by Lynn Kurland
Aisling didn’t argue. It was early still. Perhaps she would slip off after sunset, after Weger’s work was done and he’d had a decent supper, and corner him. He might be more amenable then to listening to her request.
She walked behind Rùnach as he crossed the courtyard to collect his pack, then forced herself not to wince as she followed after him as he followed Paul. Her feet were very sore, though she supposed they would thaw out eventually. It was safe to say that she had spent the whole of her life that she could remember being cold and wishing that her feet were warm. The first thing she was going to do when she had a bit of money was buy herself a decent pair of shoes.
She descended steps behind Rùnach and Paul, hardly able to believe where she was. At least the inside of Gobhann was less intimidating than the outside. Her first sight of the keep that morning had almost stopped her heart.
Details had been, she had to admit, very sketchy about Scrymgeour Weger’s lair. She’d known where it was, mostly, thanks to Ochadius’s book. She’d scoured the weaving mistress’s library for further details about both those who had escaped its sturdy gates and those who chose to stay inside the same, just to satisfy her curiosity. She had assumed it would be a rather small place, tidy, sparse, with perhaps large lists, stables for horses, and a rather rudimentary garrison hall.
She hadn’t expected a fortress that looked as if it had simply erupted from sheer, unforgiving rock. The walls had risen easily a hundred feet up in front of her, terraced back against the mountainside, which had seemed to be, again, solid rock.
The inside of the keep was no less intimidating. More stone as far as the eye could see, with the whole place seeming sparse and uncomfortable. It was obviously a locale meant for the very utilitarian business of learning the art of war.
She followed Rùnach and Paul down three flights of stairs, then along a passageway that filled increasingly with a smell so vile she had to put her hand over her mouth.
“In here,” Paul said in a tone that was just south of a snarl. “And be quick. When the food’s gone, it’s gone.”
She couldn’t imagine that could be anything but a good thing, but what did she know of men and their stomachs? She caught the rag Paul threw at her, presumably to clean her face with, then walked into a long, cave-like room full of tables flanked by rough-hewn benches. Those benches were currently being occupied by the most terrifying-looking group of men she had ever clapped eyes on.
She felt horribly conspicuous in her bare feet and borrowed cloak, but she seemed to garner little notice. That might have been because Rùnach seemed to be attracting the full attention of the bulk of the men there—and the attention wasn’t of the pleasant sort.
She followed him to where things—she supposed they might have been termed food—were being slapped on trays and handed over for consumption. She looked down at her quivering, grey bit of gruel accompanied by a slab of dry, grey bread, and was almost felled by the smell of it. She accepted a cup of something she hoped was drinkable, then followed Rùnach over to a table.
He sat, nodded for her to sit between him and the wall, then set to his meal with the single-mindedness of someone who hadn’t eaten much for breakfast. She hadn’t eaten either save for what the captain had given her on board his ship. She had intended to take the coins she had earned sewing the things he’d trusted her with and buy yet more things that couldn’t be as awful as the food in the Guild, but events had interrupted her—events consisting of disembarking, then finding herself promptly robbed. Again. She was beginning to think that asking someone for a few ideas on how to keep herself safe might be wise.
Her supper was every bit as disgusting as it looked. She ate it all only because she was very hungry. She poured some of her ale onto the cloth and wiped the blood from the side of her face. She sincerely hoped that would be the last time she ran afoul of ruffians. Highly unpleasant as a group, truly.
Once she was finished with that, she had nothing to do but look about herself and wonder what she’d been thinking. She should have asked Weger to come outside the gate and talk to her there. She was accustomed to the society of women. That wasn’t to say that they couldn’t be vicious or dangerous or uncouth, but at least after a certain point there had been no tittering over bodily emissions or fights erupting over bread that was just this side of brickish hardness.
At least she had a buffer between herself and the rabble. Of course when someone’s stew went flying and the bulk of it landed against the wall above her head, she found she was wearing it just the same. The only thing that saved her from a broken nose was Rùnach’s hand reaching out just in time to catch the bowl before it landed on her face. He set it down, then continued on with his meal.
She sipped her drink—she didn’t think she dared call it ale, but she couldn’t think of anything else it could be—in a futile effort to calm her nerves. She was extremely grateful when Rùnach asked her if she had finished, then indicated he’d had enough himself. She followed him from the dining hall, wincing at the things that hit her in the back but unwilling to draw any attention to the abuse.
Paul led them back up a flight of stairs and down a passageway to a door. He pushed it open, then indicated with a sweeping gesture that they should enter.
“Only the finest,” he said grandly.
Aisling realized she wasn’t moving only because her feet had become rooted to the spot. “We’re together?”
“Of course,” Paul said sharply. “Why would you expect anything else?”
“Well—”
“The lad is out of his head with weariness,” Rùnach interrupted. “Many thanks to my lord Weger for his consideration.”
