“Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” She smiled. “Get on with ye, lad, and ease your grand-daddy’s heart.”
He did, though he did look over his shoulder once as he paused at the doorway. Sarah was standing in front of the fire, holding her hands out to its blaze, looking almost at peace. It was the first time he’d seen her so and he looked perhaps a bit longer than he should have. She glanced at him, smiled, then waved him off before she turned back to the fire.
He stumbled out of the house, down the steps, and along the path that led the short distance to the roaring fire his grandfather had indeed built in his pit. He found his grandfather sitting on a two-foot-high slice of a tree that was one of many surrounding that fire that he’d no doubt started by hand. Sgath was, as it happened, that sort of man.
Sarah would have approved.
Ruith took another step forward, but had to stop. He could see as if it were happening afresh a scene in front of him. His mother sitting with her parents-in-law, laughing as she held her daughter on her lap. Some of his brothers had been sitting at their grandfather’s feet, listening to him spin some impossible tale of glory and ogres, whilst others had been enjoying the remains of their meal. He could see himself holding a book up to the fire, squinting to read it by the flickering light. It had been a book of spells. He was fairly certain he’d eventually taken the book inside and read it by that fire that Sarah was currently warming her hands against.
He had been, he had to admit, obsessed.
“Ruith?”
He blinked and the scene was gone. He was a little winded, but since that seemed to have become his normal condition of late, he thought nothing of it. He walked over to sit on the stump next to his grandfather, accepted a cup of mulled wine, and sipped. He sighed in pleasure.
“Lovely”
“Been drinking stream water, son?”
Ruith laughed a little uneasily. “You don’t want to know what I’ve been drinking, Grandfather.”
Sgath reached out and put his hand on Ruith’s shoulder briefly, then held his own cup between his hands. “You told me very briefly last night of your adventures these past twenty years. I suppose I can draw my own conclusions as to why you didn’t drag yourself here where you would have been safe and comfortable. Or should I inquire as to the specifics?”
“Don’t,” Ruith said, more sharply than he intended. He attempted a smile. “I’m sorry. I meant—”
Sgath shook his head, just as sharply. “I shouldn’t have asked. But one day, Ruithneadh, you and I will descend into my very fine cellar across the way, indulge quite thoroughly in too much of what we find there; then you will tell me what your heart cannot bear to now. But here, I want you to tell me what it is you’re about and what that has to do with a certain fiery lass resting so peacefully inside the house.”
Ruith smiled. “She is fierce, I’ll admit.”
“She would have to be. I’m surprised she survived her mother’s temper without having it embitter her. I’m even more surprised anyone braved that woman’s temper long enough to spawn any children with her. How did your lady remain so sweet?”
“I would imagine ’tis a combination of having spent as little time with her mother as possible and a resolve to be nothing like her.”
“Determined, is she?”
“Frighteningly so.” He considered the fire for a bit, then sighed. “Her brother is the reason she left home and I followed her. She asked for my aid, thinking I was a centuries-old, vile-tempered curmudgeon—”
“Who I’m sure you patterned after Sile of Torr Dòrainn.”
Ruith laughed in spite of himself. “I fear I had no opportunity to display any of my maternal grandfather’s most autocratic ways to the locals, though he no doubt would have considered it a vast compliment to his admittedly quite superior self.”
“He would have,” Sgath agreed. “So, that lovely woman sought you out, then what? You fell for her instantly?”
“I haven’t fallen anywhere.”
“Ruithneadh, you are a terrible liar.”
“And you’re a terrible romantic.”
“I want grandchildren. And I like the look of her.”
“A witchwoman’s daughter?” Ruith asked quietly. “A witchwoman’s daughter who doesn’t have a shred of magic to her name?”
“Perhaps you underestimate her. She lit the candles for supper.”
“
I
lit the candles for supper,” Ruith said dryly, “whilst she was admiring your fishing gear.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Sgath said promptly. “I was distracted by the thought of more grandchildren. And how is it you did what she could not? I thought you said you buried all your magic with that dastardly spell you and the youngling from Neroche pilfered.”
Ruith shrugged. “I briefly freed it to heal Seirceil of Coibhneas. I don’t think I managed to stuff it all back where it belonged.” He shot Sgath a sideways look. “Little bits of Fadaire escaped. They’ve been causing me trouble ever since.”
“I would say they
would,
being what they are, but that would disparage your sweet mother, which I could never think to do.” He set his cup aside, then leaned back with his hands wrapped around his knee. “What did you and Miach want that spell for, anyway?”
“To hide dessert from our elder brothers,” Ruith said solemnly.
Sgath laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me, especially considering Adhémar’s fondness for sweet cakes.”
“If he doesn’t weigh twenty stone by now, I’ll be surprised,” Ruith said sourly. “How is the illustrious king of Neroche? As obnoxious as ever?”
Sgath smiled deeply. “I’ve avoided any royal visits from him, though I did manage to drag myself to his coronation, out of respect for his parents. I’m certain he’s slowly driving Miach mad, or so Miach says when he can endure Tor Neroche no longer and comes to visit. He arrives on wing, as you might imagine, shakes off in my courtyard whatever shape he’s taken, then happily lingers at my table as long as I’ll let him before I send him off to bed.” He shook his head. “You would like him still, I imagine. The mantle of archmage has sobered him, but not soured him. I assume you heard of his calling.”
“I assumed it would fall to him should something happen to Queen Desdhemar,” Ruith agreed. “Riding accident, or something less pleasant?”
Sgath looked at him, openmouthed. “She died rescuing Miach from Lothar’s dungeon. Good heavens, Ruith, where
have
you been?”
Ruith realized his own mouth was hanging open. “What in the hell was he doing
there?”
“Being an arrogant young man, I imagine. He won’t talk about it, but I understand from others that he was riding the border without a guard and found himself overcome. Desdhemar and Anghmar both perished rescuing him.” He shook his head and sighed. “He keeps Lothar on the far side of his northern border, though I can’t help but feel things will come to a head between the two of them someday. ’Tis a pity, really. I think Miach would like nothing better than to retreat to some piece of land near Chagailt and grow turnips. He’s spent his share of time eyeing my vast stretches of fertile farmland, if you’re curious.”
“No lady for him yet?”
“I think Adhémar’s tried several times. You know Miach, though. He can be slightly ... How shall we say it?”
“Intense,” Ruith said without hesitation. “Driven. Colored by an annoying tendency to do good at any cost. All character flaws, I’m sure. He should watch his back. He’ll find himself falling for some wench someday who’ll send him in circles.”
“I can scarce wait to see who she’ll be,” Sgath said with another deep smile. “I imagine he would offer the same happy wish to you, did he know you were alive. But we digress from details I want and you don’t want to give. Your lady came to you for aid and you did what?”
Ruith knew he should have corrected his grandfather. Sarah was not and likely would never want to be his lady, even if he wanted her to be such—which he was fairly certain he didn’t. He fully intended to do for her what he’d offered to, then retreat to his house and hide.
Only now, he might have to make the occasional visit to Lake Cladach. And if Sgath and Eulasaid knew, then word would eventually leak out and his other grandparents would know and then he would most definitely need to visit there.
And he would have to visit Sarah as well, and make certain she was safe, and happy, and had enough sheep to provide the wool she needed for her art.
“Ruith?”
He looked at his grandfather. “What?”
Sgath smiled. “You know, I offered her a bit of land down the way. There’s that little clearing that I’ve been keeping to myself for the past few centuries. Just right for a little house, on the right part of the lake for the sun to warm a garden, close enough that a quick walk would bring her to the big house.”
The big house. Taigh-mòr, it was called, and it rivaled any elven palace he’d ever traipsed through.
Ruith looked at his grandfather. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“I want more grandchildren.”
“Don’t you have enough?”
“I want some from you.”
Ruith rolled his eyes, because it was either that or heartily agree with his grandfather that providing those joys for him was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
Sgath waved him on. “I’m vexing you overmuch. Go on with your tale. Sarah sought you out, but you didn’t tell me why.”
“She feared her brother was off to do evil,” he said, turning his thoughts in less pleasant directions. “She was particularly concerned about a torn page from a book she had seen briefly on her brother’s table. We found another page she’s sure was in the same hand.” He had to take a deep breath. “It was a page from my father’s book of spells.”
Sgath’s eyes widened briefly, then he rubbed his hands over his face. “Hell.”
“Well, I’m afraid that’s what we’ll be living in if I don’t find it.”
Sgath stared into the fire for several minutes in silence, then looked at him with a sigh. “What spell was it, do you suppose, that the lad had found?”
“The spell of Diminishing.”
Sgath’s verbal reaction was quite a bit more vile that time.
Ruith shrugged. “I suppose we’re fortunate that someone laboring under a severe overestimation of his power found it—and that he only has half of it. And I’ll answer what you haven’t stopped swearing long enough to ask. Sarah’s brother, Daniel, has gone from mage to mage, trying out what he has. He’s managed to take one man’s voice—but that only because the mage wasn’t expecting it. The second man lost a bit of his . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not sure how to describe it. ’Twas Seirceil of Coibhneas who was attacked. He didn’t lose his power; he lost his ability—temporarily—to make it do his will. He’s recovered now, mostly, though still unsettled by the experience. But anything else? Nay, Daniel hasn’t managed anything else.”
“Is he making up the end of the spell, or has he looked for another spell of Taking? Perhaps Lothar of Wychweald’s?” Sgath added with a fair bit of distaste.
“I have no idea.” Ruith paused. “Do you think that my father would have purposely scattered his book, or . . .”
“I would choose ‘or,’” Sgath said without hesitation. “I heard a rumor that the library at Ceangail was burned. ’Tis possible that someone found his private book of spells and took it, then perhaps lost it, or fought over it, or hid it intending to come back and fetch it later. Have you any idea where Daniel came by what he has?”
Ruith shook his head. “I understand the spell of Diminishing was found in a peddler’s cart. Daniel stole my father’s spell of Reconstruction in Connail of Iomadh’s hall. That one was, I fear, mostly intact, though I suspect Daniel doesn’t have the power to use it properly. Not as my sire would have used it.”
“Your father’s imagination knew no bounds, unfortunately,” Sgath agreed. He looked at Ruith seriously. “What of those beasts I saw last night? They seemed particularly interested in you.”
“So it seems.” He paused for a moment or two before he could go on. “They are fashioned from some sort of substance that seems ... well, liquid, for lack of a better word.”
Sgath frowned. “Indeed? How many have you seen to know this?”
“I killed my first pair in the mountains, a month ago perhaps. I examined one’s tunic and found it solid, yet not. More unsettling still, it gave off an odor I recognized.” He paused, then met his grandfather’s gaze. “It was the same stench of evil that came from the well.”
Sgath closed his eyes briefly, then looked at Ruith. “Ah, my boy, I’m so sorry.”
“So am I,” Ruith agreed, striving for a lighter tone, “for I daresay it means I should make a visit there to see what’s afoot. Fortunately, I have the diligent Daniel of Doìre paving the way for me, first no doubt to the well, then to Ceangail itself.”
“But you won’t take Sarah to either place,” Sgath said, sounding faintly horrified.
“I don’t think she’ll stay behind,” Ruith said slowly, “though I certainly don’t want her to come with me.” He paused. “In truth, I’m not sure where she would be the safest. As canny as he is, I’m not sure I would trust Franciscus to guard her.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sgath said, with a faint smile. “You might be surprised at that one’s resource fulness. But I understand your thinking. There is no better guardsman for a lass than a man who loves her.”
Ruith shot his grandfather a look he blithely ignored. Perhaps it was better not to pursue it. Sgath would only bludgeon him the more with demands for offspring.
Sgath sighed suddenly. “ ’Tis a pity my son chose such a path. I grieve for the harm he did to so many others besides himself.”
“Was he ever thus?” Ruith asked, before he thought better of it. It was a question he hadn’t been able to ask in his youth. He’d been far too busy hating the man and looking for every way possible to help him destroy himself.
“That, my boy, is something I ask myself even now,” Sgath said with a weary smile. “Your grandmother and I had seven children, as you know, and Gair was the youngest. One doesn’t particularly want to look at one’s offspring and see darkness, but I will concede that there was even from an early age a lack of empathy. His elder brothers were quick to offer aid when called for, his sisters compassion, but Gair would simply stand to the side and watch, as if the trouble didn’t touch him.”