Spellweaver (51 page)

He shot her a look that said he understood all too clearly what she was about. “Accompanied by my best spell of protection, or you don’t go anywhere.”

Sarah looked at the king of Neroche. “He’s a tyrant.”

“You seem to be managing him well,” Miach offered.

“It is a constant battle,” she said, scooting off the bench and not looking at Ruith. “It has been a pleasure, ah, Your—”

“Miach,” he finished before she could. He smiled at her. “’Tis just Miach.”

She smiled in return, because he was terribly charming and self-effacing, two things she couldn’t help but like. “Very well, Miach.”

“Be careful, Sarah.”

She picked up her pack and left the pub before she had to look at Ruith again, made her way out to the stable, and assured herself that the horses were housed well. She looked around, then found a handy trunk to sit on, because she had to. She had assumed, mistakenly, that it would be Ruith with the more difficult path.

She wrestled with herself a bit longer, then pulled the book out of her pack, the one Soilléir had apparently written just for her. She turned to the last pair of pages and found the last thing she’d read before she’d fallen asleep.

She closed the book before she could read the postscripts, sure they would only coerce tears from her she wasn’t ready to shed. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

It shouldn’t have been difficult to accept. She had always wondered, in the back of her mind, how it was that Seleg could ever have been her mother. She’d never called the woman
Mother
, because Seleg had forbidden it. Seleg had never showed her any especial affection, particularly once she’d realized that Sarah had no magic. The only place she’d felt safe or loved or valued had been in Franciscus’s workroom or in the great room of his small house where she had passed most of her time. He had educated her, laughed with her, treated her as he would have a daughter.

Now, she understood why.

She contemplated that for far longer than she should have, which led her to realizing with a start that she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. There was someone standing a few paces away, leaning against one of the stable posts. She had scarce pulled her knife free from her boot before she realized it was Ruith. He held up his hands in surrender.

“Only me,” he said.

She resheathed her knife, but couldn’t manage a smile. “That was a lovely reunion inside.”

“It was,” he agreed, coming over to sit next to her. He held out his hand for hers, then took it gently between his own. He stared down at her fingers linked with his for several minutes before he looked at her. “I see you have your book there.”

She nodded.

“How are you?”

“Trying to ignore things I’d rather not think about.” She had to look up at the roof of the stable to keep her tears where they belonged. “I don’t want this.”

“I understand,” he said, very quietly.

She gestured helplessly into the darkness of the stall facing her. “It isn’t just the past,” she said. “It’s all of it. What I can’t see in front of me. What I
can
see.” She looked at him miserably. “We’ve only begun and already I’m unsettled almost past what I can bear.”

He stroked the back of her hand gently. “Sarah, I’m not sure how to tell you this easily, but you can’t change the past.”

She laughed, but it was more a half sob than anything. “You would know.”

“Aye, my love, I would know.”

“Then what do I do?” she asked miserably. “I can’t go back, but I don’t dare go forward.”

He wrapped his hands around hers. “What you do, my dearest love, is take the evening, retire to the safety of a chamber inside, and pitch your camp with me on the floor in front of the fire where I will tell you all manner of tales to delight and astonish,” he said. “Tales having nothing to do with Cothromaichian escapades or black mages. Then, tomorrow, we will break bread with my grandfather, send the illustrious king of Neroche back to his very soft life in the west, and decide how best to continue on with our quest.”

She looked at their hands together for a moment or two, then up at him. “I can do that.”

“I imagined you could.” He smiled. “Let’s go seek out that warm place before the fire.”

She nodded and rose with him. He hesitated, then turned her to him and put his arms around her. She looked up at him in surprise.

“What is it?”

“I was just curious as to where I was in my tally.”

She found herself suddenly and quite unaccountably nervous. There was, if Soilléir was to be trusted about her past, no reason why she couldn’t count herself as one of the gaggle of noble—well, royal, actually—lassies who would be forming a very long, very impatient line to have their turn at impressing the very eligible, exceptionally handsome grandson of the king of the elves. But it was difficult to place herself there, just the same.

“I don’t remember where you were,” she hedged.

“I believe I had one to go.”

“Did you?” she managed. “I think that might be right.”

“Perfect,” he said solemnly, “given that I kissed the barmaid inside.”

She fought her smile. “You did not.”

“I did.”

“She was no princess.”

“She said she was,” he said as he slipped his hand under her hair.

She put her hands on his chest. “There might be other women out there that you might want to meet.”

“They can be bridesmaids at our wedding if you’re so set on making them a part of this relationship.”

She felt a little faint. “Wedding?”

He put his other arm around her waist. “Aye, wedding.”

“What happened to comrade in arms?”

“That was your idea, not mine,” he said, bending his head toward hers, “and I only agreed to it to keep you from bolting on me until I could convince you I loved you.”

She blinked. “You what?”

He laughed a little and rested his forehead against hers. “Sarah, are you going to keep talking or let me kiss you?”

She realized she was wrinkling the front of his tunic. She relaxed her fingers and smoothed over the cloth. “You are who you are, Ruith, and I am . . . well, I’m not sure what I am.”

He lifted his head and looked down at her seriously. “Could you,” he began, then he had to clear his throat. “Could you
learn
to be fond of me?” he asked. “With enough time?”

She looked up at him in surprise. It was the first time in all their acquaintance that she’d heard him sound the least bit hesitant. “I don’t need to learn anything,” she said, before she thought better of it.

“Then let’s discuss what it was about me you first learned to love,” he said promptly. “My terrifyingly handsome face, my enormous amounts of irresistible charm, or just all of that combined so appealingly?”

“You talk too much,” she said with a bit of a laugh, slipping her hands up around his neck and pulling his head down to hers. She looked into his lovely bluish green eyes and smiled before she closed her eyes and met his lips.

Halfway, as they had somehow managed to do everything so far.

Unfortunately, he lifted his head rather sooner than she thought she might have liked. She frowned up at him.

“What?”

He took her face in his hands, kissed her once more, very briefly, then looked at her grimly. “A new thought has occurred to me.”

“Which one?”

“The one that suggests that if I don’t present myself to one of your relatives with a list of good reasons why they should allow me to have you, I may find myself languishing in some forgotten ditch in the wilds of Cothromaiche.”

“And just who would you ask?” she asked faintly.

“Franciscus seems a likely suspect.”

“It might take a bit to find him.”

“Which is why I think spending most of my time kissing you until I do find him is an extraordinarily unwise thing to do. Unless you want to wed me today and face his wrath later.”

She sighed, then pulled out of his arms. “Very well. Comrades in arms until Franciscus is found.”

His mouth fell open. “Well, I didn’t mean to go that far.”

“I’m saving you from yourself. And me from myself,” she muttered, turning to put her book back in her pack. She slung it over her shoulder, then looked at him. “Well?”

He took the two steps toward her, then pulled her back into his arms and kissed her rather thoroughly, all things considered.

“You can’t do that anymore,” she said faintly when he lifted his head.

He laughed uneasily. “I fear I must agree, though ’tis most unwillingly done.”

She blinked. “Wed?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Is that a formal proposal?”

“Not in a stable, it isn’t.” He brushed his hand over her hair. “I was in earnest about the other. I must—willingly, I might add—accord Franciscus the respect due him by making a formal request. And I will honor you with the same after the fact.”

“I told you he wasn’t a black mage.”

“Aye, you were right,” he agreed cheerfully. “Let’s go find that hot fire. I have the uncomfortable feeling we’ll have company in that. I left the charming king of Neroche waiting for us at the pub door, because apparently he thinks we are too feeble to get ourselves back to safety.”

“Perhaps he intends to be a chaperon.”

“I have more self-control than that,” Ruith muttered under his breath. “And he damned well better behave himself with my sister, or he’ll answer to me.”

She smiled and walked with him to the door of the tavern where they did indeed find the king of Neroche, slouching negligently against the wall, watching them silently.

Ruith stopped in front of him. “Well?”

“Just waiting,” Miach said easily. “To show you where your grandfather is sleeping off his stormy voyage.”

Ruith looked at Sarah. “Shall we go up?”

“I haven’t anything to fear,” she said firmly. “We aren’t, well, it isn’t as if you have formally suggested, or implied, or—”

Ruith held up one finger, then turned to Miach. “Would you excuse us?”

Miach held up his hands and turned to go inside. “Far be it from me to interfere in the romantic stylings of an elven prince and his future dreamweaving bride. I’ll wait for you inside.”

Sarah found her arms full of that elven prince and herself quite thoroughly attended to. She felt a little faint after the fact, truth be told, but perhaps that had been his intention.

“Implied, suggested, and deferred for grandfatherly permission,” he said briskly. “Understood?”

She found it in her to glare at him. “And where is romance in all that?”

He laughed a little and hugged her so quickly, she squeaked. “Deferred as well, in favor of good sense. Or until my grandfather falls back asleep.”

“Ruith—”

He laughed at her again, took her by the hand, and pulled her along with him into the inn. He didn’t seem overly terrified at the thought of seeing his grandfather, but she couldn’t say she felt the same way. She allowed him to pull her along after him until they reached the steps that apparently led to chambers on the upper floor.

“Ruith?”

He looked at her with a smile. “Aye, my love?”

“Are you sure?”

He looked at her, puzzled, for a moment, then apparently he realized what she was asking. “How can you ask?”

“Because when a gel wants something very badly, she tends to want to avoid breaking her heart over the false hope of having it.”

His breath caught. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was blinking rapidly from something besides the smoke in the passageway.

He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. “This is the only thing about this entire nightmare that frightens me to the core,” he murmured against her ear. “Losing you, that is.”

“I feel the same way.”

He pulled back, kissed her quickly, then took her hand and led her up the stairs. “Let’s go find a bit of safety for the night. We’ll examine that revealing admission you made in a bit more detail in a place where you can’t escape.”

She wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t long for a quick escape. In spite of everything, which included facing black mages, horrible spells, vengeful queens, and a dozen other things she was certain she couldn’t even imagine up in the depths of her blackest dreams, what unnerved her the most was what awaited them upstairs.

The king of the elves.

She put her shoulders back and reminded herself that she was ... well, she was a decent sort of gel with good manners whom his grandson apparently loved.

She hoped it would be enough for him.

Twenty-seven