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looked like mercenaries and behaved with no manners at all.
    She had the feeling her life might depend on it.

Three

    Ruith walked up the slick cobblestone streets of Beinn òrain toward the schools of wizardry, trying to ignore the memories that assailed him. The last time he’d walked his current path, he’d been with his mother and a pair of his brothers as they’d prepared to breach those formidable walls for a visit to a particular master. The castle had been draped in heavy mist on that morning, just as it was now. He almost couldn’t decide if he were dreaming or awake.
    He supposed some of that came from weariness. He had either walked or run with Sarah for the entirety of the last four days—in the pouring rain, no less—stopping only to drink when necessary and eat from the rather meager bag of food he’d snatched from the camp of the dead Malairtian traders. He hadn’t dared linger to look for more supplies at that particular camp.
    He had, however, taken the time at that camp to wrap Mosach and Táir up in each other’s spells a bit more securely, which he’d considered nothing more than just recompense for the lives of those slain traders. He hadn’t cared to stay and exchange pleasantries with them. He’d simply looked for hoofprints leading away from camp and decided, with a fervent hope that he hadn’t chosen amiss, to follow the single set of tracks. Finding Sarah alive and well had been a vast relief.
    Or it would have been, if he hadn’t realized as he’d caught up with her that he’d brought along more with him than not enough food to see them across the plains.
    He’d immediately decided to adopt the attitude that he’d used to save Sarah’s life in Ceangail. He’d forced himself to keep up the ruse of treating Sarah as his servant—or worse—simply because he hadn’t wanted to give whomever had been following them any reason to think that she meant anything to him. He had regretted every harsh word that had come out of his mouth, knowing full well that each one wounded her.
    Or at least he’d flattered himself that such might be the case, but given how quickly she’d descended into silence and ceased looking at him, perhaps he had overestimated his appeal.
    He peered past his dripping hood to judge the distance between himself and the keep, sitting like an enormous bird of prey at the head of the street. Perhaps it was madness to think that he could even get past the gate guards. Even if he managed that, there was no guarantee he would gain the particular set of chambers he hoped for—or that the master who lived in those chambers would allow him entrance.
    Unfortunately, at the moment he had no other choice. The idea of taking Sarah to Shettlestoune had been unthinkable, simply because there was no safety there. He would happily have taken her either to Lake Cladach or Tòrr Dòrainn, but he couldn’t bring himself to sully either place with his father’s bastards—assuming, perhaps poorly, that they were what hunted him.
    That he wasn’t sure galled him, but he had no one to blame but himself for not being able to identify his enemy. He had grown accustomed over the years to looking out for foes of a merely mortal nature. Keeping a weather eye out for mages hadn’t been a skill he’d cultivated, though now he wondered why not.
    He suppressed the urge to look over his shoulder to see if they were still being followed. He hadn’t seen anyone since they’d reached the city, but again, he couldn’t be sure. The only thing in his favor was that Beinn òrain was a busy port town and getting lost in a crowd was easily done. And now they were less than two hundred paces from the gates. Safety was within his grasp.
    And once he’d reached the particular chamber he was aiming for inside those intimidating walls, he would set Sarah down in a chair before the fire, then fall to his knees and apologize profusely for his boorish behavior. He wasn’t entirely certain that he would