A Tapestry of Spells

by Lynn Kurland

  Bodies soon went scattering. Pointy hats followed, or were thrown into the fire with robes, or plunked down hard onto heads and followed with rather unfriendly fists to covered faces.

  Mages. What an unruly lot.

  A lad of some stripe or another came flying suddenly across the chamber and landed full on the case to her right. Glass shattered immediately. He screamed as he fought his way out of not only glass but spells, then staggered across the room and fell, of course, into the fire. That seemed to trouble him less than what he’d just endured. He pulled himself to his feet and spent equal time beating out flames and trying to wipe spells off himself.

  Sarah saw that the lad had done her a favor. The glass on the center case was shattered and the spells completely ruined. She eased past Ruith and quickly liberated the blue velvet on the point of her knife. She didn’t take the time to see what sort of magic it might have been covered with. She merely folded the cloth and stuck it down the side of her boot. It was sharp, somehow, and painful, but that only increased her determination to have a look at it later, when she might see if there was more there than just the outline of a page.

  A doorway she hadn’t noticed across the chamber opened suddenly and red-coated guardsmen poured in. Those weren’t city guards or wizards’ guards. These were lads from an entirely new employer.

  “Time to go,” Ruith said, taking her by the hand and almost jerking her off her feet as he leapt for the door they’d used to come in through.

  He might have gained it if it hadn’t been for who she assumed was Lord Connail flinging himself at the door and using his body to block it. He looked at Ruith, who had lost the anonymity of his hood over his face at some point in the recent scuffle, and his mouth fell open.

  She understood. As steely eyed and unromantic as she considered herself to be, she had to admit that looking at Ruith left her slightly affected. Perhaps in the same way a bad cold might—namely feverish—but affected just the same.

  Ruith tried to push the mage aside, but Connail wouldn’t budge. Sarah stepped up beside Ruith to use a few of her fine-lady manners to tell the lout to move, but she was distracted by the sight of Connail’s right hand. The fingers were jutting out at odd angles, as if they’d been broken.

  “What befell you?” she asked loudly, over the din.

  “Trouble,” Connail managed, still gaping at Ruith.

  Sarah understood why he couldn’t seem to concentrate. Ruith was profoundly handsome. Then again, Connail wasn’t too far behind him in beauty. Or he would have been if it hadn’t been for a long, thin scar that ran from his forehead, over an eye, and down his cheek. Sarah studied him for a moment or two, then decided the scar didn’t matter. He was handsome, but there was something in his aspect that was very hard, as if years of trauma had found their way into his visage.

  “Where are you going?” he asked Ruith.

  Ruith hesitated, then sighed. “We’re looking for a particular lad, Daniel of Doire. This is his sister—”

  Ruith didn’t finish, and the reason he didn’t finish was he was too busy keeping a suddenly cursing Connail from throwing himself at her. Sarah ducked behind Ruith not because she couldn’t reach her knife, but because her skirts were hampering her ability to truly engage in a decent fight. Best to let someone in trousers see to it.

  She watched Connail land to her left. He tried to push himself up, but he made the mistake of putting weight on his broken fingers. He cried out in pain, then lay there on the ground, cursing furiously.

  “I’m trying to stop him,” Sarah said pointedly, “not aid him.”

  Connail took an unsteady breath, then nodded. “Very well, then. I’ll come along to help you.”

  “You won’t,” Ruith said immediately.

  Connail looked up with bloodshot eyes. “I have answers you want and tales to tell, tales you won’t have if you leave me behind.”

  Ruith sighed, looked briefly over his shoulder at the fight still in progress, then reached down and hauled Connail to his feet. Sarah ushered the mage out the door with perhaps more enthusiasm than she should have, for he stumbled and went down heavily again. Ruith pulled the door to behind them just as something slammed into it. A blade, by the look of the point of it coming through the wood. Ruith pulled Connail back up to his feet again and looked at him seriously.

  “Keep up, or we’ll leave you behind.”

  Connail nodded, took a firmer grip on his cane, and limped quickly down the passageway after Ruith.

  Sarah lost her hat somewhere during that very dodgy trip out of the palace, tripped on her skirts once too often, and then didn’t argue when Ruith took one of his hunting knives and slit the cloth from waist to hem. She was left with her leggings, the shirt that probably would have repelled everything but a sword, and the jacket that flapped along behind her almost as frantically as Connail did.

  At one point on the street, Ruith urged them into a deep, darkened doorway, then stood in front of her and Connail both. His sword gleamed dully in the lamplight from the street. Connail was absolutely silent, though she had been listening to him wheeze for the past ten minutes and suspected she knew what it was costing him to be still.

  They stood there long enough to listen to several groups of different sizes chasing or being chased. She supposed they were fortunate indeed that either they had remained unseen or those who had seen Ruith had decided he was most definitely not worth the risk of engaging.

  Ruith finally resheathed his sword and stepped out of the doorway. He looked up and down the street, then turned to them.

  “Let’s go. Don’t fall behind, my lord.”

  Sarah walked quickly next to him down the street, until he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. He did that, she realized with a start, because they were being followed—and not just by Lord Connail. She started to look over his shoulder, but he tightened his arm quickly.

  “Don’t look back.”

  She took an unsteady breath. “Think we’ll die?”

  “Of course not,” he said, sounding surprised. “I wouldn’t be much of a guardsman if I couldn’t get you safely in and out of a nest of second-rate mages, would I?”

  Connail muttered a succinct and pointed curse, but left it at that.

  Sarah managed a smile. “What now?”

  “We’ll fetch our gear,” he said, “then bolt out of the city, leaving our clumsy companion to follow after us as best he can. The guards won’t bother with us after we’re on the road, for we’ll outrun them.”

  “I think you have too much faith in my abilities to run long distances,” she said.

  He shook his head, then opened the door to their inn. “It took me two days to catch you after you left Doire. That says something.”

  “It says that you walked.”

  He smiled briefly, then looked over his shoulder at Connail. “Find a shadow to hide in. We’ll return in a bit.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but merely ushered Sarah inside. “I didn’t walk,” he said. “Well, not all the time.”

  She paused. “You can be very ...” She stopped because she realized there wasn’t a good way to say what she was thinking without either offending him or offering sentiments that she shouldn’t have. He was her guardsman—a hired one, at that—and she needed to treat him as such.

  It was difficult when he smiled.

  “You can be very kind,” she said finally.

  “See what you think after I finish with Connail,” he said with another faint smile. “Let’s fetch our things, then make haste.”

  That haste, however, didn’t seem to preclude a quick meal or a bit of time lingering over a very decent mug of ale. Sarah enjoyed it, tried to pay for it, and had a snort as her reward. She supposed there was no point in arguing further, so she merely sat back and looked at her companion.

  He was leaning back against the wall, fingering a spoon absently. He was sitting far enough in shadow that he apparently felt his hood unnecessary, though she supposed it w
ould have been better for her peace of mind if he had covered his face. He was, she could admit freely, easily the most handsome man she had ever seen. Handsome, chivalrous, and slightly rough around the edges. A far cry from her brother, who screamed like a gel when he saw a spider and tended to use vile spells to make up for his lack of manliness.

  She realized Ruith was watching her and smiled reflexively. “What?”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “What a woman my brother is.”

  He lifted his eyebrows briefly. “He seems to have done a man’s work here.”

  “Did he?”

  “He terrorized the lads at the palace and assaulted Lord Connail, but I don’t know that he made off with what he came for.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose we can leave the mage behind.”

  “We could, but I don’t think things would go well for him.”

  Ruith sighed deeply and rose. “Then let’s fetch him and escape the city whilst we can.”

  She nodded, then left the inn with him. They collected Connail, who was muttering curses, then walked quickly along the street until the street turned into a smaller road through a less populated bit of village, then a well-worn track that soon left houses and huts behind. She took a deep breath only to realize Ruith was doing the same.

  “I’ve never seen a town so large,” she said with an uncomfortable smile.

  “I’ve never liked a town so large,” he said, pushing his hood back off his face and dragging his sleeve across his brow. “I won’t be unhappy to leave it behind. He looked over his shoulder at the mage twenty paces behind them. “I don’t suppose it would be polite to run.”

  “It wouldn’t be,” Connail called pointedly.

  Sarah looked at Ruith. “Nothing wrong with his ears, apparently. Or your manners.”

  “To my eternal shame.”

  Sarah smiled until she found herself suddenly taken by the arm, her left one fortunately, and tugged forward.

  “Now that we’re finally at our leisure, my dear,” Connail said smoothly, “why don’t you tell me again who you are and how it is you found yourself related to that piece of filth I encountered the day before yesterday?”

  “I am Sarah,” she said. “He was Daniel, and if you don’t stop holding on to my arm so tightly, I’ll take my knife and remove your fingers from your hand to spare you any chance of them being broken in the future.”

  She could have sworn Ruith snorted. It might have been a chuckle. She wasn’t sure, though she was quite certain he didn’t seem inclined to leave her alone with Connail. His presence immediately to her right was proof enough of that, she supposed.

  Connail removed his good hand without hesitation. “No need to rile yourself, my dear. I’ll leave you be.” He looked over her head at Ruith. “And you, my wee rustic, what were you doing in Iomadh?”

  Ruith lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Looking for answers to questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “You’ve already answered them,” Ruith said, “and for that we thank you. And now that I think on it a bit longer, I suspect that you might manage to make it back to town before the watch locks the gates for the night, if you hurry”

  “Oh, nay,” Connail said, shaking his head slowly. “That sneaking wretch stole something from me and I want it back. Once I have it, I’ll go and you can do with him what you want.” He considered Ruith for a moment or two. “Aren’t you curious what I lost?”

  “Not particularly,” Ruith said wearily, “though I suppose you’ll feel compelled to tell us just the same.”

  “I lost a book,” Connail said, his eyes glittering in the faint light of the waning moon. “Or, rather, a single page of a book. I wonder why anyone would want that?” Sarah didn’t look at Ruith. She didn’t dare. She could feel him stiffen for a mere heartbeat, so quickly that she might have thought she’d imagined it if she hadn’t traveled with him long enough to sense it. “I wouldn’t presume to guess,” Ruith said, very quietly.

  Connail smiled. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I am a lowly swordsman,” Ruith said in measured tones. “Such things are far beyond my ken.”

  “We must all be satisfied with our limitations, I suppose,” Connail said.

  “Indeed, we must,” Ruith agreed.

  Connail looked at Ruith for another long moment, then tripped and caught himself heavily on his leg before he fell. He said nothing thereafter, but simply concentrated on keeping up with them.

  Sarah remained next to Ruith, walking silently until they reached where the others had camped to wait for them. She wondered about Connail and why he seemed determined to vex Ruith. She would have warned him that he was harassing the wrong man, but she supposed he would discover that soon enough on his own.

  The others in their company made a fuss of Connail, which seemed to please him greatly. She accepted a cup of ale from Master Franciscus, then watched Ruith do the same. He seemed uninterested in the goings-on, but she could see he was watching Connail closely enough.

  “He’s what I expected him to be,” she remarked idly.

  “Hmmm.”

  She considered a bit more, then leaned back against the wagon. “He seemed surprised to see you.”

  “He mistook me for someone else.”

  Sarah added that mystery to her list of things she would press him on when he wasn’t paying attention—if that day ever came. He was too canny for his own good. It must have come from so many years pretending to be what he was not.

  “Where to now?” she asked.

  He sighed. “Your brother has been going from city to city, which has made following him easy, only because there is but one road out of Shettlestoune. Gilean lies yet ahead, but after that we must either turn left toward Angesand and Neroche, or right, toward the mountains. Caernevon is there, to the north, and it is a major city, but I’m not sure it would be a place your brother would go.”

  “Why not?”

  “The mage there comes from a long line of wizards wearing six rings of mastery on their hands. Even his guardsmen there are full of serious magic. Daniel would find it difficult indeed to gain entrance into the wizard’s hall and if he managed that, he wouldn’t get any farther.” He shook his head. “These lads your brother has visited so far are children in power by comparison.”

  “Even Connail?”

  He looked at the man holding court near the fire, then drained his cup and set it inside Franciscus’s wagon. “Aye, even him.” He nodded toward the fire. “You sleep. I need to pace.”

  “Perhaps I should set his fingers.”

  “Or you could wait until tomorrow when I might actually have the presence of mind to enjoy the noise.”

  She smiled briefly. “Why did we bring him?”

  “I have no idea,” he said grimly. “I’ll go have a walk and see if I can’t divine the answer to that. It may take me all night.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the fire. “Go sleep. You need it.”

  She wanted to tell him he was the one who looked as if he should sleep, but he had already released her and melted into the shadows. She drank again of Master Franciscus’s finest, then walked back over to the fire. She had meant to tell Ruith about the velvet swatch in her boot, but she supposed another day of secrets wouldn’t matter. He looked as though he had enough on his mind already.

  She walked over to the company, ignored Connail’s piercing look, and stretched out in front of the fire. She stared at it, watching the shape of the flame and the echoes of the wood’s memories weaving in and out of it as it burned, then closed her eyes because she was simply too tired to look any more at things that were more than they should have been.

  Sleep, however, did not come easily.

  Twelve

  Ruith stood in the shadows with his arms folded over his chest and came to two conclusions.

  First, Connail of Iomadh was going to die very soon on the end of a very sharp blade if he didn’t learn on which sid
e of the fire to place his sorry arse.

  And second, Sarah of Doire had no magic.

  The first he put away to chew on at a more opportune moment. The second was far more intriguing, so he turned to examine it more closely.

  He wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. He supposed he could have blamed weariness. He hadn’t slept well—or much, actually—in almost a fortnight. It had spared him foul dreams, but little else. In truth, that was too convenient an excuse for not having realized earlier what one of her secrets might be. He hadn’t seen what was in plain sight because he had either been staring at Sarah like a slack-jawed sixteen-year-old-and given that he had a perfect view of one of those on a daily basis in Ned, he knew of what he spoke—or doing his damndest to ignore her, her bloody flyaway hair, her pale eyes that took in more than what she should have been able to see, and her hands that continued to weave every damn thing but spells.

  He paused. He was beginning to think he swore too much. His mother wouldn’t have approved.

  But she would have approved of Sarah.

  Sarah, who had never once in his presence made any magic at all. Sarah, who was now starting the fire by hand whilst making a production of weaving a spell over it with such a convincing manner that Seirceil had closed his eyes as if to better listen to her lovely voice and Oban was voicing his approval with silently woven spells that set flowers and butterflies dancing about her head.

  Connail was likely too busy flattering her to notice anything, Franciscus was working on preparing a pot to put over the fire, and Ned was tending the animals. That left only him to stand there and wonder if she would notice if he set fire to her wood with a bit of his own magic.

  Before he could think that through fully, much less act upon the idea, her spark caught; then she concentrated on blowing it into a flame that she then fed surreptitiously whilst turning the full force of her very pale green eyes on Connail, who seemed every bit as affected by her as might have been expected.