Spellweaver (49 page)

He considered. “Too tired to sleep?”

“Not if you have a tale for me to help me along.”

“I might,” he said slowly, “if you would let me read you one from a book.”

She looked at him for quite some time in silence. Her eyes were very red, but that could have been from weariness, not tears she couldn’t shed. She reached into her pack beside her without looking away from him, opened it, then pulled something out of the top and handed it to him.

It was a book he didn’t recognize, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t be surprised by the contents. There was no title embossed on the cover, but he opened it to find the title written there in a very fine hand.

A Brief History of Cothromaiche, by Soilléir, son of Coimheadair
.

Ruith looked at her. “This might be interesting.”

“I’m not sure I’ll get through it on my own.”

“Then allow me, my lady, to aid you in the task.”

She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “Ruith, I’m not sure I can bear much more of this sort of thing.”

“I think this will be the worst of it,” he ventured.

She blinked rapidly. Her cheeks were wet and now her nose was red. He smiled, pained, and set both the book and the basket aside. He rose, took his cloak and spread it out on the hay, then fetched the book and Sarah and brought them both with him. He stretched out, then pulled her down to lie next to him, offering his shoulder as a pillow. She put her arm over his waist and sighed.

“I feel as if I’m dreaming.”

“I imagine you do,” he said quietly. He paused. “You know, Sarah, you might find this isn’t such a bitter pill to swallow as you might suspect.”

She huffed out a very small laugh. “I’m not sure why I’m even fretting over any of it. It can’t possibly apply to . . . or have anything to do with . . . ah . . .” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “You know what I mean.”

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her a bit closer. “Reserve judgement until after I finish. At the very least, this will give us a way to fall asleep. Soilléir is, as you may or may not have noticed, a crushing bore. I’m sure we won’t make two pages before we’re both snoring happily.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “You, Ruithneadh, are a very kind man.”

“And you, Sarah, are a very distracting woman.”

She pursed her lips at him. “Concentrate on the book, my lord prince. Your tally, if you remember, is not yet filled.”

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, but he smiled as he said it. He waited until she had settled her head more comfortably, then took up the small book with his free hand and began to read.

The tale, which Ruith wasn’t entirely sure Soilléir hadn’t written precisely for Sarah’s benefit, began in the far reaches of time before Cothromaiche had organized itself into any collection of hamlets under a common ruler. The text devoted quite a bit of time to describing the sheer mountains and pristine lakes, rolling foot-hills dotted with small villages full of farmers and herders of sheep, and lovely seasons that came and went at just the right and proper moment.

“Sheep,” he noted. “They make wool, don’t they?”

“I believe, Your Highness, that they do.”

“You like wool, don’t you?”

Sarah laughed a little. “Keep reading.”

He was rather more relieved than he should have been to find she wasn’t weeping. He didn’t imagine she was past all danger of it, but at least the beginning of the book seemed to please her.

From a description of the very desirable countryside, the author moved into a discussion of politics and a quiet revelation that the king of Cothromaiche, Seannair, was a most sensible man with an aversion to the trappings of royalty to which he was most assuredly entitled, preferring to put his feet up next to his stove at night and discuss the potential effect of the weather on his plans for spring planting—and sheepshearing.

“More wool,” Ruith noted. “Your kind of people.”

“Hmmm,” was apparently all the response she could give to that.

The wars and contentions with neighboring countries were touched upon briefly, as well as a thorough discussion of the art, music, and other necessities of culture that seemed as well developed as their weaving industry.

And then Soilléir turned to his genealogy.

Ruith paused. “Still awake?”

“Unfortunately,” she whispered.

“Feel free—” He stopped himself and sighed. “I was going to say feel free to cling to me if necessary, but I won’t make light of this.” He paused. “I’m sorry, love. I fear this won’t be easy. But it may be worth it, in the end.”

“Will it?” she asked wearily.

“If what we suspect might be true
is
true,” he said slowly, “then a certain flame-haired gel of our acquaintance wouldn’t be related to Daniel of Doìre.”

“Well, there is that,” she agreed.

“I believe the witchwoman Seleg could be discarded as a relation as well.” He put the book down and smoothed her hair back from her face. “It would answer quite a few questions, wouldn’t it?”

“About her treatment of me?”

“Aye, and the reason a certain alemaster took such an interest in you,” he said, “or why you were taken to a place where souls don’t see—and they aren’t seen, if you take my meaning.”

She was silent for a long moment. “Do you think so?”

“Aye, I think so.”

She took a deep breath. “Read on, Ruith, if you will.”

He kissed her forehead. “Brave gel.” He picked up the book. “Ah, here our long-winded author now feels the need to bludgeon us with yet another retelling of his very sparse genealogy of which he is obviously very proud. We have Seannair, whom we already know, who spawned three lads whose names I won’t bother to pronounce, and those three lads then sired one lad each and named them Coimheadair, Meadhan, and Franciscus, respectively.”

She didn’t flinch, so he carried on.

“Coimheadair, being the crown prince of Cothromaiche, wed him a gel from An Cèin—my grandmother is of that lineage—and was apparently busier than his father for he sired three sons himself, the youngest being our good Soilléir, who apparently prefers to be off tormenting Droch instead of waiting for his brothers and his progenitors to die so he can take the crown.”

“He is a useful man,” Sarah agreed.

“Realistic is more to the point, perhaps,” Ruith said dryly. “But we’ll leave that for the moment. Meadhan’s children and grandchildren do not figure into our study here, so we’ll leave them aside and concern ourselves with Franciscus.” He continued to trail his fingers over her back, partly because he thought it might soothe her and partly because it allowed him to feel her distress. He wasn’t terribly surprised when she only took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She was that sort of march-into-the-fray and do-what-needed-to-be-done sort of gel.

“Franciscus,” he continued, “the youngest son, had three daughters and a son—”

Sarah lifted her head and looked at him in surprise. “Did he? What happened to the daughters?”

“I have no idea,” he said, surprised himself. “It gives their names, but says nothing about their fate. But the son, he who was the youngest, was named Athair. He married a dreamweaver named Sorcha.” He had to stop for a breath himself. “They had a daughter, a gel-child.”

“And her name?” she prompted, when he fell silent.

“Sarah.”

She continued to breathe normally, if not a little carefully. “Anything else?”

“It says here that Athair and his bride were slain by the queen of An-uallach. She had devised a way to have a mage’s power on his way out of this poor world and intended to use it on Athair and his bride.”

“That woman is evil,” Sarah breathed.

Ruith cleared his throat. “I fear the rest isn’t any more pleasant. ’Tis written in the same hand, but dated the night we were in the garden of Gearrannan.” He had to clear his throat again. “I’m not sure I can read it aloud.”

Sarah pulled his hand back where she could see the words as well, though she didn’t seem to be any more capable than he of reading them except to herself. Ruith left Sarah holding the book long enough to drag his sleeve across his eyes, then took it again and kept it where she could read along with him.

Ruith closed the book softly and set it aside. He wrapped his arms around Sarah and simply held her for several minutes in relative silence, the only sounds being the occasional wicker of a horse or the soft hoot of an owl. He waited until he thought Sarah might have gotten hold of herself before he turned his head and looked at her. He’d expected to find her weeping, or on the verge of raging about the injustice of it all.

She was asleep.

He smiled to himself and committed the sight to memory so he could needle Soilléir with it when next they met, then put his head back down and looked up at the ceiling of the stall. He wasn’t sure what she had read, but it had obviously not distressed her to the point of insanity. When she awoke, if she wanted to speak of it, he would reread to her the parts she’d missed, then either weep with her over what she’d lost or rejoice with her for what she’d found, perhaps whilst slyly inserting himself into her vision of the future.

He let out a slow breath. It would have been wise to have disentangled himself from her and gotten up to do a bit of scouting. Morag had been left behind, true, but she had fleet horses and would catch them up if she thought she could manage it.

But he couldn’t bring himself to. He spared one last thought for making certain that his spells were intact and their horse and owl were safe, then he closed his eyes and allowed himself a sweet, peaceful, if very brief, sleep with the woman he loved in his arms.

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.