,” he said lightly. “Work’s done, but with enough of him left to entertain his liege lord later. Shall we go have another meal, then see to our packing?”
“If you like,” she said slowly.
He started off with her, then heard Eachdraidh call his name. He turned in the doorway. “Aye?”
“You forgot something, Your Highness,” Eachdraidh said, looking as pale as Sarah did.
Ruith squeezed Sarah’s hand, then released her to walk over to the bard. Eachdraidh handed him a sheet of paper.
“Franciscus,” he whispered under his breath, then straightened. “A good journey to you, Prince Ruithneadh,” he said loudly. “And to your lady, as well.”
Ruith looked at what he held in his hand. It was nothing but a blank sheet, but Ruith supposed it had been useful enough as an excuse for a quiet word. He rolled up the sheaf and stuck it down his boot, because it was all he could think to do. He thanked Eachdraidh again, then turned and walked over to the door to collect Sarah.
Sarah, that gel from a no-name town in the midst of ruffians and thieves who had been guarded by an alemaster named Franciscus—a man far better educated than the average alemaster—who had suddenly discovered the ability to see, and who looked so much like a woman from a land of legend that a dwarvish bard had fainted the first time he’d seen her.
“Ruith?”
He stopped in the middle of the passageway, turned her to him, then gathered her into his arms. It wasn’t possible that all those things could pertain to her. It wasn’t possible that she was the granddaughter of Franciscus who was apparently the grandson of Seannair of Cothromaiche, the original keeper of the spells of Caochladh.
Was it?
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold,” he lied without hesitation. “Let’s go find a fire and I’ll sit on your lap where you can comfort me.”
She laughed a little and pulled back to look up at him. Her smile faltered. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you. At least you’re so beautiful no one will notice me.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her along with him. “Perhaps Uachdaran has something to eat in his solar. It will give me one last chance to poach a spell or two, to make him feel as if I’ve made a proper visit.”
She only nodded and walked down the passageway with him, her arm around his waist. She finally cleared her throat. “Something occurred to me this morning.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what. “Did it?”
“I’ve heard those names before, the ones Eachdraidh told me about yesterday.” She looked up at him. “Athair and Sorcha.”
He managed not to catch his breath only because he had self-control developed over years of austerity. “Have you? Where?”
“In your grandfather’s garden,” she said. “The trees were singing about them.”
He imagined they were, damn them to a hot fire. “Interesting,” he managed.
“Do you think so?”
“Aye, and look, here we are at the king’s solar. Something to eat, love?”
She frowned at him. “Are you changing the subject?”
He sighed, then turned toward her. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent his head to rest his forehead against hers. “I am,” he said quietly, “but not because I’m not interested. I would love nothing more than to find a grassy spot beneath the most beautiful fruit trees in Sgath and Eulasaid’s garden, stretch out with you, and in a perfectly safe place have you tell me everything you’ve seen and heard.” He lifted his head and looked down at her. “But here—”
“You don’t have to say anything else,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I understand completely.”
He stopped her before she pulled away. “I promise you an afternoon there, Sarah, when we’re finished with this. As many afternoons as you’ll gift me.”
“Are we going to spend them with one of your eight to-be-wooed princesses?”
“Seven, and they are to be merely admired, not wooed, so don’t make yourself too comfortable with your bargain,” he warned. He stopped himself just before he kissed her—which he wasn’t entirely certain wouldn’t have resulted with her fist in his gut—and settled for a chaste peck on the end of her nose—which only earned him a scowl she couldn’t seem to put any energy behind. “Food?”
“Please.”
He knocked on Uachdaran’s solar, then entered when commanded to do so. He greeted Uachdaran pleasantly, saw Sarah seated, then made himself page and served both king and ordinary gel the luncheon that had been brought. He finally sat down next to Sarah and looked at the king.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said seriously. “For all your many kindnesses. I’m sorry we’ve trespassed so long—”
“Don’t be daft, boy,” Uachdaran said gruffly. “Haven’t had such pleasant conversations since I saw your grandpappy a pair of fortnights ago.” He squinted at Ruith. “But don’t think I’m going to make a present of any of my spells.”
“I wouldn’t dream it.”
“And don’t think I won’t be checking your pockets for the same before you leave.”
Ruith laughed. “I would expect nothing less.”
“And so you don’t have to ask, I shot Mochriadhemiach of Neroche a stern look or two on his way out my gates.”
“Very wise.”
Uachdaran chewed on his words for a moment or two. “I don’t like to poke my nose in where it doesn’t belong,” he began slowly, “my having ground you to powder in my lists aside.” He looked at Ruith briefly. “I give asked-for advice even more rarely.”
“And if I were to ask you for advice, King Uachdaran?”
Uachdaran seemed to wrestle with something—either his good sense or his conscience. “Then I’ll say this—unwillingly.” He looked at Sarah quickly. “We discussed your route this morning, gel, whilst you were with my granddaughter. You might have an opinion on it.”
She shook her head. “If it leads to a spell, that’s all the opinion I have.”
Uachdaran conceded the point with a nod, then turned back to Ruith. “I’ll say this much: I don’t like those at An-uallach, and that doesn’t come from Queen Morag’s, er, her—”
“Commanding presence on the Council of Kings?” Ruith finished for him delicately.
Uachdaran laughed a bit. “Inherited your dam’s gilded tongue, did you? ’Tis for damned sure you didn’t get it from Sìle.”
“My mother would be flattered.”
“She was a lovely gel, and I took great pleasure in sending the odd spy off after your father for her sake, but that isn’t what concerns us here. I would advise you to tread lightly. I wouldn’t go at all, but I haven’t your burden. Be careful with our young miss. I wouldn’t leave her alone there.”
Ruith considered. “Queen Morag has six daughters, doesn’t she?”
Uachdaran shot him a look. “That, my boy, is only part of the problem. The only saving grace for you is that Morag cannot shapechange. ’Tis the only thing about her your grandfather approves of, I daresay.” He opened his mouth, then shut it just as quickly. “I’ll say no more. Just be careful.” He put his hands on his knees, then rose. “I know you’ve packed your own gear, but I have a few things to add—to make your journey a bit easier, if you will. I’ll go see to them.”
Ruith watched him go, then waited until the door was shut before he looked at Sarah. “Gifts and friendships where we didn’t expect them.”
She shivered. “Why do I have the feeling this may be the last outpost of both?”
You might be surprised, he wanted to say, but he forbore. In truth, he had no idea what the future would bring, nor where he dared travel save where his sire’s spells were to be found. For all he knew, Sarah was right, and they would never see the inside of another decent inn until their quest was finished—or they had perished in the attempt.
Which, he supposed, was entirely possible.
He rubbed his hands over his face and suppressed the urge to curse. He had received aid, but not what he had been hoping for. Keir was no more, Mhorghain wouldn’t remember their father’s spells even if he dared take the time to follow after her to ask, Rùnach knew even less, and the rest of his siblings were dead. It was just him, struggling to fight against things he couldn’t see and wasn’t sure he could master.
It was a pity his father wasn’t alive. He could have walked up to him and asked him frankly if he was missing something. Perhaps the lad who was calling the spells had an accurate count of them. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought that that someone was a man who had a particular use for those spells.
Someone like his father, for instance.
Which was impossible, of course. He had watched that wave of evil fall down on his father and crush him beneath it. No one could have survived it. His mother hadn’t. His brothers had all been washed away save Rùnach, who had been spared only because his hands had been trapped under the cap of the well—
“Ruith, you should rest.”
He considered the floor at her feet and thought it might do quite well for a brief closing of his eyes. He kissed her hand, thanked her kindly for the suggestion, then stretched out in front of the fire.
She reached down and smoothed the hair back from his face. “We’ll find what we need to,” she said quietly.
He reached up and caught her hand, held it for a moment, then released it. “Aye, I daresay we will.”
She sat back, but not before he’d seen the book she was holding in her hands. It was the child’s primer that Rùnach had found for her.
He sincerely hoped that all that lay within was children’s verse.
The sun was setting as he stood in the courtyard of Léige and bid farewell to the king. He and Sarah were wearing the cloaks she’d woven for them, but their saddlebags had been stuffed with warmer clothes and footwear. He watched Uachdaran hand Sarah a spindle as a parting gift.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, surprised. “’Tis very finely wrought.”
