“And that, my lad,” Sgath agreed quietly, “would be terrible.” He paused, then rubbed his chin absently. “And staying here would be intolerable as well?”
Rùnach sighed, because he had seriously thought about asking if Sgath might need an extra stable hand. He had considered that request for the space of approximately five heartbeats before he had put it aside with other things he couldn’t bring himself to consider. He shook his head. “It wouldn’t, and perhaps I will return one day and beg a patch of dirt from you. But until then, I need to go and do something I can do.”
“And what can you do, Rùnach?”
Rùnach would have taken offense at that question from his mother’s sire, but not from Sgath. Then again, Sgath generally went about his life in a most unmagical fashion, wearing any one of a rather large collection of crumpled felt hats sporting fishing lures whilst waxing rhapsodic about the current batch of wine he had pressed himself and left curing in a special root cellar he’d built for just that purpose. If anyone would understand what Rùnach wanted, it would be Sgath of Ainneamh, elven prince and husband to the granddaughter of the wizardess Nimheil. Most people mistook him for a rather rumpled farm holder.
“I thought,” Rùnach said carefully, because in all the time he’d been contemplating it, he had never dared voice his thought, “that I might take up the sword.” He paused. “In spite of my hands.”
“Well, your hands are healed well enough, aren’t they?”
Rùnach found he could do no more than nod.
“A logical choice, then, given your skill with a blade in your youth,” Sgath said, not sounding in the least bit horrified. “Where will you do this taking up?”
“Perhaps with some lord who needs another lad in his garrison,” Rùnach said slowly, “though I suppose I would do well to engage in a bit of training first.”
Sgath only looked at him steadily.
“Perhaps somewhere where I can regain some of my very disused skills,” Rùnach added.
“South?”
Rùnach nodded.
“An interesting direction,” Sgath conceded. “Many things to the south.”
“So there are.”
“How far south are you considering?”
“South and a bit west. Until there is no more of either.”
Sgath laughed a little. “Not many places that fit that description, are there? And nay, you’ve no need to elaborate. I know what you’re considering without your needing to say anything. I will tell you I think Gobhann is a mad choice, but one I can’t say I wouldn’t make myself were I in your boots. You do realize it’s a magic sink, don’t you?”
“Miach said as much, yes,” Rùnach agreed. “I doubt I’ll notice.”
Sgath only sighed. “Very well, when do you want to go?”
“Now.”
Sgath slid him a look. “And how is it I already knew that?”
“Because I’ve been a terrible guest,” Rùnach said with a sigh. “Prickly, unpleasant—”
“Snarling, moody, sour,” Sgath finished for him. “Not at all like the very charming, elegant young man who used to be first in the lists in the morning when Sìle would notice and last to come in, again, when Sìle would notice.”
It had been so long since he’d been anything akin to that, Rùnach felt a little like his grandfather was talking about someone else. He couldn’t say he had ever been charming or elegant, but he had been passing fond of a decently fashioned blade.
“Eulasaid has prepared a thing or two for your pack,” Sgath continued. “Clothing, delicate edibles, that sort of thing. Sìle made his own contributions, which aren’t, as you might fear, poisonous serpents or rocks.”
Rùnach managed a faint smile. “Did he?”
“He did.”
“Good of him.”
“He’s been pacing in the great hall, accompanied by a formidable glower.”
“Has he?”
“I don’t think you’ll have words, but you never know. It is Sìle, after all.” Sgath put his hand out and reached for something on his far side. He turned and handed it to Rùnach.
It was a sword.
“Just steel,” Sgath said with a shrug.
Rùnach drew the sword halfway from the sheath. He had to stop, because just holding the hilt long enough to do that had left his hand cramped beyond reason. The steel glinted dully in the faint twilight of evening. The hilt glinted a bit more intensely, which led Rùnach to believe there were things there he would have to examine later. He resheathed the sword and looked at his grandfather. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Sgath smiled. “Sìle provided you with a knife—here it is—though I’m not sure what it’s fashioned from.”
Rùnach wasn’t going to speculate. He took the slim, sheathed dagger and slid it down the side of his boot.
Sgath tilted his head back toward the house. “One more thing, if you’re interested. Just the right thing for a hasty exit, if that’s what you’re about.”
Rùnach looked, because it would have been impolite to have refused yet another gift he was uncomfortable accepting. Then he felt his mouth fall open before he could stop it.
A horse stood there. Well, perhaps stood wasn’t the right word. A horse occupied space on the greensward in a way that gave the impression that it was on the verge of sprouting wings and flinging itself up into the air.
It was a chestnut lad with a white blaze beginning in the center of his forelock and sweeping majestically down to his nose. His profile, something he turned his head to show Rùnach, was unmistakable. Rùnach looked at his grandfather and knew he must have greatly resembled a boy of ten-and-two looking at his first properly folded sword.
“An Angesand steed,” he managed.
Sgath only lifted an eyebrow briefly. “His sire was Geasan, his dam Maiseach, who you might recall is descended from Màthair of Camanaë.”
“I thought only Lord Hearn was so interested in bloodlines. When did you start memorizing names of steeds?”
