Spellweaver (32 page)

“Ah,” Sarah managed. “That complicates things a bit, doesn’t it?”

“A bit,” Ruith agreed. He looked at her. “Are there any of my father’s spells at Ceangail, do you think?”

She shook her head. “Nay, and I’m fairly sure that’s an honest opinion and not just my intense desire never to return there.”

He smiled ruefully. “I daresay, love.” He studied her for another moment or two. “If you wanted to piece together that spell we found on the plains of Ailean, I’ll make it whole when I return.”

“Short of stitching it together myself, I think that’s our only alternative.”

He nodded toward the fire. “Let me see you settled, then I’ll go. Briefly. Then we’ll take whatever direction you think we should.”

She wasn’t particularly happy about the thought of leading the charge, as it were, but she supposed it wasn’t any different than the place in which she’d found herself at the beginning of her quest—which had been stepping off into the darkness with absolutely no idea what she was doing.

Only she’d found aid along the way in the person of Ruith, and Oban ... and Franciscus, all of whom had turned out to be mages.

She couldn’t bear to think about what else might turn out to be something she hadn’t expected.

Seventeen

Ruith sat in the seediest tavern he’d been in all evening—and given that it found itself in Slighe, that was very seedy indeed—and eavesdropped with abandon.

He wasn’t an eavesdropper by nature, his lengthy and frequent youthful bouts of it aside, but as he’d discovered that morning, trying to chat up bartenders wasn’t going to get him anything besides potentially a belly full of daggers as he lay in a heap behind some ramshackle pub.

Nay, better that he simply sit, listen, and watch. Sarah was perfectly safe in the best chamber he could find, protected as she was by the spell he’d left behind, and hopefully doing the sensible thing of taking another rest. He was happy to wait for what the loose tongues around him would eventually produce.

Unfortunately, there was no talk of an alewagon full of mages, though he supposed no one with any sense would have dared speak of magic within Slighe’s borders. He hadn’t even been able to manage any tidings about fresh ale with delicate essences of apple and lavender. The lads in Slighe apparently didn’t particularly care how their brew tasted as long as it rendered them profoundly intoxicated with as little fuss as possible.

Ruith pretended to nurse his very vile ale and continued to watch the clientele surreptitiously, wondering when one of them would drink himself far enough into a stupor to say something useful.

And then he suddenly realized he wasn’t the only one in the pub with an interest in the goings-on.

A pair of lads sitting in the opposite corner seemed equally concerned. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them at first, then had to struggle to mask his surprise when he realized why not.

They were both wearing elvish glamour.

It was very faint, not enough that it would have been visible to a mortal drunkard, but to one who had spent a good portion of his formative years beneath its shadow, it was clear. He leaned back against the wall behind him and studied the men as unobtrusively as possible. He couldn’t see their faces—they were sitting in the shadows just as he was—and he had no means of even beginning to identify who they might be. The glamour was nondescript and could have come from either Fadaire or Ciaradh, or a happy combination of both magics, though he couldn’t imagine who in his family would have mixed Fadaire with what they would have considered the lesser magic of Ainneamh.

Whoever the men were, they were definitely watching him. He didn’t imagine he would be wise to go over and demand their names. He supposed the only thing he could do was get up, walk out, and see if they followed him.

He tossed a coin onto the table, then did just that. He supposed his sword was an unnecessary burden, though he had brought it along partially out of habit and partly because it made him look at least on the surface like an ordinary lad out for a mug of courage after a long day. It would be of no use against the two he hoped would follow, but then again, they likely wouldn’t dare use any magic openly if they ever wanted to walk the putrid streets of Slighe again.

He started down the street where the only relief to the darkness was provided by light that spilled out of doorways and windows. He continued on his way without haste, as if whatever business he might need to see to demanded no especial consideration. He knew without looking that someone was following him—actually more than a single someone—which led him to believe he’d drawn the attention of the right souls.

He continued on his way, then suddenly stepped into an alleyway, turned, and waited. There was a lamp on the street, but the flickering flame there did little to relieve the darkness where Ruith stood. He hadn’t spent a score of years alive without magic because he was a fool, nor because he didn’t have the patience to wait to see which way the wind would blow, but there was no reason in not being at least somewhat prepared. He drew a spell of protection over himself as a concession to what magic he suspected he would soon be facing. He waited for the first spell to slam into him as his followers rounded the corner and almost ploughed him over.

The men facing him were obviously not novices at the practice themselves. They pulled up short, though so quietly that he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching for the like, then simply stood there and stared at him in silence. The man on the left broke first, after several very long minutes. He pushed his hood back from his face, then folded his arms over his chest.

“Looks like a bit of a storm tonight,” he said in a low voice. “I wouldn’t think you would want to be out in it, friend.”

Ruith blinked in surprise, for the elf facing him was no stranger. Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised him. The elves, at least of Ainneamh and Tòrr Dòrainn, weren’t exactly a numerous lot. It was, however, a bit startling to see a cousin where he hadn’t expected to.

“Thoir,” he said calmly, pushing his own hood back and revealing his face. “A surprise to see you here.”

Thoir’s mouth worked for a moment or two, as if he were bungling his way through a long list of names, looking for the right one.
“Ruithneadh?”

“Back from the dead,” Ruith agreed. He nodded to his right. “Who is your friend?”

“Ardan of Ainneamh,” the other said haughtily, apparently not inclined to show his face. “And you are Gair’s whelp, I presume. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you haunting this sort of place.”

