Mansourah turned bright blue, twinkling eyes on him. “She might like me better.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“I think we should give her the choice.”
“I think we shouldn’t bother her with lesser goods.”
Mansourah only lifted an eyebrow and slithered away, apparently to be on hand if Franciscus ever released Sarah. Ruith didn’t suppose he dared insert himself between Sarah and reunions with the rest of her relatives, so he remained where he was by the fire and clasped his hands behind his back where he wouldn’t be tempted to do anything untoward with them.
Though he supposed the most useful thing he could do with his fist was not plow it into Mansourah of Neroche’s nose, but use it to help him find the nearest exit.
Which he would do the first chance he had.
T
he day dragged on with a slowness that only someone who had grown to manhood in Shettlestoune where the scenery never changed no matter how many leagues were traveled could possibly appreciate. Ruith had only vague memories of the afternoon, which mostly included sitting in that very small chamber and speaking of nothing. Sarah had been pale and grave, Mansourah overly solicitous, and Franciscus apparently unwilling to discuss anything but the most trivial of matters with Fréam and Leaghra. Ruith would have escaped with Sarah and at least gone for a walk, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to draw any more attention to them than they had already just by arriving. So he’d sat to the side of the hearth, felt too tired to even nap, and wished the day would end. The sun had set eventually, and they had been summoned to a supper that hadn’t been terrible but certainly wasn’t anything he would have thought about for months afterward. Now he limited himself to watching the goings-on in the midst of the hall with a jaundiced eye.
Which goings-on included Mansourah of Neroche, that bumbling oaf, dancing with that glorious, grave, Sarah of Cothromaiche, whom he was fairly certain he had indicated he wanted to wed.
He hoped she’d been listening.
“Easy, lad.”
Ruith glanced at Franciscus who was sitting next to him. “I am well, my lord. Thank you.”
Franciscus laughed softly. “Surely you aren’t jealous of that whelp out there. After all, it isn’t as though he’s handsome, or disgustingly wealthy, or walks about the world’s stage with a deprecating air that belies his magic, his skill with a bow, or his ability to dance and leave every maid in the hall swooning with delight.”
“Are you helping me?” Ruith asked sourly.
Franciscus laughed a little. “Seeing where your heart lies, I suppose.”
“I believe you’re painfully aware of that already, Your Highness, aren’t you?”
“Aye, Ruith,” Franciscus said, his smile grave, “I am.”
“I would ask you for her hand, but at the moment I’m not sure I could pry it away from that prancing fool out there.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him,” Franciscus said mildly, “though if you want my suggestion you’ll remind her of your ability to survive without a valet—unlike young Mansourah out there. I would also suggest a walk in a moonlit garden, but I’m not sure I would venture outside the hall tonight.” He sobered. “I don’t like what I feel there.”
Ruith sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “Neither do I.”
“You should also know that it is with a great deal of trepidation that I come along with you as merely a disinterested observer and leave the actual solving of this tangle to you.”
“If that is the case, then where does saving me from Morag this morning fall under that vow?”
“I was saving you and Sarah, and I was continuing a battle begun long before you were born that was mine to fight, not yours.” He looked at Ruith inscrutably. “Yours will come later, I fear. And that is one I wouldn’t fight for you even if I could.”
Ruith took a final opportunity to make certain Mansourah was keeping Sarah at a discreet distance from his sorry self, then, momentarily satisfied that such was the case, turned in his seat and looked at a man he had assumed for two decades was nothing more than a simple village alemaster. A talented one, to be sure, but an obscure one.
“I’m not sure I want to know all the details at present, but I am curious how things finished with Morag this morning. I assume you bested her somehow, else you wouldn’t be here.”
Franciscus rubbed his fingers uncomfortably. “I can’t say it was a pleasant encounter, for I had much to repay her for. But I found, in the end, that I had no choice but to treat her far differently than I would have had she been a man.”
“How polite of you.”
Franciscus shot him a dark look. “You would have done the same thing, I imagine.”
“I would have,” Ruith agreed. “So, given your impeccable manners and undeniable chivalry, how did you leave things?”
“I wrapped her up in a selection of very elegant spells then settled her most comfortably in the back of my ale wagon. I healed a pair of her guardsmen whom Mansourah had only wounded and not slain, and turned them into pair of sturdy if not exactly fleet oxen. I suggested to Morag that a few hours spent with her minister of protocol would serve her very well in the future, after which I took a few minutes to lecture her on the folly of pursuing Sarah any further. A simple girl with no magic couldn’t possibly be a worthy trade for a seat on the Council of Kings.”
Ruith leaned back. “She won’t see that.”
“Probably not,” Franciscus agreed, “but I was very good at maths as a youth and I illustrated for her how few rulers it would take to give her the boot, as it were. She is already on shaky ground with young Miach of Neroche and certainly King Sìle has no love for her. Uachdaran of Léige is very fond of you and Sarah both. He told me so himself, and in your case that came as quite a surprise to him.”
“Thank you,” Ruith said dryly.
Franciscus smiled. “You should stop stealing spells. You’re gaining a reputation.”
