Spellweaver

by Kurland, Lynn

  Ruith at least had the grace to blush. “I can understand why you might think that, Your Majesty, and I apologize for any past forays into places not usually accessible to visitors.”

  Uachdaran grunted. “I don’t want to know how many forays you made, but at least you apologized. When that young upstart from Neroche arrived at my gates recently, he only flattered me in a rather restrained fashion, then retired to my solar for a very long morning of no doubt continuing to look for things he shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

  “He always does,” Uachdaran said severely. “And I’ll have it known that the only reason I allowed it was to reward him for his eye for a beautiful woman.”

  “My sister?”

  Uachdaran smirked. “Bet you didn’t know that until recently, did you, Ruithneadh?”

  Sarah pursed her lips to keep from smiling. Whatever bluster Ruith had possessed on the way into the palace—which she had appreciated, in truth—had apparently left him abruptly. He seemed only capable of looking at Uachdaran as if he’d just been rapped smartly on the nose with a stick.

  “Nay, I didn’t, Your Majesty.”

  “Ha,” Uachdaran said, then he frowned. “I should enjoy this more, but your grandfather was uncommonly—and uncustomarily—pleasant to me recently. I suppose you’ll benefit.”

  “Your Majesty’s generosity knows no bounds.”

  “Don’t think it’ll earn you another trip into my solar, boy.”

  “Of course not, Your Majesty.”

  “Your sister has very pretty manners, for a soldier,” Uachdaran continued. “No taste in lads, but decent manners.”

  “I plan on speaking to her about both, Your Majesty.”

  The king scowled at him, then turned his scowl on her. Sarah felt a little faint, but since Ruith was obviously not going to be of any help, she stiffened her spine and returned the king’s look steadily.

  He grunted at her. “Sarah of Doìre.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.” She had given her name at the front gates, so it was no surprise that he knew it already.

  He squinted at her from a steely eye. “I daresay I should have kept young Mhorghain here a bit longer. Would have saved me time in advising you both of the wisdom of avoiding entanglements with mages—especially such a pair as you both seem to have taken up with.”

  “I’m not entangled,” Sarah protested, though she found herself squirming under the words. Nay, she wasn’t entangled, but that wasn’t because she had other entanglements to contemplate, nor because she wouldn’t have had anything to do with Ruith if things had been different.

  Uachdaran only snorted at her. “You shouldn’t hedge, gel. You’re not good at it.” He pushed himself up off his throne and bounded down the steps with the energy of a youth, which he most assuredly was not. “Show me the sword you’ve brought, young Ruithneadh, and let’s see what Soilléir has foisted off upon me.”

  Sarah watched the king’s face as Ruith drew the sword and laid it across both his palms where Uachdaran could see it plainly.

  The dwarf king froze, just as Soilléir had done.

  And then the moment was gone, just as it had been with Soilléir, as if it had never been there and nothing about the blade had startled the king. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, then looked up at Ruith.

  “Nice steel,” he said.

  “Not as fine as something you would make, of course,” Ruith began respectfully.

  “You would be surprised at what comes from my forge,” Uachdaran said. “Including this blade.”

  “Indeed?” Ruith asked in surprise.

  “Indeed,” Uachdaran said, in a perfect mocking imitation of Ruith’s tone. “There isn’t a blade that leaves my smithy without my inspection and my mark. Even the Sword of Neroche,” he added with a twinkle in his eye. “And that gel’s blade that Mehar of Angesand is so fond of. I added a little something of my own recently while the interested parties were off having tea.”

  “I had no idea,” Ruith managed.

  Uachdaran snorted at him. “You would think with all the prying into my private affairs you did in your youth that you might have learned a few details about my most powerful magic, but perhaps not.” He pointed with his nose to the darkness behind them. “Go have a rest, children, then come to supper—if you’re not too high for simple fare.”

  “We would prefer it,” Ruith said promptly, “but, Your Majesty—”

  Uachdaran stopped in mid-step and turned back around. “Eh?”

  “Don’t you want the sword?”

  “It served its purpose,” Uachdaran said with a shrug. “You keep it.”

  Ruith frowned. “Then there was a message you understood … or …”

  Uachdaran pursed his lips. “If you haven’t the wit to discover that on your own, little lad, then you’re not worthy of that blade. Go put your wee thinking cap on, Ruithneadh. The answer will come to you in time.”

  Sarah waited with Ruith as Uachdaran turned and strode out of his grand audience chamber. Ruith resheathed the sword, then turned to her. He still looked a little winded.

  “The king loves a good riddle.”

  “Apparently,” she agreed. She managed a smile. “Are you going to solve it?”

  “Among other ones, aye, if I have the chance.” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “We have dinner and a bed for the night, at least. We’d probably best take advantage of both whilst the offer still stands. I might do a little investigating—”

  “Don’t,” she interrupted quickly. “Please.”

  He smiled and drew her hand through his arm. “I won’t—at least not until we’re ready to leave. For now, I think we should take the king up on his invitation for a nap and something to eat.”

  Considering we’re likely not to enjoy the like again for some time was what he hadn’t said, but she was sure he’d thought.

  She walked with him as they were escorted back out of the hall and through other passageways that were no less full of tales of glory and glittering things than the first set had been. She would have paid more attention, but the truth was, she hadn’t slept well, even at Buidseachd, and she hadn’t slept much at all for the past two days. She saw a quite lovely bed near the hearth in the very lovely chamber she was shown, managed to stagger over to it, and fell into its softness before she could even attempt a stab at good manners or thanks to the serving maids she had noticed.

  Her last thought was that she hoped Ruith would shut the door so no one would watch her drool in her sleep.

  Several hours later, she sat in front of a mirror and wondered if it would be rude to put her foot down and demand back her traveling clothes which seemed to have disappeared along with her used bathwater.

  She was wearing a black dress that she learned, after sifting through profuse apologies for not having had something ready just for her, had been worn very briefly by Ruith’s sister Mhorghain before she’d demanded her leggings and tunic back.

  Sarah thought she and Mhorghain might get along very well indeed.

  Her hair had been washed and combed out and left hanging in a riot of curls down her back. She was rather paler than she would have thought she would have been given all the traveling she’d done, but perhaps her face was a reflection of the unease she couldn’t seem to shake, even protected as she was inside impenetrable walls. She watched as the maid, a rather tall, exceptionally lovely girl of obviously dwarvish descent, reached for something else to torture her with.

  “Absolutely not,” she said, eyeing the item suspiciously.

  The girl held a circlet of gold in her hands. “But, my lady, ’twas fashioned especially for you.”

  Sarah scowled in spite of herself. The seamstresses had been too busy to aid her, but the goldsmiths had been lounging about with time on their hands? She revisited the idea of putting her foot down.

  “’Tis a modest thing,” the girl added, holding it out for inspection. “Hardly anything to be se
en, don’t you agree?”

  Sarah had to agree that it was very discreet, but that was beside the point. “I’m not worthy of a crown,” she protested.

  “Well,” said a voice from the doorway, “that’s a matter of opinion.”

  Sarah looked around her maid to find Ruith standing just inside her doorway, leaning back against the wall, watching her. She wondered just how long he’d been standing there and how much of her complaints he’d heard. He was smiling, though, so perhaps he hadn’t been bothered by them.

  “Are you responsible for this?” she demanded.

  He only shook his head slowly. “I’m not, though I would certainly take credit for it if I dared.” He tilted his head to one side and studied her. “You look lovely.”

  She stood, because she thought it might be easier to bolt that way. “You look lovely as well,” she said, because it was true, though something of an understatement.

  He had obviously succumbed to the same pressure she’d been put under to dress properly for supper, though his clothing was still very discreet. No baubles, fine embroidery, capes hanging from his shoulders, or fancy court shoes. He was wearing black boots, black trousers, and a deep green tunic that she imagined would do quite lovely things for his eyes. She noticed immediately that even though he wasn’t wearing a crown, he’d been given one because he’d stuck his arm through it as if it had been a very large bracelet.

  “I understand,” he began slowly, “that there is to be a formal sort of entertainment tonight.”

  “How fortunate for you,” she managed. “You’ll have the chance to audition a princess or two.”

  “Perhaps,” he conceded, “but since my first thought was that I would have the opportunity to pass the evening with you, I wanted to rescue myself from complete embarrassment and see if you would humor me by practicing a dance step or two.”

  She sank back down onto the chair she’d recently vacated. “But I can’t dance,” she protested.

  “And I can?” he asked, with an uncomfortable laugh. “We have half an hour to remedy that before supper. I suggest we take advantage of the dancing master I bribed and left out in the passageway to await our pleasure.”

  “I think I should just sit and watch—”

  He walked over and pulled her up off the chair. “Nay, my lady, you will not.”

  She looked up at him. “You arrogant, autocratic—”

  “State dinners include dancing.”

  She pursed her lips for she knew there was no escaping her fate. She conceded the battle, but not the war.

  “Very well,” she said with a sigh, “I will dance, but I will not wear—” She managed to point vaguely toward the serving girl. “I won’t wear that.”

  The girl looked at Ruith for support. He looked fully prepared to give it to her, so Sarah left them to their scheming and retreated to stand in front of the fire where she could attempt to warm her hands that were far colder than they should have been. She heard Ruith’s soft laughter, listened to him usher the girl out the door, then heard his footsteps approach. He stopped behind her and waited silently, but Sarah couldn’t bring herself to help him along into hitherto unexplored realms of uncomfortable conversational topics.

  He apparently had more patience than she did, though, because he outlasted her easily. She finally gave vent to a gusty sigh and turned to look at him.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I want to use one of my remaining beg-off-from-supper tokens.”

  “Can’t,” he said cheerfully. “Even my grandfather doesn’t refuse supper here—when he manages to get himself inside the gates.”

  She had to force herself to breathe normally. “I don’t belong here.”

  “And given the long history of prickly relations between my mother’s people and Uachdaran’s, I would say I didn’t either. But since the king has been good enough to offer us shelter and a meal, I imagine we should accept and see if we can’t improve the goodwill a bit.”

