by Lynn Kurland
“Care to share it?”
Ruith wasn’t sure where to begin. He had looked at the velvet cloth of Connail’s Sarah had made off with and it was indeed a perfect imprint of his father’s spell of Reconstruction. It wasn’t necessarily a dangerous spell, though he supposed under the right circumstances, he who found himself reconstructed might find himself unable to protect himself against further assaults. Fortunately, Ruith highly doubted Daniel would use it with any success on anything that moved.
But if he managed it to any degree, he might redouble his efforts to find more of those sorts of spells.
Ruith looked at Franciscus and forced himself to maintain a blase expression. “What do you know of Gair of Ceangail?”
“Other than the tales Connail has seemed determined to bludgeon us with?” Franciscus asked. He shrugged. “Just rumors. There are many nasty little mages weaving dark spells, but few of note, wouldn’t you agree?”
Ruith nodded and refrained from comment.
“Lothar, Gair, Droch of Saothair, and Wehr of Wrekin, of course, come immediately to mind, though Gair, at least, was rumored to have manners and a decent bit of charm. I can’t speak with any authority about the others.”
A decent bit of charm.Ruith pursed his lips. Aye, his father had been charming—to others. And to his family, when it suited him. Unfortunately, the mercurial changes in temper had been swift and all the more terrifying because of their unpredictability.
“Ruith?”
Ruith unclenched his fists, realizing only then that he needed to. He managed a smile. “I was just thinking that if Daniel knew what he had in his possession, he might be willing to see if he could have a bit more of it.”
He couldn’t bring himself to talk about his father’s spell of Diminishing. He had watched his father completely strip other mages of their power at least a score of times. He didn’t like to remember the particulars, so he didn’t. Even the fact that Daniel possessed but half of that spell was enough to turn his blood cold. If Daniel found the other half, even if he didn’t possess the power to wield the entire thing fully, he could do terrible damage.
Ruith didn’t want to think about what would happen to the world if someone with a substantial amount of power got hold of both halves of that spell. Daniel might think he could undo the world, but he was hopelessly lost in delusions of grandeur. But the spell of Diminishing in the hands of Lothar of Wychweald, or Droch of Saothair?
Devastating.
“And you suspect you know where Daniel might be going?” Franciscus asked.
Ruith dragged himself back to the conversation at hand. “I think Ceangail’s as good a place as any to start a search. But I can’t walk all the way there and I can’t take a large company with me. Especially one that includes that damned Oban, continually waving his wand and covering us with rainbows and whatever else he sends scampering around us at all hours.”
“Unicorns.”
“I was trying to forget that.”
Franciscus laughed briefly and reached up to put his hand on Ruith’s shoulder. “I am too. You go tonight and I’ll keep things together here. If worse comes to worst, Oban will create us an army of mythical beasts to charge our enemies and blind them with their twinkling.”
“I knew there was a reason we needed him,” Ruith said dryly. He took a deep breath, then nodded. “I thank you, my friend.” He paused, then looked at Franciscus seriously. “There are things that hunted us in the woods of Shettlestoune. Things that weren’t precisely human, I don’t think. I think ’twas me they were seeking, but I can’t guarantee that. But felling them is no easy task.”
“Then why don’t you leave me your weapons and I’ll teach Ned to use them.”
“When I’m dead and no sooner,” Ruith said without hesitation. “The lad would ruin my arrows, put chinks in my sword, and lose my knives. You’ll just have to watch during the nights. But I’ll leave you most of my gear. I won’t need it on my present errand.”
“You’ll be back, then.”
Ruith nodded, though he was less sure of that than perhaps he should have been. He needed to find Daniel of Doire and stop him, which might entail going into places where he wouldn’t have taken his worst enemy. Taking Sarah along to those places was out of the question.
But if he didn’t take her, he might not recognize Daniel in a crowd, which would leave him losing the chance to stop the man.
Worse still, he might possibly be leaving her in the sights of monsters and mages she couldn’t simply discourage with her hunting knife.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “In a day or two.”
Franciscus looked at him and considered for a moment or two. “Shall I continue on to Slighe, then?”
“Were you headed that way?” Ruith asked in surprise. “I assumed you would turn west for Angesand or make for Penrhyn.” He frowned. “Actually I hadn’t given much thought to your journey’s end past being grateful for your company now.”
“And my ale.”
“And your cooking,” Ruith added with a smile. He thought for a moment, then nodded. “If you’re going through the mountains, then aye, you could make for Slighe, though I have many miles to travel before I would find myself there.”
“You and Sarah, you mean.”
“Of course,” Ruith said without hesitation.
Franciscus looked at him closely, then pursed his lips and walked away. Ruith watched him go, then turned to go help Seirceil break camp.
It took him longer to reach Gilean than he’d intended only because he spent too much time thinking, which left him walking instead of running. He supposed, as he walked through a relatively crowded market, that that thinking was what had allowed someone to follow him without his having noticed.
Truly, he was in desperate need of sleep.
He yawned, stopped to purchase a rather wizened apple from an equally wizened-looking farmer, then leaned in close over the fruit.
“Might I use your alley?” he asked politely.
“For that lad behind you?” the man asked with a toothless grin. “Have your little brother following where he shouldn’t, eh?”
“Absolutely,” Ruith agreed. He had a nod for his trouble, then wandered away, doubling back behind carts and humanity until he had a clear path to the very tiny alleyway behind that seller of last year’s fruit.
He waited until the boy, Ned he assumed, had come walking by, then jerked him off his feet and into the dark.
He froze at the feel of steel against his throat. It was only then, after he realized that his assailant was gasping because he had hold of her—aye, that was her—right wrist, that he swore and released her.
Her blade didn’t move.
“I didn’t think you could kill with your left hand,” he said carefully.
“I can, if I need two old hens for the stewpot and my right hand is holding one of them.” She pulled her knife away and resheathed it. She cursed. “I must find a mage to heal this arm.”
He had to stop himself from making werelight, then had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing a bit more. He pulled her sleeve gently up her arm and relinquished the idea of not swearing. The grooves were yet deeper than they had been the day before and the blackness still spreading. He supposed there would come a time when there was naught but rot.
He was going to have to do something about it.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to, as long as that something had nothing to do with magic. Unfortunately, there was no denying that what ate at her flesh had nothing to do with a normal wound and everything to do with some vile spell.
Of his father’s, as it happened.
“Can a mage heal himself?” she asked, looking up at him in the faint light of the morning sun.
He lifted an eyebrow briefly. “Many have tried, or so I’ve heard. Unsuccessfully, I might add.”
“Do they merely fail at the task or is there something more interesting that happens?”
“I couldn’t say” H
e gently pulled her sleeve down over her arm again. “I think the binding principle is that healing can only be given away.”
“Lest a mage hole up in a cave by himself and forgo any contact with others?” she asked, looking up at him unflinchingly.
He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m just your guardsman,” he said. “What would I know of any of it, in truth?”
She pursed her lips. “Some guardsman. Where were you last night?”
“Running.”
“Not all night.” She frowned up at him. “I’m paying you to guard my back and here you are, having scampered off without a word.”
She reminded him sharply of his six-year-old sister who’d been slain. He had a very vivid memory of Mhorghain putting her hands on her hips and glaring up at their eldest brother, who’d stood three feet taller than she, when he’d tried to tell her what to do once too often. Ruith had to lean back against a very handy wall until he could catch his breath. He attempted a smile, but that only seemed to irritate Sarah more.
“Do you want me to leave you here, bleeding to death in this alley? And stop your bloody smirking. You’re not as immune to me as you think you are.”
If she only had any idea ... Nay, he wasn’t immune at all.
“Don’t do it again,” she added. “Leave me, that is.”
He bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck for a moment or two, then looked at her from under his eyebrows. “Very well,” he said, finally. “I won’t.”
“I should point out that you didn’t leave me before; you deserted me. ’Tis a more serious offense.”
He pursed his lips to keep from smiling, which he supposed would have resulted in his being altogether more familiar with her blade than he wanted to be. It was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and hold her there until his delight bubbled over into laughter she most certainly wouldn’t have appreciated.
Dangerous paths, indeed.
She nodded toward the market. “Let’s be off. I’ll buy you breakfast before you laugh yourself into a faint.”
He pushed away from the wall, then put his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll pay. If I have to watch you count your coins again, I’ll kill your brother for the vexation when we meet. By the way, how many did he steal?”
“Four hundred and ninety-three.”
“I hope they gave him a backache from having to carry them,” Ruith said with a snort. “We’ll eat, then go look at horses.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “For the company?”
“For you and me.”
“I can’t afford a horse.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to leave you behind.”
He could hear the wheels grinding miserably inside her head. “I could earn—”
He squeezed her shoulders, then released her and took her hand. It was her right hand, so he held it very loosely. Better for her skin, necessary for his sanity. “I wasn’t serious, Sarah. ’Tis part of our bargain. You look for your brother, I see to inns and transportation.”
She was very quiet as she allowed him to weave a path through the market. He bought food, two very lovely, slim daggers that were engraved with runes he was certain were neither elvish nor of dwarf make, but rather something from some noble house or other. They had been fashioned to fit a woman’s hand and tuck down the sides of slim riding boots or perhaps down an over-ruffled blouse such as the one folded resentfully and left behind happily under Master Franciscus’s wagon seat. The sight of them made him smile, so he handed them to Sarah without comment and promised himself a better look at them when he had a chance.
He didn’t realize she hadn’t said anything at all until he was walking with her along a fairly wide road that led west, out of town toward where the horse breeders plied their trade. He looked at her to find her looking straight ahead with tears standing in her eyes. He stopped and stared at her in astonishment.
“What is it?”
She looked so devastated, he almost wept. Hard on the heels of that came the intense desire to turn and flee. He was not good with women who wept, the sum total of his experience with wailing females being limited to his younger sister’s very rare bouts of it. He hadn’t been her primary comforter—nor her primary tormentor, it should be noted—but he’d been passing fond of her and he’d never shunned her company. He’d seen her weep only when she’d truly injured herself, or when she’d been afraid. He’d never blamed her for either. She’d certainly had cause enough for the latter.
But a grown woman who wouldn’t even look at him as she stood there with her eyes closed and tears running down her cheeks?
Now, that was terrifying.
But he was nothing if not resourceful, so he turned her to him and drew her with rather less grace than he might have liked into his arms. She was not a willing weeper. Indeed, he wouldn’t have known she wept if he hadn’t felt his tunic growing damp and heard the occasional hiccup.
He murmured soothingly, punctuating that with the occasional curse lest she think he’d gone completely daft, and tried to decide what would achieve better results, patting her back or stroking her hair. He was afraid he had patted a bit too hard and encountered a few too many tangles and pulled rather too vigorously, but what did she expect? He was, as he would have readily admitted to any passerby who looked capable of rescuing him from his current predicament, not good at that sort of thing.
Sarah finally pulled away, laughing uneasily as she dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Is it over?”
“I think so.”
“Then you’re welcome,” he said with feeling.
She looked up at him, her eyes very red, then she smiled and took his arm. “Let’s press on.”
He walked with her, feeling quite pathetically grateful she hadn’t completely fallen apart on him. But hard on the heels of that came the idea that he should ask her what was amiss.
“Sarah—”
“It was the daggers,” she said shortly, tugging on him and walking faster. “A very lovely gift.”
He knew that he should have dug a little harder to find out why such a gift would bother her so much, but he suspected he might not need to. For all he knew, she had never had anyone do anything nice for her.
“Where now?” she demanded.
“We’ll find horses, then decide,” he said, happy to discuss something a little less tender. “I left most of my gear with Franciscus, so we’ll need to go back and fetch it. Then we’ll be off to find your brother. I think we’ll manage more easily if we ride.”
“And what are we going to do once we find him?” she asked in a suddenly weary tone.
“You’ll hold him whilst I cut his entrails from him and hang him from the nearest tree with them.”
Her eyes widened briefly. “Savage.”
“Efficient.”
“I was talking about you, not your methods.”
He smiled in spite of himself. “I think I should be offended.”
“Flattered, rather,” she said. She looked at the knives she carried in one hand. “Thank you for these. Truly.”
“You’re welcome. Truly.”
She shook her head. “I’ll never manage to repay you, not for the horse, not for these.” She took a deep breath suddenly. “Which stable shall we visit?”
“At the end of the road. Hardest to get to, but worth the effort.”
“Have you been here before?” she asked in surprise.
“Aye,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t dare. He’d come with his father’s father when he’d been barely eight summers, just they two for a look to see if there might be decent horseflesh to be had. It had been a particularly marvelous journey, full of adventure and pretending to be a mere traveler along with his grandfather, who was famous for going about in homespun. He had never once dreamt that pantomime might become his life in truth.
He pulled himself away from that memory and looked at her seriously. “Can you choose horseflesh?�
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“And ride too, if you can believe it. You can thank Master Franciscus for it, though. Those lessons gave me a reason to be out from under my mother’s ... scrutiny.”
“Stirring up insurrections in some farmer’s field, were you?”
“Something like that.”
Avoiding her mother’s rages was more likely, or so he suspected. He reached out and pulled her into his arms again before he thought better of it. He held her close and closed his eyes when he felt her arms steal around his waist.
“Come on, you wee feisty wench,” he said roughly. “I’ll buy you a horse.”
“I don’t need sympathy.”
“I’m not offering you sympathy,” he said, though he most certainly was. “I’m buying you a horse. We’ll see who is the better rider, and then the loser can spend the rest of the day polishing the victor’s tack.”
She pulled away and looked up at him. “Have you ever ridden a horse, Ruith?”
“I had one as a boy.” He’d had more than one, actually, waiting for him in a handful of locations. He didn’t bother to mention that whilst he was very fond of riding, he had been rather more fond of throwing himself off whatever steep inclines had been available and turning himself into something very fast with wings before he hit the ground. He pulled himself back to himself, then nodded toward the street. “Let’s see what’s available, then you’ll remind me what to do. I haven’t ridden in years.”
Two hours later, they were leaning their elbows on a horse fence and watching a selection of very fine stallions be worked in an arena.
“These are exceptional,” Sarah said very quietly.
Ruith nodded in agreement. “They are. I imagine they have Angesand blood in their veins.”
She looked at him with a frown. “But I thought the lords of Angesand never allowed their horses out of their care, and if they did, they required absolute guarantees that the beasts wouldn’t be bred.”
“All true, to my knowledge,” Ruith said, “save for one relatively obscure incident several centuries ago in which Alan of Gilean spirited away a particularly lovely Angesand mare from the king of Neroche’s summer palace at Chagailt. He bred her several times and produced himself a very fine living. Briefly.”
