Twenty-six
Sarah walked along a rather dusty road with her horse tucked into her pack and Tarbh walking sedately behind Ruith, and kept on with the cheerful face she’d been wearing since she’d woken two days earlier in that farmer’s stall to find Ruith standing there, silent as a tree, tending what she assumed were spells and no doubt listening for things she couldn’t hear.
When she’d stirred, he had pulled himself back from wherever he’d been and smiled at her. He hadn’t made mention of what he’d read to her earlier that morning, and she’d avoided the topic as well, quite happily. She’d found the book tucked back in her pack, and she had left it there, perfectly content to consign it to things better left examined when she had the leisure to, say in several years, when she was comfortably far away from her current straits and was spending the winter in front of some hot fire, knitting.
She suspected Ruith would have been happy to have lingered a bit longer in that farmer’s barn, but the spell she’d found had seemed rather bright for one of Gair’s creations, and they hadn’t wanted it to draw attention from someone who might have been able to see it.
Such as perhaps the mage who had left another scrap of the spell of Diminishing outside the stall where they’d been sleeping.
To say it had unnerved them both was a profound understatement. Ruith had remained as he ever was when faced with a crisis: calm and unfazed, though he had moved quickly and efficiently to get them out of the barn without delay. They had been running—or flying, rather—very quickly ever since. Ruith would have taken more time, but whatever horse they’d found themselves riding had never seemed to want to halt. Sarah hadn’t argued, for though she couldn’t see it, she could certainly feel that someone was watching them.
It couldn’t have been Morag. That vicious woman would have killed them as easily as to have looked at them. She wouldn’t have simply followed them to torment them.
That had, unfortunately, left her wondering just who it might be.
She looked up at the inn that had risen up quite quickly before them, happy to put the thought of her two-day-old panic behind her. She’d seen worse, so she didn’t feel any need to comment on its quality. It sported a roof, no doubt had drinkable ale, and likely boasted a hot fire inside. It was perhaps all they could expect.
“You realize,” Ruith said conversationally, “that I’m finished with sleeping without you within arm’s reach.”
Given that he’d scarce let go of her since they’d left An-uallach, she was perfectly ready to believe him. “Rogue,” she said just the same, lest he feel too comfortable with the thought.
“But an honorable sort of rogue.”
She looked up at him. “Those sorts of thoughts seem to continually distract from our purpose.”
“And hopefully distract you from things I think trouble you as well,” he said seriously. “Is it working?”
She had to take a deep breath, not because she was still overwhelmed by what she’d learned about herself, but because they had been running as if all the hounds of Riamh were after them, which, she supposed, they might very well be.
“Aye,” she managed. “It’s working very well.”
He didn’t believe her, that much was clear, but he was apparently going to refrain from pressing her. She was grateful for it, which she supposed he also knew.
He stopped her, then put himself in front of her. “I’ll go first.”
She didn’t argue. If he wanted to save her from wearing something sharp flung in their direction, he was welcome to it. She walked into the tavern behind him and was relieved to find that the inside was much less neglected than the outside. She made her way over to a bench set against the wall near the fire and sank down onto it with a grateful sigh. She took off her pack, set it down very carefully next to her on the floor, then leaned her head back against the wall and happily watched Ruith stand at the bar and order them a meal. He accepted two cups of ale, then made his way over to her, sitting down with his own sigh of relief. He took her right hand carefully in both his own.
“Safe,” he said. “For the moment.”
“It won’t last,” she said grimly.
He laughed uneasily. “What a cynic you’ve become.”
She looked at him, his beautiful face so close to hers, and couldn’t help but smile just the slightest bit. “Can you fault me for it?”
“Aye,” he said seriously, “and myself as well. You should rather be enjoying peace and—”
“Rides on the backs of dragons, hot fires provided by elven princes, and terrible moments spent scurrying about as a mouse,” she finished for him, “provided as well by that same sort of lad.” She started to tell him those were the least of the things that troubled her, but she realized with a start that it wouldn’t have been true.
Trouble had followed them more easily than she’d feared it might.
“What is it?” Ruith asked.
She could only nod at the hooded figure who had entered the tavern and paused near the doorway. He shut the door behind himself, then walked across the floor. Sarah could scarce believe her eyes, but the man was coming toward them as if he had every intention of joining them at their table. For all she knew, he had followed them to the inn. Worse still, perhaps he had been following them all along—
“Wonderful,” Ruith muttered. “A brawl before we even have a bite to eat.”
“A brawl,” she repeated breathlessly. “One could hope it would be with just your fists.”
“I appreciate your faith in my magic,” he said dryly.
She looked at him quickly. “I have absolute faith in your magic. And your sword. And your fists.”
He smiled. “Woman, you are about to find yourself thoroughly kissed.”
“Not until you’ve encountered that last elusive princess, I’m not,” she said, “and not until you’ve solved our current problem, which is still coming our way.” She would have said more, but their doom was already almost upon them. All she could do was watch and struggle to breathe normally.
Ruith didn’t change his casual pose, but she knew him well enough to know he was fully prepared to fight with whatever means he had to.
The man came to a stop in front of their table and simply stood there, apparently content to wait for them to acknowledge him.
“Good e’en, friend,” Ruith said, in a neutral tone. “Looking for a place to sit?”
“I might be,” the shadowed man said, just as neutrally.
“There seem to be seats over there, by the door.”
“I think I prefer a spot over here,” the other said easily, “by the fire.”
Ruith considered for a moment or two, shrugged. “As you will.”
The man pulled a chair up to their table and sat. As he did so, his cloak parted—only Sarah realized it hadn’t been his cloak to part, but rather some sort of spell of concealment. She realized with equal clarity that he had intended it thus. She glanced at Ruith, but he hadn’t seemed to have noticed. He was too busy signaling the barmaid to fetch them another mug of ale. He squeezed Sarah’s hand briefly before he released it and propped his elbows up on the table as if he merely intended to settle in for a lengthy discussion of local politics.
“So, friend,” Ruith said easily, looking for all the world as if he routinely invited strangers to dine with him, “what brings you to this lovely lodge in the middle of nowhere?”
“Family,” the man said simply.
Ruith nodded. “A good thing to have. Do you have any nearby?”
The man only nodded at Sarah. “Ask your lady. I believe her sight is a bit clearer than yours. Friend.”
Sarah shifted uncomfortably and vowed that she would at her earliest opportunity memorize the other spell she’d found in the book Soilléir had given her, the one that was supposed to dim her sight when it became too much to bear, because she could see very well who the man was.
Well, at least she could say with a fair degree of confidence that he wasn’t about to draw his blades and kill them both any time soon.
Ruith elbowed her gently in the ribs. “Well?”
She looked at Ruith. “His name is written on his soul.”
Ruith lifted an eyebrow. “Which you have read, apparently.”
“’Tis a bit difficult not to,” Sarah said. “He isn’t hiding it. Or at least he isn’t hiding from me. It is as if he, ah, wants me to know who he is. You too, I’ll warrant.”
“Shall you divulge his name,” Ruith asked, shooting their guest a warning look, “or shall I beat it from him?”
Sarah exchanged a look of her own with their guest, had a faint smile in return, then leaned close to Ruith. “I’m not sure you would want to, Your Highness, given that ’tis your future brother-in-law who sits across from you.”
Ruith’s mouth fell open. He continued to gape as supper was brought and new mugs of ale handed all around. Sarah watched as Mochriadhemiach of Neroche pushed his hood back off his head and smiled at her, ah, escort.
“Ruith,” he said, sounding both pleased and rather unsurprised to see him.
“Miach,” Ruith managed. His mouth worked for a moment or two, then he laughed a little. “I’m not sure if I want to kiss you or kill you.”
Miach smiled wryly, stood, then embraced Ruith and slapped him several times on the back before he released him and resumed his seat. “Now you need do neither. I’m starved and I’ve been traveling with your grandfather for the past night and day. Let us eat, then we’ll have speech together.”
“You’ve been traveling with my grandfather,” Ruith repeated in astonishment. “On foot?”
“As a very bitter, very terrible wind.”
“Elves do not shapechange.”
“Apparently they do, which is why he came along with me on this little journey to see how things in the world were progressing.”
“You are the last person I expected to see today,” Ruith managed, “here, of all places. And that has surprised me so thoroughly that I’ve forgotten my manners. Miach, this is my, er, friend, Sarah of—”
Sarah couldn’t bring herself to face what she’d fallen asleep to two days earlier, not even for the niceties of introductions. “Of nowhere in particular,” she said firmly.
Ruith smiled a very small smile. “For now, anyway. Sarah, this is Miach, the archmage of Neroche and apparently my sister’s bloody fiancé, though I still have things to say about that.” He shot Miach a dark look. “A princess of the house of Tòrr Dòrainn lowering herself to keep company with the youngest prince of that rustic hunting lodge in the mountains? ’Tis truly unthinkable.”
“So said your grandfather, more than once.”
Sarah cleared her throat carefully. “Actually, Ruith, he’s not the youngest prince anymore.”
Ruith looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“He’s not the youngest prince.” She looked at Miach and smiled apologetically. “The crown that hovers over you is too robust.”
Miach sipped his ale casually. “Your lady’s sight is very clear, Ruith. I would imagine she has that from very interesting sources.”
“What,” Ruith said in exasperation, “are you two talking about?”
Miach leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “That though she doesn’t want to admit it yet, I can plainly see she is the granddaughter of Franciscus of Cothromaiche, who is Léir’s first cousin once-removed. Or perhaps she doesn’t want that nosed about yet.”
“And you’re the bloody king of Neroche,” Sarah shot back, because he’d irritated it out of her, “which perhaps you didn’t want nosed about either.”
The king of Neroche only laughed and reached over to take her hand briefly. “Forgive me, lady. I fear I spent too much time with Soilléir in my youth.”
“Ripping the scab off the wound quickly?” she asked sourly.
“Sometimes, Your Highness, it is the only way.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply, then shut her mouth abruptly. She attempted a smile, but when that failed, she settled for a deep breath or two. “Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Miach doesn’t bruise easily,” Ruith said, shooting Miach a warning look, “but he does talk too much.”
Sarah wasn’t going to argue the point in a darkened tavern. She was happy to accept the king of Neroche’s apology, however, because he had a very lovely smile and she could see that he was sincere in not having wanted to cause her distress. She looked at Ruith, who was frowning at his childhood friend.
“Then Adhémar is dead?” he asked quietly.
“Unfortunately,” Miach said with a sigh.
“How do your brothers feel about your crushing them under your dainty heels on the way to the throne?” Ruith asked politely. “Are they still blubbering into their cups?”
Miach pursed his lips. “Cathar is vastly relieved not to be sitting in the most uncomfortable seat in the hall, though that shouldn’t come as a surprise. The rest are also vastly relieved, or so they say, save Rigaud, who is still raging about the injustice of it all and hiding my crown under his bed.”
Sarah watched Ruith’s mouth work for another moment or two before he looked at her.
“I knew that lad there when he had no manners.”
“I imagine you did,” she said with a smile.
“The king of Neroche,” Ruith said, shaking his head in disbelief. He looked at Miach with that same expression. “I can’t say I’m completely surprised, nor unhappy for your people. You’ll do a credible job. Unfortunately, I suppose this happy event will make prying my sweet sister away from your dastardly clutches more difficult, but I assure you not at all impossible.”
Sarah sat back and watched them discuss very quietly things that should have shaken kingdoms as if they merely discussed what sort of weather they might encounter for a brief trip out to the lists.
Which left her thinking that perhaps she should leave them a bit of peace and go check on the horses, who were reputedly crunching hay, having promised to retain their equine shape unless danger loomed.
It was also a handy excuse to avoid meeting Ruith’s grandfather, who she was certain would frighten her to death before he announced that ten princesses were insufficient and no matter who Soilléir of Cothromaiche thought she was, witchwoman’s get or daughter of princes, she was not at all suitable for his grandson.
She finished her meal quickly, then looked at Ruith. “I’ll check on the horses.”
He shot her a look that said he understood all too clearly what she was about. “Accompanied by my best spell of protection, or you don’t go anywhere.”
Sarah looked at the king of Neroche. “He’s a tyrant.”
“You seem to be managing him well,” Miach offered.
“It is a constant battle,” she said, scooting off the bench and not looking at Ruith. “It has been a pleasure, ah, Your—”
“Miach,” he finished before she could. He smiled at her. “’Tis just Miach.”
She smiled in return, because he was terribly charming and self-effacing, two things she couldn’t help but like. “Very well, Miach.”
“Be careful, Sarah.”
She picked up her pack and left the pub before she had to look at Ruith again, made her way out to the stable, and assured herself that the horses were housed well. She looked around, then found a handy trunk to sit on, because she had to. She had assumed, mistakenly, that it would be Ruith with the more difficult path.
She wrestled with herself a bit longer, then pulled the book out of her pack, the one Soilléir had apparently written just for her. She turned to the last pair of pages and found the last thing she’d read before she’d fallen asleep.
I have not looked to see where your path lies from here, for that is not our way . . .
I am sorry, my dear 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.
She closed the book before she could read the postscripts, sure they would only coerce tears from her she wasn’t ready to shed. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.