  “How politic of you, Your Highness.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” he asked, frowning as if he wasn’t quite sure where the impulse had come from. He walked over to rest his hand on the enormous stone mantel. “Lovely gown.”

  “Your sister wore it when she was here.”

  He flinched. “Touché, love.”

  “The difference is, the crown they tried to stick on her head was bigger, I understand, though she balked at wearing it as well.” She tucked her hands into her sleeves, wincing as she grazed her right arm.

  “It sounds as if you’ll get on famously,” he said.

  She nodded, then turned to look at the fire again, because it was easier than looking at him. She knew she was stalling, but it seemed the only thing to do out of a sense of self-preservation. “Ruith—”

  “We’ll be late if we don’t hurry,” he said, taking her arm suddenly and pulling her across the chamber. “Dancing lessons. But first the appropriate accoutrements.”

  Sarah watched him, unable to speak, as he plopped his crown on his head with an adroitness that bespoke a youth in a palace, then took hers, turned her toward him, and gently placed it on her head. Then he met her eyes.

  “This is freshly forged.”

  “Mistakenly—”

  “Purposely,” he corrected, “for you, which means you should wear it.”

  “But I am nothing,” she protested.

  “You are something to me,” he said seriously, “and Uachdaran perhaps honors you for that reason. I suspect, however, that since he obviously ordered this made for you, he has other reasons we can’t yet divine.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know what they are,” she muttered.

  “Delving too deeply into the dwarf king’s motives can be dangerous,” he agreed, “but always yields interesting results.” He paused. “If nothing else, you could wear this very lovely bit of work and give a goldsmith who will likely be sneaking a look in the great hall tonight a measure of delight at seeing his creation atop the head of the most beautiful woman there.”

  She looked up at him, but found she couldn’t see him very well. She was weary; that was it. It had been an extraordinarily long winter turned spring so far with no sign of any of it abating any time soon. She blinked rapidly.

  “I’m not a weeper.”

  “Nay, love, you aren’t.”

  She took a deep breath. “I still don’t want this, but I will endure it to please that very shy smith.” She paused. “I’m not sure I can keep it on my head.”

  “I’ll see to it.” He fetched a pair of pins from the dressing table, then frowned thoughtfully as he attempted to use them for their intended purpose. He examined his work, then reached up and brushed two stray tears from her cheeks. “You need a distraction. Allow me to offer myself.”

  “Altruistic of you.”

  “Self-serving,” he admitted, “but you can think of it how you want.” He took her left hand. “Let’s be off to see what we can learn before supper begins.”

  Their dancing master, a small, elfin creature, had endless amounts of patience and an infectious amount of good humor. He taught them three dances, pronounced them quick studies, and promised to have a quiet word with King Uachdaran’s musicians after supper so she and Ruith would have something familiar to dance to. Sarah felt absolutely ridiculous walking into a great hall full of royalty and important guests, but Ruith had promised her he would chase her if she bolted, so she concentrated on the very necessary task of making sure her crown stayed on her head.

  She found herself sitting on Uachdaran’s right hand in a place of honor, with Ruith on her right. She was very grateful for the king’s single-minded concentration on his supper, which gave her the chance to attempt to do the same. She gave up the effort after a bit, not because the food wasn’t superb but because she was too distracted by what she was seeing in the hall.

  Soilléir had much to answer for.

  Whilst the hall itself could be properly described as stately, it wasn’t the heavy beams
in the ceiling or the marvelously designed and fashioned tapestries draping over the walls from floor to ceiling that she couldn’t look away from.

  It was the tales being told by the flames flickering in the massive hearths set on either side of the hall.

  She felt as if heroic epics were being reenacted for her benefit alone, mighty deeds wrought by dwarves throughout the ages, battles fought against darkness and evil when men and elves were otherwise occupied with less weighty matters of their realms. Sarah could only watch, speechless, at what she saw, things she had never once considered might be occurring under her nose—or under mountains she had never laid eyes on in her life—things that had quietly, relentlessly, absolutely kept the inhabitants of the Nine Kingdoms sleeping safely.

  She looked at the king to find him watching her with a small smile as if he knew exactly what she was seeing.

  “Do you see too?” she asked, because she couldn’t help herself.

  “Oh, aye, lass,” he said with another knowing smile. “Not many others do, though. I daresay your lad there isn’t seeing anything in my hearths but a flame to warm his backside on a chilly night.”

  “See what?” Ruith asked politely, leaning forward. “Your strings warming up, Your Majesty? My lady owes me a dance or two.”

  Uachdaran winked at her, then looked at Ruith. “While I understand your enthusiasm, lad, first I think we must humor my bard. He keeps our genealogy, as you may or may not know, and while that is a worthy task, he never misses the chance to have a peep in someone else’s family tree. Your grandfather, I’m afraid, didn’t have the time to attend him at all, to his great distress. I hope you children don’t mind if he at least comes to greet you. I imagine neither of you will escape without divulging a few details he’ll want to record in his books.”

  “I don’t think my heritage will come as much of a surprise to him,” Ruith said dryly, “but I’ll gladly humor him. I might have an unsavoury connection or two to delight him with, if he has the stomach for it.”