Twenty-three
Ruith walked quickly down the passageway toward Sarah’s chamber. He wasn’t particularly concerned that he might be late for supper, never mind Queen Morag’s insistence that he not be. He was, however, quite concerned that Sarah not find herself in the woman’s sights again alone. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given the queen’s reaction to Sarah any especial thought. Sarah was a very beautiful woman and Morag had six daughters—never mind that he wouldn’t have looked at any of the six even if his heart hadn’t been given. The queen obviously sensed a threat and had lashed out accordingly. There should have been no mystery there.
But they were in An-uallach, and he knew very well that things were not as they seemed.
Especially given that he was sure that if Morag hadn’t killed Athair and Sorcha of Cothromaiche outright, she’d seen it done by someone else. And if what Uachdaran had hinted at was true—that daughters often resembled mothers to an astonishing degree—it stood to reason that Morag might find another murder committed in the near future to be no more difficult than the first two.
He had retired earlier to his chamber and forced himself to sleep for an hour before he’d risen and been about his own investigations in another guise than his own. He had, unfortunately, turned up nothing more than what he would have expected. The keep was full of miserable servants, vicious guardsmen, and spells that reflected an old, unpleasant sort of magic that he was fortunately not very familiar with. It wasn’t his father’s bastardization of Lugham, nor was it of any elven derivation. It wasn’t even as if it had sprung up from the wells of power he could sense lingering beneath the keep’s foundations. It was as if someone during the centuries of An-uallach’s existence had simply taken what was required from other magics, then created something else out of it. It was powerful, though, for all its flaws, so he didn’t take any of it lightly.
He stopped in front of Sarah’s door and knocked. He could see that his spell hadn’t been disturbed save for the servant who had brought Sarah a gown so he was confident she was still inside, unmolested. He sincerely hoped she’d gotten a decent bit of sleep. He had hoped to find where his father’s spells were by himself, but unfortunately Sarah would have to do the honors. He could only hope they weren’t languishing under Morag’s bed. Her husband Phillip likely wouldn’t have minded his rummaging about, but Ruith suspected Morag most certainly would.
He realized that Sarah hadn’t answered. He knocked again, more loudly that time, but still no answer.
“Sarah?” he called, ruthlessly squelching a sudden bout of panic. His spell hadn’t been breached; he could sense it still hanging there, just inside her door.
Yet she didn’t answer.
He turned the knob, broke the lock with a spell, then shoved the door open.
Sarah was standing next to the window, so pale he half feared she was dead. Tears streamed down her cheeks, though, and she was gasping very carefully for breath. He started inside the chamber only to realize why she was standing where she was. He laid no claim to any special sort of sight, but even he could see what lay inside the minuscule bedchamber.
Spells of Olc and that other rot that passed for magic in An-uallach covered every conceivable surface, hung down from the ceiling like spiderwebs, wrapped themselves around Sarah in a vile embrace.
He destroyed them all with a single word—or tried to, rather. It took him a handful of moments to wipe out everything there, which irritated him further. He slammed the door shut behind him, locked it with a spell of Wexham he’d appropriated from Miach of Neroche, then strode over and pulled Sarah into his arms.
She wasn’t hysterical, but she was close. He held her tightly with one arm, then smoothed his hand over her hair again and again, whispering what soothing words he could lay hold of. It was difficult when all he wanted to do was stride off into the keep, find the queen, and ...
He channeled his anger into more useful things, such as creating for Sarah the chamber she should have been offered. He couldn’t say his was overly luxurious, but it wasn’t a soot-encrusted, spell-strewn closet just one step up from a cesspit. He lit a fire, draped tapestries from the walls and laid them on the floor, then created as much light as he could. And when Sarah finally managed to breathe normally again, he swept her up into his arms and carried her over to the bed, a much more comfortable rendition of the like than what he’d found there before.
He laid her down, then perched on the edge of the bed. “Have you been standing there this entire time?”
“Aye.”
He drew his hand over his eyes. “Forgive me, love. I had no idea.”
“I’m afraid I did it.”
He blinked in surprise. “What do you mean?”
She tried to mop up her tears with the hem of her sleeve. “I didn’t like how the chamber felt, so I thought I would try one of Soilléir’s spells, just so I could see what needed to be changed.” She looked at him from bloodshot eyes. “I think I should have kept my mouth shut. Whatever I said woke up whatever was here before.”
He smiled and put his hand over hers. “Give me Soilléir’s spell again, won’t you, just for curiosity’s sake. I fear I didn’t listen very well to it in Buidseachd.”
