A Tapestry of Spells

by Lynn Kurland

  Sgath reached up and felt his head, then laughed. “I left in such haste, I’d forgotten what I was wearing. Of course, my girl. You’ll have your choice. But let’s see to my grandson here. What sort of thing shall we use?”

  “I only know things of my mother’s,” Sarah admitted, “though they have never worked for me. Have you nothing of your own to use?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then you do it,” Sarah said without hesitation. “I’ll keep him from running away.”

  Sgath laughed softly. “As you will, my dear.”

  Ruith closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He was quite happy to listen to his grandfather use a modest though quite efficacious spell of Camanaë. His grandfather had no bloodright to it, being of Ainneamh himself, but he certainly had the power to use whatever suited him.

  Ruith felt the wound heal as if it had never been there. He opened his eyes and looked blearily at the pair kneeling in front of him.

  “Better,” he managed.

  “Sleep,” Sgath suggested.

  “I just might.”

  “We’ll leave you to it,” Sgath said, rising and offering a hand to Sarah.

  Ruith felt Sarah’s hand briefly on his head, smiled reflexively, then waited until he heard the chamber door close before he stripped off his clothes and crawled happily into bed, feeling as lighthearted and secure as a ten-year-old. He closed his eyes and listened without compunction to the conversation going on briefly on the other side of the door.

  “He never sleeps,” Sarah said. “I think he has nightmares.”

  “Then we’ll watch over him today and see if he can’t manage a decent bit of napping. He’ll be safe enough in the house, I daresay, whilst we go see what the lake will surrender.”

  “Aye, please,” Sarah said, sounding as if nothing could have delighted her more. “You’re fortunate to call such beauty yours.”

  “I am merely its steward for a few years,” Sgath said modestly, “but aye, I am fortunate.”

  A few years. Aye, Ruith thought to himself, twelve centuries full of them at last count, and that didn’t add to the tally the years he’d lived in the land of Ainneamh where flowers never ceased to bloom.

  He heard the front door shut. Sarah would be perfectly safe with his grandfather to protect her and he himself would be the happy beneficiary of the spells that guarded his grandfather’s land, even a little house that lay a league around the top of the lake from Sgath’s true home.

  He sighed deeply, then turned over and fell into the first peaceful sleep he’d had in years.

  He woke to the smell of supper. He could tell from the light in the window that the sun would be setting soon, which meant he had slept most of the day away. He had to admit he’d needed it. Perhaps he could convince Sarah to take her turn and actually have a full night’s rest.

  He had a wash, donned clean clothing that had doubtless been conjured for him by his grandfather, then walked out and followed the glorious scent of something he hadn’t cooked himself.

  He almost tripped over the equally glorious Sarah of Doìre, freshly washed and dressed as well, sitting in front of the fire and drying her hair by its heat. He’d never in his life seen hair like hers. A riot of curls that straightened into fatter, less numerous but no less lovely curls after a day or two in a braid. He was tempted to offer to braid her hair for her, but that would have meant taming it and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see that happen quite yet.

  He sat down on a stool behind her, within easy reach on the off chance she needed her hair brushed for her. She looked over her shoulder at him.

  “You look better.”

  “I feel better, thank you,” he said with a smile. He rested his elbows on his knees. “How was the fishing?”

  “Your grandfather’s lure made all the difference,” she said. “And you’ll be pleased to know he did the cooking.”

  “I never said you couldn’t cook.”

  She pursed her lips at him, then turned to Sgath. “I won’t tell you what he has said about my turns at the cooking fire. We’ll just say he prefers what Master Franciscus combines in the pot.”

  “Appalling,” Sgath said, with mock horror. “I worry about his manners.”

  “I wouldn’t admit it to him, but his manners are quite lovely. After all, he did buy me a horse and a pair of daggers.”

  “Rather he should have bought you flowers, or something made from silk.”

  “Oh, he did buy me a silk blouse,” Sarah said without hesitation. “But I made him cut it from me before I took a knife to it myself. Too many ruffles.”

  Ruith met his grandfather’s startled eyes, then smiled as Sgath burst into hearty laughter.

  “Then perhaps daggers are more appropriate.” He put his hands on his knees and rose. “Let’s go eat, children; then Sarah should have a rest, given that she provided us with supper.”

  An hour later, Ruith was lingering at a well-worn table with his grandfather and his ... er, friend, and he found himself marveling at the complete improbability of being where he was. He was sitting with a grandfather he’d never thought to see again and it was as if no time at all had passed. He was nursing wine he was certain his grandfather hadn’t distilled in the shed behind the house, and he was looking at a woman who made the room sparkle with her smiles, her laughter, and her obvious enjoyment of one of Ruith’s favorite people.

  Which she was also fast becoming.

  He felt pressure on his toes and focused on her. “What?” he asked with a smile.

  “I think you need to sleep again,” she said. “You’re daydreaming.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Just enjoying.”

  She set her glass away from her and hid a yawn behind her hand. “I fear if I enjoy any more, I’ll fall asleep with my face in my plate and wake not remembering why I’m wearing what I couldn’t finish eating.”

  Sgath pushed his chair back immediately and rose. