She shook her head. “Nay, and I’m fairly sure that’s an honest opinion and not just my intense desire never to return there.”
He smiled ruefully. “I daresay, love.” He studied her for another moment or two. “If you wanted to piece together that spell we found on the plains of Ailean, I’ll make it whole when I return.”
“Short of stitching it together myself, I think that’s our only alternative.”
He nodded toward the fire. “Let me see you settled, then I’ll go. Briefly. Then we’ll take whatever direction you think we should.”
She wasn’t particularly happy about the thought of leading the charge, as it were, but she supposed it wasn’t any different than the place in which she’d found herself at the beginning of her quest—which had been stepping off into the darkness with absolutely no idea what she was doing.
Only she’d found aid along the way in the person of Ruith, and Oban ... and Franciscus, all of whom had turned out to be mages.
She couldn’t bear to think about what else might turn out to be something she hadn’t expected.
Seventeen
Ruith sat in the seediest tavern he’d been in all evening—and given that it found itself in Slighe, that was very seedy indeed—and eavesdropped with abandon.
He wasn’t an eavesdropper by nature, his lengthy and frequent youthful bouts of it aside, but as he’d discovered that morning, trying to chat up bartenders wasn’t going to get him anything besides potentially a belly full of daggers as he lay in a heap behind some ramshackle pub.
Nay, better that he simply sit, listen, and watch. Sarah was perfectly safe in the best chamber he could find, protected as she was by the spell he’d left behind, and hopefully doing the sensible thing of taking another rest. He was happy to wait for what the loose tongues around him would eventually produce.
Unfortunately, there was no talk of an alewagon full of mages, though he supposed no one with any sense would have dared speak of magic within Slighe’s borders. He hadn’t even been able to manage any tidings about fresh ale with delicate essences of apple and lavender. The lads in Slighe apparently didn’t particularly care how their brew tasted as long as it rendered them profoundly intoxicated with as little fuss as possible.
Ruith pretended to nurse his very vile ale and continued to watch the clientele surreptitiously, wondering when one of them would drink himself far enough into a stupor to say something useful.
And then he suddenly realized he wasn’t the only one in the pub with an interest in the goings-on.
A pair of lads sitting in the opposite corner seemed equally concerned. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them at first, then had to struggle to mask his surprise when he realized why not.
They were both wearing elvish glamour.
It was very faint, not enough that it would have been visible to a mortal drunkard, but to one who had spent a good portion of his formative years beneath its shadow, it was clear. He leaned back against the wall behind him and studied the men as unobtrusively as possible. He couldn’t see their faces—they were sitting in the shadows just as he was—and he had no means of even beginning to identify who they might be. The glamour was nondescript and could have come from either Fadaire or Ciaradh, or a happy combination of both magics, though he couldn’t imagine who in his family would have mixed Fadaire with what they would have considered the lesser magic of Ainneamh.
Whoever the men were, they were definitely watching him. He didn’t imagine he would be wise to go over and demand their names. He supposed the only thing he could do was get up, walk out, and see if they followed him.
He tossed a coin onto the table, then did just that. He supposed his sword was an unnecessary burden, though he had brought it along partially out of habit and partly because it made him look at least on the surface like an ordinary lad out for a mug of courage after a long day. It would be of no use against the two he hoped would follow, but then again, they likely wouldn’t dare use any magic openly if they ever wanted to walk the putrid streets of Slighe again.
He started down the street where the only relief to the darkness was provided by light that spilled out of doorways and windows. He continued on his way