he’d passed all my tests. And he hasn’t used any of my spells ... yet.”
“Which means Adhémar still sits on his throne, instead of lounging on a lily pad in the back garden,” Ruith said with a snort. “Though how Miach bears him, I’ll never know.”
“Actually, Adhémar is now residing somewhere quite a bit less comfortable, but I won’t bother you with the details since you’re not terribly interested in the goings-on in the Nine Kingdoms.”
Ruith blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you referring to your disinterest in the realms of the world or Adhémar’s fate?”
Ruith glared at him. “I never said I wasn’t interested. At least in the former.”
“Careful, Ruith,” Soilléir said mildly. “You might find yourself getting involved in things that will require more than sitting in front of your fire and avoiding Fate’s heavy hand.”
Ruith found himself on his feet, pacing, without truly knowing how he’d come to be doing it. He turned to Soilléir and folded his arms across his chest. “What happened to Adhémar?”
Soilléir looked up at him. “He was riding the border with his lovely bride, Adaira of Penrhyn—”
“A perfect choice.”
“Miach thought so too,” Soilléir agreed. “Unfortunately, she might be regretting her choice now given that her husband was too stupid to take the sort of guard he needed and both of them now find themselves unwilling guests of Neroche’s neighbor to the north.”
“Lothar?” Ruith asked in astonishment.
“The very same.”
“What an idiot,” Ruith said without hesitation. “Adhémar, I mean.”
“Agreed,” Soilléir said. He looked up tranquilly. “Very foolish to take one’s lady anywhere close to a nasty sort of mage when one has no magic to protect that lady.” He paused. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Ruith started to agree, then realized just what Soilléir had said. He wished the words felt less like a kick in the gut. He wished he’d not been so stupid as to fail to continually remind himself that with Soilléir of Cothromaiche, conversation was rarely just words. He had to take a handful of decent breaths before he could speak with any success.
“Do you ever just talk for the pleasure of it?” he managed.
“Only to myself.”
Ruith closed his eyes briefly. “I would say I loathed you, but I am not a silly serving wench.”
Soilléir shrugged. “What else am I to do with you, Ruith? Slap your good sense back into you?”
“It wouldn’t work.”
“I didn’t think it woul—”
Ruith realized that Soilléir had stopped bludgeoning him with things he didn’t want to listen to only when he realized someone else was talking in a hoarse, ruined voice that made him flinch just listening to it. He turned around to find Soilléir’s servant standing at the doorway.
“The young miss,” he rasped. “I left her at her loom whilst I went to fetch her something to eat. When I returned—”
Ruith leapt forward only to run into Soilléir’s outstretched arm. He cursed, but the words died on his lips when he realized Soilléir was looking for Sarah.
That Seeing magic was ... well, it was damned spooky, that’s what it was. He could see spells, of course, and he had been, in his youth, able to hear the sentient things in Tòrr Dòrainn—brooks that laughed as they bubbled and flowers that sang as they bloomed. He’d been able to remain unaffected by elvish glamour cast by his grandfather. He’d heard rumors that some kings could see what was passing in their realms, though most of those sorts of tales had come from Neroche. He had assumed, over the years, that Adhémar’s sight had been limited to the quickest path to the ale kegs in every village pub cellar, but perhaps he’d been mistaken about that.
But Soilléir’s craft of sight?
It was unsettling.
Soilléir swore suddenly. “She’s walking toward Droch’s garden.”
Ruith pushed past him, but Soilléir caught him by the arm. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going to rescue her, of course,” Ruith said.
Soilléir shot him a look. “With what magic, Ruith?”
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Soilléir said sharply. “Against Droch? You cannot aid her with good intentions.”
Ruith supposed over the course of his life several things had stung him to the very quick. His father telling him he would never be his equal was one. Sarah telling him she couldn’t bear to be within five paces of him was another. Soilléir telling him in not so many words that he hadn’t the skill to fight the master of Olc, the master of the magic his father had taken and twisted in ways that Droch envied to