up next to his stove at night and discuss the potential effect of the weather on his plans for spring planting—and sheepshearing.
“More wool,” Ruith noted. “Your kind of people.”
“Hmmm,” was apparently all the response she could give to that.
The wars and contentions with neighboring countries were touched upon briefly, as well as a thorough discussion of the art, music, and other necessities of culture that seemed as well developed as their weaving industry.
And then Soilléir turned to his genealogy.
Ruith paused. “Still awake?”
“Unfortunately,” she whispered.
“Feel free—” He stopped himself and sighed. “I was going to say feel free to cling to me if necessary, but I won’t make light of this.” He paused. “I’m sorry, love. I fear this won’t be easy. But it may be worth it, in the end.”
“Will it?” she asked wearily.
“If what we suspect might be true is true,” he said slowly, “then a certain flame-haired gel of our acquaintance wouldn’t be related to Daniel of Doìre.”
“Well, there is that,” she agreed.
“I believe the witchwoman Seleg could be discarded as a relation as well.” He put the book down and smoothed her hair back from her face. “It would answer quite a few questions, wouldn’t it?”
“About her treatment of me?”
“Aye, and the reason a certain alemaster took such an interest in you,” he said, “or why you were taken to a place where souls don’t see—and they aren’t seen, if you take my meaning.”
She was silent for a long moment. “Do you think so?”
“Aye, I think so.”
She took a deep breath. “Read on, Ruith, if you will.”
He kissed her forehead. “Brave gel.” He picked up the book. “Ah, here our long-winded author now feels the need to bludgeon us with yet another retelling of his very sparse genealogy of which he is obviously very proud. We have Seannair, whom we already know, who spawned three lads whose names I won’t bother to pronounce, and those three lads then sired one lad each and named them Coimheadair, Meadhan, and Franciscus, respectively.”
She didn’t flinch, so he carried on.
“Coimheadair, being the crown prince of Cothromaiche, wed him a gel from An Cèin—my grandmother is of that lineage—and was apparently busier than his father for he sired three sons himself, the youngest being our good Soilléir, who apparently prefers to be off tormenting Droch instead of waiting for his brothers and his progenitors to die so he can take the crown.”
“He is a useful man,” Sarah agreed.
“Realistic is more to the point, perhaps,” Ruith said dryly. “But we’ll leave that for the moment. Meadhan’s children and grandchildren do not figure into our study here, so we’ll leave them aside and concern ourselves with Franciscus.” He continued to trail his fingers over her back, partly because he thought it might soothe her and partly because it allowed him to feel her distress. He wasn’t terribly surprised when she only took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She was that sort of march-into-the-fray and do-what-needed-to-be-done sort of gel.
“Franciscus,” he continued, “the youngest son, had three daughters and a son—”
Sarah lifted her head and looked at him in surprise. “Did he? What happened to the daughters?”
“I have no idea,” he said, surprised himself. “It gives their names, but says nothing about their fate. But the son, he who was the youngest, was named Athair. He married a dreamweaver named Sorcha.” He had to stop for a breath himself. “They had a daughter, a gel-child.”
“And her name?” she prompted, when he fell silent.
“Sarah.”
She continued to breathe normally, if not a little carefully. “Anything else?”
“It says here that Athair and his bride were slain by the queen of An-uallach. She had devised a way to have a mage’s power on his way out of this poor world and intended to use it on Athair and his bride.”
“That woman is evil,” Sarah breathed.
Ruith cleared his throat. “I fear the rest isn’t any more pleasant. ’Tis written in the same hand, but dated the night we were in the garden of Gearrannan.” He had to clear his throat again. “I’m not sure I can read it aloud.”
Sarah pulled his hand back where she could see the words as well, though she didn’t seem to be any more capable than he of reading them except to herself. Ruith left Sarah holding the book long enough to drag his sleeve across his eyes, then took it again and kept it where she could read along with him.
My dearest Sarah,
I have given you the history of my people, but it