you precisely as you’re aiding me now if I have to crawl to where you are in order to enjoy the spectacle of you wallowing in your longing. I might, out of gratitude for the current safe haven, toss you a rope or something else quite pedestrian to keep you from drowning in the swamp.”
“You have a very generous heart, Ruith.”
“I doubt Sarah would agree, though I extended the courtesy of three no-need-to-justify-the-reason begging offs from social functions in return for her having placed on me the burden of becoming acquainted with ten princesses before I am allowed to pursue her wholeheartedly. She used one yesterday. I imagine she’ll be more judicious with them in the future.”
“Pray she doesn’t use one to avoid being at your wedding.”
Ruith laughed uneasily. “I hadn’t considered that, though I should have.”
Soilléir turned and leaned against the wooden window frame. “What will you do now?”
Ruith sighed. “I thought to make for Léige, to see if Keir might have remained behind, or returned there ... after.”
“Will Uachdaran let you in his gates, do you think?” Soilléir asked with what could have been charitably called a smirk.
“I’ll approach on bended knee,” Ruith said darkly. “King Uachdaran might allow me in if he knows I’ve just come to look for my brother. And after I’ve pried what I need to from Keir, I suppose we’ll continue to look for spells and search for Sarah’s brother.” He paused. “I thought perhaps we should leave tonight.”
“Agreed,” Soilléir said. “There is mischief afoot in the world.”
Ruith would have given much for a peep inside Soilléir’s head, but there was no point in asking for it. There was no harm in asking a few questions, though, never mind that he didn’t imagine he would have answers that would ease him any.
“I’m curious,” he said slowly, “and I didn’t have time to search in the library below for anything useful. I don’t suppose you know a mage called Urchaid, do you? Or Franciscus?”
“Franciscus is a fairly common name in the north,” Soilléir said with a shrug. “Unless you’ve more specifics for me than that, I can’t help you. Urchaid, on the other hand, is a fairly uncommon name, of which only a handful of men come to mind. There was Urchaid of Srath, who fought against Cuideil of An-uallach, though I believe he was slain by a serving girl who poisoned his wine. That shouldn’t come as much of a surprise knowing the cantankerous nature of the inhabitants of An-uallach.”
Ruith had no experience with them, so he remained silent.
“There was an Urchaid of Tòsan, who was one of the wizards who argued against casting Lothar of Wychweald from the schools of wizardry, but your grandmother Eulasaid would know more about him than I would.” He paused and considered. “The only other Urchaid of note that comes to mind is Urchaid of Saothair.”
Ruith blinked. “Who?”
“Droch’s brother.”
Ruith felt something slither down his spine. “I’d heard that there was another one roaming the world besides Wehr and Droch.”
“And where did you hear that?”
“In a pub,” Ruith said with a snort. “Some drunkard was delighting his companions with gruesome tales of how Dorchadas of Saothair had looked on his eight sons to decide which was the strongest so he might slay the rest. There was universal agreement that he hadn’t been able to choose between Wehr and Droch, but the teller of very tall tales was convinced that another son had escaped whilst his father was otherwise occupied with that decision.”
“’Tis possible, I suppose.”
Ruith considered for a moment or two. “What of Dorchadas? Does he live still?”
Soilléir shrugged. “He’s still alive, I imagine, weaving his webs of evil in some forgotten corner of the world.”
Ruith thought about the Urchaid he knew for a moment or two, then shook his head. For one thing, Urchaid looked nothing like Droch, and the other ... well, he was fairly sure that when Dorchadas of Saothair killed something, he made sure he’d done the job properly. Tales heard in a pub were best relegated to just that. He considered other things for a bit longer, then looked at Soilléir.
“If my father’s spells are out in the world, loose, would Droch want them, do you think?”
“Assuredly,” Soilléir said. “Droch was—is still, I daresay—incoherently jealous of your sire’s power. And to have a collection of his most treasured spells and Gair not be able to stop his using them? Aye, I daresay he would have them if he could lay his hands on