Gift of Magic

by Lynn Kurland

  Ruith couldn’t deny that he envied her that forgetting, if only in regard to their father. There were several recent events—well, only one, actually—that he would have happily forgotten, namely his having been so horrified at seeing that ring again that he’d promptly fainted.

  Miach had endeavored to save his pride after he’d slapped him back awake by pointing out to both Mhorghain and Sarah that he had thrown more disgusting spells at Ruith than was polite already that morning and that he couldn’t blame him for surrendering to a well-deserved swoon of aversion. Mhorghain had only put her arms around Ruith and held on to him, matching his trembling more thoroughly than he would have thought possible.

  It was more than a little strange to think he now had two siblings with whom to discuss his memories of his youth. Not that Mhorghain would remember all that much perhaps, but she might have a detail or two to aid him in his quest.

  Mhorghain had told him that when Nicholas of Lismòr had shown her that ring, she’d had a slightly more violent reaction, going so far as to say that the only reason Miach lived still was that he’d rid her of all her weapons first.

  Ruith had wished that the damned thing had been lost down the well, truth be told.

  He woke from his reverie to find Sarah sitting in a chair nearest the fire, wincing as she brushed her arm against the wood of the chair. Sìle leaned forward.

  “Sarah, my dear, you’ve hidden that away long enough.” He took her hand gently in both his own and lifted her sleeve away from her flesh. “Tell me again how you came by this?”

  Ruith shrugged helplessly at the look Sarah quickly threw his way. There was no hiding the truth of what had happened to her. She took a deep breath, then looked at his grandfather.

  “I touched one of the pages of Gair’s book,” she said with the slightest of shudders. “It leapt up and wrapped itself around my arm.”

  Sìle stared at her for a moment, then looked at Ruith. “And what caused yours?”

  Ruith looked down at his hand where only the ending trails of the same sort of wound could possibly have been seen, though given that he’d earned them in a dream, they shouldn’t have been visible at all. He looked at his grandfather. “I touched the same thing, only in a dream.”

  Sìle pursed his lips. “I’m not sure, lad, that I can do anything for you. But tell me what’s been tried with your lady and we’ll hope for more success.”

  “I tried a healing spell of Camanaë, as did Sgath,” Ruith said with a sigh, “but to no avail. Soilléir attempted a change of essence, but that only caused the lines to fade. There is something in the wound that will not give up the hold it has on her.”

  Sìle studied the black trails that were edged with red, then looked at Miach. “I believe, my boy, that I will try Fadaire. You may as well add a bit of your power to mine, if you think you can do it with any finesse.”

  Mhorghain shifted uncomfortable. “I’d rethink that, Grandfather, and it isn’t his finesse I would worry about.”

  Sìle lifted an eyebrow. “I believe, missy, that you’ve acquired an overly inflated opinion of your betrothed’s strength and forgotten about mine.”

  Mhorghain leaned over and embraced him briefly. “I haven’t, Grandfather, nor have I forgotten who you are. Miach, take my seat. I’ll catch whoever first feels as though half the Sgùrrachs have been dropped atop him.”

  Miach laughed uneasily and traded spots with her. Ruith supposed he would be wise to make certain Sarah wasn’t the one to hit the floor first. He had a fair idea of what his grandfather could do, and he could guess, based on time spent sparring with him, just what Miach was capable of. He stood behind Sarah’s chair and put his hands on her shoulders. Sìle shot Miach a look.

  “Gently,” he stressed.

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “We’ll try removing the evil first, then heal the wounds,” Sìle said. He bent over Sarah’s hand, then shook his head. “There are things there I cannot see clearly, but we’ll make the attempt anyway.” He smiled briefly at Sarah. “This won’t hurt, Sarah, my dear.”

  “I’m not afraid, Your Majesty,” Sarah said.

  Ruith imagined she was, but she was the sort of gel not to admit it. He squeezed her hand, then held his breath whilst his grandfather wove his spell over her arm. It was an eminently functional Fadarian spell of healing. Ruith was sure his grandfather had used it countless times over the course of his life to great effect.

