Spellweaver

by Lynn Kurland

  “I’m not waiting anywhere,” she said, though just the saying of it felt as if she’d just taken a step off the edge of a cliff into thin air. “You can’t see the spells.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said, realizing that she’d already said that, perhaps more than once. She looked at him and realized he was all too serious. “You can’t go without me.”

  “I’m not taking you with me,” he said mildly.

  She drew herself up and glared at him. “You most certainly are.”

  He set his jaw. “We will not argue about this.”

  “You’re right,” she said shortly. “Argument finished. This is my quest and I’ll decide if I’m going on it or not.”

  He frowned.

  “And another thing,” she said, supposing it was best she get the rest of her terms of engagement out whilst he was still digesting the first one and before she lost her courage about continuing on with something she had to finish, no matter how the very thought of it chilled her to the marrow, “I want you to court other women.”

  His mouth fell open. “I will not.”

  “Then I want you to meet other women.”

  “I’ve met other women,” he said, beginning to sound faintly exasperated. “I don’t want to meet any more.”

  “And they should be princesses.”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost all sense. She wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t. A blindingly handsome man had professed ... well, he’d professed something, and she wasn’t swooning with pleasure?

  Perhaps she was the one who was mad.

  Ruith began to scowl. “And then will you be satisfied?”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re humoring me.”

  “You’re damned right I’m humoring you!”

  “Ten of them,” she said, because it seemed like a goodly number, and because he’d shouted at her. “And if you bellow at me again, I’ll make it eleven.”

  He looked as if he were torn between engaging in another bellow or a laugh. He seemingly settled for a heavy sigh. “Very well.”

  “And until then, ’tis strictly a quest between us, nothing more.”

  “Strictly a quest?” he repeated almost soundlessly.

  “Aye,” she said, rubbing her hands together briskly. “I’ll dream your spells, we’ll find my brother and avoid all yours, then we’ll gather everything up in a neat and tidy package and set fire to it all. Then you can go look for your princesses, and I’ll go off and look for a place to settle in and work. I’ll send you a present for your nuptials.”

  He looked at her narrowly. “What familiarities am I allowed in this madness of yours?”

  “The same you would have had with Franciscus.”

  He pursed his lips. “And what will you give me in return for my agreeing to all this?”

  Nothing was the first thing that came to mind, but she supposed she should at least offer something in return for his agreeing to all her terms. “What do you want?” she asked warily.

  “Full forgiveness and a new beginning.”

  “Done,” she said, feeling rather relieved the price hadn’t been higher. Her relief, handily enough, was enough to help her ignore the fact that she’d just committed herself to a quest that would send her into darkness alongside a man she was unwholesomely fond of and couldn’t have, no matter how many princesses he squired about. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d landed herself in that sort of mess, but she supposed it was a little late to be changing her mind.

  She found herself suddenly in an embrace that was altogether too comforting for her peace of mind. She put her arms around Ruith’s waist because it helped her keep from sinking to her knees in fear. No other reason.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder, “that this falls into the purview of what comrades at arms would share.”

  “You’re not a soldier and neither am I,” he said, running his hand briefly over her hair, “so those rules do not apply.”

  “You’re taking advantage of my terror at the thought of what lies in front of us.”

  “I might be.” He was silent for a moment or two, then he pulled back and looked at her seriously. “Sarah, I don’t want you to come along.”

  “You can’t find those spells without me.”

  “I know,” he said reluctantly. He looked over her shoulder for a moment or two, presumably at the city laid out beneath them, then back at her. “If I allow you—”

  “Allow?” she mouthed.

  “Allow you to come with me,” he said seriously, “then when I pull you behind me and tell you to stay there, you will do it without question. No sneaking off into the night without me, no marching off into the fray alone. And if I leave you behind at some point, behind you will stay or we go not one step further in this bloody venture.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t have the magic to fight what we’ll face,” he said seriously. “But I do, and I will use that magic to keep you safe. As I should have from the beginning.”

  She had to take a deep breath or two before she thought she could speak without her voice trembling. He was right, of course, and she had certainly seen over the past few fortnights just how cold-blooded and indifferent black mages could be. She didn’t like to give up her independence, though, nor admit her limitations. She looked up at him.

  “I have knives, you know.”

  He pulled her back into his arms and held her so tightly, she almost believed he did have a few fond feelings for her. She allowed herself the safety of it for a moment or two, then pulled away.

  “Very well,” she agreed. “Unless I change my mind.”

  “Nine princesses,” he said solemnly.

  She scowled at him. “Ten and done.”

  He rolled his eyes and reached for her hand. “Let’s go back to the keep and find breakfast. We’ll need to make our plans, pack our gear, then sleep a bit. I also have a few pointed questions to ask Master Soilléir before we go.”

  She supposed holding his hand wasn’t a too terribly romantic thing, so she wasn’t going to argue with him at the moment. She would, later, when they weren’t in a place that seemed so happy to have him there.

  He walked with her down the path, then stopped with his hand on the gate. He looked at her. “We’ll come back.”

