“Your memory is failing you quite regularly this afternoon,” Ruith said dryly.
“’Tis all about timing, my lad,” Soilléir said, “as your lady knows now that she’s distracted me from the game and I am in peril. Sarah, tell me of your plans whilst I think on a way out of this trap you’ve laid.”
“I had no plans for a specific place,” she admitted. “It was initially enough just to be free of Shettlestoune. I can earn my way by weaving, so perhaps there is some remote village somewhere in need of my particular skills.” She paused. “Somewhere where I can simply be … well, not involved in magic any longer.” She wanted to give him an entire list of reasons she loathed magic and its practitioners, but that was a little difficult when she was sitting with a man who held so much power in his hand, yet seemed so ordinary.
And also considering who was sitting there in front of the fire, making arrows for her with his own two hands. Because he’d promised her he would.
“Remote?” Soilléir asked, moving his queen to a more advantageous position. “That sounds a little unpleasant, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not afraid of being alone.”
He looked up. “Why would you be?”
Because whilst she wasn’t afraid of being alone, she was very afraid of the dark, and she feared the dark because she’d seen in it things that would have sent her mother pitching over in a dead faint. She had seen things she couldn’t possibly hope to counter with harsh words and her hunting knife that she had lost somewhere between Ceangail and Buidseachd. She didn’t dare hope that even her knives that lay next to the chessboard would keep her safe. So aye, she was very afraid of the dark.
But she wasn’t going to admit as much.
“We all have things that frighten us, Sarah.”
“Including you?” she asked in surprise. “Surely you could simply use your magic—” But nay, he’d said he wouldn’t. She supposed, judging by just looking at him, that he could defend himself well enough with a blade if he had to. Against a mortal enemy.
But a mage?
He tipped his king over. “If a spell were necessary, I would use it. Judiciously.”
“If you were fighting against, say, Gair?”
Soilléir met her eyes. “Aye.”
She swallowed with difficulty. “And could you, if you wanted to, go off to some far distant place and be just a man? Or would your past follow you there?”
Soilléir looked at her gravely. “Those are terrible questions I’m not sure I can answer, though I can’t blame you for asking them. I also don’t blame you for wishing you could leave all this behind.”
“I have no magic,” she said. “Nothing anyone would want me for.”
He only smiled. “I think you underestimate your gifts, my dear.”
But she suspected she wasn’t underestimating his. She cleared her throat. “Could you tell me if my brother’s still alive?”
He leaned back and looked at her for a moment or two in silence. “Aye, I could.”
“But he won’t,” Ruith put in.
Soilléir smiled briefly at Ruith. “I think it would be unwise to.”
“Even if you could sort this whole sorry business for us?” she asked, pained.
“And what would that leave you to do, Sarah?”
“Go hide in an obscure little village in the middle of farmland and weave,” she muttered.
“And how would that serve you in your life’s journey?” he asked mildly.
“I wouldn’t be dead,” she said. “Or terrified.”
“Everyone dies at some point,” he said with a shrug. “More important is how you live.”
“And I would like to live out my life in obscurity, if it’s all the same to you,” she said without hesitation. “This business of mages and magic and books of spells is far beyond my ken. I would much prefer a little house with space for a loom, a fire in the hearth, and rain outside.”
“It sounds as if Chagailt might be the place for you,” he mused.
Sarah had her opinions on where she would have preferred to live, but even the thought of it was so far beyond her reach, she couldn’t bear to think about it.
“Though perhaps not yet, for you have realities to face,” he continued relentlessly. “Daniel is still out in the world, no doubt looking for more of Gair’s spells. Gair’s bastard sons now know a legitimate heir is alive, also looking for those same spells. And you’re being hunted by trolls and mages and things you cannot see.”
“I’m not being hunted,” Sarah said hastily. She pointed to Ruith. “He is.”
“Which is why Mosach and Táir followed after you,” Soilléir said. He looked at her, clear-eyed and unperturbed. “Or do I have that wrong, my dear?”
She sees, Táir had said. Sarah wished she could forget that. She put her shoulders back.
“An aberration.”
“When dealing with mages, Sarah, ’tis always best to assume that if they’ve stirred themselves to move away from their fires and mugs of ale, they are not pursuing an aberration.”
“They’ll forget about me.”
“A woman who can see spells?” Soilléir asked. “An interesting talent to have, if I might offer an opinion. Some might call it magic. I suspect there are at least two mages from Ceangail who share that opinion.”
Sarah felt her mouth become appallingly dry. “Are you trying to frighten me into continuing on with a quest I don’t want? Or merely attempting to talk me into helping Ruith when he could be helping himself?”
“I’m only making conversation,” Soilléir said. “My friend leaning against the wall behind us has heard all my conversation, so I like to trot it out with guests as often as possible and spare his ears.” He began to reset the chess pieces. “But perhaps you would care for something else to do besides listen to me. I think there’s a loom languishing somewhere in the bowels of the keep. I’ll have it fetched for you, if you like. I might even manage to find yarn.”
“I would repay you,” she managed, feeling very grateful. If she could even begin to weave something, repay him somehow for the yarn, then perhaps make a bit of profit to use to buy other wool. It was a very great gift indeed.
“I’ll be satisfied simply with looking at what you make,” he said with a smile. He finished with the chessboard, then rose. “I’ll go see what I can find.”
Sarah watched him go, then looked out the window for quite some time before she could bring herself to look at Ruith. He was leaning back in his chair, a half-finished arrow across his knees, simply watching her. She took a deep breath.
“I think Daniel’s dead,” she offered, hoping if she said it often enough, she would begin to believe it.
Ruith only looked at her steadily. “Perhaps.”
“Are you,” she began, then had to clear her throat. “Are you continuing on? Looking for Gair’s spells, that is.”
He hesitated only briefly before he nodded.
“You’ll find them,” she said quickly. “I’m sure of it. You certainly won’t need any help in that endeavor.”
He raised his eyebrows briefly, just once.
“I can’t help you,” she blurted out. “I have no magic.”
“Neither do I.”
“Of course you do,” she said, happily latching onto irritation. It drowned out quite nicely her feelings of guilt at running away from her quest. “You just won’t use it.”
“You’re right,” he said very quietly. “Which makes it rather useless.”
She found herself on her feet, though she couldn’t bring herself to pace. She could only stand there with her arms wrapped around herself. “I can’t go any farther with you, Ruith. The thought of … well, I just can’t.”
He looked up at her solemnly. “I understand, Sarah.”
She turned and walked away from him, because it was all she could do. She couldn’t help him any longer. He wasn’t just traipsing after Daniel of Doìre, a bumbling mangler of spells, he was following after bastards sired b
y Gair of Ceangail on heaven only knew whom. Those lads were powerful beyond belief. She was a simple village witch’s magic-less daughter. She couldn’t hope to stand against them, and she couldn’t bear to even consider facing them when all that stood between her and a horrible death by a terrible magic was Ruith’s sword—which he no longer had.
She paused in her pacing and watched him bent again over his work, patiently fashioning an arrow to fit the bow he’d obviously made for her. His dark hair gleamed in the firelight, and firelight caressed what she could see of his terribly beautiful face. His long-fingered hands were sure as they worked the wood, his very aura was one of competence and knowledge—as long as one was dealing with what to put into the stewpot or how to keep the fire going.
But dealing with mages?
She couldn’t believe he intended to walk into darkness and allow himself to be killed, but the forces he was facing could not be bested with ordinary weapons. And as long as that was all he was going to allow himself, she wasn’t going to be anywhere near the battle.
There was nothing wrong with wanting to be simply Sarah who carded wool and spun it into yarn before she wove it into cloth, was there? She didn’t have to be Sarah who saw spells and dreamed pages from Gair’s book. Obviously her time in Soilléir’s solar and the uncomfortable discussions she’d had with him had been more deleterious to her peace of mind than she’d feared. In truth, there was no reason to feel guilty about turning her back on her quest or worrying that Ruith might not manage his task without her.
She wondered how many times she would have to tell herself that before she began to believe it.
Seven
Ruith wandered down the aisle between shelves of books, trailing his finger along the spines of tomes that had been read countless times by countless students over the course of the university’s existence. It made him feel useful to be in the bowels of the keep, looking for things that might aid him in his quest. He paused to study an interesting-looking book with a tooled leather spine. He pulled it from the shelf—the librarians really should make different decisions about what sorts of things they left in circulation—then thumbed through it, making a considerable effort to pay attention to what he was reading.
He’d been making considerable efforts to do several things over the past day. He’d worked very hard at pretending to be a simple fletcher, making arrows for both himself and Sarah that he could have sold in Istaur for enough to purchase six months’ worth of supplies for hiding in his mountain house. Taking the time to be about that useful labor had also allowed Sarah what he hoped was a decent bit of rest.
She had spent the day before either in conversation with Soilléir or quietly reading in front of the fire things he’d been certain were of a completely unmagical nature. Soilléir might have nudged, but he did, damn him anyway, know when to retreat from the fray.
Ruith didn’t imagine he would enjoy that same sort of restraint.
Which was one of the reasons he’d escaped to the bowels of Buidseachd before sunrise that morning—after another night spent on the floor, if anyone had been curious—and trusted that Sarah would be safe inside Soilléir’s solar with its bastion of spells of defense to keep her thus.
Now, he was contentedly doing a good work in looking for … something. He was most definitely not hiding, nor allowing others to protect him where he should have been willing to protect himself, nor avoiding thinking about his plans for the future.
He was certainly not doing the last.
He sighed deeply and put the book back in its place. As much as he would have preferred to think otherwise, the truth was that whilst he’d been pretending to be what he wasn’t, the world had turned and evil had multiplied.
The question was, what was he willing to do about it?
He would have happily turned his back … nay, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he found he couldn’t turn his back happily on anything any longer. Not on Sarah, nor his past, nor his father’s spells. The truth was, he had the power to do something to make up for what his father had done, to contain what his sire had loosed. To not use that power was now almost unthinkable.
He rubbed his hands over his face. He was tired, more tired than he should have been after a life of austerity and not sleeping to avoid his dreams. There were things that troubled him deeply, things he was positive wouldn’t be dealt with easily. Or without magic.
Bad enough that his bastard brothers now knew he was alive. He might have believed they would stay and hover over Ceangail like vultures, waiting for Díolain to die, but he’d seen three of them outside the keep. He’d been unsurprised to see Amitán following him—he supposed he might have insulted the man once too often in his own youth for there to have been no revenge sought—but he’d been quite alarmed to find Táir and Mosach following Sarah.
She sees, you fool, Táir had snarled at him as he’d tied the ends of their spells together in an excellent example of a weaver’s knot, proving yet again that his time in Shettlestoune had been well spent. And we’ll find her and use her for our own purposes.
Ruith hadn’t said as much to Sarah, but he’d spent more than enough time thinking on just what sorts of purposes they might have for her. He would have preferred to believe his half brothers had been reeling from the battle up at the keep and imagined things about her that couldn’t possibly serve them, but he couldn’t. She was just as much in their sights as he was, something that unsettled him greatly. For all he knew, they wanted her to find spells they couldn’t see.
He was resigned to the fact that the rest of his tangle centered around his father’s spells. The trolls he could leave for later. They were obviously made from the evil of his father’s well and whilst he certainly would have preferred they cease to exist, he wasn’t going to waste time chasing them. Not when his father’s spells were out in the world, ready and willing to be used apparently by whomever found them first—which he had to concede would include that mage who had pilfered the trio of them from the depths of his boot.
It was puzzling, that spell of Olc that had protected him. It had been, as he had reluctantly noted before, imminently suitable and very powerful. He supposed wondering who had laid it over him so carefully would take up quite some time. Determining who had managed to slit through it and take Gair’s spells was even less pleasant an activity. Who would have had the power? How had that soul known he had pages from his father’s book stuffed down his boots?
More unsettling still, what did that mage intend to do with what he’d found?
He turned away from that unpleasant thought to face perhaps the worst one of all which was what in the hell he was going to do in those few moments after Sarah had walked out of his life. He could easily speculate on how miserable those moments might be. If he’d had any inkling just how miserable, he never would have opened the door to her that first evening. He most definitely wouldn’t have followed her out of Shettlestoune—
Unbidden, a vision of a garden, the garden of Gearrannan, suddenly presented itself to him, as if it had been simply waiting for him to stop looking at other things long enough to notice it.
He had to take several slow, deep breaths before he could manage to face the thought of that place without flinching. And once he had control of himself, he was able to step back and consider it rationally. It was a lovely garden, true, but it wasn’t a place he had time to visit, or even wanted to visit—
He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Nay, the truth was, the garden of Gearrannan wasn’t a place he dared visit. There was a particular sort of magic there, a magic that assured the king of the elves that no undesirables would make free with his sanctuary whilst he wasn’t there to inspect the visitors himself.
Ruith let out his breath slowly. That was understating it. There were spells of ward woven into the very fabric of that garden that would not simply repulse anyone undesirable who attempted entrance.
They would slay him.
He had to
simply stand there in the middle of a row of books and breathe until he thought he could look at the thought he’d avoided thinking on for almost a se’nnight, since he’d first considered Beinn òrain as a place to flee. The desirability of Soilléir’s chambers as a place to hide had been uppermost in his mind, of course, but he could no longer deny that he’d had another thought as well. A wee trial, as it were, to see just what might become of the world if he stopped being who he wasn’t and became who he had been.
If he walked to the garden of Gearrannan and put his hand on the gate, would it let him enter, or would it slay him as it would have slain his father had he not had a very well-developed sense of self-preservation and retreated from its gates whilst he was still able to?
Ruith wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to find out.
He realized he was cursing—not quite under his breath—only to realize that he wasn’t the only one listening to himself cursing not quite under his breath. He jumped a little when he saw Soilléir leaning back against the wall at the end of the row, his arms folded over his chest, his face expressionless.
Damn, caught.
Ruith reminded himself that he was a man of thirty winters, not a lad, and he was under no obligation to answer any of what he was certain would be not the polite inquiries he’d faced before, but terribly prying and uncomfortable questions about his motives, his ambitions, and his heart. He wouldn’t answer them, not even out of courtesy. He continued on his way to the end of the shelves, stopped, then inclined his head.
“My lord.”
Soilléir only continued to study him, as if he searched for something he’d hoped to find there. Good sense, perhaps. Ruith returned his look steadily. The man hadn’t come to make certain he wouldn’t perish from fatigue over reading too much or outright death from slices to his fingers from pages of books with minds of their own. If there was one thing that could be counted on in the world, it was that Soilléir of Cothromaiche didn’t indulge in idle conversation or haphazard visits.
Soilléir nodded to his left. Ruith didn’t want to but followed him as he walked away, because he had decent manners.
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