Gift of Magic

by Lynn Kurland

  Less of things she shouldn’t have been able to see in the first place.

  She had enjoyed that diminishing of her sight for approximately twenty paces before she’d run bodily into something immobile and leapt back, an apology on her lips, assuming she had run into Ruith or perhaps the king of Neroche.

  But she hadn’t.

  That had been an indeterminate amount of time ago. Now, she supposed if she survived what lay before her, she might look back at the moment she had bolted from the inn and wonder if she were prone to finding herself in the wrong place at the wrong time or if she, the very unmagical daughter of Sorcha and Athair of Cothromaiche, had been destined to spend her life trying to avoid being found and murdered by Queen Morag of An-uallach.

  Who it seemed might manage the feat yet.

  That very determined queen now stood five paces from her, not even looking at her, as if she had been a regal sort of kitchen cat too majestic to acknowledge the poor brown creature cowering next to her, its small heart beating with terror.

  Sarah had never been fond of mice. They nested in her wool and chewed through her finished garments. She hadn’t felt sorry for them when she’d seen them between the paws of her quite useful barn cats, though now she supposed she might have to revisit her opinion on that.

  The queen glanced at her then, her eyes glittering in spite of the shadows.

  “Well,” she said softly, “out for a stroll, are we?”

  Sarah considered bolting but discarded the idea immediately. She might manage a few paces, but no more. She wasn’t sure screaming would serve her given that she had no idea how far away Ruith was, but perhaps it was worth a try.

  She didn’t manage so much as a squeak. It was odd how a spell of what she could only assume was silencing managed to completely obliterate even the veriest hint of sound before it was made. She could still breathe, but she supposed that was only because Morag wanted her in full possession of her wits as she was about her long-delayed and unhappily denied work of killing her. She would have attempted to explain exactly how it was that she had nothing Morag could possibly want, but she couldn’t speak. Even if she’d been able to, she doubted Morag would have believed her.

  She glanced without hope at the clutch of guardsmen standing behind the queen. They were, to a man, hard-eyed and stone-faced. Nay, no aid from that quarter.

  She wished desperately that she had asked Ruith’s grandfather to accompany her. She wished she had stayed at the inn. If she were going to be completely honest, at the moment she wished she had never left Shettlestoune. Now she would die before she could tell Ruith in great detail how she felt about him, perhaps find kin she belonged to but had never met, and use that third spell of Soilléir’s she’d found in the book he’d given her but hadn’t dared try yet—

  She blinked, then realized abruptly that Morag hadn’t begun circling her for the sheer sport of it, she’d been winding spells around Sarah herself, so tightly that Sarah couldn’t move.

  Which made it everlastingly too late to do anything at all.

  Morag came to a stop in front of her and watched her with cold, glittering eyes.

  “I should draw this out,” she said, “but I’ve waited long enough. And don’t think I give credence to that utter rubbish about your having no power of your own. Everyone from Cothromaiche has some sort of magic.” She smiled condescendingly. “Perhaps even you, the least of Seannair’s line.”

  But I don’t, Sarah would have gasped out if she’d been able. Soilléir had said the ability to see was something that was woven into the soul, and Sarah had no reason not to believe him. Morag would slay her, then attempt to pick her as clean magically as another might a feast-day goose, but she would still have nothing to show for the effort.

  Sarah looked up, unable to even wince at the spell that suddenly appeared over her head, a spell of death that formed itself into spikes that dripped with poison that burned her where it fell.

  “You won’t die quickly,” Morag said with absolutely no emotion in her voice, “for that would defeat my purpose. You must die slowly, that I have time to catch your soul at the moment it has one foot in this poor world and the other in the world to come. It is only then—”

  Sarah couldn’t hear her any longer. She couldn’t struggle, couldn’t cry out, couldn’t scream for help. All she could do was stare up at what was hovering over her, gathering itself together to fall upon her and crush her.

  A wind, terrible and bitter, rushed past her so suddenly, she almost fell over. It sent the queen stumbling backward into the arms of her startled guardsmen. Sarah stared at what the wind had left behind, gold and silver runes that sparkled with painful brightness in the air in front of her. They were suddenly dispersed by a blue flash that streaked through the predawn gloom a single moment before the entire glade exploded in light, as if a thousand flaming arrows had been shot into the air only to stop and linger a hundred feet above her head.

  Suddenly, out of nothing stepped a woman of about her own height with long, dark hair that was tangled from the breeze that still swirled around her. The woman raised a sword that glowed with that unearthly blue light and, with unnerving efficiency, sliced through the spell above Sarah’s head as if it had been spider webs. It fell to pieces on the ground and writhed there like snakes.

  Three more gusts of wind unspun themselves into men, rumpled from their journey but looking terribly lethal nonetheless. Sarah supposed that since they had resumed their proper shapes closer to her and her rescuer than the queen, they could be considered rescuers, not foes.

  One held a bow loosely in one hand and an arrow tipped with werelight in the other. The second man, who held a sword in his hand, looked enough like the archer that they had to have been brothers, save the first one was dark-haired and the other fair. The third simply stood there with his hands empty, no doubt intending to intimidate with his terrible elvish beauty alone.

  Sarah would have paused to thank them for the timely arrival, but the spell still wrapped around her had begun to tighten. She would have gasped out in pain at its sudden constricting, but she couldn’t. The woman with the sword turned just the same and frowned in surprise.

  Sarah would have warned her rescuer that Morag had more than one spell at her disposal, but the woman seemingly didn’t need to be told that. She spun around, an eminently useful spell of defense accompanying her sword that blazed forth with renewed vigor. Sarah could see that whilst the spell the gel had spoken was strong enough on its own, it had been strengthened by something else. The runes that had preceded her, runes of Fadaire perhaps, though to be quite honest she couldn’t tell. She was having enough trouble just breathing.

  Morag laughed suddenly and the spell of death halfway out of her mouth fell to the ground, as if it had been shards of a broken mirror, easily discarded and trodden under heavy boots. “You, against my power with naught but that insignificant bit of provincial elven magic? Surely you jest.”

  “I’m afraid,” the young woman said, “that I left my sense of humor a day or two behind me. Now, why don’t you stand down before I plunge my very sharp sword through your breast and spare us all any more of your insignificant magic?”

  Morag drew herself up. “Why, you disrespectful chit—” She stopped suddenly, and her mouth fell open. “If I weren’t seeing this with my own eyes, I would never believe it. I almost mistook you for Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn. But you aren’t.”

  The woman standing in front of her didn’t lower her sword. “Nay, I am not. My mother is dead.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Morag said with another small, unpleasant smile. “Poor little Mhorghain.”

  Sarah would have gasped, but she still had no breath for it. This was Ruith’s younger sister? Soilléir had told them she was alive, but this was quite frankly the last place Sarah had ever expected to encounter her.

  “So I am,” Mhorghain agreed. “Who are you?”

  “I am, my rustic little miss,” Morag said crisply, “Morag
of An-uallach. I hold the ninth and most coveted seat on the Council of Kings, which perhaps you didn’t know having grown to womanhood who knows where. Obviously not at Seanagarra, else you would be better dressed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to finish with the little coquette who stands behind you, business that should have been seen to long ago.”

  Sarah watched Morag’s guards draw their swords. She would have warned Ruith’s sister that she was about to be assaulted by them, but Mhorghain had apparently noticed as well. She also apparently didn’t need any help.

  It was almost appalling, the ease with which she fought the handful of very frightening warriors. Sarah looked quickly at Mhorghain’s companions, but they were only standing there, obviously feeling no need to offer aid. Sarah would have given them a brisk lecture on the virtues of exercising a bit of chivalry, but she saw the spell of death pouring again out of the queen’s mouth and realized that the guardsmen had been nothing more than a distraction from the true business of the day.

