Spellweaver

by Lynn Kurland

She sighed, then pulled out of his arms. “Very well. Comrades in arms until Franciscus is found.”

  His mouth fell open. “Well, I didn’t mean to go that far.”

  “I’m saving you from yourself. And me from myself,” she muttered, turning to put her book back in her pack. She slung it over her shoulder, then looked at him. “Well?”

  He took the two steps toward her, then pulled her back into his arms and kissed her rather thoroughly, all things considered.

  “You can’t do that anymore,” she said faintly when he lifted his head.

  He laughed uneasily. “I fear I must agree, though ’tis most unwillingly done.”

  She blinked. “Wed?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Is that a formal proposal?”

  “Not in a stable, it isn’t.” He brushed his hand over her hair. “I was in earnest about the other. I must—willingly, I might add—accord Franciscus the respect due him by making a formal request. And I will honor you with the same after the fact.”

  “I told you he wasn’t a black mage.”

  “Aye, you were right,” he agreed cheerfully. “Let’s go find that hot fire. I have the uncomfortable feeling we’ll have company in that. I left the charming king of Neroche waiting for us at the pub door, because apparently he thinks we are too feeble to get ourselves back to safety.”

  “Perhaps he intends to be a chaperon.”

  “I have more self-control than that,” Ruith muttered under his breath. “And he damned well better behave himself with my sister, or he’ll answer to me.”

  She smiled and walked with him to the door of the tavern where they did indeed find the king of Neroche, slouching negligently against the wall, watching them silently.

  Ruith stopped in front of him. “Well?”

  “Just waiting,” Miach said easily. “To show you where your grandfather is sleeping off his stormy voyage.”

  Ruith looked at Sarah. “Shall we go up?”

  “I haven’t anything to fear,” she said firmly. “We aren’t, well, it isn’t as if you have formally suggested, or implied, or—”

  Ruith held up one finger, then turned to Miach. “Would you excuse us?”

  Miach held up his hands and turned to go inside. “Far be it from me to interfere in the romantic stylings of an elven prince and his future dreamweaving bride. I’ll wait for you inside.”

  Sarah found her arms full of that elven prince and herself quite thoroughly attended to. She felt a little faint after the fact, truth be told, but perhaps that had been his intention.

  “Implied, suggested, and deferred for grandfatherly permission,” he said briskly. “Understood?”

  She found it in her to glare at him. “And where is romance in all that?”

  He laughed a little and hugged her so quickly, she squeaked. “Deferred as well, in favor of good sense. Or until my grandfather falls back asleep.”

  “Ruith—”

  He laughed at her again, took her by the hand, and pulled her along with him into the inn. He didn’t seem overly terrified at the thought of seeing his grandfather, but she couldn’t say she felt the same way. She allowed him to pull her along after him until they reached the steps that apparently led to chambers on the upper floor.

  “Ruith?”

  He looked at her with a smile. “Aye, my love?”

  “Are you sure?”

  He looked at her, puzzled, for a moment, then apparently he realized what she was asking. “How can you ask?”

  “Because when a gel wants something very badly, she tends to want to avoid breaking her heart over the false hope of having it.”

  His breath caught. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was blinking rapidly from something besides the smoke in the passageway.

  He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. “This is the only thing about this entire nightmare that frightens me to the core,” he murmured against her ear. “Losing you, that is.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  He pulled back, kissed her quickly, then took her hand and led her up the stairs. “Let’s go find a bit of safety for the night. We’ll examine that revealing admission you made in a bit more detail in a place where you can’t escape.”

  She wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t long for a quick escape. In spite of everything, which included facing black mages, horrible spells, vengeful queens, and a dozen other things she was certain she couldn’t even imagine up in the depths of her blackest dreams, what unnerved her the most was what awaited them upstairs.

  The king of the elves.

  She put her shoulders back and reminded herself that she was ... well, she was a decent sort of gel with good manners whom his grandson apparently loved.