  She nodded, because she was sure he would be back. She was equally sure she wouldn’t be with him. He would find a princess, wed her, and she would weave them something lovely for their wedding.

  He squeezed her hand, then opened the gate. She walked with him out of light—

  And into darkness.

  Eleven

  The spell slammed into Ruith so hard, he lost his breath. He staggered, then caught himself. He pulled Sarah behind him out of sheer instinct alone, then turned to face his foe.

  Droch of Saothair.

  He heard his grandfather’s gate click shut behind him and the spell drop to the ground so quickly, it sounded as if half the hill had come down with it. At the same time, he realized that something else had fallen over him, a spell of protection that fortunately gave him enough time to gather his wits about him. That was Soilléir’s doing, he knew immediately. He would have to thank the man, if he managed to overcome the first test of his resolve, a test he hadn’t thought would come so quickly.

  Droch smiled, then hurled a spell of Taking at him that flew through the air with the swiftness of a bolt thrown from a crossbow. Ruith used his own spell of protection—augmented as it was by Soilléir’s—without thinking. Just as Keir had trained him to do, testing him a score of times a day, every day, for as much of his youth as he could remember.

  Thankfully, it held.

  Droch swore at him.

  Ruith clucked his tongue. “Still haven’t ironed all the wrinkles out of that one, have you?”

  He felt Sarah’s hands tangled in his cloak clutch him all the more tightly. He supposed she would have called him an idi
ot, if she’d had the breath for it. He would have agreed, if he’d had the breath for it. He’d come to terms with fully claiming his birthright from both his parents, but that didn’t make his power any less heavy or unwieldy. Having it come lightly to his hand would take time, time he didn’t have at the moment so he would simply make do.

  He put one hand behind him and around Sarah on the off chance that she might lose all sense and decide to bolt. He didn’t suppose she would, though. Soilléir’s spell was actually quite a lovely thing from what he could see, steel covered by illusion and underpinned by an imperviousness that Ruith suspected not even all the masters of Buidseachd together could have breached. Thankfully.

  He looked at Droch again, listened to him spit out a spell of death, then watched as it was absorbed by Soilléir’s spell, gathered together, then flung back toward Droch with a speed so furious Ruith blinked in surprise. It reminded him sharply of what had befallen Amitán, with his spell of death repulsed by the Olcian spell of protection Ruith had been covered with. But why would anything of Soilléir’s resemble anything made by someone who, from all indications, had been a master of Olc?

  Yet another question to ask Soilléir when he had the time. At the moment, though, he was rather less at his leisure than he would have preferred to be.

  Droch, however, was not a master of his craft because he was a fool, nor because he would ever be caught unawares. He sent his own spell that returned with a bit more added to it into the ether with a disgusted flick of his wrist. He looked at Ruith calculatingly.

  “I demand a duel,” he said. “With spells.”

  “Dueling is forbidden,” Ruith said promptly, “which you well know, my lord.”

  Droch looked down his nose at him. “The youngest son of Gair of Ceangail, unwilling to fight when called upon? Your father would be embarrassed by you.”

  Ruith only shrugged. “He’s too dead to have an opinion on the matter. Not that your opinion would have mattered to him, of course.”

  Droch’s face grew very red. “Even the archmage of Neroche wasn’t above defending his honor. Does that not gall you, Ruithneadh? That Mochriadhemiach would venture where you dare not?”

  “He has more courage than I have,” Ruith said with another shrug, refusing to be baited.

  “He certainly has more power.” Droch studied him for a moment or two. “Or perhaps ’tis that he has a more worthy companion to want to protect.”

  Ruith gritted his teeth and reached for his nonexistent sword only to be greeted with laughter.

  “Surely you jest,” Droch mocked. “Steel against my spells? I believe, my boy, that you have been out of decent society for too long. I wouldn’t waste the effort to conjure up such a pedestrian weapon, much less trouble myself to use it.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Perhaps your sister is fortunate you aren’t the one protecting her, though I will admit I was a bit surprised by her choice of guardsmen.”

  Ruith managed to keep his composure only through sheer will alone. “My sister?”

  Droch’s look of triumph was hard to watch. “Ah, something you don’t know,” he said, coming very close to purring. “Obviously you haven’t been hiding with her all these years.”

  Ruith chose not to answer, but the truth was, he could hardly maintain a neutral expression.

  Mhorghain?

  Droch’s eyes narrowed. “And just so you know, I’m not finished with you. Perhaps we’ll meet again when I have your little coquette there in my garden again where you can watch her finally take up one of the lesser spots amongst my chess pieces.”

  Ruith forced himself to concentrate as Droch turned on his heel and walked off, his boots clicking against the cobblestones.

  Mhorghain? Alive?

  “Ruith?”

  He looked at Sarah standing next to him, watching him with frank concern on her face.

  “Nothing,” he said immediately. “’Tis nothing.” He took her hand. “Let’s go back to the keep.”

  “Eleven.”

  He stopped and looked at her. “What?”

  “You just increased your number of princesses to eleven. Do you care to make it twelve?”

  He retrieved his jaw from where it had fallen, then realized what she meant and why. He stopped, turned her to him, and pulled her into his arms. He let out a breath that was rather less steady than he would have liked. “I’m too accustomed to keeping things to myself.”

  “I know.”

  He pulled back far enough to smile down at her. “Are you telling me I was taciturn on our journey here?”

  “That’s one way to describe it.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You needn’t tell me anything, of course—”

  “Of course I will,” he said without hesitation. “If you want the entire truth, it galls me to have Soilléir’s spell protecting us. I fear I wasted a score of years hiding in the mountains when I should have been honing my spells so I might face what I must—”

  “Ruith, we’re still breathing,” she interrupted. “And you are responsible for that.”

  He suppressed the urge to shift uncomfortably. “Aye, well, perhaps, though Soilléir—”

  “Gave you time to catch your breath,” she said seriously. “The rest was your doing. And now that I’ve made you blush, you may tell me the rest.”

  He laughed uncomfortably. “You are a heartless wench, though I thank you for the time to catch my breath at present.” He helped himself to another. “What has startled me the most is that the master of Olc just hinted my sister might be alive, and I’m wondering if Soilléir knows.”

  “You can’t kill him if he does,” she said seriously. “He saved my life.”

  “Aye, yet another reason to be annoyed with him. And myself.”

  She looked at him gravely. “You cannot call back the river that has already flowed past you, Ruith. All you can do is be grateful for where you are in it.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “I feel as if I’m dreaming.”

  “I understand.”

  “I imagine you do.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Very well, we’ll return to the keep—alive, thanks to Master Soilléir—then you’ll keep me from killing him until after I’ve put a few pointed questions to him.”

  “Is it your younger sister, do you think?” she asked quietly.

  He looked at her in surprise, then shook his head. “I haven’t even told you their names, have I?”

  “You’re a private man, Ruith.”

  “And a fortunate one that I have you now to trust with my innermost thoughts.”

  She smiled a little. “Comrades in arms, and all that, no doubt.”

  If she wanted to believe that, she was welcome to it. He supposed it might be for the best, given the task that lay before him and the inescapable fact that in order not to kill them both, he would have to concentrate on something besides her very fair face, her glorious hair, and the fact that even though he could feel her trembling, she was doing her damndest to carry on in spite of it.

  Besotted?

  Nay, he was lost.

  “Names, my friend,” she prodded.

  He continued on with her up the way to the keep, without haste only to give himself time to calm his fury so he didn’t flatten Soilléir the moment he saw him. First Soilléir, then Rùnach, then perhaps Soilléir for another dose of his anger. Rùnach might not have known Mhorghain was alive, but Soilléir most certainly should have—and likely did.

  “Keir was the eldest,” he said, before he wound himself up again. “He was followed by Rùnach, whom you know.” He frowned. “I think his hands must have become caught in the well when my mother tried to shut it.”

  “They did,” Sarah said. She looked up at him quickly. “The marks from the stone are still buried in his flesh. And in his cheek.”

  Ruith felt a little faint. “Bloody hell, Sarah, what don’t you see?”

  “Many things, most notably the path laid before me,” she said faintly, “but I don’t want to t
hink about that. Let’s talk about things that make you uncomfortable.”

  “Are you saying I’m the only one in this companionship who must bare his soul?” he asked lightly.

  “Consider it penance for your very bad behavior on our journey from Shettlestoune.”

  “Your turn will come, Sarah,” he warned. “There will come a time when you’ll need to face what you don’t want to now.”

  “Spoken like the recently enlightened,” she said darkly.

  He laughed in spite of himself. “Aye, I daresay. Very well, I give you at least a pair of months to growl at me every time I bring up what you can do, as repayment for all the growling I did on the way here.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, “and you’ve used up your allotment of diversions for the day. After Rùnach, who came next?”

  He continued up the way with her, looking at the castle as it rose up before them, unrelentingly grey and massive. He supposed no one would have faulted him for keeping a sharp eye out for Droch, though he imagined the man had retreated to his solar to vent his anger on whatever fool had agreed to be his servant at present. “Can you not read the names written on my soul?”

  She stumbled. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

  He squeezed her shoulders briefly. “Forgive me.” He could only imagine the discomfort she’d suffered in Droch’s garden and how her sight troubled her presently. Vexing her over it was something he never would have tolerated had it been directed at him. He supposed he was fortunate she was of a much better temperament than he possessed. Perhaps he would ask Soilléir about it when Sarah looked less likely to do damage to anyone who brought it up.

  He took a deep breath. “After Rùnach, came Brogach, Gille, and Eglach. All dead, I’m certain, for I saw them fall.” He attempted a shrug, but failed. It was impossible to speak with any degree of carelessness about what had come next on that fateful morning. “I was to keep hold of my sister, Mhorghain, after my mother sent us to hide in the trees. But when I saw my mother fighting my father, unsuccessfully ...” He let out his breath carefully. “I let go.”

  “I don’t think they would blame you for it, Ruith,” Sarah said quietly. “Either of them.”