  Mhor— was all she could even begin to think before Morag’s spell was countered by a flash of blood red that was terrifying in the extreme.

  She blinked and found herself suddenly with her nose pressed to a back that hadn’t been there a heartbeat before. She realized immediately that the back belonged to Ruith. She found herself invited to step backward, which didn’t go very well considering she was bound in spells that cut into her as she began to tip over. She cried out silently, but that was seemingly enough to draw Ruith’s attention. He spun around and caught her, then pulled her knife from her boot and cut where he apparently thought Morag’s spell might be residing.

  It fell from her, slithering down to disappear at her feet. Ruith replaced her knife without comment. Sarah would have thanked him, but he’d already turned back around to face Morag. She soon found herself joined by Mhorghain, who had been thrust behind her brother. Mhorghain resheathed her sword with a hand that wasn’t all that steady, truth be told. Sarah doubted that had anything to do with a battle avoided, but quite a bit to do with the fact that Mhorghain was looking at Ruith as if she’d just seen a ghost. He seemed to feel her gaze boring into the back of his head because he looked over his shoulder at her briefly.

  “Ruith,” Mhorghain managed in a garbled tone.

  “Later,” he suggested, with a quick smile.

  Mhorghain only shut her mouth and nodded, which Sarah suspected wouldn’t have been her reaction under different circumstances. Sarah smiled at Ruith’s sister and had that same look of astonishment in return before Mhorghain managed a weak nod. Sarah left Mhorghain to her digesting of events she obviously hadn’t foreseen and looked around Ruith’s shoulder at the king of Neroche, who was standing in front of them all, apparently not inclined to put away his sword bathed in that unnerving crimson light. Ruith stepped up beside Miach only to be elbowed aside with an ease that said they had done the same thing to each other a time or two in the past.

  “This will require diplomacy,” Miach said, not entirely under his breath.

  “And you have any?”

  “More than you do, I imagine,” Miach said, stepping fully in front of Ruith. “I’d see to my lady, were I you. And mine, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Ruith didn’t go willingly, but he seemed to agree with the sentiment if not the execution of it. He sighed, then backed up a few paces, leaving Sarah no choice but to back up as well. She didn’t mind, actually, because it put her yet a bit further away from Morag. Mhorghain went along only because her brother gave her no choice. Sarah exchanged a brief smile with her, then shifted slightly so she could see past Ruith’s shoulder without putting herself in Morag’s sights.

  The king of Neroche had put up his sword and was standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, maintaining a polite but certainly not deferential pose. He inclined his head so slightly, it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.

  “Queen Morag,” he said politely. “What a pleasure.”

  “I heard the king of Neroche managed to get himself killed,” Morag said, sounding as if she weren’t unhappy in the least about that.

  “Aye, he did,” Miach agreed, “and is already laid to rest, but of course you knew that. It was a great loss to us not to have you at his funeral, though King Phillip represented—”

  “He is not the king!” Morag shouted, then she took a deep breath. “He is the prince consort, which you know very well, King Mochriadhemiach. Before Phillip’s father, King Sicir, died, he was wise enough to choose someone with the strength to rule An-uallach.” She shrugged. “Phillip has his duties.”

  “I meant no slight, of course,” Miach said. “I was simply honored to have your husband travel such a long distance on such short notice. I know that for you it must be difficult to do the same when neither shapechanging nor riding on the back of winged steeds is possible. It is very time-consuming to simply trot off on a horse, but if that is the only alternative open to you . . .”

  “I am not afraid of heights,” Morag snapped.

  Miach only shrugged delicately. Or, Sarah realized, he might have had his shoulder lifted because his other had been bumped firmly by none other than Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn, who had appeared out of nowhere and nudged the king of Neroche out of his way. Sarah caught sight of Morag’s expression and suspected that Ruith’s grandfather had appeared none too soon.