It shouldn’t have been difficult to accept. She had always wondered, in the back of her mind, how it was that Seleg could ever have been her mother. She’d never called the woman Mother, because Seleg had forbidden it. Seleg had never showed her any especial affection, particularly once she’d realized that Sarah had no magic. The only place she’d felt safe or loved or valued had been in Franciscus’s workroom or in the great room of his small house where she had passed most of her time. He had educated her, laughed with her, treated her as he would have a daughter.
Now, she understood why.
She contemplated that for far longer than she should have, which led her to realizing with a start that she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. There was someone standing a few paces away, leaning against one of the stable posts. She had scarce pulled her knife free from her boot before she realized it was Ruith. He held up his hands in surrender.
“Only me,” he said.
She resheathed her knife, but couldn’t manage a smile. “That was a lovely reunion inside.”
“It was,” he agreed, coming over to sit next to her. He held out his hand for hers, then took it gently between his own. He stared down at her fingers linked with his for several minutes before he looked at her. “I see you have your book there.”
She nodded.
“How are you?”
“Trying to ignore things I’d rather not think about.” She had to look up at the roof of the stable to keep her tears where they belonged. “I don’t want this.”
“I understand,” he said, very quietly.
She gestured helplessly into the darkness of the stall facing her. “It isn’t just the past,” she said. “It’s all of it. What I can’t see in front of me. What I can see.” She looked at him miserably. “We’ve only begun and already I’m unsettled almost past what I can bear.”
He stroked the back of her hand gently. “Sarah, I’m not sure how to tell you this easily, but you can’t change the past.”
She laughed, but it was more a half sob than anything. “You would know.”
“Aye, my love, I would know.”
“Then what do I do?” she asked miserably. “I can’t go back, but I don’t dare go forward.”
He wrapped his hands around hers. “What you do, my dearest love, is take the evening, retire to the safety of a chamber inside, and pitch your camp with me on the floor in front of the fire where I will tell you all manner of tales to delight and astonish,” he said. “Tales having nothing to do with Cothromaichian escapades or black mages. Then, tomorrow, we will break bread with my grandfather, send the illustrious king of Neroche back to his very soft life in the west, and decide how best to continue on with our quest.”
She looked at their hands together for a moment or two, then up at him. “I can do that.”
“I imagined you could.” He smiled. “Let’s go seek out that warm place before the fire.”
She nodded and rose with him. He hesitated, then turned her to him and put his arms around her. She looked up at him in surprise.
“What is it?”
“I was just curious as to where I was in my tally.”
She found herself suddenly and quite unaccountably nervous. There was, if Soilléir was to be trusted about her past, no reason why she couldn’t count herself as one of the gaggle of noble—well, royal, actually—lassies who would be forming a very long, very impatient line to have their turn at impressing the very eligible, exceptionally handsome grandson of the king of the elves. But it was difficult to place herself there, just the same.
“I don’t remember where you were,” she hedged.
“I believe I had one to go.”
“Did you?” she managed. “I think that might be right.”
“Perfect,” he said solemnly, “given that I kissed the barmaid inside.”
She fought her smile. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“She was no princess.”
“She said she was,” he said as he slipped his hand under her hair.
She put her hands on his chest. “There might be other women out there that you might want to meet.”
“They can be bridesmaids at our wedding if you’re so set on making them a part of this relationship.”
She felt a little faint. “Wedding?”
He put his other arm around her waist. “Aye, wedding.”
“What happened to comrade in arms?”
“That was your idea, not mine,” he said, bending his head toward hers, “and I only agreed to it to keep you from bolting on me until I could convince you I loved you.”
She blinked. “You what?”
He laughed a little and rested his forehead against hers. “Sarah, are you going to keep talking or let me kiss you?”
She realized she was wrinkling the front of his tunic. She relaxed her fingers and smoothed over the cloth. “You are who you are, Ruith, and I am . . . well, I’m not sure what I am.”
He lifted his head and looked down at her seriously. “Could you,” he began, then he had to clear his throat. “Could you learn to be fond of me?” he asked. “With enough time?”
She looked up at him in surprise. It was the first time in all their acquaintance that she’d heard him sound the least bit hesitant. “I don’t need to learn anything,” she said, before she thought better of it.
“Then let’s discuss what it was about me you first learned to love,” he said promptly. “My terrifyingly handsome face, my enormous amounts of irresistible charm, or just all of that combined so appealingly?”
“You talk too much,” she said with a bit of a laugh, slipping her hands up around his neck and pulling his head down to hers. She looked into his lovely bluish green eyes and smiled before she closed her eyes and met his lips.
Halfway, as they had somehow managed to do everything so far.
