Gift of Magic

by Lynn Kurland

  Ruith fumbled for her and pulled her to her feet. “I’m going to release my ma—”

  “Don’t,” she gasped. “He’ll only take it.”

  “It won’t matter if he manages to draw everything back to himself,” Ruith whispered frantically. “I know—”

  “Give me the chance to try one spell,” Sarah pleaded. “The last one Soilléir gave me.”

  And before he could say anything else, she gathered all the hope she had in everything beautiful she’d seen with the legacy her parents had given her, and spoke aloud the words of the third spell Soilléir of Cothromaiche had given her.

  The spell of Light.

  The little glade exploded with the light of thousands of spheres of werelight in colors she was absolutely sure hadn’t been created until that moment. They were separate, true, but somehow blended together to drive out every shadow in the glade, every hint of something that shouldn’t have been there, every evil thing that lurked in the corners of Gair’s garden.

  Thoir had fallen to his knees, gaping at the light above him. Gair had stopped speaking, leaving his spell—and the entirety of his power—still strung out before him, like a very long, very thin thread.

  A thread that could be broken, given the right amount of force.

  Ruith caught sight of the spindle in her hand, then met met her gaze quickly. “Can you make that work here, do you think?”

  “If I can’t, we’re both dead,” she breathed. “What of you?”

  “There’s little point in having a decent sword if you can’t use it now and then for good,” he said cheerfully.

  And before Gair could open his mouth to finish his spell, Ruith had leapt forward, drawing Athair of Cothromaiche’s sword that blazed with a golden light that was immediately reflected in the innumerable balls of werelight above them.

  Ruith sliced through the thread of his father’s spell.

  Then he released all his magic, sending glorious, singing cascades of Fadaire coursing through his soul. The glade was suddenly full of air that whispered as it gave them breath, trees that sang something that sounded remarkably like a battle dirge, and werelight that rained down refracted sunlight with the sound of delicate snow on a bitterly cold morning.

  Ruith took the ends of his father’s spell of Diminishing and threw them toward her.

  Sarah would have spared a comment that he had a bit more faith in her than she did, but she didn’t have the time. So she caught the ends of the spell with her spindle.

  And she began to spin.

  She reminded herself that she far preferred spinning on a wheel, but she supposed, if she managed to consider it at length later, she could definitely accustom herself to a more portable means of turning things into yarn.

  She spun until there was nothing left to spin and the spindle was full of Gair’s power. She looked at him and realized that he had gravely overextended himself. There was nothing left in him, not a single drop of the power he had cherished for over a thousand years. Thoir’s was there as well, as was Ardan’s, but she had the feeling that Ardan wasn’t going to want back anything she could pull off that shaft.

  She looked at the men there, all but Ruith stunned into silence, and wondered what they would do.

  Urchaid bolted first, scurrying back up his tree as a squirrel. Thoir’s reaction was quite a bit different, as was Gair’s. They both rushed at Ruith from two different directions. Thoir was undeniably mad. Gair was merely out of his head with choler.

  She would have cried out to warn Ruith, but she had no time. He backed up a pace or two to keep the others in his sights, but tripped and went down. Sarah clicked the lever on her spindle and the shaft fell away, revealing the small dagger King Uachdaran had promised would be there. Thoir had snatched up a handful of arrows and had thrown himself at Ruith, apparently thinking he could do enough damage with those wicked metal tips. Ruith rolled out from underneath them and up to his feet, his sword still in his hands.

  Sarah realized as she saw the flash of steel that she hadn’t been watching the right direction. She stretched out her hands toward Ruith, watching as the dagger Gair had in his hand came down—

  Into Thoir’s chest.

  Ruith lowered his sword. Sarah watched as Thoir staggered a bit, then dropped to his knees. He looked at Ruith, blinking in surprise.

  “He took my magic.”

  “Aye,” Ruith said quietly. “He did.”

  Thoir looked at the dagger haft protruding from his chest, then looked up at his cousin. “It hurts.”

  Ruith reached for him, but it was too late. Sarah watched Thoir fall forward, then roll slightly onto his side. Ruith reached down and closed his eyes, then rose with a sigh. He turned.

  Then he froze.

  Sarah looked at him, then looked in the direction of his gaze. She felt Ruith’s stillness become hers.

  Gair was holding on to the outer casing of her spindle that contained the tidy spinning of all his power.

  “What—” she began miserably.

  Ruith said nothing. He merely walked over to his father and without ceremony took the spindle away. Sarah found herself the temporary keeper of his sword as he carried his father’s magic over to the well in the yard there. She almost told him to save her spindle, but he had apparently already thought of that. He slid all the magic off the wood and dropped it, wincing a little as it touched his fingers, into the well.

  He fashioned a stone cover out of his imagination and power, then stopped speaking.

  Sarah could see, though, that he hadn’t finished with his work. The well slowly and inexorably became nothing but solid stone, encasing in its depths all Gair’s power. Soilléir’s spell of Alchemy, apparently. She supposed Ruith had done his father a favor by not calcifying all the underground streams for a solid league surrounding his house. At least he could most likely manage to dig another well before he died of thirst.

  Ruith walked back over to her, took his sword back and resheathed it, then leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “Cheek?” she said, because she could think of nothing else to say that could possibly be equal to the monumental nature of the events that had just transpired.

  “Your grandfather is watching,” Ruith said half under his breath. “I’m trying not to take liberties.”

  Sarah looked over her shoulder to find Franciscus standing just on the other side of the little fence, leaning negligently against a tree there, his arms folded casually over his chest. He glanced next to him as Urchaid the squirrel resumed his proper shape and dusted himself off. She supposed they would keep for a bit, so she turned back to see what Ruith would do to his father.

  Gair was swearing in a blustering fashion, breathing out threatenings, promising retribution. Ruith didn’t even so much as glance at him as he retrieved the book of spells, paused, then picked up the ring from where Gair had dropped it. He gathered up his bow and arrows, then took her hand, towing her with him as he walked along the path back to the gate she honestly didn’t remember having come through.

  “Where are you going!” Gair bellowed. “Come back here and fight me! I can’t believe I spawned such a coward.”

  Sarah looked up at Ruith but his expression gave nothing away. He escorted her through the gate, handed her his gear and the book of spells, then turned and shut the gate. He wove Soilléir’s spell of Containment over it, which she knew because she watched the words pour silently out of his soul and quickly fan out to form a barrier that she could readily see was unbreachable and permanent.

  “What are you doing?” Gair shrieked. “What have you done?”

  Urchaid walked forward and tried to lean on the fence but only succeeded in bashing his head against the spell. He pulled back, rubbed his forehead in annoyance, then turned that annoyance on Gair.

  “I believe, my good man, that he’s boxed you in.”

  “But I’ll die!” Gair cried. “You can’t leave me here to die!”

  Sarah looked up at Ruith. He took a de
ep breath, let it out, then returned her look.

  “I have no more to say to him,” he said quietly. “For the sake of my mother and my brothers who are dead, I can say no more to him.”

  “I think Urchaid’s doing the honors.”

  Ruith smiled, a quick smile that left her smiling in return. She walked into his embrace and closed her eyes, listening to Urchaid giving Gair very timely and useful advice about saving seeds and learning to make do with what he could dry in the attic. Sarah imagined that once word got out that Gair of Ceangail was a captive audience, there would be quite a few souls braving the innards of Shettlestoune to give him other useful pieces of advice.

  “Well, I say,” Urchaid announced, apparently having tired of his sport, “that was a bit messy, wasn’t it?”

  “Let’s make a bargain, you and I,” Ruith said shortly, his voice rumbling in his chest. “You go away and I won’t tell either Droch or your father that you’re alive.”

