clucked his tongue. “Still haven’t ironed all the wrinkles out of that one, have you?”
He felt Sarah’s hands tangled in his cloak clutch him all the more tightly. He supposed she would have called him an idiot, if she’d had the breath for it. He would have agreed, if he’d had the breath for it. He’d come to terms with fully claiming his birthright from both his parents, but that didn’t make his power any less heavy or unwieldy. Having it come lightly to his hand would take time, time he didn’t have at the moment so he would simply make do.
He put one hand behind him and around Sarah on the off chance that she might lose all sense and decide to bolt. He didn’t suppose she would, though. Soilléir’s spell was actually quite a lovely thing from what he could see, steel covered by illusion and underpinned by an imperviousness that Ruith suspected not even all the masters of Buidseachd together could have breached. Thankfully.
He looked at Droch again, listened to him spit out a spell of death, then watched as it was absorbed by Soilléir’s spell, gathered together, then flung back toward Droch with a speed so furious Ruith blinked in surprise. It reminded him sharply of what had befallen Amitán, with his spell of death repulsed by the Olcian spell of protection Ruith had been covered with. But why would anything of Soilléir’s resemble anything made by someone who, from all indications, had been a master of Olc?
Yet another question to ask Soilléir when he had the time. At the moment, though, he was rather less at his leisure than he would have preferred to be.
Droch, however, was not a master of his craft because he was a fool, nor because he would ever be caught unawares. He sent his own spell that returned with a bit more added to it into the ether with a disgusted flick of his wrist. He looked at Ruith calculatingly.
“I demand a duel,” he said. “With spells.”
“Dueling is forbidden,” Ruith said promptly, “which you well know, my lord.”
Droch looked down his nose at him. “The youngest son of Gair of Ceangail, unwilling to fight when called upon? Your father would be embarrassed by you.”
Ruith only shrugged. “He’s too dead to have an opinion on the matter. Not that your opinion would have mattered to him, of course.”
Droch’s face grew very red. “Even the archmage of Neroche wasn’t above defending his honor. Does that not gall you, Ruithneadh? That Mochriadhemiach would venture where you dare not?”
“He has more courage than I have,” Ruith said with another shrug, refusing to be baited.
“He certainly has more power.” Droch studied him for a moment or two. “Or perhaps ’tis that he has a more worthy companion to want to protect.”
Ruith gritted his teeth and reached for his nonexistent sword only to be greeted with laughter.
“Surely you jest,” Droch mocked. “Steel against my spells? I believe, my boy, that you have been out of decent society for too long. I wouldn’t waste the effort to conjure up such a pedestrian weapon, much less trouble myself to use it.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Perhaps your sister is fortunate you aren’t the one protecting her, though I will admit I was a bit surprised by her choice of guardsmen.”
Ruith managed to keep his composure only through sheer will alone. “My sister?”
Droch’s look of triumph was hard to watch. “Ah, something you don’t know,” he said, coming very close to purring. “Obviously you haven’t been hiding with her all these years.”
Ruith chose not to answer, but the truth was, he could hardly maintain a neutral expression.
Mhorghain?
Droch’s eyes narrowed. “And just so you know, I’m not finished with you. Perhaps we’ll meet again when I have your little coquette there in my garden again where you can watch her finally take up one of the lesser spots amongst my chess pieces.”
Ruith forced himself to concentrate as Droch turned on his heel and walked off, his boots clicking against the cobblestones.
Mhorghain? Alive?
“Ruith?”
He looked at Sarah standing next to him, watching him with frank concern on her face.
“Nothing,” he said immediately. “’Tis nothing.” He took her hand. “Let’s go back to the keep.”
“Eleven.”
He stopped and looked at her. “What?”
“You just increased your number of princesses to eleven. Do you care to make it twelve?”
He retrieved his jaw from where it had fallen, then realized what she meant and why. He stopped, turned her to him, and pulled her into his arms. He