Unfortunately, he lifted his head rather sooner than she thought she might have liked. She frowned up at him.
“What?”
He took her face in his hands, kissed her once more, very briefly, then looked at her grimly. “A new thought has occurred to me.”
“Which one?”
“The one that suggests that if I don’t present myself to one of your relatives with a list of good reasons why they should allow me to have you, I may find myself languishing in some forgotten ditch in the wilds of Cothromaiche.”
“And just who would you ask?” she asked faintly.
“Franciscus seems a likely suspect.”
“It might take a bit to find him.”
“Which is why I think spending most of my time kissing you until I do find him is an extraordinarily unwise thing to do. Unless you want to wed me today and face his wrath later.”
She sighed, then pulled out of his arms. “Very well. Comrades in arms until Franciscus is found.”
His mouth fell open. “Well, I didn’t mean to go that far.”
“I’m saving you from yourself. And me from myself,” she muttered, turning to put her book back in her pack. She slung it over her shoulder, then looked at him. “Well?”
He took the two steps toward her, then pulled her back into his arms and kissed her rather thoroughly, all things considered.
“You can’t do that anymore,” she said faintly when he lifted his head.
He laughed uneasily. “I fear I must agree, though ’tis most unwillingly done.”
She blinked. “Wed?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Is that a formal proposal?”
“Not in a stable, it isn’t.” He brushed his hand over her hair. “I was in earnest about the other. I must—willingly, I might add—accord Franciscus the respect due him by making a formal request. And I will honor you with the same after the fact.”
“I told you he wasn’t a black mage.”
“Aye, you were right,” he agreed cheerfully. “Let’s go find that hot fire. I have the uncomfortable feeling we’ll have company in that. I left the charming king of Neroche waiting for us at the pub door, because apparently he thinks we are too feeble to get ourselves back to safety.”
“Perhaps he intends to be a chaperon.”
“I have more self-control than that,” Ruith muttered under his breath. “And he damned well better behave himself with my sister, or he’ll answer to me.”
She smiled and walked with him to the door of the tavern where they did indeed find the king of Neroche, slouching negligently against the wall, watching them silently.
Ruith stopped in front of him. “Well?”
“Just waiting,” Miach said easily. “To show you where your grandfather is sleeping off his stormy voyage.”
Ruith looked at Sarah. “Shall we go up?”
“I haven’t anything to fear,” she said firmly. “We aren’t, well, it isn’t as if you have formally suggested, or implied, or—”
Ruith held up one finger, then turned to Miach. “Would you excuse us?”
Miach held up his hands and turned to go inside. “Far be it from me to interfere in the romantic stylings of an elven prince and his future dreamweaving bride. I’ll wait for you inside.”
Sarah found her arms full of that elven prince and herself quite thoroughly attended to. She felt a little faint after the fact, truth be told, but perhaps that had been his intention.
“Implied, suggested, and deferred for grandfatherly permission,” he said briskly. “Understood?”
She found it in her to glare at him. “And where is romance in all that?”
He laughed a little and hugged her so quickly, she squeaked. “Deferred as well, in favor of good sense. Or until my grandfather falls back asleep.”
“Ruith—”
He laughed at her again, took her by the hand, and pulled her along with him into the inn. He didn’t seem overly terrified at the thought of seeing his grandfather, but she couldn’t say she felt the same way. She allowed him to pull her along after him until they reached the steps that apparently led to chambers on the upper floor.
“Ruith?”
He looked at her with a smile. “Aye, my love?”
“Are you sure?”
He looked at her, puzzled, for a moment, then apparently he realized what she was asking. “How can you ask?”
“Because when a gel wants something very badly, she tends to want to avoid breaking her heart over the false hope of having it.”
His breath caught. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was blinking rapidly from something besides the smoke in the passageway.
He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. “This is the only thing about this entire nightmare that frightens me to the core,” he murmured against her ear. “Losing you, that is.”
“I feel the same way.”
He pulled back, kissed her quickly, then took her hand and led her up the stairs. “Let’s go find a bit of safety for the night. We’ll examine that revealing admission you made in a bit more detail in a place where you can’t escape.”
She wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t long for a quick escape. In spite of everything, which included facing black mages, horrible spells, vengeful queens, and a dozen other things she was certain she couldn’t even imagine up in the depths of her blackest dreams, what unnerved her the most was what awaited them upstairs.
The king of the elves.
She put her shoulders back and reminded herself that she was ... well, she was a decent sort of gel with good manners whom his grandson apparently loved.
She hoped it would be enough for him.