  Sìle paused just before he spoke the last word and looked at Miach. Miach took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then put his hands over the king’s and spoke the last word with him.

  Sarah squeaked. Ruith caught her only because he’d been expecting the like. He kept hold of her, then lifted her up in his arms and sat down in her chair with her. She was, as he’d suspected she would be, completely senseless.

  Sìle looked at Miach and rubbed his forehead crossly. “Damn you, boy, when will you learn to have a care for those you’re aiding?”

  Miach smiled briefly. “I’m working on that, Your Majesty.” He took Sarah’s hand from Sìle and frowned at it thoughtfully before he looked at Ruith. “What did you say you’d tried before?”

  “Camanaë,” Ruith said. “Soilléir used spells of healing and containment in Caochladh, but they made little difference. Well, the spell of containment took the red away for a bit, but even that proved unequal to the task of removing the true hurt.”

  Miach considered for a moment or two, then looked at Iarann. “I believe I will try that myself, but not alone. If you would aid me, Your Highness?”

  Iarann smiled. “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be,” Ruith said. “He just wants you for your magic, and Miach, you’ve gone this long without using any of Soilléir’s spells. You may as well go a bit longer. I’ll do it.”

  “How?” Miach asked pointedly. “It isn’t as if you know any of his spells.”

  “I know three of them, thank you, and am not above using them when necessary. I think Soilléir was very proud of you that you’d been so discreet. He never held out any hope for me in the matter.”

  Miach considered him for a moment or two in silence. “You’ll be sorry you did this,” he said slowly, “when you have no strength for the next fortnight.”

  “Am I to simply allow Sarah to flinch every time she brushes her skin against something?” Ruith said. “One spell, with your power behind mine. How much can that possibly take out of me?”

  “I wouldn’t ask,” Mhorghain said pointedly. “I would lay Sarah down somewhere so when you fall over in a faint she won’t land on the floor as well.”

  Ruith nodded, because Mhorghain was right. He laid Sarah on a blanket near the fire, then knelt near Sarah’s right hand. He glanced at the very grave-looking king of Neroche, who knelt gingerly on the other side of her. “Don’t kill me.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Mhorghain said with a shiver. “He’s overly modest about his abilities.”

  Ruith only had a smile from Miach before he turned his attentions to the task at hand.

  He had to admit, if he could have been permitted a moment of unease, that there was something about the thought of using one of Soilléir of Cothromaiche’s spells that gave him pause. Spells of essence changing were…well, they were so damned permanent. He had no qualms about binding someone who deserved it with invisible cords that could eventually be unraveled, or changing a ruffian temporarily into a mouse and watching him scamper off from all predators, or entertaining himself with thoughts of any of his bastard brothers serving however briefly as a footstool. Turning a fool into a rock, though, and knowing that fool would remain a rock for the rest of eternity was something else entirely. If he wove a spell that changed Sarah’s flesh into something else and wove it badly, the damage would be terrible. And permanent.

  He took a deep breath. Whatever he intended to do could be no worse than what Sarah endured already. Even if all he managed was t
o purchase a few days of ease for her, it would be worth the risk.

  He considered the words of the spell he intended to use a final time, then began to weave it under his breath. He was fairly confident he would find it nothing more than the usual bit of magic under his hands.

  And so it seemed, for a moment or two.

  And then he realized he was dealing with something entirely beyond his scope of experience.

  He could see the words hanging in the air as he breathed them out, waiting for their full complement to join them before they marched downward toward Sarah’s arm. If he’d expected them to aggressively seek out what they were to contain, he would have been wrong. They very carefully and gently flanked the redness that had spread from the remains of Gair’s spell on her skin and gathered it into an exceedingly fine line.

  And then they set up a perimeter that could not be breached.

  Ruith saw where Soilléir’s spell wrought in Buidseachd had done the same thing, for there, visible to Ruith only through the filter of Caochladh, were the battle lines Soilléir’s spell had drawn before. Ruith frowned. So, it wasn’t that Soilléir’s spell hadn’t worked as it should have, it was that whatever was buried in Sarah’s arm was continually mounting new assaults.

  As if it had a mind of its own.

  Ruith shook aside the absolute horror of that thought and watched as the last particle of the spell fell into place.

  Sarah sighed.

  Ruith couldn’t have agreed more. He felt as if he’d run for days without end. He bowed his head for several moments to catch his breath, then looked at Miach in surprise.

  “I forgot to ask you for aid.”

  “I didn’t think you needed it,” Miach said with a faint smile, “or I would have offered it.”

  Ruith took a deep breath and shook off his weariness. He imagined he wouldn’t manage the feat overlong, but he would carry on for as long as he could just the same. He yawned suddenly and rubbed his hands over his face.

  “I need either a walk or a nap,” he said wearily.

  “Let’s go fetch more wine,” Mhorghain said, rising suddenly.

  Miach looked up at her calmly. “Not without a guard.”

  Mhorghain rolled her eyes. “I’ll take my brother. He’ll snarl at anyone who tries to vex me.”

  “Not in his current condition he won’t,” Miach said seriously. “I think, my love—”

  Ruith supposed Miach and Mhorghain would have found much to discuss if they hadn’t been interrupted by Mansourah suddenly regrouping himself in front of the fire. Or, rather, in the fire. He stumbled out of the hearth, leapt over Sarah, then patted himself frantically. Sìle rose and stamped out a few stray sparks, then shot Miach’s brother a disgruntled look.

  “You could have knocked.”

  Mansourah shivered. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I didn’t think.”

  “There are several unpatchable holes in the wood of my very fine stables that could vouch for that same flaw,” Sìle grumbled as he resumed his seat. “You can see to them if I let you through my gates for my Mhorghain’s wedding to your youngest brother. Iarann, move our sweet Sarah a bit and stand guard over her. Now, Mansourah, I can see you have been about a useful labor for a change. What have you seen?”

  Mansourah set aside his bow and quiver, then accepted a cup of wine from Nemed. “Thank you, Nem,” he said, then gulped a bit of it down before he managed anything further. “I will start by saying that whilst I saw nothing out of the ordinary, I didn’t like the feel of the air.”

  “Too cold for his delicate backside, no doubt,” Nemed said placidly.

  Ruith suppressed a smile at the slap against the back of the head Mansourah delivered without looking at his brother, though his amusement hardly made up for the chill he felt sliding down his spine at Mansourah’s words, expected though they had been. He didn’t doubt there was at least one someone watching the inn. For all he knew, there were several someones. He imagined he would be damned fortunate if he didn’t encounter the lot of them a quarter hour after he walked out the front door.

  “It wasn’t that,” Mansourah said pointedly, “though I thank you for your concern, brother.” He looked at Ruith. “Something watches the inn. I have no gift of sight past how to place an arrow where I want it to go, so perhaps I’m not the best one to judge such things.”

  “In my bloody barn,” Sìle groused, “again, but we’ll leave that for now. Was the lad well hidden?”

  “Very,” Mansourah said, “in the forest behind bits of spell, vague but assuredly there, that were cast about purposely to deceive and distract.” He paused. “They were fashioned from Olc.”

  Ruith sighed and looked at Sarah to find she was now sitting up, watching him. He admired her resilience in recovering so quickly from that piece of magic he’d used. He wished he could say the same for himself.

  He had no trouble reading her thoughts. The longer they stayed, the more danger they would put not only themselves but the rest of the company in. He looked at his grandfather.

  “Perhaps we might be best served to slip through the kitchens whilst whoever—and however many of them there are—is watching us could possibly be distracted by watching other things,” he said.

  Sìle sighed gustily. “Very well, I shall send word to Morag and request her company for a formal supper tonight. If she thinks all will be in attendance—including you and Sarah, Ruith, if perhaps she won’t be looking for you to leave this afternoon.” He paused. “If you think ’tis she who watches the inn. Though I suppose it might easily be someone else.”

