Odd, how things could change so quickly.
He paused as they stood on the edge of the street. “Would you be opposed to taking on an alias?”
She looked up at him quickly. “Why does that matter?”
“Because we won’t make it past the guards up the way without one.”
She shivered. “And just what sort of hell is His Royal Highness deigning to take me to?”
“One that leads to paradise,” he promised. “And please stop calling me that.”
“‘Tis what you are.”
“Not any longer, and there are other ways you could wound me that would hurt less.”
She looked up at him seriously. “Do you think I want it to hurt less, Ruith?”
He suppressed a grimace. Nay, he imagined she didn’t. He’d known at various points along their journey from Doìre that he would regret not having told her who he was, he just hadn’t known how much. He pulled her borrowed hood up over her hair, did the same for himself, then nodded toward the castle.
“I’ll invent a tale as we walk. We’ll go quickly.”
She didn’t look happy about it, but she nodded. He walked up the way as if he’d been nothing more than a traveler seeking shelter. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, but again, that was likely from imaginings brought on by weariness. All he had to do was put his head down, blend in, and walk past anyone whose notice he might not have wished to garner. He took Sarah’s hand and drew it under his arm. Perhaps she felt uneasy as well, for she didn’t fight him.
He hazarded a glance at the keep, then wished he hadn’t. The walls were still sheer, rising a hundred feet into the air with a ruthless exuberance that defied anyone to scale them. The front gates were a forbidding barbican with two towers and a portcullis that was made of more than just steel. Ruith half wondered why the masters bothered with guards there. Surely the magic even he could sense was enough to keep any but the most foolhardy at bay.
Wizards. What an unruly, arrogant lot. Ruith remembered as he walked with Sarah up to those gates why he’d never wanted to waste time earning any rings of mastery. The thought of having to sit under the supposed tutelage and substantial scrutiny of most of the masters within would have been absolutely insupportable. And dangerous—for them. He hadn’t had the patience for it at ten summers; he certainly didn’t have the patience for it now.
But within those hallowed, if not stuffy, walls lay absolute safety, and he was willing to endure a bit of genuflecting to have it.
“Your plan?” Sarah asked.
He wasn’t unaccustomed to inventing identities for himself on the spur of the moment, so he set about it as they walked slowly toward the barbican gate. “We’re parents of some talented lad who was recommended by our local mage. The guards will have memorized all the wizards of note in the Nine Kingdoms, so we’ll claim an acquaintance with Oban.”
She nodded, then looked up at him reluctantly. “You didn’t see Master Oban on your way south, did you?”
“I didn’t,” he said quietly, “nor any of the others, but I didn’t look for them either.” He was quite eager to discuss the apparently undisclosed identity of their local alemaker-turned-mage, but now wasn’t the time. Perhaps he would use it as an excuse to keep her nearby for another day when the time came that she wanted to leave.
He nodded toward the keep. “Just so you know,” he said slowly, “there are spells of ward set inside the gates, wards which alert the headmaster should anyone with magic enter and not announce his power beforehand. We’ll present ourselves at the gates and look innocent. If our luck holds, we’ll request a tour, then whilst on it run like the wind for a certain chamber.”
“Why don’t we just ask for directions to this certain chamber right from the start?” she asked, frowning.
“Because the man we’re here to see doesn’t have anything to do with novices and the headmaster won’t believe he’s asked to see us. He is, though, the only one with the power to fight what hunts us.”
“And you can’t?” she asked tartly.
“I can’t,” he admitted, though he found the admission a little less palatable than it should perhaps have been. “And here we are. I’ll tell you the rest later.”
“If we survive this descent into madness.”
Now that he was at the gate, he found himself agreeing with her, though he supposed it was unwise to say as much. He stopped well in front of the foremost guardsman’s outstretched sword.
“Oy, stay where you are,” the man said firmly. “State your business, my good man, else you’ll wish you had.”
“I have business with the masters here,” Ruith said, with as much deference as he could muster. “I would prefer to discuss it
inside
your gates, if you don’t mind. The streets of Beinn òrain are a dodgy place, aren’t they, and one must keep one’s lady safe from harm.”
The man either couldn’t argue with that or didn’t find them particularly dangerous-looking. He did, however, motion for a bit of aid in containing the potential threat as he escorted them under the barbican gate and into the courtyard.
Ruith felt rather than heard Sarah’s breath begin to come in gasps. He put his hand over hers that rested on his arm and squeezed it reassuringly, though he couldn’t say he was any more comfortable than she was. He had forgotten just how the spells pressed down on a body once inside the gates, how the very air was full of magic, how centuries of tales echoed faintly along the stones.
“Now to your business,” their escort said, looking at them suspiciously.
“We’re here because of our son,” Ruith lied without hesitation. “We bear a message from Master Oban of Bruaih, who bid us come and speak with the masters here. We are simple folk with no magic, but our son ...”
He paused. Was that a bell?
The guardsman frowned as well, then cocked an ear to listen.
Ruith was now certain he’d heard a faint ringing in the distance. It surprised him enough that he looked at Sarah before he could stop himself.
“Very well,” another guardsman said, pushing past the first. He was accompanied by a handful of equally burly lads bearing both sharp blades and long arrows. “Which one of you is lying?”
Ruith patted himself, figuratively of course, to see if he might have left any untoward parts of himself exposed, but nay, his magic was all safely tucked where it should have been and covered by impenetrable layers of illusion and diversion. There was no lingering whiff of the spells that had been wrapped around him in Ceangail, and even the blisters on his hands where he’d touched that spell of protection fashioned of Olc were almost gone.
He looked at Sarah, but she was only glaring at him as if it were all his fault.
“Oh, Tom, ’tis you,” the second guardsman said, nodding at someone behind Ruith. “Announce yourself next time, won’t you?”
“Are you daft?” a lad squeaked. “And have me master find out I’ve been gone?”
“Bah, Droch is more bark than bite,” the guardsman said dismissively, waving the lad on. “But I’d not like to have either from him, so you’d best hurry. He came through here not a quarter hour ago, looking less than pleased about something.”
“He’s still sour over that chess game he played with that mage a bit ago,” Tom said, stopping in front of Ruith and shuddering. “Never seen him in such a temper. He’s been out looking for new pieces, don’t you know, to replace what was lost.”
“I’d like not to be one of them,” the guardsman said nervously. “Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, here and there,” Tom said with a shrug. “Searching for the odd spell to keep tucked away for appeasing Droch when needful. It served me well this past fortnight, believe you me.”
“You’re daft to be within ten paces of him,” the guard said, shooing Tom away without delay and looking rather more unsettled than he had the moment before.
Ruith had no idea what sort of chess Droch played, but he suspected it wasn’t anything he would want to be involved in. He wondered who the fool was who’d found himself led into such a terrible situation. No one he knew, no doubt.
A single, delicate bell rang again.
Just once.
Ruith suppressed a wince at the sight of a man rushing across the courtyard from points unknown. He was adjusting his tall, pointy hat as he did so, which adjustment was hampered by his long, voluminous robes flapping in the breeze created by his haste.
Ceannard, the headmaster of the schools of wizardry and the possessor of the loosest tongue in the bloody place.
Ruith knew he shouldn’t have expected anything else. The truth was, he’d all but asked for the headmaster, though he’d hoped someone of lesser stature might be sent. He looked over his shoulder to find his rear guarded by men he hadn’t realized were there. He was flanked by equally enthusiastic lads with obviously well-used weapons.
He had two choices: bluster his way through what was in front of him, or release his magic, change himself into a dragon, and hope he could fly over the walls with Sarah before they were slain. The masters didn’t care for those who tried to bluff their way inside their gates whilst possessing no magic. But to be caught inside those gates having lied about what magic ran through one’s veins ... well, that would be a dodgy bit of business indeed.
Especially given that the penalty for that sort of lying was death.
He held on to Sarah’s hand to keep her from bolting and cast about quickly for a believable tale that would distract Ceannard long enough for him to prepare to escape. He watched as Master Ceannard was thirty paces away, then twenty, then—
And then, a miracle.
A man stepped out of nothing and caught Ceannard by the arm. Ruith closed his eyes briefly and thought he might have to sit down in truth this time. The second guardsman, the one with the sword he seemed inordinately fond of, walked over gingerly toward the two mages standing not ten paces away.
“Masters,” he said, bowing without hesitation, “we have a couple here come with a recommendation from Master Oban of Bruaih—though I haven’t seen the letter yet, of course—eager to see the inside of our magnificent walls. They’ve no magic themselves.” He cast Ruith a suspicious look. “Or so they claim.”
Ruith watched from the relative anonymity of his hood as Master Ceannard frowned first at the guardsman, then at the much younger-looking man standing to his left.
“Eh?” he said, taking off his hat and scratching his head. “No magic? But I heard the bell—”
“I believe it must have been a mistake,” the blond man said with a faint smile. “There is no magic here in this humble couple.”
Master Ceannard readjusted his robes stiffly. “I don’t like these things which have been afoot of late, my lord Soilléir. Too much excitement. I don’t know about you, but I could certainly do with a little rest.”
“Then allow me to see to these two for you, my friend,” Soilléir of Cothromaiche said gently. “I see nothing else in your afternoon but a well-deserved cup of tea by your fire. I believe we’ll see a bit of snow before the day is out, don’t you agree?”
Ruith hoped that would be the least of what they would have before the day was out. He didn’t move as Ceannard shot him a frown, turned the same look on Sarah before he plopped his hat back down on his head and walked rather unsteadily back the way he’d come. Ruith wondered absently what had had the whole place in such an uproar, then decided he was better off not knowing. He had trouble enough of his own without borrowing any from others.
The guardsman looked at Soilléir nervously. “They say they’re from Shettlestoune—”
“Which I daresay they are,” Soilléir agreed.
“Don’t suppose you’ll be wanting a guard,” the man asked doubtfully. “To help keep you safe from them, of course.”
“I think I can manage them,” Soilléir said dryly, “but I thank you for your efforts so far.”
The guardsmen retreated, muttering to each other. Ruith supposed he shouldn’t breathe easily until he and Sarah were sitting in front of Soilléir’s fire, so he remained where he was, prepared to flee if necessary.
Soilléir walked over to them and stopped. He stared at Sarah searchingly for a moment or two, then turned the same look on Ruith. Then he tilted his head to one side.
“Have a son between you, do you?” he asked mildly.
“He could only dream it,” Sarah muttered.
Soilléir smiled. “I imagine you have quite a tale for me. Why don’t we repair to my solar and you can tell it to me, er ...”
“Buck,” Ruith said without hesitation. He looked at Sarah. “And this is—”
“No one of consequence,” she said smoothly.
Soilléir only smiled as if something had amused him quite thoroughly, then stepped backward. “Come with me then,
Buck
and our lady who wishes to remain unnamed, and we’ll see if we might find you something to eat and a place to lay your heads. You look weary, what I can see of you hiding in your hoods.”
Ruith didn’t bother to ask Soilléir if he had recognized him. There were no coincidences at Buidseachd, which meant Soilléir had come to meet him at the gates.
Or so he hoped. He was almost stumbling with weariness and began to fear that perhaps his judgement had become so clouded with it that he had judged amiss. If he had walked Sarah into danger instead of safety ... well, it hardly bore thinking on. He knew what lay inside Buidseachd’s gates; not all the passageways were pleasant ones. Even his mother might have paused whilst contemplating standing against all the masters of the schools of wizardry, especially given that two of them were each more powerful than the seven who proudly had their names inscribed on the front gates combined.
He shoved aside his unproductive thoughts. They would reach Soilléir’s solar without incident, then he would beg for a bed large enough where he might pull Sarah down next to him and throw a leg over her so she didn’t escape before he could begin his apology. Indeed, keeping her captive might be the only thing that allowed him to spew it out.