  She hoped it would be enough for him.

  Twenty-seven

  Ruith walked up the stairs, following his future brother-in-law—an appalling thought in and of itself—with his future bride bravely marching alongside him, and had to suppress the urge to wipe his hands on his thighs. In spite of his bluster, he realized that he was quite a bit more nervous than he should have been.

  It was implausible enough to be following a boy he’d combined all manner of mischief with only to find that that boy had become the bloody king of Neroche, though in truth, he wasn’t terribly surprised. He knew all Miach’s brothers and whilst each of them would have made an excellent king given the chance, there had been something about Miach from the start that had set him apart—his ability to ferret out the most irresistible spells, no doubt, but perhaps that was something to ponder later.

  It was also astonishing to think he was holding on to the hand of a woman he truly, profoundly loved, a woman whose parentage he hadn’t cared about—only to find out she was not at all who the world thought she was.

  But strangest of all was to think that he was only a few heartbeats away from seeing a grandfather he hadn’t ever thought to see again.

  Miach paused at the door, then looked at him. “He doesn’t know you’re here.”

  Ruith looked at him in surprise. “You were supposed to tell him.”

  “I thought it best to let sleeping kings lie. He woke up just the same when I came back in, but I said nothing. I told him I would go below and fetch supper, which deference he most certainly appreciated.”

  “Coward,” Ruith grumbled. He looked at Sarah. “I think I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t look at me for help,” she said, sounding rather ill. “I have my own reasons for wanting to go hide—not that I will.”

  “I never thought you would.” He took a deep breath and looked at Miach. “You go first.”

  “I believe, brother, that is the first time in our lives you’ve ever said that to me.”

  Ruith pursed his lips and suppressed the urge to push him. Miach only smiled and opened the door. He walked inside, then paused.

  “Your Majesty,” Miach said deferentially, “I’m not sure how to tell you this—”

  “Damn you, you dratted boy,” Sìle growled, “don’t you do this to me again.”

  Ruith took a deep breath and gathered his courage. He would have kept Sarah’s hand in his, but she pulled her hand away, took both their packs off his shoulder, then pushed him inside in front of her.

  Ruith stumbled into the chamber—Sarah was rather strong, after all—then came to a teetering halt. Sìle rose to his feet, looking at Ruith as if he’d seen a ghost.

  Ruith understood completely.

  His grandfather hadn’t changed much over the years, though he seemed smaller than Ruith remembered him. But he was still as proud, still as powerful . . . and suddenly weeping.

  Ruith found himself enveloped in an embrace that robbed him of breath. He had often wondered, over the past pair of months, if there would come a time when he might go back to his sensible, emotionless existence on the side of his lonely mountain. He knew now that he never would. His heart had been broken half a dozen times since he’d closed the door of his house,
but he didn’t regret it.

  The price was worth paying.

  “Ruithneadh,” Sìle said, pulling back and looking at him in astonishment. “Where in the hell have you been?”

  “Hiding,” Ruith said honestly.

  “Son, why didn’t you come home?” Sìle asked, sounding as if the question had been torn out of him by claws. “Did you not know who you were?”

  Ruith couldn’t even manage a shrug. “I knew,” he admitted. “And that was the problem.”

  Sìle closed his eyes briefly, then embraced him again. Ruith was very grateful that Sarah had seen him completely undone, for he was no better than his grandfather at hiding his emotions. It was a bitter weeping, but somehow a cleansing one. He held his grandfather, happily, until Sìle finally pulled away. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes, then laughed a little.

  “I am too old for any more of these surprises. Tell me I’m finished.”

  “Rùnach is alive and in Buidseachd,” Ruith said, supposing that it was better to have all the shocks over with at once.

  “With Soilléir, no doubt, that young rogue,” Sìle grumbled. He frowned. “Well, I’m almost unsurprised by that, though I am positively undone seeing you. You’d best explain yourself, lad. And since I’m assuming I don’t have you to thank for bringing yourself back to the living, I’m assuming there is someone with sense in the area?”

  Ruith fumbled behind him for Sarah’s hand. He pulled her to stand next to him and opened his mouth to introduce her.

  It wasn’t necessary.

  His grandfather gaped at her in much the same way he’d gaped at him not five minutes earlier.

  “Sorcha?” he managed. “But . . . nay.” He continued to look at her in surprise. “Forgive me, child, but I mistook you for someone else.”

  Ruith watched Sarah look at him briefly, then back at his grandfather.

  “Sorcha was my mother.”

  Sìle’s eyes again filled with tears. “Sarah, then.”

  Ruith looked at Sarah, but he couldn’t see her very well for that dratted smoke that seemed to permeate every bloody chamber of the inn. Then again, tears were streaming down her cheeks. The only one in the chamber who wasn’t weeping was that damned king of Neroche, who likely never had anything take him by surprise.

  Ruith looked at his grandfather in time to watch him reach out and gather Sarah into his arms. He patted her back gently.

  “Ah, you poor lass,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry.” He patted her a bit more, then pulled back and looked down at her. “And where have you been keeping yourself, young Sarah? If you tell me Weger’s tower, I will have an attack, so take pity on an old elf and tell me something else.”

  “I was masquerading as the daughter of the witchwoman Seleg.”

  Sìle made a noise of horror. “Surely not.” He drew her arm through his and led her over to the fire. “And where was that old hag hiding you? And how is it you came to know my grandson? He’s a good-looking lad, isn’t he?” He looked at her with sudden calculation in his eyes. “You could do worse, you know.”

  Ruith caught the look Sarah threw him—not precisely one of panic, but it was close—and laughed a little. He listened for a few minutes to what of his whereabouts and antics Sarah was able to relate, then realized Miach was watching him. He looked at him, then felt something slide down his spine.

  He was beginning to dislike that feeling quite intensely.

  He sighed and walked over to stand next to his former companion in dastardly deeds. “I’m prepared for just about anything. Spew away.”

  “You haven’t changed.”

  “Neither have you and given that I know you always know things you shouldn’t, I’ll say it again: spew away.”

  Miach looked at Sarah. “She’s perfectly lovely. And your grandfather seems to like her.”

  “So do I.”

  “Besotted, are you?”

  “Admittedly.”

  Miach smiled at him. “It is good to see you, Ruith. Where in the world have you been? I’m assuming somewhere between here and Doìre, else Sarah wouldn’t have encountered you.”

  “Shettlestoune,” Ruith said with a sigh. “Hiding in a house on the side of a deserted mountain.”

  “You, my friend, had cause,” Miach said, “though I imagine hiding isn’t all you’ve been doing.”

  Ruith studied him for a moment or two. “How did you know to find me, or is this a happy coincidence?”

  “Do you want the answer to that?”

  “Actually, I think I might.”

  Miach nodded toward the window, which was a safe distance away from the fire and just made for private conversations. Ruith followed him, then stopped and looked at his—and he could hardly believe it—future brother-in-law.

  “How is the crown?” he asked.

  “Uncomfortable,” Miach said honestly, “and a little heavier than I expected.”

  Ruith smiled in spite of himself. “At least you’ve satisfied Sìle.”

  “Barely,” Miach said, with feeling. “It took almost dying to convince him that I loved Morgan—Mhorghain, rather.”

  “Is that what they’ve called her?” Ruith asked, finding the question surprisingly difficult.

  Miach nodded. “You will like her, I imagine. She is much like your mother, but perhaps even more like your grandfather. Stubborn, fierce, and utterly loyal. And so beautiful, I can hardly stand to look at her.”

  “Spare me the details,” Ruith said with a grimace. “If you wax rhapsodic about my sister’s charms, I truly will do damage to you.”

  Miach only smiled. “I wouldn’t blame you. Now, tell me what you’re about and why you’re taking Soilléir’s cousin to places she shouldn’t go?”

  “I’m collecting my father’s spells.”

  Miach nodded. “I wondered what had happened to them.” He studied Ruith for a moment or two. “I suppose there is no one else to do it, is there?”

  “Keir might have been able to, but . . .”

  Miach looked at him gravely, his face full of understanding. “He died helping Mhorghain close the well.” He put his hand on Ruith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Ruith shook his head sharply. “Uachdaran already told me, so don’t fret over it. It is what he would have wanted, which you well know. He was determined to protect both her and Mother at all costs. I’m not sure he could have lived with himself if he had failed Mhorghain—especially if that failure had come because of something my father had spawned.”

  “A sentiment you share,” Miach noted. “How are you looking for your father’s spells?”

  “Sarah can see them.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Miach said quietly. “I knew her parents had been slain, but I had no idea she was alive.” He shrugged. “I always wondered what it was that Franciscus found in Shettlestoune to occupy his time after his very suspicious disappearance.”

  “Brewing ale, watching over his granddaughter, and how the hell do you know all this?” Ruith demanded. “What don’t you know?”

  “Where you’ve been, apparently,” Miach said with an apologetic smile. “Or where your father’s spells are to be found.”

  Ruith sighed. “Don’t worry about that. You could, however, worry about the fact that I’m also finding pieces of the first half of his spell of Diminishing cunningly shredded and scattered in my path, as if someone either knows where I’m going or wishes to lead me in a certain direction.”

  “And where is the second half?”

  “Taken from me just outside Ceangail, but that is another tale entirely.”

  Miach smiled. “And you’re hoping the possessors of both halves don’t meet over tea?”

  “That thought had occurred to me, aye.”

  Miach held up his hands. “Don’t look at me for aid. I have enough to do without meddling in your affairs.”

  Ruith studied him for several minutes in silence. “Why are you here?”

  Miach rubbed his hands over his face su
ddenly, then sighed deeply. “To give you tidings.”

  “What have you seen?”

  “My boundaries are set,” Miach hedged. “What would I know of anything in the wide world?”

  Ruith snorted. “Please, Miach. Even as a lad you were poking your questing nose into places it didn’t belong.”

  “Following your example, of course.”

  “Tidings, Miach.”

  Miach chewed on his words for several moments. “Tell me more about your plan to find these spells, then I’ll tell you what I suspect.”

  Ruith leaned back against the wall. “Sarah made a map of them in Léige. We made note of where they lay, and we’re collecting them one by one.” He pursed his lips. “There was, if you can believe it, a pattern to it all.”

  “Was there?”

  Ruith suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. If anything surprised Miach of Neroche, it would be death sneaking up on him unexpectedly. “Aye, there was. The spells are seemingly being called. Either that or someone has arranged them in a way that is causing us to follow them.”

  “Where?”

  “North.”

  Miach looked at him evenly. “Not much in the north that’s pleasant, is there?”

  “I don’t know,” Ruith said shortly. “I’ve confined myself to the hell that is the south. Perhaps you can add to my knowledge.”

  Miach shrugged. “I wouldn’t recommend a journey there, but I don’t think you’ll have a choice.” He paused. “I would be careful.”

  “And you came all this way to tell me that?”

  “Nay,” Miach said slowly, “I came to tell you who I think has made himself a comfortable nest in the north, in a place where none but those with a great tolerance for Olc dare tread.”

  Ruith looked at him in silence.

  And then he knew.

  He pushed himself away from the wall, then shook his head.

  “Impossible.”

  “You know it isn’t.”

  Ruith almost had to look for a place to sit down. It had never occurred—

  Nay, that was a lie. He had often wondered over the years if others besides himself had escaped the ravages of the well. Mhorghain had, obviously, and Keir, and Rùnach.

  But his father?