  “I was thinking that perhaps I should carry off Gair’s little tome—”

  “No. I already have plans for it.”

  “What are you going to do with it that I couldn’t do better?”

  “Step back and I’ll show you.”

  Sarah pulled away from Ruith and watched as he dropped his father’s book to the ground where it suddenly sprang up into a far different, rather more permanent bit of rock.

  Rock that looked remarkably like an owl.

  “Oh, I say,” Urchaid said faintly. “Well, that seems as good a thing as any to do with it. At least we know it won’t be out in the world any longer, tempting mages with no self-control to thumb through its contents.” He slid Franciscus a look. “No hard feelings, eh, old man? Didn’t mean to clunk you so hard on the noggin.”

  “Well,” Franciscus said seriously, “I had put an enormous rent in that very lovely lace cravat you’re wearing, so perhaps we might consider our recent battle to be a draw.”

  Sarah watched Urchaid put his hand to his throat uneasily, as if he’d come close to losing more than a bit of lace. He nodded at Franciscus, then looked at Ruith.

  “I don’t suppose, my wee rustic, that you have any suggestions for locales where I might safely roost, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to tell you,” Ruith said, “but I would suggest that you do your roosting very far away from Shettlestoune. You know, you might consider a different direction for your life based on what you’ve seen today.”

  The look of loathing Urchaid sent Ruith’s way was formidable. “I do not do good works.” He smoothed his hand down the front of his less-than-immaculate jacket, then examined one of his lace cuffs. He flicked a dark spot off it, then looked at Ruith. “I’ll leave all that rubbish to you. And rest assured, my dear Ruithneadh, that I will confine myself to elegant salons where you will not be. I don’t imagine that will prove to be too difficult.”

  Ruith only watched him, which seemed to make Urchaid more than a little uneasy. He pursed his lips at Ruith, shot Franciscus a wary look, then turned to her.

  “I find that I must compliment you, lady, on your work there. I daresay none of us would be breathing now without your very capable spinning.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah managed. “You’re very kind.”

  Urchaid recoiled as if she’d thrust a viper into his face. He patted himself for a moment or two, as if he thought he might thus find his old, foul self, then cast them all another look of disgust before he changed himself back into an owl and flapped off.

  “Well,” Franciscus said, rubbing his hands together, “I think we should be on our way as well. I’m not sure I can listen to Gair shouting himself hoarse much longer.”

  Ruith shot him a look. “Did you come to rescue us?”

  Franciscus held up his hands. “I simply came to watch the spectacle, though thanks to a little tussle with Urchaid and Thoir both, I almost didn’t come at all. I must say, children, that you didn’t disappoint. Sarah, my gel, perhaps you should turn off those lights. I think they’re beginning to hurt Gair’s eyes.”

  Sarah looked at him helplessly. “I don’t know how. That wasn’t part of the spell, I don’t think.”

  Franciscus held out his arm for her. “I’ll do it for you, then teach you the spell if you like. Ruith, shall we go?”

  “Please,” Ruith said with feeling.

  Sarah walked along with the both of them on the path that led away from Gair’s house. When the path became too narrow, Franciscus released her to forge ahead, leaving her to walk with Ruith. In time, even the echoes of Gair’s shouts faded. The woods were once again filled with terribly normal, everyday sounds of birds chirping, bees buzzing, squirrels flittering through the undergrowth.

  She’d never been gladder of anything in her life.

  She looked up at Ruith to find him watching her. She didn’t smile, because his expression was so grave. “What is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head, smiling briefly then. “Nothing. I was just watching you and wondering what you were thinking.”

  She found that she needed a fortifying breath or two before she could speak. She couldn’t, however, look away from him, unwholesomely handsome three-quarter elf though he was.

  An elf. She could hardly believe she was entertaining any serious feelings about such a creature, but it had been that sort of year so far.

  “I’m not sure,” she managed, when she succeeded in corralling her rampaging thoughts, “what to do now.”

  He considered for a bit. “We might make Mhorghain’s wedding, if we hurried. Or at least the feast after the ceremony.”

  “At Seanagarra?” she said.

  Well, she squeaked instead of speaking casually, but she was not precisely herself at the moment. She had traveled over half the length and breadth of the Nine Kingdoms as a bitter, terribly swift wind, helped vanquish the most evil mage in memory, and was now back where she had started from. Only now she was left with trying to put her life in order when she wasn’t sure where or what the pieces were.

  “I’m sure my grandfather has made a list of eligible lads for you to look over,” Ruith grumbled. “Lads who have no doubt been allowed inside his gates for just such a purpose.”

  “I thought he wouldn’t let anyone in for the wedding.”

  “I’m fairly sure he’ll make an exception for you.”

  She looked up at him. “Am I going to be forced to dance with them?”

  “Would you rather fling yourself off the battlements in dragonshape with me?” he asked, looking far more enthusiastic about that prospect than she was comfortable with.

  She smiled in spite of herself, however, because his good humor was contagious. “Let me see how I feel when we get there.”

  He stopped, turned her toward him, and put his arms around her. The sunlight fell down onto his dark hair and lit up in a most appealing way his bluish green eyes. She thought, now that she had a moment’s peace for thinking, that his eyes looked a little bit like that bay Sgath had once shown her, a little piece of ground on the shore of his lake he’d been saving for just the right person.

  “I will wait,” Ruith said seriously, “for as long as it takes for you to decide what your life should look like from here. I will even sit through innumerable evenings of watching you dance with every prince Sìle has engraved on that damned list he made up for you—”

  “I thought you threw that list in the fire.”

  “I’m sure he’s made another copy,” he said just before he pulled her closer and kissed her. Quite thoroughly, as it happened. He lifted his head and looked down at her seriously. “I’m serious about the other. You tell me when you’ve thought enough.”

  “I’m not going to be able to think if you keep that up.”

  He chewed on something—a smile perhaps—then put his arm around her shoulders, and walked with her up the path to where Franciscus was waiting.

  Sarah looked back only once. The lights were fading, though she could still see echoes of them hoveri
ng just above the treetops. She listened carefully, but could hear nothing untoward. The world was at peace.

  She thought she just might be as well.

  Twenty-one

  R

  uith walked along one of the porticos of his grandfather’s palace, trying to decide just what he’d been doing the last time he’d walked over the same polished stones. He thought, now that he’d had the chance to give it the proper amount of thought, that he had been outrunning his grandfather with the youngest prince of Neroche. He was fairly sure a breach in the library’s security had been at the root of the problem, no doubt accompanied by the report of a breaching of the pantry as well. His grandfather’s servants were, it could be said now that he was far too old to be reprimanded, a rather stodgy bunch.

  He stopped at a doorway, then leaned in slightly to ascertain just what chamber he was outside and which inhabitants he was going to be eavesdropping on. He tried not to think about how odd it was that he couldn’t simply identify the room from the outside, but it had been many years since he’d been in Seanagarra.

  He saw his sister sitting in a little circle in front of the hearth with her newly made husband at her side. They were, it appeared, working on Rùnach’s hands despite his rather vociferous protests. Ruith had no idea if Rùnach’s hands could be healed, or even if they could be, if he would want them to be whole. His brother had changed over the past twenty years, which Ruith understood with his head.

  It was his heart that was having the difficulty.

  It was painful, somehow, to know he had lost a score of years with his siblings who lived still. He could only hope to make that up somehow as the years stretched out ahead of them.

  He hadn’t discussed his solution to their father with any of them yet. He supposed Franciscus had told Sgath who had informed Sìle who had then announced at some point, in gruff tones, that he was pleased the damned fool was seen to. Ruith had unbent enough to tell his siblings that their father was still alive but contained. He’d communicated the tale to Miach with a mere lifting of one eyebrow. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell anyone the particulars.