  “Morag,” said the king of the elves smoothly, “what a delight to see you again. You’re looking well.”

  Morag looked as if she would rather have chewed on glass than answer politely, but apparently she could manufacture a pleasant look when pressed. She favored the king with a gracious smile.

  “Sìle, it has been too long. How are the glories of Seanagarra?”

  “My hall is dimmer without your beauty to adorn it,” Sìle said. He gestured expansively behind him, almost taking off Miach’s head in the process. “And whilst the nearby inn behind us is hardly worthy of your patronage, it does provide at least the hope of rude shelter. I should have brought my own kitchen staff, of course, but one makes do with less when circumstances demand it. Let me escort you out of the rain, my dear. Did young Miach tell you how greatly you were missed at Adhémar’s funeral? And the lad’s crowning, of course. The royal banquet was filled with far too many craggy faces and no queen to mitigate the unfortunate sight.”

  “Aye, the king of Neroche intimated as much,” Morag said, though she sounded none too pleased about it.

  Sarah was happy to hide behind Ruith’s back as Sìle led Morag away back toward the inn. The queen’s guards fell in behind her, but the men who had come with Mhorghain trailed after the small company at a safe distance, so Sarah supposed the king of the elves would be safe enough. She might have felt equally safe if she hadn’t caught sight of the look Morag threw over her shoulder.

  At her.

  Not even Ruith’s arm suddenly around her shoulders lessened the profound chill that came over her. Nay, Morag hadn’t forgotten about her.

  Not at all.

  Ruith cleared his throat. “I believe, my love, that we should discuss at length what lurks in the woods that you might avoid in the future.”

  “We should,” she said, deciding that what she had to tell him about their map could certainly wait for a bit. “Right after you see to more pressing business.”

  He looked rather pale in the pre-dawn gloom. “I hadn’t expected to see her.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, your sister’s looking rather misty-eyed herself. I don’t think she’ll notice if you find yourself in the same state.”

  He let out his breath slowly, then nodded before he turned to face his sister. He looked absolutely shattered, which Sarah could understand. To know she lived still had been a joyous revelation for him, but to see her in the flesh? If he remembered his name after he’d finished falling apart, Sarah would have been surprised.

  She would happily help him pull himself back together after the fact. Perhaps
that would be enough to help her forget a thing or two, namely her recent encounter with the queen of An-uallach who obviously hadn’t forgotten one particular task she’d left undone.

  That of making certain Sarah didn’t live to see many more sunrises.

  Three

  R

  uith supposed there were several things in his life that had truly left him past speech, most having to do with his family, many that unfortunately hadn’t been pleasant. At the moment, though, he could safely say his speechlessness was due to a happy circumstance. He had to admit that the first sight of his sister standing there between Sarah and Morag had almost knocked him quite fully upon his arse. He had followed the impetuous king of Neroche off their training field as something not altogether human—wind, he thought—then been brought up abruptly at the sight of what Miach had apparently noticed before. Finding Sarah facing Morag would have made his heart stop if he’d had one, but it had been realizing that there was someone standing between Sarah and the queen of An-uallach that had shocked him so abruptly back into his own shape.

  He’d thought, at first, that it had been his mother.

  He had grasped frantically for the remaining shreds of his wits, put himself between Sarah and Morag, then realized he needed to pull Mhorghain behind him as well. It had been simply good manners to put off giving Sarah a thorough lecture on the virtues of staying in inns where he’d put her until after he had attended to the less pleasant but necessary business of pitting himself against that viperess from An-uallach. Perhaps it was for the best that Miach had inserted himself into the situation. Ruith was absolutely certain he wouldn’t have been as polite as his future brother-in-law had been.

  Now, though, he was facing not his love but his sister and he found himself quite robbed of both his breath and his usual ability to find something useful to say no matter the amount of duress.