Ruith would have pointed out to Morag now but thought discretion suggested that he not was that if Seannair took his seat on the Council, it would be the one Morag currently occupied with such grace.
“Perhaps he does fear to be shamed,” Ruith conceded, reaching for his wine and toying with the glass, “or perhaps ’tis his grief that keeps him from taking his proper place in the world.”
Morag looked at him, a puzzled frown on her face. “His grief?”
“I understand he lost one of his great-grandsons, Athair.” Ruith didn’t hear Sarah’s breath catch, so she either hadn’t paid any heed to his conversations with Uachdaran—which he knew she had—or she was a very good cardplayer. “A hunting accident, I believe.”
“I’m not sure,” Morag said doubtfully. “I’ve heard that the lad did perish tragically. Of course, that was likely his fault because instead of looking for a woman of rank and station as he should have, he wandered off to perilous locales and wed himself a commoner. More the fool was he, for there are certainly plenty of titled gels in the surrounding environs for him to have chosen from.”
Aye, and six of them were sitting on her other side. Ruith frowned. “Perhaps he should have chosen one of your daughters, Your Majesty. Indeed, I’m not sure how he could have made any other choice after seeing them.”
“Perhaps you will be wiser than he was, when you choose to wed,” Morag said. “It wasn’t that I didn’t invite him here several times to see the glories of my hall. Instead, he chose a peasant from Bruadair, where they pretend to see things they cannot.” She shrugged. “Seannair did the same thing, so perhaps Athair isn’t to blame for his stupidity.”
“Then perhaps it is fortunate that Seannair remains in his rustic hall,” Ruith said with a conspiratorial smile, “given that he obviously doesn’t have the wit to take his place amongst more sensible and foresightful kings. And queens, of course.”
Morag wasn’t buying what he was selling. He would have wondered if it was perhaps that he had been too long out of polite society and his ability to woo and befuddle others had been sadly diminished.
Or it might have been because he had Athair and Sorcha’s daughter sitting behind him.
It almost defied belief, but he found that the longer he thought on it, the more he believed it. Franciscus might have been a common name in the north, but it certainly wasn’t in the south. And what were the odds of an alemaster—a painfully well-educated alemaster, at that—named Franciscus taking up residence not a quarter league away from a gel who, according to hints delivered by the king of the dwarves, looked just like Franciscus’s daughter-in-law?
The only question that still puzzled him was that if Morag had done away with Athair and Sorcha, why she hadn’t done away with their daughter as well.
Unless she had and he was imagining things where he shouldn’t have been.
“Perhaps it was for the best,” the queen said, with that smile that still didn’t reach her eyes. “That Athair and his lovely dreamweaving bride disappeared without a trace, I mean. They might have produced a child, and then Seannair would have allowed her to be raised like the savage lads he has rampaging about his kingdom.” She looked at Ruith. “Stupidity is the only answer I can divine.”
“Fortunate it is, then,” Ruith said politely, “that you sit on the Council of Kings and not a rustic from the north.”
“It is,” she agreed. She looked at him assessingly. “Your grandfather has met my gels, you know.”
Ruith had no trouble understanding where she was leading him. “I regret that he didn’t make mention of them to me,” Ruith said slowly, “but it has been many years since last we met. I was too young to have appreciated the tales then.”
“Have a falling out with him?” she asked, sounding rather more pleased than was polite by the thought.
“Something like that,” Ruith agreed. He had a final sip of his wine, then set his glass down. “And I know ’tis terribly impolite to retire before one’s host does but I was hoping that I might retire early tonight that on the morrow I might have the pleasure of passing the morning with your fair daughters? Chess or cards—or something else, if they prefer. I’m sure Sarah won’t mind.”
“I’m equally certain she won’t,” Morag said. “And I will alleviate any discomfort you might feel by forcing myself to retire first.” She