A Tapestry of Spells

by Lynn Kurland

  Ruith looked down to find that she’d held out her hand, as if to seal that bargain.

  He wasn’t sure if he should haul her into his arms, or use that hand to spin her away from him and nudge her in an entirely different direction before his descent into madness was final.

  He did neither. He simply turned and walked away. He had to, whilst he still had some control over himself.

  He walked five paces, then stopped. He took several deep breaths, then shook his head. Madness? He was fully in it and the blame for that could be laid at the feet of that astonishing woman standing behind him. He rubbed his hands over his face, then turned and walked back to where she was standing. She had dropped her hand to her side, though, and she looked as ready to bolt as he generally felt himself.

  He stopped a pace away from her, then held out his hand. He waited until she reluctantly put hers into his; then he bent over it with a courtly, formal bow even his mother’s mother could have found no fault with.

  “I would be,” he said, straightening, “honored to serve you thus, my lady.”

  She pulled her hand away and smiled uncomfortably. “You’re daft.”

  “I’m afraid so. ”

  She laughed a little and it was like sunlight streaming down into the very depths of an impenetrable forest. Pure, pale, and so very welcome.

  “They’re leaving us behind,” she said. “Well, save for that damned dog of Seirceil’s. Tell me again why we had to bring him?”

  “So he can torment your horse.”

  She smiled. “I imagine so.” She looked up at him briefly. “I’m tempted to ask you if you ever had magic, but perhaps that is too personal a question.”

  “Once, perhaps,” he said quickly, before he thought better of it. The words were easier than he’d thought they might be. “Not now.”

  Only that wasn’t exactly true. He realized with a start that he hadn’t managed to stuff all his magic back down into that well. There was a tiny bit running around inside him, inciting all sorts of anarchy. He started to chase it, then he stopped himself. He would later, when he had the peace to do it properly. For now, he had more than enough to occupy his time.

  Master Oban called for Sarah and she shot him a smile before she ran to catch up to the others. Ruith watched her go work her magic on someone besides him.

  She had tried to save his pride. She was currently trying to save two very damaged mages as well. She collected souls as she likely collected skeins of yarn, waiting until the perfect pattern presented itself so she could weave them all into something beautiful.

  He was starting to think she was going to use him in that pattern as well.

  He grasped for his fast-departing shreds of common sense. He didn’t need to be woven. He wanted to find Daniel, use his magic a final time to stop the whoreson, then put it all behind him and go home. He wanted his roaring fire, Master Franciscus’s pale ale, and his very pedestrian, unmagical life.

  Instead, he was out in the wild with a maker of beer, two grievously wounded mages, a farm boy who should have still been tied to his mother’s apron strings, and a woman who carried an evil-looking hunting knife tucked in the back of her belt and was far too perceptive for his comfort.

  If her brother was out to destroy the world, Sarah of Doìre was out to save it.

  If the woman had been a man, she would have given the Heroes marching pompously into the Gloom a reason to scamper back home with their tails between their legs. Or she might have cut their money from their belts, thanked them, then run off in the other direction to use that gold for her own, more useful purposes.

  He shook his head for the hundredth time since he’d met her and wondered how he was going to survive her, much less the task she had set before them.

  Hired sword.

  His father would have been appalled. His mother would have likely smiled, then told Sarah she had put him in his place quite nicely. His brothers, well, his brothers would have laughed themselves sick over it. His wee sister likely would have looked at Sarah and found her quite to her liking. Then again, Mhorghain had been but six when she’d been slain, so perhaps he was imagining her in ways she wouldn’t have become. She now would have been a score and six, not much older than Sarah herself—

  He turned away from those thoughts before they pained him. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He would be exactly what Sarah had asked him to be, because it was safer that way. And he would take those little bits of magic he hadn’t managed to corral and return them to their place the first chance he had.

  And then he would think on a way to find that bloody Daniel of Doìre so he could render the fool senseless and rifle through his gear to see just what sort of spells he might be carrying in his pack. He didn’t imagine he would be surprised by what he found, which was all the more reason to find Sarah’s brother sooner rather than later before he realized his sister was following him and decided turning his vile spells on her would be good sport.

  Ruith put his head down and concentrated on the ground in front of him.

  Aye, the sooner he managed it, the better.

  Eleven

  Sarah stood by a window in a very lovely inn and looked down at her hands by the last of the sun’s setting rays. They were no longer green, which was perhaps the only improvement she could see over the past few days. The journey from Firth to their current city of Iomadh hadn’t been difficult physically, but it had seemed longer than it should have. She supposed that had much to do with the thoughts she couldn’t manage to escape.

  She feared she might be losing her mind.

  She wasn’t one to give in to any sort of dramatics, but she was seriously beginning to question her ability to carry on. It wasn’t worry that she might not manage to find Daniel, or that even if she did find him, she might not be able to subdue him. She fully intended to try to bribe the wizard of Iomadh somehow to see to her quest for her, as she’d resigned herself to the fact that she couldn’t do it herself. She was well aware of her limitations when it came to things magical.

  Nay, it wasn’t that.

  It was that she was seeing things.

  She had wondered, at first, if the entire county of Shettlestoune was under a curse that left the inhabitants slightly blinded to all but what was passing directly beneath their noses. That would have explained nicely the clearing of her sight now that she was somewhere else, but Master Franciscus didn’t look as if he were being delighted by the same, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask him if he thought her mad lest he agree wholeheartedly that she was. Ignorance was a comfortable nest to linger in, in the right sort of circumstances.

  She had asked Ruith, in an offhanded sort of way, if he thought things were a bit more interesting to the eye of late, but he had only frowned and shaken his head.

  So, it seemed it was just she who was being subjected to views of things that weren’t there. After a while, she’d begun to suspect that either her vision was deteriorating or her mind was. Or both. That, added to the burn on her arm that grew worse with every day that passed, had left her almost more concerned about her own self than Daniel and his mischief.

  “Ready?”

  She looked at Ruith, who had come to stand just inside the doorway of the chamber they’d taken for the day to use as a potential refuge should things go south with their plans. Ready? Aye, she was ready to finish her quest quickly, whilst there was still something left of her to do so.

  She smoothed her hand over her velvet cloak and adjusted her matching skirts. She didn’t dare touch the blouse that was simply bristling with rows and rows of finely wrought lace. It felt more like armor than fine clothes, and she wasn’t altogether sure it wouldn’t leave marks on her hands. She felt absurdly overdressed, but Ruith had been adamant that at least one of them needed to be of a certain stature to gain entrance to the wizard’s palace, and since he had been hired to protect her, it was fitting that she look the part of nobility.

  At least she had on her legging
s and boots underneath her skirts. She might have been pretending to be a fine lady, but if necessary, she wanted to be able to dash for the nearest exit.

  Ruith, however, looked like nothing more than what he was: a secretive man, cloaked, hooded, sporting more sharp things than any man with sense should have. He’d left his bow behind with their companions without the city walls, but she half suspected that had been an oversight.

  She didn’t bother peering into his hood to see his expression as she passed him. He had been grim from the moment they’d left Firth. He had avoided Master Seirceil completely and distanced himself equally from Ned and Master Oban. She might have been tempted to think he was shunning her as well, but he’d kept her within arm’s reach for the whole of the journey. As if he’d been trying to protect her—which, she supposed, was what she’d hired him to do. But conversation had been minimal, at best.

  “Any tidings about this wizard here?” she asked as she followed him from the chamber and along the passageway.

  He shook his head. “None but the usual noisings that he’s too important for simple magic and that the odds of seeing any but his underlings are not good.”

  She waited to question that until they were standing outside the inn, hovering on the edge of a swiftly flowing river of townspeople, more townspeople than she’d ever seen in one place together. It was distracting, but when she started to see flickers of things she wasn’t sure were really there, she pulled herself back to herself and looked up at Ruith.

  “And you think we’ll manage to convince his guards to open the door?”

  He reached out and settled her hat more firmly on her head. “I think they’ll be falling over themselves to let you in, dressed as you are in your finery.”

  “You’re trying to humor me so I don’t stick you for forcing me into this bit of frippery,” she said with a scowl. She couldn’t be entirely sure, but that had almost sounded as if that could have been mistaken for a compliment. “I will repay you for it, believe me. And my revenge will be unpleasant.”

  “If you were all that tormented me, Sarah of Doire,” he said with a sigh, “my life would be quite lovely indeed.” He took a step backward. “Let’s see what our good lord Connail has been doing with himself for the past few days.”

  “Or if he’s had a visit?”

  “I didn’t want to say that, but aye, that’s something to see as well.” He pulled his hood forward and inclined his head. “After you, my lady.”

  She felt altogether ridiculous marching up the street in clothing she couldn’t have afforded if she’d saved for a year and trying to keep her head under a hat with that damned feather that continually fell over her eye. She hazarded the occasional glance at those who passed her. No one seemed to think anything of her save a few lads dressed in equally ridiculous outfits who sent interested glances her way. She supposed she might manage the ruse after all.

  Connail of Iomadh was apparently every bit as impressive as he thought himself to be if his house was a good reflection of the mage. Sarah had to fight not to stand there and gape at the ornate gilt door that opened not onto a simple house but onto what could only be termed a palace. She had never seen anything so fine. Not even her imagination had produced anything close to it.

  She looked at Ruith. “Here?” she squeaked.

  “Allow me to make sure your path is free of undesirables, Your Ladyship,” he said, stepping in front of her.

  Sarah listened to him confidently and with a distinct trace of hauteur in his voice talk their way into the palace and all the way up the stairs to Lord Connail’s receiving chamber.

  She could hear the shouting before they reached it. Ruith paused, then shrugged and knocked. She knew what he was thinking. Perhaps Connail was inside with Daniel, which would save them time and trouble in continuing to chase after him.

  The door was wrenched open and a mage stood there, his robes askew, his hair looking as if he’d had a fright that had left it standing straight up. He took one look at Ruith, squealed in fear, then shut the door—onto Ruith’s foot.

  That didn’t seem to bother Ruith overmuch, for he only grunted, then pushed the door open and walked into absolute chaos. Sarah would have suggested that perhaps a measured retreat might be in order, but she didn’t have the chance. Ruith ushered her over to a corner, bid her stay there, then walked as easily into the middle of what looked to be a pitched battle as if he really were the mad-man she had always thought he might be behind that handsome face. She stood in the shadows and attempted to identify the players and shout out a warning if someone tried to sneak up behind Ruith and stab him. The mages were the easiest, only because they were the most richly dressed. There were five of them clustered in a group near the fire, braying loudly at a set of guardsmen who had trooped in, apparently looking for trouble. She didn’t know all that much about city guardsmen-Doìre certainly didn’t have any—but surely these lads wouldn’t kill first and ask questions later. Perhaps things would go well after all.

  That hope was summarily dashed when another man strode out into the chamber swathed in a black robe and wearing a golden hat that was at least half again as tall as he was.

  She paused. Perhaps strode was the wrong word. She had thought the cane he leaned upon was actually his wizard’s staff, but he leaned too heavily upon it for it to be merely something for magic making.

  He started shouting at the guards and poking at them with his staff. That worked fairly well until he lost his balance and went down, leaving one of the guardsmen reaching for him.

  His magelings didn’t care for that, apparently.

  Sarah watched, openmouthed, as all-out war ensued. She looked for Ruith to shout a warning but saw that he had already stepped back away from the fray. He was talking calmly to what were apparently two of the more disinterested palace guards.

  She began to look around the chamber for possible exits. Unfortunately there was only one in plain view and that lay behind Ruith and his companions. She was trapped for the moment, but Ruith was still breathing so perhaps the time to panic hadn’t come yet. And what blades wouldn’t solve, wit might, so she looked around her to see what that might reveal.

  She had been deposited into a darkened spot between a wall and a large case. She saw nothing out of the ordinary until she eased out of her hiding spot and realized she was within arm’s reach of what had to be the most valuable of Lord Connail’s treasures.

  The entire cabinet was covered with strands of something she supposed were spells of protection. She recognized none of them, then she froze. She was accustomed to seeing, or imagining she was seeing, bits of Daniel’s spells that he’d inadvertently left behind, but those had been nothing more than strands of black, fraying threads. Identifying their use—save for anything untoward—had always been beyond her.

  But now, things had changed.

  She didn’t touch the spell, but she leaned over to have a closer look at it. There were several languages of magic, and her mother had insisted she attain fluency in them all. Putting power behind the words had been, of course, another matter entirely, but she could certainly repeat a spell with as much skill as the next mage. The spell before her had been fashioned from Wexham, the favored magic of the rulers of Neroche. She could see that because, she realized with a start, she could see the words of the spell not so much scattered over the strands of the spell, nor wrapped around those strands, but woven into them.

  As if the spell had been a tapestry and Wexham had been its warp threads.

  She would have lingered over that astonishing realization, but the shouting behind her made it impossible to concentrate. She looked over her shoulder to find the undermages fighting with spells and the guards brandishing swords to convince them to stop. Ruith was now leaning back against a wall with one foot propped up underneath him, looking as if he were simply waiting his turn in a crowded pub. Apparently, they weren’t in danger yet.

  She turned back to the spell and noticed the tiny barbs on each
strand, barbs put there to inflict enormous damage on anyone foolish enough to try to sweep the spell away. She wasn’t foolish, so she immediately gave up any idea she might have had to rid the case of magic and have a closer look at what was inside.

  She was certainly no expert in the matter of trinkets, given that her mother had preferred stockpiling gold rather than things to dust, but it appeared to her that everything that resided safely behind very finely wrought glass was there because of its power, not its beauty. She immediately dismissed vials, jewelry, and obviously quite well-used wands in favor of the center spot. There, under glass, was a case lined in what looked to be blue velvet of the finest quality.

  But whatever had lain there before was there no longer.

  Sarah leaned over carefully and examined the case’s lock. It wasn’t broken, but that said nothing. Perhaps it didn’t require a key; it required a spell. A pity she possessed nothing equal to opening it. She wondered what had been so precious that it had required such care and security.

  She looked around and found a torch sitting in a sconce to her left. She fetched it and held it close enough to see but not so close that the spell was disturbed. She was no king’s riddler, but she thought she might be able to divine the impression of what looked to have been a book.

  Or a page of a book, rather.

  The thought of a single page of magic being held so dear gave her the chills, so she turned away and looked for something else to think about. She replaced the torch and walked slowly back to her original spot. She leaned against the wall and watched as the chaos in the chamber deteriorated into something of a pitched battle. She pulled her knife out of her belt because it seemed prudent, though she wasn’t sure she would accomplish anything past having someone trip and fall upon it.

  She began to feel a faint bit of alarm when Ruith drew his sword. He didn’t call for her, though, or even look at her, so she took that to mean she was safe enough where she was. He worked his way over to stand with his back to her, which made her feel even more comfortable.