Aisling peered into the miniscule chamber she had been given—to share with a complete stranger, no less—and wondered if it could possibly have been worse. There was a bed of sorts, a table sturdy enough to sport water for washing, and a tallow candle that was spluttering as it burned. She supposed it was an improvement over the long rows of cots in an enormous room that was stifling in the summer and freezing in the winter that she’d been accustomed to at the Guild, but she wasn’t quite sure how.
“Wouldn’t leave anything here you want to keep,” Paul said from the doorway.
“Then thievery is overlooked?” Rùnach asked mildly.
“Everything’s overlooked,” Paul snapped, “or did you think this would be a luxurious holiday?”
“Nay,” Rùnach said, “I hadn’t expected that.”
Paul, whoever he was and whatever his expectations were for his time in Gobhann, was obviously not happy about being any sort of host. Aisling realized she was in his way only because he elbowed her so hard as he strode off that she gasped. She also burped, a rather indiscreet thing that would have earned her not only a look from whatever overseer would have been in the weaving room but likely an extra hour or two after her shift doing some menial labor. She clapped her hand over her mouth, then realized that burps weren’t the only things clamoring for escape.
Rùnach wasn’t facing her, which she thought might be fortunate, all things considered. The half of his face that was scarred was too difficult to look at, and the half of his face that wasn’t was also too difficult to look at. At the moment, he simply gave the overall impression of a man too large for the confined space they’d been given to share, though he went inside readily enough and dropped his pack on the floor.
Aisling hovered at the doorway, profoundly uncomfortable. She kept her hand over her mouth because doing so muffled the sounds that threatened to come out. Unfortunately that did nothing to mask the horrendous churning noises her stomach was making. It wasn’t inconceivable that what she had eaten at dinner had been slightly more full of life than she’d feared, which led her to thinking that she might want to sit down sooner rather than later. The bed was the closest thing to her, so she perched on its edge and watched Rùnach stand in the midst of the chamber and turn himself around.
How she was going to live in this proxim
ity with the man and not have him learn what she was—
Nay, there was no fear of that. She had her business to see to with Weger that night, then she would leave and that would be the end of it. Given the condition of her form, she suspected that she should be about that business sooner rather than later.
Rùnach fetched a pair of boots that had been sitting by the door and put them down next to her. “Those look like they might fit.” He lifted his eyebrows briefly. “Generosity from an unexpected direction, I daresay.”
“It makes up for supper.”
He looked at her in surprise, then smiled.
She closed her eyes. It was fortunate that she wasn’t going to be anywhere around the man. She had no interest in finding a man, actually, and she most definitely wouldn’t have wanted the one in front of her if she’d been looking. He was…well, he looked a bit like what she’d always thought Heroes of old might look like: noble; grave; impossibly handsome, scars and all. If she ever wed, she wanted a simple, homely farmer who would think she was pretty. He would obviously have to be almost blind for that to happen, but perhaps that was something to think on later. All she knew was that the man in front of her was far too luxurious for her admittedly very pedestrian self.
“I believe we’re missing a sword.”
Aisling frowned, then nodded slowly. Rùnach had taken his sword from her as they’d left the courtyard, but the one he’d lost that had wound up under Weger’s boot was definitely not in her care.
“I left it in the courtyard,” she said. “I’ll go—”
“Nay,” he said easily, “I’ll go. You should stay where you are.”
She thought she should as well, but unfortunately she had things to see to that didn’t include lingering on any horizontal surfaces. She shook her head. “I must come with you—”
“Nay, you mustn’t,” he said firmly. He shot her a look. “You look as if you’re fair to sicking up your supper.”
“But I need to speak with Weger.”
“Do you?” he asked, looking at her with more curiosity than she was comfortable with. “Why?”
She hadn’t realized just how small a chamber it was, nor how large Rùnach was. He had seemed so much more manageable outside the gates. She drew her hand over her eyes. “Because I must.”
“I wouldn’t badger him today, were I you.”
She didn’t have a choice, but she wasn’t going to say as much. She also wasn’t going to argue with a man who seemed twice her size. She would wait until he had left—as he was doing then—then determine how she was going to get back to her feet and out the door so she might be about her own business.
Her stomach still churned violently, which left her thinking that perhaps a small rest wasn’t an untoward idea. She leaned over carefully until she was lying on the bed—if bed it could be called. It felt more like wooden slats with a blanket draped over them, but since that’s what she was accustomed to, she wasn’t going to complain. Her head was swimming, the chamber was swirling around her, and she thought she might be ill very soon.
Perhaps just a little rest before she gathered herself together, put on her gifted boots, and worked her way to wherever Weger kept himself in the evenings. She had to speak to him that night.
Her life depended on it.
Five
Rùnach walked through the passageway that seemed to have a chill wind blowing through it just for his pleasure, then forced himself to climb the stairs with a spring in his step instead of dragging his sorry self up them. It occurred to him to wonder if he might not have been better off to have flown to Gobhann and saved himself the weariness of travel, but he let that thought continue on to the place where all regrets were wont to gather. There was nothing he could do about it now, and he’d had good intentions initially. Hopefully he could retrieve Odo’s sword, then manage to get to sleep early.
Though he wasn’t quite sure where he was going to sleep.
He considered the young woman he’d left behind in what apparently passed for a chamber here. Poor foolish, desperate lass. What had possessed her to come inside Gobhann’s unforgiving walls? She had seemed determined to speak to Weger, though he couldn’t imagine about what. She obviously had no sword skill, no pack full of gold, and no sense of her peril. It must have been something truly dreadful to have driven her from her home.
He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do with her at present. It hadn’t taken him long to decide that the dining hall wasn’t a place to linger after the meal was over. He had given his companion no choice but to come with him—not that she seemed inclined to argue about leaving—though he wasn’t sure the chamber was much of an improvement. There had been an alcove opposite the bed with blankets tossed in it. He supposed it would have to do for her. He would have given her the bed, but he was substantially taller than she was and it was the only place he would fit. He would apologize for the lack of chivalry later, after he’d discussed with her exactly what she was and what the hell she’d been thinking to come inside such a dreadful place.
He’d left her plotting, he was certain of that. If she hadn’t looked so green, he might have worried that she truly would run afoul of trouble. He supposed she would be fortunate indeed to simply run afoul of a garderobe before she started heaving.
He took a deep breath, realizing that he was more worked up than he should have been over business that wasn’t his. He had his own task to accomplish, then his life to be about. He had spent far too long locked behind Buidseachd’s forbidding walls. That he had traded one set of walls for another was something he supposed he shouldn’t dwell on overmuch.
He came out into the uppermost courtyard he had visited before. There was no moon, not that that would have mattered much given the mist that had already draped itself over Gobhann like a shroud. The chill made his hands ache, which made him more angry than it should have. He saw Master Odo’s sword lying in the midst of the courtyard, walked over, then leaned over to pick it up.
A foot came out of nowhere to rest on the blade, denying him his desire.
He straightened and found himself facing Gobhann’s lord. He couldn’t say he was terribly surprised to see the man there. He would no doubt have the odd question or two regarding Rùnach’s intentions. That was understandable. Whether or not those answers would be sufficient to keep Weger from throwing him off the walls onto the rocks that were reputedly on the shore below was another thing entirely.
Weger flipped the sword up with his foot, caught it, then looked at the blade thanks to the dim light of torches that fought to illuminate anything in the fog.
“Nice blade.”
“It belongs to your gatekeeper.”
“Thought I recognized it.” He shot Rùnach a look. “Think you’ll ever be able to use anything like it?”
Rùnach looked at him evenly, refusing to be baited. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I usually require that my aspirants be at least capable of holding their weapons,” Weger drawled. “I’m not sure you can even manage that.”
“Then throw me over the parapet and have done.”
“And have your grandpappy sweep inside my gates and cut out my entrails?” Weger shuddered delicately. “I think not.”
“Surely you aren’t afraid of him.”
Weger shot him a look. “Nay, but I’m terrified of your mother and she is—sorry, was—his daughter. He may have learned something from her whilst I wasn’t watching.”
“I don’t believe you were—or are, rather—terrified of either of them,” Rùnach said wryly, “but I also think you would rather let me live than do me in. It would be a shame to miss the chance to satisfy your curiosity and grind me under your heel at the same time.”
“There is that,” Weger agreed. “And I suppose apart from your hands you’re useful enough.”
“Thank you.”
Weger glanced about himself casually, then looked back at Rùnach. “And I might have the odd question for you, when the company
in the evenings grows tedious and I’m looking for something to amuse me.”
“I imagine you might.”
Weger studied him silently for a moment or two. “Rumor has it you died at the well.”
“It was a very near thing,” Rùnach conceded, “but nay, I did not.”
“Where have you been keeping yourself for the past score of years? Hiding in Sìle’s pantry, eating through his larder, or in his library, memorizing spells you shouldn’t know?”
“Neither,” Rùnach said, refusing to spare any regret for not having chosen either of those very appealing alternatives. “I’ve been at Buidseachd.”
“Ah,” Weger said, nodding slowly, “somehow quite unsurprising. Were you brushing up on your considerable skills there, or something else?”
Rùnach supposed it was none of Weger’s damned business what he’d been doing, though the truth of it probably wasn’t believable. He’d been hiding, true, but he’d also been looking for the sources of his father’s spells. Trying to explain why was, well, difficult. He’d had his reasons, but those reasons were too complicated for a conversation out in the open when he wasn’t at his best. He looked at Weger evenly.
“I was hunting.”
“I don’t think I’ll ask what,” Weger said. He shot Rùnach a look. “I understand your sire also wasn’t quite as dead as everyone thought.”
“Do you?”
Weger shrugged. “I hear many things, though I imagine you do as well. Perhaps you’ve heard a few tidings of a recent nature that might delight and amuse your future swordmaster.”
Rùnach tried not to smile. He’d heard Weger had a ready ear for gossip, but he hadn’t truly believed it until that moment. As for the rest, he supposed those were details he could give easily enough.
“My brother Ruithneadh and his newly made wife Sarah had a little chat with my sire at his home in Doìre, of all places. They decided that for his own health and well-being it might be best he keep to his house and garden.”