She repeated it, but with a wince, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to work for her again. He considered the words. It was like nothing he’d ever heard before, but it had been from Soilléir and that one had a repertoire of spells which Ruith could only hope one day to acquire.
“And what happened when you used it?” he asked. “To you, I mean, not to the chamber.”
She looked at him helplessly. “I saw. More than I usually see, truth be told.” She paused. “I’m not sure how to turn it off.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” he said slowly. “Until we leave.”
She nodded uneasily. “I daresay you’re right. I hate to think of what might be swimming in the soup tonight.”
Ruith looked at her, her cognac-colored hair highlighted by the flickering flames of the lights he’d made, then down at her hands, hands that could so deftly work with cloth she’d woven herself. She was, he could say with all honesty, the same sort of woman his mother had been. Fierce, courageous, profoundly stubborn. He wondered, absently, as he watched her, if he would ever convince her that what she thought she lacked didn’t matter a whit to him. He had magic enough for the both of them when it came to safety and security. They could soldier along quite happily through everyday life without the benefit—or annoyance—of kettles walking off when they weren’t supposed to or fires starting themselves without permission. He quite liked starting his own fires and cooking his own meals.
Though at the moment, he had to admit that he was rather more grateful for his magic than he had been before.
“I should have held to my vow never to let you out of my arms again,” he said grimly. “I’m sorry I did.”
“You were trying to save my reputation, though I’m not sure why we care here.” She let out a deep, shuddering breath. “I am no threat to the queen, though I daresay she would like to have you as a husband for one of her girls.”
Ruith had his own ideas on what sort of threat Sarah posed, but he kept them to himself. “Too late,” he said cheerfully. “I am already promised.”
“To whom?” she asked with a snort.
“To someone who has set for me impossible tasks to surmount before she’ll look at me twice.” He shuddered delicately. “The thought of dancing with those harpies below—”
She smiled. “Unkind.”
“Accurate,” he corrected, “but I will force myself to dance with each of those gels downstairs, so that I might appease you and the queen at the same time. Then we will quite happily march off into the gloom sooner rather than later where you will look for spells and I for the final lass to fulfill my tally. And then, my lady, you will have exhausted your excuses and have nothing to hide behind except perhaps an intense dislike of your would-be lover.”
She sat up, pushing him out of her way as she did so. “That won’t do, so I suppose I’ll need to invent something else.”
“Don’t,” he said reaching for her hand. “Please don’t.”
She looked at him quickly. “You choose the damndest times to speak of romance.”
“You’re a difficult case. I must take the opportunities as they present themselves.” He kissed her hand quickly, then rose. “I’ll leave you to think on that whilst you dress.”
She hesitated. “I don’t think I can wear that gown over there. I’m not proud, well, not overly, but there is something sewn into the seams that ... hurts.”
Ruith supposed he should have looked just to see what that something was, but he didn’t have the stomach to. It was one thing to make Sarah miserable; it was another to endanger her, a guest in the hall. He spelled the gown into oblivion, then created another, along with shoes to match and a wrap to ward off the chill.
“I’ll wait for you without,” he said, holding out his hand to help her to her feet.
She nodded, looking quite a bit worse for the wear, but determined. He left her holding on to the footpost of the very lovely bed he’d made for her, then walked out into the passageway, pulling the door shut behind him. He leaned back against it, though, so he would hear if anything untoward happened inside.
It seemed only a handful of moments had passed before Sarah opened the door. He turned, then caught his breath.
He wasn’t much of a designer of ladies’ gowns, that he would freely admit, but he could remember a pair of them his mother had worn. Sarah was wearing one of those, an emerald thing that dripped with crystals from various appropriate parts of itself. Toes of lovely crystal-encrusted shoes peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown. He opened his hand and a necklace of diamonds lay there with another smaller circlet to go around her wrist. She looked up suddenly, her eyes full of tears.
“I didn’t realize your imagination extended to sartorial endeavors.”
He smiled faintly. “My mother had a gown that looked like that.”
“I’m sure she was exquisite in it.”
“She was,” he agreed, “and so are you.” He motioned for her to turn around, then asked her to hold up her hair so he could fasten the necklace for her. He slipped the bracelet over her wrist after she’d turned back to face him, then shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “I may only manage four of the six.”
She smiled hesitantly. “You’re daft.”
“That isn’t the word I would use, but I won’t argue.” He heard someone calling his name loudly from down the passageway. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, then held out his arm for Sarah. “Shall we go?”
She put her hand on his arm, then paused. “Thank you, Ruith,” she said quietly. “The gown is beautiful.”
“It is a poor covering for the true gem, but it will have to do.” He tucked her hand under his arm, then nodded down the passageway. “Let’s go have this over with. I suppose we would do well to insist on a food taster.”
“I think I can manage well enough for us.”
“Can you?”
“You may want to add your own bit of whatever it is you could add to improve the flavor,” she said, “but I think I could see if there was anything vile in it to start with.” She looked up at him. “Will you think about that spell later? The one I tried?”
He nodded. “I may have to borrow your lexicon. I’m not as familiar with the Cothromaichian tongue as I likely should be. Nor with what useless fluff passes for magic there.”
“You’re such an elitist,” she said with a smile.
“Born and bred, my love,” he said, trying to mirror her light tone. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my grandfather, the most elite of them all.”
“Would he approve of the lassies downstairs, do you think?”
Ruith snorted before he could stop himself. “Absolutely not,” he said before he realized that Sarah was asking more than just that. He looked at her. “My grandfather is a difficult sort—”
“Who will expect you to wed a princess,” she finished for him. “Which is as it should be.”
“He’ll expect me to wed someone I love,” Ruith corrected. “As will Sgath, who, if you’ll know the truth, spent most of the time we were at Lake Cladach telling me to wed you before you realized what you would be saddling yourself with.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Surely not.”
“He’s saving that piece of ground he showed you, that little clearing on the shore, just for you. And I’m telling you that against my better judgement because he said he didn’t much care if I came along to build you a house there or not. It’s yours if you want it, simply because he saw into your soul and was pleased with what lay there.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes swimming with tears. “Do you want me blubbering into my poisoned soup?”
“Nay, you should most certainly not, else you’ll leave me doing the same thing.” He took her face in his hands, then kissed both her cheeks before she could plow her fist into his nose. “Supper first, then . . .”
She nodded and pulled away, then carefully dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “I’m fine.”
He tucked her hand under his arm again and walked with her down to the great hall. He put on his best courtly manners, then spent soup and the main course making certain that the spells that occasionally fell from the ceiling appeared to cover Sarah, but didn’t. And just to further distract the queen, he rose soon after dessert and begged her for the pleasure of a dance with her eldest daughter.
The girl was beautiful, he would give her that, and she certainly danced well enough. Her conversation, however, was limited to questions about the luxuries to be found at Seanagarra and how soon he planned to wed so she—er, so his very fortunate bride might enjoy them.
The next two princesses he danced with were less interested in his treasures surely stored in his grandfather’s vaults than they were in him personally, but he wasn’t any more swayed by that than he had been by their eldest sister’s curiosity.
He had a small sip of wine back at the supper table, then made Sarah a low bow. “If you would?”
If the servant behind her pulled her chair out a bit too quickly or the queen glared at her a bit more than necessary, she simply ignored it. She walked around the back of the table, then put her hand into his.
He was rather relieved they had taken the trouble to brush up on his dancing at Léige, no matter how much improvising they would now need to do. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised by how easily Sarah had memorized the steps. Franciscus had, as she had said more than once, made certain that her education was far greater than anything her mother could have offered her.
Franciscus, the father of Athair who had been slain—allegedly—by Morag of An-uallach, leaving behind a wee gel whose name Uachdaran’s bard hadn’t been willing to divulge?
Ruith was beginning to think he might be able to supply that name, if pressed.
“You dance very well,” Sarah said, interrupting his thoughts.
“As do you.”
“Which is all your doing,” she said with a smile. “With, I will admit, a bit of aid from Franciscus.”
“He has a surprising number of skills you wouldn’t think an alemaster should have,” he remarked politely.
“I seem to manage to surround myself with men who have secrets.”
“I wouldn’t keep the secret of where my heart would wander if you weren’t so insistent on formalities that have nothing to do with what I would rather be doing, which is spending the evening dancing with you.”
“You’re not calling my requirement ridiculous any longer.”
“’Tis past ridiculous, Sarah,” he said with a snort, then he laughed a little. “Forgive me. We should be politely formal and dignified. I’ll give you my unvarnished opinion of the undertaking you’ve bound me to later, when I can speak plainly.”
“I did agree to dance with you, you realize.”
“You’re taking pity on me.”
She smiled. “I might be.”
He smiled in return and decided he could complain about the remainder of his tally later, when he didn’t have the pleasure of Sarah and a fairly decent complement of musicians nearby.
The dance was all too short—and by design, no doubt—but he made up for that by dancing with Sarah between Morag’s daughters. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to provoke the queen, but he couldn’t help but wonder what she might reveal if pressed.
Wine and fruit were provided as refreshment during a respite and Ruith happily indulged in both after making certain they weren’t poisoned. He was also quite happy to sit between Sarah and Morag lest the latter find herself clumsy enough to spill something in Sarah’s direction.
“It is always a pleasure to see your grandfather Sìle on the Council,” Morag said smoothly. “When he deigns to come, of course.”
Ruith shrugged. “He makes no apologies for his behavior, Your Majesty. I suppose that is the prerogative of a king or queen, isn’t it?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “When one wears a crown, Your Highness, one finds that alliances on and off the Council are taken lightly at the peril of one’s realm.”
“Surely not yours,” Ruith said, pretending not to notice the threat. “An-uallach is a bit like silk over steel, isn’t it? Subtle, yet unbreakable.”
Morag shrugged lightly. “I do what I can with what I have. There is always more that could be done, of course.”
Ruith imagined there was, and he was fairly certain he knew precisely where Morag thought she could lay her hands on a bit more power to do just that.
He supposed he also knew what she’d done in the past to attempt the same thing.
“The acquisition of more power doesn’t come without a price, though, does it?” he asked, with a thoughtful frown. “Either in the stretching of monarchial magic, or the necessity of forging alliances one might not necessarily want to make.” He looked at her innocently. “Or perhaps I don’t know enough of the world to judge.”
“You are young,” Morag agreed, “and obviously know little of our concerns here in the north given that we don’t fall within Tòrr Dòrainn’s rather insignificant borders.”
Ruith only sipped his wine politely and waited. He couldn’t see Sarah out of the corner of his eye, though he could feel her anxiety. He turned toward Morag to give Sarah more of his back to hide behind. “Surely you suffer no danger from your neighbors,” he said, “not with your power to keep your people safe.”
“I don’t think you know what danger is, lad,” she said tartly. “I’m forever waiting for those fairies and whatnot from the mountains to flutter down and vex me. Worse still is Seannair of Cothromaiche and that rot he spreads all over his land.”
“Indeed,” Ruith murmured.
“He could sit upon the Council of Kings,” she continued with a sneer, “if he weren’t so concerned with keeping to himself and shunning the outside world. Then again, perhaps he fears ’tis too lofty a place for him and an appearance there might show his lack of power.”
Ruith nodded, though he had heard a far different tale. He couldn’t say he knew much of Soilléir’s family, but he knew Soilléir’s great-grandfather Seannair didn’t sit upon the Council not because he feared it, but because he thought it silly. If he owned a crown, he had most likely forgotten where he’d stashed it. Ruith smiled to himself. He should have told Soilléir that along with Sarait, you will not associate any longer with that young rogue full of dangerous magic, Sìle had generally added, who likely inherited all of it from his great-grandsire, who couldn’t find his blasted crown if he sat upon it and it poked him in the arse!
His grandfather, Ruith would admit, could venture into the earthy description now and again if it suited him.
And the thing Ruith would have pointed out to Morag now but thought discretion suggested that he not was that if Seannair took his seat on the Council, it would be the one Morag currently occupied with such grace.
“Perhaps he does fear to be shamed,” Ruith conceded, reaching for his wine and toying with the glass, “or perhaps ’tis his grief that keeps him from taking his proper place in the world.”
Morag looked at him, a puzzled frown on her face. “His grief?”
“I understand he lost one of his great-grandsons, Athair.” Ruith didn’t hear Sarah’s breath catch, so she either hadn’t paid any heed to his conversations with Uachdaran—which he knew she had—or she was a very good cardplayer. “A hunting accident, I believe.”
“I’m not sure,” Morag said doubtfully. “I’ve heard that the lad did perish tragically. Of course, that was likely his fault because instead of looking for a woman of rank and station as he should have, he wandered off to perilous locales and wed himself a commoner. More the fool was he, for there are certainly plenty of titled gels in the surrounding environs for him to have chosen from.”
Aye, and six of them were sitting on her other side. Ruith frowned. “Perhaps he should have chosen one of your daughters, Your Majesty. Indeed, I’m not sure how he could have made any other choice after seeing them.”
“Perhaps you will be wiser than he was, when you choose to wed,” Morag said. “It wasn’t that I didn’t invite him here several times to see the glories of my hall. Instead, he chose a peasant from Bruadair, where they pretend to see things they cannot.” She shrugged. “Seannair did the same thing, so perhaps Athair isn’t to blame for his stupidity.”
“Then perhaps it is fortunate that Seannair remains in his rustic hall,” Ruith said with a conspiratorial smile, “given that he obviously doesn’t have the wit to take his place amongst more sensible and foresightful kings. And queens, of course.”
