by Lynn Kurland
Mansourah pursed his lips, then looked at Sarah. “He has very bad manners.”
“I don’t think he’ll take kindly to your trying to improve them,” she offered. “He hasn’t been sleeping well.”
“He’ll sleep less well with what I leave of him,” Mansourah said. He slung his arm around Ruith’s shoulders. “Let’s take advantage of what I’m certain will be very luxurious accommodations and have a wee rest. It will perhaps be your last decent one for the next day or so, Ruith my lad, so you should take advantage of it—”
He stopped speaking abruptly thanks to Ruith’s elbow in his ribs. Ruith looked over his shoulder with a warning look on his face that Sarah didn’t mistake. She gathered up the rest of their company immediately and pointed them in the right direction. She didn’t want to be out in the courtyard any longer than necessary.
“Oy,” said Ned, sounding as if he were choking.
Oban made no comment but pulled his hat down further on his head, took a firmer grip on his wand, then marched off purposefully behind Ruith and Mansourah, who were exchanging pleasantries—if that’s what they could be called—she could hear from where she stood. Oban stopped and beckoned imperiously for Ned to follow him. Sarah watched them go, then looked at Seirceil who had come to stand next to her.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?” he replied politely.
She pursed her lips. “I think, my lord Seirceil, that you know a great deal more than you’re telling.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Because you don’t talk enough,” she muttered, then she couldn’t help but smile at him. He was a man that inspired that sort of thing. “I assume you know about Ruith.”
“And Franciscus, as well,” Seirceil offered. “And several other things, actually, that might interest you. I’ll tell you of them as we walk, if you like.”
“I would,” she said, starting across the courtyard with him. If he could take her mind off what she’d just seen, she was happy to chat all afternoon. “Beginning with what Mansourah was thinking to almost get Ruith killed here a moment ago.”
Seirceil seemed to consider his words rather carefully. “Let’s just say,” he began slowly, “that Prince Mansourah’s thought was that this was a good place to pause and refresh ourselves. It is close enough from our recent battlefield that a return to that spot is possible if necessary, but not so close that we couldn’t press on quite easily should word reach us that Morag has not been dissuaded from further pursuit.” He paused. “As to anything else, I can only suggest that it never hurts to make new friends.”
“I’m not sure Ruith made any just now.”
“Perhaps not,” Seirceil conceded. “There are those here in this part of the world who have no love for certain other mages. No manner of flowery introduction will change that.”
“Then it was best to just toss Ruith into the fray and see how he came out?” she asked tartly.
Seirceil smiled. “Prince Mansourah does have a flair for the dramatic, and it served him well here. King Fréam will regret his actions and likely offer aid in repayment whereas if he’d simply been introduced to Ruith without fuss he might have been less interested in helping us.”
“How do you know all this?” she asked in surprise. “And how do you know all these people?”
“I was, if you can fathom this, a student at Buidseachd once,” Seirceil said with a smile. “One learns all sorts of useful things there.”
Sarah shivered in spite of herself. “I’m not sure the learning is worth the price of having to learn it there, but that’s just me. How long were you there?”
“Six years. I had gone with the hope of apprenticing with Master Soilléir, but the seventh ring eluded me.” He shrugged. “I was unwilling to do what was required to earn it, so the fault is purely mine. I was fortunate enough, however, to have many long conversations with Master Soilléir about the philosophy of magic. I will admit that I share his belief that ofttimes for a mage, ’tis preferable to limit oneself to expressing simple thoughts and single words rather than attempting to dazzle the world with mighty deeds of magic.”
“It seems to have served him well enough.”
“That sort of thinking tends to engender an attitude of humility,” he said dryly, “for it keeps a mage from thinking he knows better than those around them.” He glanced at her and smiled. “You look a great deal like your mother, you know.”
Sarah had assumed there would come a time where that sort of thing would leave her wanting to find somewhere to sit down abruptly, but apparently that time wasn’t coming soon. “Do I?” she managed.