  And Ruith supposed the list could be long and the characters on it unsavory in the extreme. Morag would have been first, followed by Droch of Saothair if he could have been persuaded to leave his comfortable roost at the schools of wizardry, Droch’s brother Urchaid, who wouldn’t have been caught dead within a hundred leagues of his brother but might value quite highly a collection of Gair of Ceangail’s spells, and last but not least, any number of his own bastard brothers who had their own reasons for wanting their natural father’s life’s work.

  He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, trying to contain the pounding. “I’m not sure who—”

  “I imagine you are,” Sìle countered briskly, “and I believe it might be useful for us to know who those souls are you don’t want to tell us about. That way, we might be able to eliminate a few possibilities for you.”

  Ruith looked at his grandfather blearily. “Would you?”

  “Of course, I would,” Sìle said without hesitation. “Nemed, see to more wine whilst Ruith makes his list. Sarah, my dear, how are you feeling?”

  Ruith watched Sarah chat quietly with his grandfather for a moment or two, then rise to go rummage about in her pack for what he hoped might be herbs to ease his head. She didn’t seem to be favoring her arm as much, so perhaps the spell had been worth the price. But if a spell of essence changing couldn’t rid her of the aftereffects of touching his father’s spell, what could?

  He honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Instead, he accepted parchment and ink conjured up by some enterprising relation or almost-relation and set to making his list. It was easier than thinking on Sarah’s arm, their quest, or who was lying in wait for them outside.

  Because he was very afraid that someone might be a soul he hadn’t dared consider.

  Six

  S

  arah put away the herbs she’d used to brew Ruith a bit of tea, then looked at the rest of the contents of her pack placed in tidy piles under the window. She had things one might eat in a pinch on a long journey as well as a bit of cream-colored roving that was softer than anything she’d ever felt in her life. The only other things of value she had were a bit of wool, a pair of knitting needles, and a collection of books she couldn’t bring herself to open at the moment. She started to pack everything away, then looked at the spindle still lying next to her. It was cunningly carved, true enough, but it had been given to her by the ki
ng of the dwarves, so perhaps that told her all she needed to know about it. She touched the hidden lever she’d been shown and the wooden length of the spindle sprang away from the whorl to reveal a slim, terribly lethal-looking dagger. Very handy for a weaver in a tight spot, King Uachdaran had told her with obvious delight as he’d handed it to her.

  He’d also told her she could spin all sorts of things she wouldn’t expect with that spindle, but she hadn’t had time to ask him what he’d meant by that.

  She was tempted at the moment to try her hand at the whisper-soft roving Ruith’s brother Rùnach had provided her, but that seemed a little frivolous considering the seriousness of the conversation that was going on over by the fire.

  Well, perhaps calling it a conversation was putting a bit of gloss on it that it didn’t deserve. It was a rather lively—and she used that term loosely—discussion about Ruith’s plans for the future.

  She repacked her gear quickly, ignoring what she was hearing, then set her pack aside. She took a deep breath, then pushed herself to her feet so she could look out of the window. The scene was much as it had been earlier that morning. The owl she’d seen earlier was still perched there in the tree above the stables, no doubt continuing to take the healthful air, and the sky was still full of clouds. Only now, she forced herself to take a closer look at the forest beyond that stable, to see if she could make out any untoward spells. Or, more importantly, who might be laying them there in the boughs of those mist-topped trees—

  She jumped at the touch of a hand on her arm, but it was only Iarann.

  “You shouldn’t be standing here,” he said quietly. “Not in the open.”

  She couldn’t deny that he had a point, but she was also not enthusiastic about giving up any of the light the window provided. She didn’t argue with him when he pushed the shutters to. At least he was kind enough to set a dozen recently created candles alight. He offered her a seat, but she shook her head quickly. She wouldn’t pace in front of the window, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit.