Twenty-five
Ruith put himself between Sarah and the queen as Morag let her hand fly. She caught him full across the face, which troubled him not at all. It was rather bracing, actually, and cleared his head of the last of the shapechanging magic. He backed up a pace, only because he wanted more room to fight, if necessary.
“Where did you come from?” Morag spat.
Ruith pointed toward the passageway. “There. I believe I knocked over a pair of your guardsmen on my way in.”
The truth was lying there in a heap, struggling to get back to their individual feet. Morag spun back to glare at him.
“Where have you been?”
Ruith raised his eyebrows and put on his grandfather’s best none-of-your-bloody-business look. Morag was—predictably—unimpressed, but he didn’t dare give her any ground.
“I was trying to rest,” he said haughtily, “when I was disturbed by what sounded like the castle falling down around my ears. Knowing that couldn’t possibly be the case given the perfect condition of your hall, I thought perhaps there had been an assault of some sort. How disappointing to find it was only your guardsmen disturbing my lady’s rest.”
“Your lady,” Morag said, her words dripping with disdain. “You are as foolish as Athair of Cothromaiche, to look so far beneath you.”
“Am I?” Ruith said coldly. “Then perhaps I should take care to make certain I don’t suffer his same fate.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Morag blustered. She tried to push past him, then glared at him when he wouldn’t move. “I want to look in this chamber for something I believe was stolen from me.”
“Are you accusing my lady of stealing?” Ruith asked sharply.
“Nay, I’m accusing you,” Morag said without hesitation. “And unless you want me to kill you where you stand, you’ll step aside and allow me my look.”
Ruith held her gaze for a handful of long, highly charged moments before he pulled Sarah behind him and stepped aside, waving the queen into the chamber with an expansive, mocking gesture. The woman’s gown was still soiled from Sarah’s efforts, but she seemed to have forgotten that in her fury to find what she thought had been taken from her.
He could only hope she wouldn’t look down his boot.
The queen was thorough, he would give her that. She delved into every cranny, every drawer, under the bed, behind the tapestries. She found nothing save Sarah’s pack—Ruith had hidden his on a quickly made hook he’d driven into the ceiling—which she emptied out onto the bed. She reached out to touch the statue of the horse, but pulled back in revulsion at something she apparently saw there.
Ruith didn’t want to know what that might have been, but he was quietly very thankful for a horse who apparently could still be useful even cast as he was in very fine marble.
“What rubbish,” she said stiffly. She turned and swept toward the door. “Your gel there is nothing but a common strumpet.”
Ruith gritted his teeth. “Your Majesty, you are obviously overwrought by your loss, but that hardly excuses the discourtesies you’ve favored us with. I will not tolerate any more slurs directed toward my lady.”
“And just what are you going to do about it?” Morag asked mockingly. “Intimidate me with your pitiful magic?”
“Tell tales on the Council of Kings?” he returned before he could stop himself.
Morag’s fury was truly impressive. She looked at him as if he’d been a bug she intended to crush under her shoe, then turned and swept from the chamber. Before Ruith could open his mouth to ask her what her intentions were, the door had slammed shut and the entire chamber had been enveloped in a spell of containment that he could tell immediately was going to be difficult to break through.
Nay, not difficult.
Impossible.
It only took one attempt to slice through the spell with his own magic to tell him that. He dragged his hand through his hair, then turned and pulled Sarah into his arms. She didn’t seem at all opposed to it, nor did she protest when he set her down in a chair, spelled the vile water she’d been left with into something drinkable, then handed her a cup so she could wash out her mouth. She handed it back to him, then looked up at him blearily.
“You told me to puke on her.”
He laughed, pulled her out of the chair, then sat down and drew her onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned his head back against the wood.
“You did a credible job of it, love.”
She let out a shuddering sigh. “Are we trapped?”
“For the moment,” he said dismissively. “We’ll escape soon enough.”
She fell silent. Indeed, he would have thought she had fallen into an uneasy sleep if it hadn’t been for her hand that occasionally trembled as it rested upon his chest. “Ruith?” she said finally.
“Aye, my love.”
“What is a dreamweaver?”
He’d wondered how long it would take her to ask. He had to take a deep breath before he trusted himself to answer. “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about them and what bits I do know may not be terribly accurate.”
“Are you finished with your caveats?”
He might have taken her words personally, but he could feel her fighting something. Sobs, most likely. Sobs, he imagined, that didn’t come from fear of being locked in their chamber for the rest of her days.
“Very well, this is what I know,” he said, reaching up to drag his fingers through her hair. “They aren’t mortal, nor are they elvish. They are who they are, souls that move in and out of dreams at will. I’ve heard—which is rumor only—that not only are they able to weave anything into cloth, they spend a great deal of their time stringing the looms of the world with their dreams and using our destinies as their weft threads. Unbeknownst to we poor fools who think we’re in charge of our lives.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He shrugged. “I’m repeating rumor. Now, if you want to know about Cothromaichian history, I can tell you about a bit of that with better accuracy.”
“Because of Soilléir?” she asked quietly.
“Well, I always have admired him,” Ruith admitted with a smile, “and my mother was terribly fond of him even if my grandfather wasn’t.” He paused. “I think perhaps we might find a few more of their tales in that last little book Soilléir gave you.”
She shook her head sharply. “Not today.”
He wasn’t going to push her. He simply nodded, then continued to stroke her hair. He covered her left hand with his own and closed his eyes, feeling remarkably peaceful, considering the circumstances.
“Will we escape?” she asked.
“I’m working on it.”
“And here I thought you were snoozing.”
He smiled. “Just enjoying a brief respite with you in my arms.” He pressed his lips against her forehead, then pulled away before she could hit him.
Though she didn’t seem particularly inclined to do so.
He closed his eyes again and considered their tangle. They had horses—if they could get to them—and magic—even if it might not surmount Morag’s spells. He considered half a dozen things he could throw at anyone who dared come through the door.
And then he realized, quite suddenly, that things coming through the door wasn’t what he had to worry about.
The chamber was contracting.
It was almost imperceptible, which was likely why he hadn’t noticed it at first. He looked up at the ceiling and watched with a goodly bit of alarm as it crept downward.
“Ruith?”
“Just thinking,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm. “About our leisurely escape.”
“Will Morag let us go?” she asked. “In truth?”
“Perhaps you have forgotten who I am.”
“Impossible,” she said. “Your haughtiness is tangible.”
“I’m channeling my grandfather.”
She smiled. “So I suspected, but will that manage to win our release, do you think?”
“I won’t say that Morag isn’t powerful,” he said, watching the far wall creep toward him, “for she is. But every dragon has a soft spot somewhere on his underbelly, and she is no different. Her vanity is, if I may say so, colossal. I imagine the thought of losing her seat on the Council of Kings is more vexing to her than allowing us to leave unimpeded. That isn’t to say that she won’t try to kill us both and make it look like an accident. It wouldn’t be the first time—” He shut his mouth abruptly. “Forgive me.”
She lifted her head and frowned at him. “Why—oh.”
He let out his breath slowly, then nodded. “Aye, oh.” He supposed they could both spend quite a bit of time speculating on the fate of that poor great-great-granddaughter of Seannair of Cothromaiche, but the fate of her parents was indisputable.
Actually, the identity of that gel was, to his mind, indisputable as well, but he didn’t imagine Sarah wanted to discuss that yet.
He reached up and touched her cheek. “I understand how it can be to find out things aren’t how you thought they were,” he said quietly. “Things of a parental nature.”
“Can you?” she said, sounding absolutely shattered.
He nodded slowly. He cleared his throat. “I was six when I realized that my brothers were not teaching me endless numbers of spells for their amusement and my edification. It was then I realized that whilst my mother put on appearances for us, she was desperately worried that she wouldn’t live to see us raised—much less save our lives. It was also then that I realized that my father was the reason for all of it and that he was most definitely not what he seemed to be. But,” he added, “I will admit that at least I knew my parents were mine.”
Sarah’s breath caught on what might have passed for a half sob in someone else. “I’m not sure we can rely on the queen for accurate information about anything.”
He smoothed his hand over her hair and continued to watch the ceiling drop. “Perhaps not, but would you trust Soilléir?”
She lifted her head and looked at him. “Why would that matter?”
“Because he sent along that little book with his genealogy in it. I don’t think he would relate it inaccurately, do you?”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Do you have a spell to keep me from falling apart?”
“I might, but it would require that you spend lengthy periods of time in my arms.”
She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Do you ever think about anything but that?”
He smiled. “I do, but those thoughts mostly concern how long I’ll manage to keep you in my ardent embrace if I’m fortunate enough to get you there. Such as now. But as lovely as that thought is, I think we should perhaps concentrate on escape first.”
“Why—” She looked at the wall behind him, then up at the ceiling. She sat bolt upright. “She’s going to kill us.”
“I think she would like to try.”
Sarah fell off his lap, but scrambled to her feet before he could aid her. “What are we going to do?”
“Pack your gear, my lady. I’ll work on the other tangle.”
She shot him a look that spoke volumes about her panic, but walked quickly to the bed just the same and began to shove things into her pack.
“Not the horse.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, then nodded and set him aside. Within a handful of moments, she was standing next to him.
“Well?”
He started to spew out a spell, then he remembered something Uachdaran had said to him.
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.
He considered how easily Sarah’s knife had slit through the spells Díolain had wrapped around him in Ceangail. And if his sword and Sarah’s knives had been made by the same person, it was possible they enjoyed the same spell-shattering properties. And if Franciscus had made the blades for Athair and his bride, wasn’t it possible there had been something woven into their forging that could be useful in countering a known enemy?
Perhaps the enemy to the south who obviously had borne them ill will for years?
Ruith drew his sword. It blazed with a golden glow that startled him so badly, he almost dropped it. He took a firmer grip on it and looked at Sarah.
“Try one of yours.”
She didn’t take her eyes off him. She merely reached into one of her boots and drew out a knife—with the same results.
“Well,” he said, dumbfounded. “I daresay Adhémar of Neroche might just be jealous of this steel.”
“Does the Sword of Neroche glow?”
“With a horrifying bloodred light, no doubt in honor of those Nerochian rules of fair play you’re so fond of,” he said with a snort before he could stop himself. “But these works of art . . . I’m not sure what sort of rules they abide by.”
“Will they slit spells?”
“I believe we’ll see presently. Resheath your blade, love, and fetch your horse.”
“And just what am I to do with him?” she asked.
“Toss him out the window and hope for the best.”
She laughed a little, but it sounded rather more like a gasp. “Are we flying?”
“If Ruathar has any love for your tender care of him so far,” Ruith said with feeling, “aye.”
He waited until she’d shouldered her pack and picked up her horse from off the bed. He took a deep breath, cast one last glance up at the ceiling that was quite a bit closer to his head than it had been a quarter hour ago, then took a firmer grip on Athair of Cothromaiche’s sword. He sliced through the spell with his sword the same way Sarah had cut through the threads that had bound him in Ceangail.
The spell shrieked.
“Off we go,” he said, resheathing his sword and grabbing his pack before taking Sarah’s hand.
She tossed Ruathar through the small arrow loop, Ruith smashed an enormous hole into the rock with the first spell that came to his hands, then he pulled Sarah up onto the resulting ledge with him.
Ruathar hovered there in the air three feet beneath them, a glittering, jet-black dragon who looked as if he were barely restraining himself from flapping off in a tearing hurry. Obviously, he was the lad for them at the moment.
“Jump,” Ruith suggested.
Sarah didn’t hesitate. He followed her onto the dragon’s back, sent out a mental call for Tarbh to follow, and hoped neither he nor Sarah would fall off given Ruathar’s speed and lack of saddle.
Alarms sounded wildly. Ruith felt the bolt from a crossbow go through the hood of the cloak he’d just conjured up before he had the presence of mind to protect them in a more ordinary fashion.
It was not a pleasant trip, those first few moments as Ruathar carried them out of the heart of Morag’s darkness. Ruith realized there were more spells there than he’d counted on, and they were more difficult to counter than he’d expected. He fought off things that leapt up and tried to wrap themselves around them, repelled spells of death that came at them in enormous, crashing waves, and countered outright assaults that perhaps would have caused Ruathar pause if he hadn’t been raised on the steppes of those magical Cothromaichian mountains.
It was a very rough ride.
By the time Ruathar had driven himself up over the hills that ringed An-uallach, Ruith was shaking with weariness and thought he just might be ill. He realized that Sarah had drawn his arms around her and was patting his hands soothingly. He would have smiled, but he just didn’t have it in him.
It occurred to him, when he could think clearly again, that he wouldn’t have managed their escape if he hadn’t spent those days with Uachdaran deep in his mountain, facing much worse things.
Which he suspected Uachdaran had foreseen.
As had Soilléir.
He would have to make a list, he supposed, of favors he owed various souls. The mucking out of stables would no doubt figure prominently in repayment at both Buidseachd and Léige.
He looked over his shoulder to see an owl flapping majestically behind them in the distance, and he relaxed just the slightest bit. Morag couldn’t shapechange, which was something to be very grateful for.
He turned his mind to the future and considered a direction, but nothing useful came to mind. He tightened his arms around Sarah and simply held on for quite a while before he thought he could speak calmly.
“Any ideas on where now?” he asked.
“Away was my first thought,” she said. “But now?” She took a deep breath. “West. But not very far west.”
“I’m sorry to ask you to navigate.”
“Why?” she asked, sounding surprised. “It isn’t difficult.”
He regretted it because he regretted that she had to be a part of what he was doing, but he supposed that ground had been covered too often already. He only sighed and closed his eyes against the wind.
West it was.
It was dawn before Sarah told him they needed to stop. Ruathar, that endlessly energetic beast, followed her unspoken directions as if he’d read her thoughts—which Ruith supposed he could. They landed in a little glade without any undue signs of distress from Sarah. Either she was growing accustomed to flying or she was simply too tired to protest. Ruith understood both.
Ruathar turned himself into a quite ordinary-looking horse and eyed them purposefully.
“He’s hungry,” Sarah said. “There is a farmhouse up ahead.”
“Is there?”
She looked at him. “I can see a spell in the barn.”
He let out his breath slowly. “Very well. I’ll see if I can’t purchase us a bit of peace for the morning—and you the opportunity to do a little spell hunting.”
“Where did you get gold?”
“Out of thin air.” He smiled wearily. “Magic is useful now and again.”
“Don’t expect me to disagree,” she said with feeling. “Especially after our escape last night.” She looked behind her. “Where’s Tarbh?”
“Flapping along languidly behind us,” Ruith said. “I’m sure he’ll catch up. Let’s go find oats for this hungry beast here. I imagine my pony-turned-owl will find his own breakfast.”
She nodded and waited as he gathered both their packs, shouldered them, then trudged off with her toward the farmhold he could see in the distance. Sarah was very quiet, which didn’t surprise him. She had not only their rather unpleasant exit from An-uallach to recover from, but things to think on, things he’d suspected she couldn’t avoid much longer.
He put that thought aside for further consideration as he saw the farmer walking across his fields toward them. He looked quickly at Sarah, but she only smiled bleakly.
“The spell is in his tack room. I imagine our good landholder has no idea it’s there.”
“Let’s find it sooner rather than later,” Ruith murmured, “then have a nap.”
“Happily,” she said with a gusty sigh. “I’m exhausted.”
He nodded, then stopped a handful of paces away from the farmer. He nodded politely and had a nod in return.
“Looking for shelter?” the man asked.
“And stabling for our horse,” Ruith agreed. “Just for the day, if possible.”
“More than possible,” the farmer said with a shrug, “for the right price.”
“Name it,” Ruith said without hesitation.
The man assessed them, then nodded. “I’ll think on it later.” He started to turn and walk away, then hesitated. He looked at them with a frown. “I don’t suppose either of you has magic.”
“A little,” Ruith conceded. “What is your need?”
“There’s something in my barn I don’t like, but I’ll be damned if I can divine what.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Some leaking of something. Animals don’t like it and the cow stopped giving milk a month ago. Can’t say as I blames her, actually.”
“I think we could investigate,” Ruith conceded. “Before our horse has his breakfast, of course, as a good-faith token.”
“You fix it, my lad, and I’ll even feed you and your wife.”
“We would be most grateful,” Ruith said. He looked at Sarah. “Wouldn’t we, darling?”
She only rolled her eyes at him, but walked with him after the farmer just the same. “One more to go, Buck,” she murmured. “Your tally is not yet seen to.”
“I should have danced with Morag.”
“At the peril of your soul, I daresay. I’m not sure it would have been worth it.”
“I believe I’ll be the judge of how much peril you’re worth,” he said with a smile.
“You’re daft.”
“Again, besotted,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll tell you of it in glorious detail if you can stay awake long enough to hear it.”
She smiled at him, which eased his heart a bit. He saw to the stabling of Ruathar, then investigated the tack room with Sarah. A spell was indeed there, tucked into the bottom of an old and obviously unused saddlebag. Ruith didn’t bother to see which one it was. He simply rolled it up and stuck it down his boot. He walked with Sarah down the aisle to where the farmer was waiting for them, laying spells upon the animals as he went. He accepted a basket of supper, thanked the farmer kindly for his hospitality by handing him a pair of gold coins, then shut himself inside the stall with Sarah.
He quickly set spells of protection, distraction, and illusion around them that even his grandfather might have been satisfied with, then sat down in the fresh hay with Sarah and tried to cling to his manners through what served them as breakfast.
He looked up to find that Sarah was being much more successful at it than he was.
“Not good?” he asked, his mouth full of some species of muffin.
She only shook her head slightly, an even slighter smile on her face. “I’m too tired to eat.”
He considered. “Too tired to sleep?”
“Not if you have a tale for me to help me along.”
“I might,” he said slowly, “if you would let me read you one from a book.”
She looked at him for quite some time in silence. Her eyes were very red, but that could have been from weariness, not tears she couldn’t shed. She reached into her pack beside her without looking away from him, opened it, then pulled something out of the top and handed it to him.
It was a book he didn’t recognize, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t be surprised by the contents. There was no title embossed on the cover, but he opened it to find the title written there in a very fine hand.
A Brief History of Cothromaiche, by Soilléir, son of Coimheadair.
Ruith looked at her. “This might be interesting.”
“I’m not sure I’ll get through it on my own.”
“Then allow me, my lady, to aid you in the task.”
She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “Ruith, I’m not sure I can bear much more of this sort of thing.”
“I think this will be the worst of it,” he ventured.
She blinked rapidly. Her cheeks were wet and now her nose was red. He smiled, pained, and set both the book and the basket aside. He rose, took his cloak and spread it out on the hay, then fetched the book and Sarah and brought them both with him. He stretched out, then pulled her down to lie next to him, offering his shoulder as a pillow. She put her arm over his waist and sighed.
“I feel as if I’m dreaming.”
“I imagine you do,” he said quietly. He paused. “You know, Sarah, you might find this isn’t such a bitter pill to swallow as you might suspect.”
She huffed out a very small laugh. “I’m not sure why I’m even fretting over any of it. It can’t possibly apply to . . . or have anything to do with . . . ah . . .” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “You know what I mean.”
He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her a bit closer. “Reserve judgement until after I finish. At the very least, this will give us a way to fall asleep. Soilléir is, as you may or may not have noticed, a crushing bore. I’m sure we won’t make two pages before we’re both snoring happily.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. “You, Ruithneadh, are a very kind man.”
“And you, Sarah, are a very distracting woman.”
She pursed her lips at him. “Concentrate on the book, my lord prince. Your tally, if you remember, is not yet filled.”
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, but he smiled as he said it. He waited until she had settled her head more comfortably, then took up the small book with his free hand and began to read.
The tale, which Ruith wasn’t entirely sure Soilléir hadn’t written precisely for Sarah’s benefit, began in the far reaches of time before Cothromaiche had organized itself into any collection of hamlets under a common ruler. The text devoted quite a bit of time to describing the sheer mountains and pristine lakes, rolling foot-hills dotted with small villages full of farmers and herders of sheep, and lovely seasons that came and went at just the right and proper moment.
“Sheep,” he noted. “They make wool, don’t they?”
“I believe, Your Highness, that they do.”
“You like wool, don’t you?”
Sarah laughed a little. “Keep reading.”
He was rather more relieved than he should have been to find she wasn’t weeping. He didn’t imagine she was past all danger of it, but at least the beginning of the book seemed to please her.
From a description of the very desirable countryside, the author moved into a discussion of politics and a quiet revelation that the king of Cothromaiche, Seannair, was a most sensible man with an aversion to the trappings of royalty to which he was most assuredly entitled, preferring to put his feet up next to his stove at night and discuss the potential effect of the weather on his plans for spring planting—and sheepshearing.
“More wool,” Ruith noted. “Your kind of people.”
“Hmmm,” was apparently all the response she could give to that.
The wars and contentions with neighboring countries were touched upon briefly, as well as a thorough discussion of the art, music, and other necessities of culture that seemed as well developed as their weaving industry.
And then Soilléir turned to his genealogy.
Ruith paused. “Still awake?”
“Unfortunately,” she whispered.
“Feel free—” He stopped himself and sighed. “I was going to say feel free to cling to me if necessary, but I won’t make light of this.” He paused. “I’m sorry, love. I fear this won’t be easy. But it may be worth it, in the end.”
“Will it?” she asked wearily.
“If what we suspect might be true is true,” he said slowly, “then a certain flame-haired gel of our acquaintance wouldn’t be related to Daniel of Doìre.”
“Well, there is that,” she agreed.
“I believe the witchwoman Seleg could be discarded as a relation as well.” He put the book down and smoothed her hair back from her face. “It would answer quite a few questions, wouldn’t it?”
“About her treatment of me?”
“Aye, and the reason a certain alemaster took such an interest in you,” he said, “or why you were taken to a place where souls don’t see—and they aren’t seen, if you take my meaning.”
She was silent for a long moment. “Do you think so?”
“Aye, I think so.”
She took a deep breath. “Read on, Ruith, if you will.”
He kissed her forehead. “Brave gel.” He picked up the book. “Ah, here our long-winded author now feels the need to bludgeon us with yet another retelling of his very sparse genealogy of which he is obviously very proud. We have Seannair, whom we already know, who spawned three lads whose names I won’t bother to pronounce, and those three lads then sired one lad each and named them Coimheadair, Meadhan, and Franciscus, respectively.”
She didn’t flinch, so he carried on.
“Coimheadair, being the crown prince of Cothromaiche, wed him a gel from An Cèin—my grandmother is of that lineage—and was apparently busier than his father for he sired three sons himself, the youngest being our good Soilléir, who apparently prefers to be off tormenting Droch instead of waiting for his brothers and his progenitors to die so he can take the crown.”
“He is a useful man,” Sarah agreed.
“Realistic is more to the point, perhaps,” Ruith said dryly. “But we’ll leave that for the moment. Meadhan’s children and grandchildren do not figure into our study here, so we’ll leave them aside and concern ourselves with Franciscus.” He continued to trail his fingers over her back, partly because he thought it might soothe her and partly because it allowed him to feel her distress. He wasn’t terribly surprised when she only took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She was that sort of march-into-the-fray and do-what-needed-to-be-done sort of gel.
“Franciscus,” he continued, “the youngest son, had three daughters and a son—”
Sarah lifted her head and looked at him in surprise. “Did he? What happened to the daughters?”
“I have no idea,” he said, surprised himself. “It gives their names, but says nothing about their fate. But the son, he who was the youngest, was named Athair. He married a dreamweaver named Sorcha.” He had to stop for a breath himself. “They had a daughter, a gel-child.”
“And her name?” she prompted, when he fell silent.
“Sarah.”
She continued to breathe normally, if not a little carefully. “Anything else?”
“It says here that Athair and his bride were slain by the queen of An-uallach. She had devised a way to have a mage’s power on his way out of this poor world and intended to use it on Athair and his bride.”
“That woman is evil,” Sarah breathed.
Ruith cleared his throat. “I fear the rest isn’t any more pleasant. ’Tis written in the same hand, but dated the night we were in the garden of Gearrannan.” He had to clear his throat again. “I’m not sure I can read it aloud.”
Sarah pulled his hand back where she could see the words as well, though she didn’t seem to be any more capable than he of reading them except to herself. Ruith left Sarah holding the book long enough to drag his sleeve across his eyes, then took it again and kept it where she could read along with him.
My dearest Sarah,
I have given you the history of my people, but it is also the history of your people. Your mother was Sorcha, your father Athair, who was my nephew. Morag waylaid your parents, true, but the hard truth is, you were the true prize. She was convinced that the powerful magics they both bore would find home most powerfully in you. They were, unfortunately, merely practice for what she intended for you.
We were frantic when we found you missing. Your grandfather, Franciscus, was beside himself with worry. Perhaps you were fortunate in that our magic is capricious and your mother’s gift of Seeing is not so readily apparent. Morag quickly discovered—or so she thought—that you had nothing she could easily take, which sent her into a towering rage.
We allowed Prince Phillip to give you to Seleg and further allowed Seleg to take you south to Shettlestoune. Franciscus disappeared in what appeared to be a terrible accident, visible to anyone who cared to see. In secret, he followed you to Doìre to watch over you.
It was not ideal, but we had to allow events to proceed unhindered. If Morag had known you were alive, she would have carried you back to An-uallach without hesitation, out of spite, if for no other reason. She has never realized that Seeing is not a blood magic, but a magic of the soul that cannot be given to another—nor taken from the one who sees.
I have not looked to see where your path lies from here, for that is not our way. I suspect, however, that you will walk through the halls of An-uallach at some point, which is why I gave Ruith the sword. Uachdaran will see the runes and warn Ruith accordingly, even if only in riddles. He will know you when he sees you. You are, if I might venture to say it, as much like your mother as Ruith’s sister is like hers.
I grieve for you that you didn’t know your mother, for she was a very lovely gel, full of laughter and joy and dreams that were easily read in her eyes. She loved you to distraction, begrudging the rest of us the fussing over you that we so longed to do. Great-grandfather Seannair held you once, Franciscus a time or two more, but only your father and mother other than that. I’m not sure your feet touched the ground for the two years they called you theirs.
I am sorry, my dearest Sarah, that the reading of this will grieve you. Know that you were—and are still—loved by those who have been watching you unseen over the years.
Your loving cousin,
Soilléir
P.S. Beware Morag and her husband. Her reach is long and her pride implacable when stung.
P.P.S. If Ruith cares to know, Franciscus was the one who planted the legend of the mage on the hill in the minds of the villagers and provided a house for him to land in. It might also interest him to know that Franciscus and Sgath have known each other for centuries and both have terrible reputations as matchmakers.
P.P.P.S. I expect your lad to treat you properly. Genuflecting would not be beyond the pale for him.
Ruith closed the book softly and set it aside. He wrapped his arms around Sarah and simply held her for several minutes in relative silence, the only sounds being the occasional wicker of a horse or the soft hoot of an owl. He waited until he thought Sarah might have gotten hold of herself before he turned his head and looked at her. He’d expected to find her weeping, or on the verge of raging about the injustice of it all.
She was asleep.
He smiled to himself and committed the sight to memory so he could needle Soilléir with it when next they met, then put his head back down and looked up at the ceiling of the stall. He wasn’t sure what she had read, but it had obviously not distressed her to the point of insanity. When she awoke, if she wanted to speak of it, he would reread to her the parts she’d missed, then either weep with her over what she’d lost or rejoice with her for what she’d found, perhaps whilst slyly inserting himself into her vision of the future.
He let out a slow breath. It would have been wise to have disentangled himself from her and gotten up to do a bit of scouting. Morag had been left behind, true, but she had fleet horses and would catch them up if she thought she could manage it.
But he couldn’t bring himself to. He spared one last thought for making certain that his spells were intact and their horse and owl were safe, then he closed his eyes and allowed himself a sweet, peaceful, if very brief, sleep with the woman he loved in his arms.