Morag wasn’t buying what he was selling. He would have wondered if it was perhaps that he had been too long out of polite society and his ability to woo and befuddle others had been sadly diminished.
Or it might have been because he had Athair and Sorcha’s daughter sitting behind him.
It almost defied belief, but he found that the longer he thought on it, the more he believed it. Franciscus might have been a common name in the north, but it certainly wasn’t in the south. And what were the odds of an alemaster—a painfully well-educated alemaster, at that—named Franciscus taking up residence not a quarter league away from a gel who, according to hints delivered by the king of the dwarves, looked just like Franciscus’s daughter-in-law?
The only question that still puzzled him was that if Morag had done away with Athair and Sorcha, why she hadn’t done away with their daughter as well.
Unless she had and he was imagining things where he shouldn’t have been.
“Perhaps it was for the best,” the queen said, with that smile that still didn’t reach her eyes. “That Athair and his lovely dreamweaving bride disappeared without a trace, I mean. They might have produced a child, and then Seannair would have allowed her to be raised like the savage lads he has rampaging about his kingdom.” She looked at Ruith. “Stupidity is the only answer I can divine.”
“Fortunate it is, then,” Ruith said politely, “that you sit on the Council of Kings and not a rustic from the north.”
“It is,” she agreed. She looked at him assessingly. “Your grandfather has met my gels, you know.”
Ruith had no trouble understanding where she was leading him. “I regret that he didn’t make mention of them to me,” Ruith said slowly, “but it has been many years since last we met. I was too young to have appreciated the tales then.”
“Have a falling out with him?” she asked, sounding rather more pleased than was polite by the thought.
“Something like that,” Ruith agreed. He had a final sip of his wine, then set his glass down. “And I know ’tis terribly impolite to retire before one’s host does but I was hoping that I might retire early tonight that on the morrow I might have the pleasure of passing the morning with your fair daughters? Chess or cards—or something else, if they prefer. I’m sure Sarah won’t mind.”
“I’m equally certain she won’t,” Morag said. “And I will alleviate any discomfort you might feel by forcing myself to retire first.” She motioned for her servant to pull her chair back.
The rest of the table rose, then the prince consort and Morag’s daughters followed her from the chamber. Ruith stood, waiting as they all vacated the hall, wondering what it was that set so ill with him. It wasn’t any of the looks Morag had given him, or the glares her daughters had given Sarah—irritating though those had been. There was something ...
They might have produced a child, and then Seannair would have allowed her to be raised like the savage lads he has rampaging about his kingdom.
Ruith frowned. Why would Morag have thought Athair and his bride would have produced a girl child?
“Ruith?”
He looked at Sarah. The thoughts tumbled over and over in his head, as if they’d been caught in a mighty wave and couldn’t right themselves. Athair and Sorcha had died . . . if they had produced a girl child . . . Morag wanted more power . . .
He looked at Sarah, then saw her, that beautiful, obscure gel who had inherited no magic at all from the witchwoman Seleg, but had somehow acquired the ability to see, an ability augmented by Soilléir of Cothromaiche, who had certainly taken a great interest in her.
Hadn’t he?
“Ruith.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” she said. “Shall we go?”
“Please,” he agreed.
She didn’t look any better than he felt. “Interesting dinner conversation.”
Aye, it had been. He reached for her hand. “We need to be about our business tonight, not tomorrow night.”
She looked as if she would rather have put it off a bit longer, but she nodded just the same.
He leaned close. “I’ll walk you to your chamber, then come fetch you after the house settles down to sleep.”
She took a deep breath. “I might try to use that spell again to see exactly—”
“Wait for me to come to you first.”
“But—”
“Wait for me.”
“I want you to understand, Your Highness, that the only reason I am submitting to your bullying now is that I’m almost too terrified to speak. It will not last, I assure you.”
“’Tis for your own good.”
“Why is it I’m fairly certain Soilléir said the same thing to you?” she muttered.
He only smiled and took her hand. His smile faded as he walked, though, for he knew that the unpleasantness at supper could only be intensified the longer they stayed.
Until it possibly spiraled into something he might not see coming.
He wondered why Morag had a pair of his father’s spells, why she was so obsessed with Seannair of Cothromaiche, why she feared the peoples of the north who wouldn’t possibly want her land or her keep. He understood the lust for power. He had spent the first ten years of his life watching it in full bloom. And though it had been dangerous, it hadn’t been directed solely at him.
Or at the woman he loved.
Aye, they would be about their business and get the hell out of the castle whilst they still could, before something happened to Sarah.
Something more than what he feared had already happened to her as a wee babe.