is—sorry, was—his daughter. He may have learned something from her whilst I wasn’t watching.”
“I don’t believe you were—or are, rather—terrified of either of them,” Rùnach said wryly, “but I also think you would rather let me live than do me in. It would be a shame to miss the chance to satisfy your curiosity and grind me under your heel at the same time.”
“There is that,” Weger agreed. “And I suppose apart from your hands you’re useful enough.”
“Thank you.”
Weger glanced about himself casually, then looked back at Rùnach. “And I might have the odd question for you, when the company in the evenings grows tedious and I’m looking for something to amuse me.”
“I imagine you might.”
Weger studied him silently for a moment or two. “Rumor has it you died at the well.”
“It was a very near thing,” Rùnach conceded, “but nay, I did not.”
“Where have you been keeping yourself for the past score of years? Hiding in Sìle’s pantry, eating through his larder, or in his library, memorizing spells you shouldn’t know?”
“Neither,” Rùnach said, refusing to spare any regret for not having chosen either of those very appealing alternatives. “I’ve been at Buidseachd.”
“Ah,” Weger said, nodding slowly, “somehow quite unsurprising. Were you brushing up on your considerable skills there, or something else?”
Rùnach supposed it was none of Weger’s damned business what he’d been doing, though the truth of it probably wasn’t believable. He’d been hiding, true, but he’d also been looking for the sources of his father’s spells. Trying to explain why was, well, difficult. He’d had his reasons, but those reasons were too complicated for a conversation out in the open when he wasn’t at his best. He looked at Weger evenly.
“I was hunting.”
“I don’t think I’ll ask what,” Weger said. He shot Rùnach a look. “I understand your sire also wasn’t quite as dead as everyone thought.”
“Do you?”
Weger shrugged. “I hear many things, though I imagine you do as well. Perhaps you’ve heard a few tidings of a recent nature that might delight and amuse your future swordmaster.”
Rùnach tried not to smile. He’d heard Weger had a ready ear for gossip, but he hadn’t truly believed it until that moment. As for the rest, he supposed those were details he could give easily enough.
“My brother Ruithneadh and his newly made wife Sarah had a little chat with my sire at his home in Doìre, of all places. They decided that for his own health and well-being it might be best he keep to his house and garden.”
“Generous of them.”
“Ruith thought so.”
“And how did Gair react to such kindness?”
Rùnach shrugged. “I wasn’t there to hear his dulcet tones or pleasant words, though I understand there was ample of both. I believe Ruith and Sarah were rather relieved to be out of earshot.”
Weger grunted. “I have to wonder if he might like a houseguest.”
“Have you one you’d like to rid yourself of, my lord?”
“Aye, ’twas a gift,” Weger said sourly, “from a certain lad who earned my mark rather recently. I’m not sure who I want to kill first, the gift or the giver. And the latter was the newly made king of Neroche, if you’re curious.”
“What was his gift, then?”
“If he didn’t tell you, I expect I won’t. And unfortunately ’tis nothing more than I likely deserve, perhaps, for allowing Miach out my front gates without having had my price out of him beforehand.” He frowned at Rùnach. “I hesitate to ask what you’ll offer me.”
Rùnach untied a purse from his belt and handed it over without ceremony. “Gold, gems, and other items from an unmagical treasury containing a part of my inheritance.”
Weger hefted the bag expertly, chortled, then tucked it into a pocket on the inside of a very serviceable cloak. “I imagine I will count that with glee. Who’s the gel?”
“What
“I don’t believe you were—or are, rather—terrified of either of them,” Rùnach said wryly, “but I also think you would rather let me live than do me in. It would be a shame to miss the chance to satisfy your curiosity and grind me under your heel at the same time.”
“There is that,” Weger agreed. “And I suppose apart from your hands you’re useful enough.”
“Thank you.”
Weger glanced about himself casually, then looked back at Rùnach. “And I might have the odd question for you, when the company in the evenings grows tedious and I’m looking for something to amuse me.”
“I imagine you might.”
Weger studied him silently for a moment or two. “Rumor has it you died at the well.”
“It was a very near thing,” Rùnach conceded, “but nay, I did not.”
“Where have you been keeping yourself for the past score of years? Hiding in Sìle’s pantry, eating through his larder, or in his library, memorizing spells you shouldn’t know?”
“Neither,” Rùnach said, refusing to spare any regret for not having chosen either of those very appealing alternatives. “I’ve been at Buidseachd.”
“Ah,” Weger said, nodding slowly, “somehow quite unsurprising. Were you brushing up on your considerable skills there, or something else?”
Rùnach supposed it was none of Weger’s damned business what he’d been doing, though the truth of it probably wasn’t believable. He’d been hiding, true, but he’d also been looking for the sources of his father’s spells. Trying to explain why was, well, difficult. He’d had his reasons, but those reasons were too complicated for a conversation out in the open when he wasn’t at his best. He looked at Weger evenly.
“I was hunting.”
“I don’t think I’ll ask what,” Weger said. He shot Rùnach a look. “I understand your sire also wasn’t quite as dead as everyone thought.”
“Do you?”
Weger shrugged. “I hear many things, though I imagine you do as well. Perhaps you’ve heard a few tidings of a recent nature that might delight and amuse your future swordmaster.”
Rùnach tried not to smile. He’d heard Weger had a ready ear for gossip, but he hadn’t truly believed it until that moment. As for the rest, he supposed those were details he could give easily enough.
“My brother Ruithneadh and his newly made wife Sarah had a little chat with my sire at his home in Doìre, of all places. They decided that for his own health and well-being it might be best he keep to his house and garden.”
“Generous of them.”
“Ruith thought so.”
“And how did Gair react to such kindness?”
Rùnach shrugged. “I wasn’t there to hear his dulcet tones or pleasant words, though I understand there was ample of both. I believe Ruith and Sarah were rather relieved to be out of earshot.”
Weger grunted. “I have to wonder if he might like a houseguest.”
“Have you one you’d like to rid yourself of, my lord?”
“Aye, ’twas a gift,” Weger said sourly, “from a certain lad who earned my mark rather recently. I’m not sure who I want to kill first, the gift or the giver. And the latter was the newly made king of Neroche, if you’re curious.”
“What was his gift, then?”
“If he didn’t tell you, I expect I won’t. And unfortunately ’tis nothing more than I likely deserve, perhaps, for allowing Miach out my front gates without having had my price out of him beforehand.” He frowned at Rùnach. “I hesitate to ask what you’ll offer me.”
Rùnach untied a purse from his belt and handed it over without ceremony. “Gold, gems, and other items from an unmagical treasury containing a part of my inheritance.”
Weger hefted the bag expertly, chortled, then tucked it into a pocket on the inside of a very serviceable cloak. “I imagine I will count that with glee. Who’s the gel?”
“What
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