“Ah, Rùnach, lad, what else have I to do but argue with Hearn’s get about breeding lines and pick flowers for your grandmother’s table?” Sgath asked with a smile. “Tùr of Angesand is, as you may or may not know, the youngest of Hearn’s five sons and the most opinionated of the lot. He was discussing bloodlines with me when he was eight.” Sgath shook his head slowly. “That lad has a feel for it that not even any of his very illustrious line of progenitors can match. And aye, since you’re obviously asking, Tùr has come to oversee the breeding of my sweet Maiseach, several times as it happens. But that one there…well, Iteach is a horse without peer.” He shot Rùnach a look. “I daresay he would even eat hay out of a simple, unmagical stable if you asked him to.”
“Has he offered?”
“He has, actually. He had a look at you before Ruith’s wedding and decided he might like to come along on your adventures.”
“I won’t be having any adventures.”
“Iteach feels differently.”
Rùnach laughed, because he could do nothing else. “Grandfather, we are standing here talking about a horse having opinions as naturally as if we were discussing what you’d found in your lake before dawn.”
“Four very fat, very feisty lake trout, and aye, we are. But what can you expect from a steed that majestic?”
Rùnach considered. “Does he shapechange?”
“Go ask him. Your cloak’s over the saddle, if you’re interested.”
Rùnach thought he just might be.
“And best of luck with your quest.”
“Quest?” Rùnach echoed in disbelief. “Oh, nay, don’t wish that on me. My only quest is to find myself a position in the garrison of some obscure lord, earn enough to put a roof over my head and food in my belly, and live out my life in obscurity.”
Sgath put his hand on Rùnach’s shoulder. “Simplicity has always been my desire, as well. But the achieving of it is more difficult.” He paused and looked at Rùnach solem
nly. “Isn’t it?”
Rùnach supposed simplicity and obscurity weren’t exactly the same thing, but there was no sense in trying to argue the point.
Sgath released him and smiled. “Somehow, son, I don’t imagine obscurity is your destiny.”
“It has served you well enough.”
Sgath only lifted an eyebrow briefly. “How conveniently you overlook my brushes with something other than obscurity, but we’ll leave that for later. Go meet your pony who has chosen you for your obvious appreciative eye. We’ll be waiting back at the house. And if you decide to just trot on off, I’ll make your excuses for you.”
Rùnach took a deep breath. “I’ve already said my good-byes.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“I thought I would walk to Melksham.”
“A fortnight on foot?” Sgath asked mildly, one eyebrow raised. “As you will. You could leave in the daylight, you know, and make it easier on yourself.”
Rùnach shook his head. “I see perfectly well in the dark. ’Tis the only gift left me.”
“I think you underestimate yourself, Rùnach, but perhaps we can discuss that later, after you’ve had enough of adventuring and need a quiet place to land for a bit. We’ll be here.”
He imagined they would. He embraced his grandfather briefly, then watched him turn and walk back up toward the house, whistling something that sounded familiar. Rùnach listened for a moment or two, then shook his head. Too much trouble to try to place it. He leaned back against the railing of the dock until there was nothing left there but him, the breeze, and a horse worth a king’s ransom. He took a deep breath, then walked up the path to meet that stallion who was destined for nothing more interesting than an unimportant stable courtesy of an unimportant lord who would need a marginally skilled guardsman who would live out his very long life in obscurity.
Because regardless of what either of his grandsires thought, he was no longer an elven price except by birth. He was also no longer a lad of ten-and-nine, but a man with a rather full tally of years to his credit. He wanted to say that a score of years haunting a musty library at the schools of wizardry hadn’t ruined him for polite society, but he feared it had. The only thing he was likely good for was the crusty society of mannerless garrison knights—and he wasn’t sure he was even fit for that.
But he couldn’t simply loll about and do nothing with his life. He refused to live any longer off the charity of others, though at least at Buidseachd, he’d had his skill for finding hidden spells to trade for his keep.
That was before, when his hands had scarce been equal to the task of even turning pages. Now, he could at least hold a book. A sword was more difficult, but manageable as well.
Which would all lead, he could only hope, to a simple life as a marginally skilled, unremarkable swordsman.
It seemed like the safest thing to do.
One
The pub was as unremarkable as any pub would be on the last day of the week, lit with just the right amount of candlelight reflecting off the dark wood of the floors, tables, and beams in the ceiling. If things were a little more worn than was polite, the wooden paneling sporting more evidence of knives having resided in their soothing embrace than was comforting, and the barmaids more steely-eyed than in other places, who could complain? When a pub owner found himself in the seediest district of Beul, seediest of all cities in Bruadair, he was simply happy to sell his wares in peace.
Aisling slipped inside the door and flattened herself against the wall in as much shadow as she could find and forced herself not to gasp for breath. She wasn’t sure she had ever run as she had just run, as if her life had depended on it, and she sincerely hoped she would never need run that way again. She clutched the wood behind her and told herself that there was indeed still an hour before dark, ample time to decide what she was going to do. No one would be looking for her.
Not yet.