“I haven’t poached a spell in twenty years,” Ruith said with a snort. “It seems that I will never live down the foibles of my youth.”
“And that because your escapades with your friend Miach were the stuff of legend, no doubt,” Franciscus said. “So, with those three men firmly against her, as well as whatever support I could gin up from other sources without difficulty, she was looking at least seven kings willing to force her out of her seat. I think Allaidh of Gairn might stand with her, but only because his land borders hers. He’s realistic and his army is weak.” He shrugged. “By the time I was finished with my list, she was quite a different lass. I don’t doubt that she’ll continue to look for other victims wandering across the border from Bruadair, but I think I can say with a fair bit of certainty that Sarah is safe. Especially if you’re there to keep her safe. Morag was, I will tell you freely, unhappily impressed with your spellweaving this morning.”
“How lovely,” Ruith said dryly. “I will admit that I wasn’t being polite.”
“She would have been insulted if you had been,” Franciscus said wryly. “She was furious at the care I was taking with her.” He shook his head. “How Phillip lives with that woman, I don’t know. You can imagine how horrified we were when instead of leaving the crown to Phillip, his father left it to Morag. This might be difficult to believe, but there have been times over the centuries when An-uallach was a pleasant and welcoming place.”
Ruith was spared trying to imagine that by the dance ending and the dancers being released briefly to refresh themselves. He excused himself from the conversation and trotted around the table to place himself most advantageously near the wine. There was no time like the present to elbow any potential competition out of the way.
Mansourah was, as Ruith had remembered very distinctly, not one to give up easily. Ruith supposed only superior breeding and reams of manners instilled by his mother kept him from brawling with Miach’s older brother right there in front of the high table. He supposed things might have descended into that if it h
adn’t been for Sarah who put her hand on Mansourah’s arm and smiled.
“Thank you for all the lovely dances,” she said politely. “Ruith will kill you, however, if I don’t dance with him for a bit.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Mansourah said with a snort.
“Then be afraid of me, because if he doesn’t do you in, I will.”
Ruith only managed to keep from smiling because he had, along with those reams of good manners, enormous amounts of self-control. Mansourah laughed, apparently in spite of himself.
“Very well, I can see when I’m bested. Off with you two, then, and enjoy. I’ll go content myself with keeping Master Oban from filling the chamber with flowers and bumblebees.” He shook his head. “There is something quite seriously amiss with his magic.”
Ruith didn’t want to say what that something was, so he didn’t. He merely held out his hand and waited for Sarah to put hers into it. She did, then looked up at him.
“I’m not sure I can take much more today.”
“I know.”
“There isn’t a place to escape to here, is there?”
He shook his head slowly. “I think, however, that we might create our own little spot of ordinariness here. Have you used Soilléir’s spell of Dimming?”
“Repeatedly.” She took a deep breath. “It doesn’t seem to last very long, but perhaps that’s because we’re…well . . .”
“Close to Bruadair?” he supplied carefully.
She winced. “I’m afraid that might be the case. Or perhaps there is something else afoot that I don’t understand.”
“I’ve heard there are many Bruadairian expatriates here. I have the feeling they didn’t leave willingly, for the most part, but I could be wrong. In any case, perhaps ’tis their magic you’re seeing.”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
He danced with her a bit longer, then noticed a circlet on her head. He stared at it for some time, trying to decide what it was made of.
“Ruith?”
He met her eyes and smiled reflexively. “Aye, love?”
She reached up and touched the circlet. “It came with the dress.”
“It’s lovely.”
“It’s made of dreams.”
He stumbled in spite of himself. “How do you know?”
“Because they’re my dreams.”
He looked at her, expecting to see her wearing an expression of distress, but she was only looking back at him steadily.
“Does that bother you?”
She considered for a moment or two, then shook her head. “They’re good dreams. And I think some of them are things I haven’t dreamed yet. Those are even better.”
He wondered if there would ever come a time when she didn’t leave him winded. Her beauty, her courage, her willingness to simply do what needed to be done, no matter the cost. That she was not only able to accept her birthright, but embrace it . . .
He promised himself a good falling apart over it all later, then danced with her until the music stopped. Fortunately for his peace of mind, the set had gone on for quite some time. He stood with her in the middle of the great hall and did his damndest to ignore not only everyone around him but the way his eyes were burning unmercifully. He met her eyes.
“Anyone interesting in those dreams?”
She looked down, perhaps at her hands that he was still holding. He decided that it might be better to know sooner rather than later what she was thinking. Perhaps seeing one of those bloody Neroche lads up close had led her to wonder if that list Sìle wanted her to make might be a good idea after all.
He realized only as she pressed her lips against the back of his hand that she had raised his hand up to her mouth.
Then she smiled, turned, and pulled him away from the middle of the floor.
“Sarah,” he managed.
She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What?”
“Are you going to tell me what was in your dreams?” he asked.
“If I told you, you’d be impossible to live with.”
“I am already, I’m fairly sure.”
She turned back, kissed him far more quickly than he would have liked, then sank back down to her heels and pulled him along after her.