“You do,” he said easily. “I saw her at the schools of wizardry once, visiting Soilléir of course, long before she met and wed your father. She was in the back of Soilléir’s chamber, weaving on a loom he’d had fashioned for her. I’m not sure what she was weaving into that cloth, but then again, dreamweavers have threads at their disposal that the rest of us do not.” He paused for a moment or two, then looked at her gravely. “I understand she wore flowers in her hair for her wedding instead of a crown.”
Sarah smiled in spite of herself. “Why are you telling me that?”
“It was just a simple thought I suspected you might want to know.” He shrugged. “Put it away for the spring and see if it serves you then.”
Sarah closed her eyes briefly, then looked at him. “Thank you.”
“’Tis my pleasure, my dear.” He nodded toward their company in front of them. “We should hurry before your lord flattens Prince Mansourah to be free to come fetch us.”
Sarah nodded, then hurried with him to catch up to Ruith and Mansourah, who had apparently traded the exchanging of insults for keeping their thoughts to themselves and marking the details of the hall.
She stopped at the doorway to the enormous hall and looked back over her shoulder. She wasn’t one to give credence to an overactive imagination, but she couldn’t deny that she had the feeling there was something out there, watching. She wondered if it might be Morag, freshly come from vanquishing Franciscus.
Or it might have been someone they hadn’t considered.
She wasn’t sure what would have been worse.
Eleven
R
uith paced in front of the fire not because he was restless, but because he was afraid if he sat, he would sleep, and whilst he was grateful for the refuge he wasn’t entirely sure they were any safer where they were than they would have been in an open field. Mansourah had assured him there was nothing to worry about. Cuirmear was arrogant and condescending, but he was also a pragmatist. If he thought there was more money to be made in the future by offering them any sort of hospitality at present, he would do so. Grudgingly, but there it was. And they weren’t exactly in a position to be choosy.
Ruith unfortunately hadn’t been in the position to take Miach’s brother out to the lists and beat manners into him either, but he had been granted a bath, so he supposed he would have to be satisfied with that for the moment. He might have been if he hadn’t been so uneasy. And the list of things to be uneasy about was very long.
First and foremost, Sarah was not within arm’s reach. She had been escorted to points unknown to have her own bath. Whilst he was pleased that she might have a bit of comfort along a seemingly endless and uncomfortable journey, he wouldn’t truly breathe easily until he could see for himself that she was well.
Second, he had left Franciscus of Cothromaiche battling Morag of An-uallach when he should have finished the thing himself. He consoled himself with the fact that he’d had more to worry about than his own pride, but he did not care for allowing others to finish his battles for him. He was half tempted to leave his company safe within Taigh Hall’s rustic embrace and have a little look around to see if Franciscus still breathed.
But that might leave him too dead to address the most pressing of the problems, which was to reach the end of his journey and have the wherewithal to best wh
atever lay there.
He dragged his hand through his hair, then turned at the knock on the door. Mansourah shot him a look, then walked over to it and opened it. He opened it wide and allowed two souls into the very small gathering chamber they’d been granted to use for the night. The door was shut quickly behind them, Mansourah made them a low bow, then led them over to the fire and proceeded with formal introductions.
“Prince Ruithneadh, if I might present King Fréam and Queen Leaghra of Bruadair? Your Majesties, Ruithneadh of Tòrr Dòrainn. And aye,” he added, “he is the son of Gair and Sarait, which, Queen Leaghra, you already surmised.”
Ruith dusted off his unused court manners and hopefully did credit to his mother. It was readily apparently, however, that whilst Queen Leaghra was willing to concede he was not his father, she was still very unsettled by something.
“Where is the girl?” she asked, looking around and utterly failing to conceal an expression of concern. She looked at Ruith. “That wasn’t, well, I’m not sure how it could be, but I’m wondering . . .” She took a deep breath and her eyes filled with tears. “It isn’t possible that it was Sorcha, but I’m not sure who else—”
Ruith shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Sorcha is dead.”
“Then who—”
“Her daughter, Sarah.”
“A daughter,” she breathed. “Fréam said as much, but I didn’t believe him.” She looked up at Ruith. “Sorcha was my niece, you see. Well, Fréam’s younger brother’s daughter, if we’re to be perfectly accurate, but I loved her dearly.” She paused. “We have no children of our own.”
“Nor any thrones,” Fréam said in disgust, “thanks to my youngest brother, may he find the seat uncomfortable all the days of his very long life.” He held out his hand to Ruith. “Forgive me again for my unpleasant greeting, Prince Ruithneadh. I won’t hide the fact that I mistook you for your father, though if I’d looked more closely, I wouldn’t have made that mistake. Though there is a fair bit of Sgath in you, if I might offer an opinion.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ruith said seriously. He considered, then supposed there was no reason in not having answers to his questions. “I hesitate to ask this, but did you know—”
“Your father?” Fréam finished for him. He made no effort to hide his distaste. “I’m afraid so, and the memories, though few, are unpleasant ones.” He started to speak, then turned at the sound of the door opening. He frowned fiercely. “You!” he exclaimed.
“Aye, me,” Franciscus said, shutting the door behind him. “Sorry I’m a bit late.”
Ruith put his hand on the mantle not because he’d worried about Franciscus, but because it had been a very long day. He was, however, very relieved to find that Sarah’s grandfather was alive and apparently undamaged by his morning’s labor.
Franciscus walked wearily across the floor, gestured pointedly for Ned to move, and cast himself down into Ned’s chair. “I don’t suppose there is any ale in this hovel, is there? Ned, be a good lad and fetch me a mug.” He looked up at the king. “’Tis good to see you, Fréam.”
Fréam didn’t seem nearly as delighted to see him. “You stole my niece!”
Franciscus rolled his eyes. “Of course I didn’t, you great ass. My son and your niece met—and I will admit to being a bit sketchy on those particular details—they fell in love, and they wed after a proper courtship where you had ample time to object to the marriage. Which you did not. Neither did any of my kin.”
“Because you were trying to steal my niece, and they were protecting you!”
Ruith didn’t particularly want to insert himself into the conversation, but he needed at least an indication of how the battle had finished lest he be required to put their company back in the air sooner rather than later. He cleared his throat, which seemed to be enough for Franciscus. He smiled wearily.
“All is well, Ruith—”
“Discuss it later,” Fréam interrupted briskly, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at Franciscus, “for I’m not finished here. There is something new afoot here and I have the unpleasant feeling you’re to blame.”
Franciscus ignored him and heaved himself to his feet. He reached for Queen Leaghra’s hand and bent low over it. “My dear Leaghra, it has been too long. You are, as always, a vision of loveliness wrought from a particularly memorable dream.”
Ruith watched the queen actually blush and had to hide a smile behind his hand. The widow Fiore had always been resistant to Franciscus’s charms, but he could see now that that had only been because the man hadn’t truly put them on display.
“Franciscus, you are a rogue,” she said with a delicate laugh. “Look at me in these rags—”
Fréam took his wife’s hand out of Franciscus’s and glared at him. “He’s not a rogue, he’s a blackguard. He stole—”
“Your niece,” Franciscus said, “aye, you’ve already said as much, and it is still untrue. My son is the one who stole her, not me.” He accepted a cup of ale and smiled at Ned. “Thank you, Ned my lad. I can only hope this is drinkable.”
“It can’t be any worse that the swill Seannair produces,” Fréam muttered.
Franciscus resumed his seat, tasted, then drained the rest in a single draught, apparently so he wouldn’t have to taste it. He lowered his cup and looked at the king of Bruadair.
“If you want to be completely accurate, Athair didn’t steal her—”
“Nay, you did!” Fréam bellowed.
