Spellweaver (50 page)

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.”