“And doubles as a dagger if you touch that wee lever there and release the blade,” Uachdaran said, sounding absolutely delighted by the thought. “Very handy for a weaver in a tight spot, I’d say.”
“I’m not sure where I’ll ever find roving to use on it,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, you’d be surprised what you can spin into warp and weft with it,” he said seriously. “Not that I know anything about making cloth. We would have our behinds bared to the cold stone if it weren’t for that young rogue from Neroche.”
“Miach?” Ruith asked in surprise.
“Carrying on his mother’s tradition of supplying me with bolts of useful things, aye.” Uachdaran looked at him mildly. “I think she felt guilty for having poached one of my spells in her youth. I wonder if her son suffers from the same affliction?”
“I daresay,” Ruith managed. He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I could ever repay you in like manner, my liege.”
“Ha,” Uachdaran said with a snort. “My liege, my arse. The deference—which would grate on your grandsire endlessly, I’ll warrant—is a good start. As for the rest, I’ll say that there’s something trickling under my mountain that I can’t seem to stop. When you’re finished with your task, come plug the leak for me. That’ll be payment enough for that quite useful spell of hiding you’ve been using so freely all these years.”
“That is a very light repayment,” Ruith said, “for it is a very good spell, Your Majesty.”
Uachdaran pursed his lips, then looked at Sarah. “If he ever convinces you to wed with him, child, and you fashion sons between you, make certain that they know that stealing is wrong.”
“I will, Your Majesty.”
Ruith watched as Uachdaran’s granddaughters came to wish Sarah a safe journey and found himself pulled aside. Uachdaran looked up at him gravely.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed anything particular about your lady’s knives,” he began bluntly. “Or dare I hope you’re as canny as you look?”
“Outside of bearing interesting runes, they slice through spells rather nicely,” Ruith said with a frown. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you should know that the man who crafted those knives for his daughter-in-law first crafted that blade you carry for his son, as a coming-of-age gift.”
“Did he, indeed?” Ruith asked in surprise.
Uachdaran glanced at Sarah, then turned back to Ruith. “Oft-times daughters look like mothers,” he said. “Your wee sister couldn’t look any more like Sarait had she been Sarait. I almost fell off my chair the first time I saw her.” He chewed on his words, then stuck out his chin. “Morag of An-uallach wanted what Sorcha of Cothromaiche had—or what she thought she had.”
Ruith felt his mouth go dry. “And just what sort of power does a dreamweaver have?”
“It depends entirely upon the soul in question, for their magic is capricious in a way only those from Cothromaiche could admire.” He paused. “If you could go any other way and do what you must, I would advise it.”
“Sarah believes there is more than one spell in An-uallach’s keep,” Ruith said, suppressing the urge to drag his hand through his hair or give some other sign of his distress. “I cannot see them myself, and I dare not leave her to fend for herself whilst I go make an endless and potentially fruitless search.”
“Then you’d best keep her nearby, hadn’t you?” Uachdaran asked, though there was no sting in his tone. “And remember what I’ve said.”
“I will,” Ruith said with a grim smile. He had the feeling he was going to be spending quite a bit of time thinking about all the king had hinted at. “You’ve done much more for us than I ever could have asked for.”
“Well,” Uachdaran said with a small smile, “I didn’t want to say as much, but aye, I’ve been exceptionally generous to you, all things considered.”
“I have the feeling you did it for Sarah.”
“You might be right. And for your mother. And your wee sister, whom you’ll have to tread lightly around.”
Ruith imagined that was true. He thanked the king again for his exceptional generosity, bid farewell to all others whom politeness required him to, helped Sarah put her horse in her pack, then watched as Tarbh changed himself into a fabulously bejewelled dragon.
Uachdaran only shook his head and walked back into his hall.
Ruith saw Sarah situated comfortably, fashioned reins for her because he could, then put his arms around her as Tarbh leapt into the air and carried them off into the night.
And he thought about a sword with no message, magic worth killing for, and tragedies that involved other families besides his. They were all things he had never considered before and now wondered why not.
He tightened his arms around Sarah and closed his eyes.
And hoped he wasn’t flying them into a trap.