She searched through the crowd to see who might be lurking there. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find the keeping room full of armed guards looking for her. Fortunately, it was simply full of the usual suspects—working-class lads and lassies who had gathered to eat and drink the cheapest fare the kitchen had to offer. It was Beul, after all, and even a full six days of labor didn’t provide much in the way of funds to splash out on fancy foodstuffs.
She looked across the large gathering room to the table where her usual companions were wont to hold forth. To her very great relief, she saw just her usual mates there. Or rather, two of them. A thrill of fear went through her at the thought that any of the other four might have been detained in order to tell those who might want to find her where she might be found—
She pushed aside the thought as a perfectly ridiculous one. She was one of hundreds of weavers who made up the Guild, and she was the least of those who sat before their rickety looms, turning out ream after ream of dull, grey cloth. No one would come looking for her, at least not until her precious few hours of weekly liberty were over and she wasn’t to be found where she was supposed to be.
No one, perhaps, save someone who might have a vested financial interest in her presenting herself at her loom at dawn on the first day of the following week. Or perhaps two someones—
She realized she was wheezing, but she blamed that on the smoke in the air. It had nothing to do with having seen not a quarter hour ago a very well-dressed man and woman exiting an extremely expensive restaurant, then pausing to allow themselves to be admired before continuing on toward their carriage. She had gaped at them, convinced she was imagining things, only to hear them instruct the driver of that fine carriage to take them immediately to the weaver’s guild. The woman had paused before she’d entered the conveyance and turned to look over her shoulder, as if she felt something untoward looking at her.
Aisling supposed that untoward thing would have been she herself, the woman’s daughter.
Her first instinct had been to step forward, but she’d found her way suddenly blocked by a tall, well-dressed gentleman who had paused to ask her directions. If he had thereafter arrived safely at his destination, she would have been surprised. She wasn’t sure she’d said anything that made any sense at all, but who could blame her for her alarm? She had just seen her parents, parents she had been separated from at the tender age of eight and not seen but thrice since—
The door next to her opened, startling her so badly she jumped. She put her hand over her heart, nodded to the entering patron, then pushed away from the wall. She still had time to decide what to do, though the sands were falling rapidly through the hourglass. If she returned to the Guild, she would surely find that her parents had come not to rescue her from her last possible months of indenture, but to secure another seven years of her labor for which they would take a hefty advance.
But if she didn’t return to the Guild, it would mean consequences so dire she couldn’t think on them without horror.
She walked unsteadily across the common room, then collapsed onto the bench set against the wall, thankful it was in the darkest corner of the pub. Perhaps if she could simply sit and think, a solution would come to her.
She looked at the man across the table from her who was cradling his empty mug between his hands and speaking in a low, angry voice. Quinn was the leader of their little band, primarily because he was the loudest. He was not now a handsome man, nor had he been, she suspected, before he’d spent years brawling over his very loud opinions. He looked at present as if he were fully prepared to brawl a bit more with the other member of their group present, a tall, thin man named Euan.
“You’re a fool,” Quinn snapped. “How many ways must I say this before you understand what must be done?”
“We’ve been over this dozens of times, and you’re still daft,” Euan said calmly. “This is Bruadair, remember? No one gets in or out.”
Aisling knew that very well. In fact, not only did no one leave Bruadair, no one left the Guild. She had recently been granted the
privilege of an afternoon a week to leave the grounds, but that was only because she had proven herself to be so relentlessly trustworthy.
Until an hour ago, of course, when she’d seen her doom standing there, dressed in clothing so fine she could safely say the fabric had not been woven on any loom she had ever touched.
She saw a cup of ale suddenly on the table in front of her. She looked at Euan quickly, had a wink as her reward, then wondered how she might manage to imbibe any of that unexpected gift with any success. She reached for it, but her hands were simply not equal to the task of holding it.
“Aisling, what ails you?” Euan asked, rescuing her cup before she dropped it in her lap.
“Who gives a damn what ails her,” Quinn growled. “Aren’t you listening to me? We have to do this thing now, before ’tis too late.”
Aisling couldn’t have agreed more. She tucked her hands under her arms to hide their trembling, then shook her head at Euan’s questioning look. What was there to say? I am considering running away from the Guild, the penalty for which is death. That was the fate of weavers who fled, when they were found. It was also the fate of those who dared cross Bruadair’s borders, though it was rumored there was no finding necessary there. Death followed them as if it were one of Murcach of Dalbyford’s finest hounds, relentless and without mercy. If she didn’t return to the Guild or, worse still, tried to escape Bruadair altogether, then she would—
She pushed aside that thought and wished she had a warmer cloak. Not even the fire could mitigate the chill that ran through her, though she supposed that was perhaps more from the cold hand of terror gripping the back of her neck than it was the draftiness of the pub.
The hard truth was, she had to make a choice between two things that were equally terrible. She could return to the Guild and submit to her parents’ borrowing against another seven years of her labor mere months before she would come of age and could no longer be forced into submission. They had done it twice before, so it wasn’t unthinkable. Or she could flee and most likely find herself submitting to death from any number of other more unpleasant means.