Franciscus laughed a little in exasperation. “Fréam, I had nothing to do with their meeting, their courtship, or their marriage, though I was overjoyed that my son should have a lass who was the embodiment of pure joy. And,” he added, shooting Fréam a look, “I did everything in my power to keep them both safe, which you well know.”
“Well,” Fréam said with a bit of a huff, “be that as it may, you may rest assured that I will see that the same thing does not happen with Sorcha’s child. I might not have a throne any longer or an army of mages at my disposal, but I am not without plans to regain both. Sarah will enjoy all the luxuries her mother was denied.”
Ruith supposed it might not be the right time to point out to the king that Sarah might not be looking in a direction he would approve of at all. Ned and Oban were perched very uncomfortably on two halves of the same stool and were both looking too terrified to speak. Seirceil was watching him with a faint smile on his face, but Ruith supposed he was too discreet to say anything. Mansourah was standing on the other side of the fire, looking untrustworthy, but Ruith shot him a look of promise that he couldn’t have misunderstood. He was just considering following that up with a fist under Mansourah’s jaw to render him pleasantly unconscious when he found himself interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
All conversation ended abruptly, and Mansourah immediately started across the room. He peered carefully out the door, then quickly opened it to allow Sarah inside. He shut it and slid the bolt home.
Ruith had assumed he was past losing his breath where she was concerned, but he realized he was most certainly not. He wasn’t sure where Cuirmear’s servants had unearthed the gown Sarah was wearing, but it was fit for royalty. Ruith had never considered himself a connoisseur of women’s fashions except to note when they were ridiculous, but he had to admit that the deep blue of the gown was the perfect setting for the true gem.
Sarah walked halfway into the chamber before she came to a stumbling halt. Ruith took a step toward her only to find that Mansourah had reached her first, damn him anyway.
“I have the feeling,” he said, obviously putting on his prettiest manners for the edification of all, “that introductions need to be made.” He offered Sarah his arm, then turned toward Oban and Ned. “You two have perhaps been in the dark longest of all, so we’ll begin with you. Lads, this is Sarah of Cothromaiche. That is her grandfather over there, Franciscus, who is the grandson of the king of Cothromaiche, Seannair.”
Ned gulped. “But that mak
es her a—”
“A princess,” Mansourah said pleasantly, “aye, so it does. And that leaves her with the necessity of investigating a very long list of suitable princes before she settles on just one.”
“Which list won’t contain anyone in this room, thankfully,” Fréam said pointedly. “Mansourah, bring her over to this side of the chamber where she belongs.”
Ruith watched Mansourah completely ignore the ousted king of Bruadair in favor of continuing a very lengthy and purposeful turn about the room. He watched, feeling a very uncomfortable burning behind his eyes, as Sarah was presented to her grandfather. He found himself truly finished at the look Sarah shot him just before Franciscus enveloped her in his arms.
Tears were shed, by more than just him.
Mansourah came to stand next to him and offered a bit of deliverance by means of a very sharp elbow to the ribs.
“Sentimental sap,” he said cheerfully.
“It has been an extraordinarily long winter,” Ruith said roughly.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, my dear Ruithneadh, ’tis spring. And you’re still a blubbering fool.”
Ruith glared at him, which made him feel much more himself. “I am counting the hours until we meet in the lists.”
Mansourah only smiled. “I am as well. I’m always happy to school novices in the rudiments of swordplay.”
“Since you can no longer school your youngest brother,” Ruith said with a snort. “I noticed he wears Weger’s mark.”
“Aye, well, that is true,” Mansourah said, shifting uncomfortably, “but I try not to discuss it with him. And since it wouldn’t do for me to humiliate my liege by besting him with steel, I keep myself discreetly withdrawn from the field of battle.”
“Then I would suggest, Your Highness, that you continue on with that discretion by keeping yourself withdrawn from the field of amorous adventures. Lest you find yourself dispatched without regret.”