He went, because she gave him no choice. And he didn’t argue with her, because he understood. The last thing he wanted to do was sully his distant future with what his immediate future held.
For he had the feeling that Morag was simply a foretaste of what was to come.
And if he failed to best her, what did that say about his hopes of besting anyone else?
He wasn’t sure he could bear the thought of finding out.
Twelve
S
arah sat in the chair closest to the fire and held the crown she’d been given in her hands. She had told Ruith it was made of dreams, but she wasn’t sure at all how those dreams had been spun into anything that could possibly be woven. All the otherworldly bits aside, it was made of a material she honestly couldn’t identify. It wasn’t silk—for she knew what that felt like—nor anything else of a more pedestrian nature such as wool or cotton. It was made of something so soft and so fine, she found that she almost had to use her imagination to feel it. She looked up and wished she had other things to think on, but there wasn’t anything in the chamber that didn’t lead her back to having to face uncomfortable things.
At least the former king and queen of Bruadair had left them and gone to bed. Sarah had managed to put the knowledge of her heritage behind her after they’d done so, along with the gown she’d been given for supper. She was back in her comfortable leggings and tunic, though she hadn’t been able to find a decent place to stash the crown. She wasn’t happy with keeping it on her lap, but she wasn’t quite sure what else to do with it.
She looked at her companions to see if anyone else had noticed her discomfort. Ned was happily snoring on a blanket near the fire. Oban had also succumbed to the lure of that warm fire. Sarah couldn’t blame them. If she’d had any sense, she would have joined them. Unfortunately, she was too unsettled by the conversation going on before her to even attempt it.
“You could have warned me, you know,” Ruith said with a frown.
Sarah realized he was talking to Mansourah, who didn’t look nearly as repentant as he likely should have.
“The truth is, I wasn’t entirely sure the king and queen were still here,” he said with a shrug, “so there was little point in getting your feathers ruffled unnecessarily. We didn’t exactly have a large selection of bolt holes, did we?”
Ruith pursed his lips. “I suppose not.”
“Besides, given the particulars of your map, I thought it might be interesting to see what they might know.”
“And did you discover anything over supper,” Ruith asked, “or were you otherwise engaged?”
Mansourah laughed a little. “I had all the conversation possible with them beforehand, that I might spend my evening in more enjoyable pursuits. As for anything else, your lovely lady there was singularly uninterested in my admittedly numerous charms.”
Sarah couldn’t help but smile a bit. “Oh, they were impressive enough.”
“But ’tis hard to vie against the painful beauty of the elves of Tòrr Dòrainn,” Mansourah conceded, “though I will warn you, Sarah, that if you have anything to do with our lovely Ruithneadh, you’ll fight him for time in front of a polished glass.”
“At least we have polished glasses,” Ruith said with a snort, “and aren’t doomed to gazing at our likenesses in horse troughs.”
Franciscus laughed briefly. “Ruith, I should have thought so many years away from your grandfather would have cured you of his disdain for others not of his ilk, but I can see ’tis lodged somewhere in your blood. Mansourah, lad, why don’t you tell us of your conversation with Fréam. I would have attempted speech with him, but he wasn’t overly pleased to see me. As usual.”
Mansourah shrugged. “I know you won
’t take it personally, my lord, as you know he is vexed by many things. As for anything else, let’s just say that he has little love for Gair.”
“So he knew my sire?” Ruith asked in surprise.
Mansourah hesitated. “Knew is too strong a word. Knew of him is closer to the mark.” He paused. “I understand Gair was seen as an undesirable neighbor.”
Silence descended. Sarah felt it fall, then wrap itself around the four of them, muffling heartbeats, leaving a stillness behind that was less unpleasant than it was unexpected. She watched Ruith set his cup very carefully on the floor.
“What did you say?” he asked carefully.
“King Fréam said they weren’t at all happy about the thought of having your sire as a neighbor.”
“And they thought this might be a possibility?” Ruith asked.
Mansourah only returned his look steadily. “Have a look at your map, my friend, and see what you think.”
Ruith pulled the map from his boot. Sarah was rather impressed that his hands were steady. She knew hers weren’t, but she had them buried under her crown, so perhaps no one noticed.
Ruith pulled over a low side table and spread the map out, turning it so Franciscus and Mansourah had the best view. He pointed to the spot where the two trails of spells converged.
“Where would you say that lies?” he asked hoarsely. “On what boundary?”
Franciscus sat back with a deep sigh. “Bruadair’s southernmost tip, as it happens. I don’t think there are many who inhabit that corner of their kingdom, for ’tis very rugged.” He looked at Ruith. “There is no denying, however, where that point lies.”
“Then in exactly what country does that point find itself?” Mansourah asked. “We aren’t in Uachdaran’s kingdom any longer, nor Morag’s I’ll warrant. Or are we?”
Franciscus shook his head. “The land belongs to the kingdom of Gairn, though Allaidh has been fighting off claims to it from those at An-uallach for scores of years. It has been many years since I traveled there, but I imagine it looks much as it always has: stripped of anything useful. I know Allaidh tries to make it as unattractive a prize as possible and when he isn’t doing that, Morag is razing it out of spite.”