Ruith felt one of his eyebrows go up before he could stop it. “How troubling it must be for you then, Your Highness, to find yourself in similar straits.”

“You have no idea,” Ardan said, the disdain plain in his voice. “I don’t suppose I dare hope you took the trouble to pay for a chamber here. Perhaps you are simply living up to your appearance and rolling yourself in a tatty blanket as you pass your nights under the stars.”

Ruith exchanged a look with his cousin, who only laughed a little and reached out to clap a hand on his shoulder. “It has been many years, cousin. I imagine you have quite a tale to tell.”

Ruith realized with a bit of a start that his first instinct was to immediately distrust the two standing in front of him, though he had no reason to. Thoir was his first cousin, son of the crown prince of Tòrr Dòrainn. He was the youngest son of half a dozen, true, but he had wealth and status and, from what Ruith could remember of his youth, dozens of elven maids sighing over him everywhere he went. In spite of that, he had never seemed inclined to take any of it too seriously, though Ruith supposed he hadn’t been, at the tender age of ten winters, particularly adept at determining that sort of thing.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with Ardan either, for the elven princeling’s reputation as an unpleasant and profoundly pretentious fop preceded him everywhere he went. He and Urchaid would have made a formidable pair if ever they had decided to mount an assault on the salons of the Nine Kingdoms. They would no doubt send every hostess of note into frenzies of effort to appease them.

He wondered why it was Ardan and Thoir happened to be in Slighe whilst he was. Coincidence? Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

But if coincidence wasn’t responsible, what was?

Or who?

He decided that knowing the answer to that sooner rather than later might serve him rather well. He nodded at the street behind the two. “I do have a comfortable spot,” he said with a casual shrug, “if you’re interested in a hot fire and fairly serviceable chairs. My traveling companion is guarding a very lovely bottle of wine.”

“Is he another of our kind?” Ardan asked doubtfully.

“Nay,” Ruith said easily, “but a soul worthy of your best manners just the same. Follow or not, as you choose.”

And with that, he parted the pair and walked between them. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if they would follow. Curiosity would be too much a temptation for Thoir. As for Ardan, perhaps just the hope of a decent cup of wine would bring him along.

He made his way without haste to the inn, then continued on up to his chamber. He suffered a moment of unease because, truth be told, he cared very much how Sarah was treated. Thoir would behave himself, but bore watching. It was possible that Ardan would be his usual self—relentlessly unpleasant and impossibly arrogant—but Ruith didn’t hold out much hope that he would keep all that arrogance to himself.

He looked at Ardan. “Watch yourself,” he said shortly.

“Ah,” Ardan asked, his eyes widening. “A lady of quality inside, is there? No wonder you’re trotting out your best courtly manners.”

Ruith ignored him, announced himself, then dissolved his spell as Sarah opened the door.

“Friends, not foes,” he said reassuringly.

Her expression didn’t lighten, but he understood that. He took the door and had to force himself not to slam it on the elves following him. He kept them behind him and entered slowly once he realized Sarah had the fragments of spell laid out on a table. She quickly scooped them into her hand and deposited them into a bowl she then set on a trunk under the window. She turned and looked at him, silent and wary.

“This is my cousin, Thoir of Tòrr Dòrainn,” he said, gesturing to the appropriate interloper. “And Ardan of Ainneamh, who is another cousin of sorts. Gentlemen, this is Sarah of Doìre.”

Thoir murmured something polite and complimentary. Ruith couldn’t blame him for that. Sarah was, as he would happily have told her endlessly, a very beautiful woman. A currently quite unsettled woman, but a beautiful one nonetheless.

“Doìre,” Ardan said doubtfully. “What is there in Doìre?”

“Sagebrush and criminals,” Sarah answered without hesitation. “For the most part.”

“Well, it produced one thing beyond compare,” Thoir said, taking a step forward.

He didn’t take another because Ruith put his hand out and stopped him. He shot his cousin a warning look, then saw Sarah seated comfortably in front of the fire. He looked for and found two more poor excuses for chairs, then happily relegated himself to an evening of standing in front of the fire, which would make it a very short evening indeed.

“Who was your mother?” Ardan asked, looking at Sarah down his very long, very aristocratic nose. “I don’t recognize you.”

Ruith wouldn’t have blamed Sarah if she’d glared at him for his part in bringing two elves home with him, as it were, but he also supposed she knew by now that he couldn’t stomach pompous fools any more than she could. He only watched her steadily, catching just the briefest glance from her before she looked at Ardan.

“My mother was the witchwoman Seleg,” she said calmly. “As to the identity of my father, your guess, Your Highness, is as good as mine.”

The reaction was predictable. Ardan spluttered for a moment or two, coming close to an animated case of the vapors. Thoir only smiled at Sarah, seemingly unfazed by her lack of pedigree.

“You are obviously her finest work.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said with a polite smile. She looked at Ardan. “Would you care for something to drink, Prince Ardan? To ease your suffering?”

Ardan looked for a moment torn between choking to death and accepting, but apparently his instinct for self-preservation was very strong because he accepted a cup of wine with only a small grimace of distaste. Ruith watched him for a moment, then turned to Thoir, who had said something to him he hadn’t marked.

“I’m sorry,” Ruith said. “I was distracted.”

“Understandable,” Thoir said with a nod at Sarah. “I had simply asked why you found yourself here in Slighe.”

Ruith shrugged. “Looking for companions we had a month or so ago, but seem to have missed. And you?”

Thoir shrugged as well. “I’ve heard rumors of things let loose in the world. Spells and that sort of rot.”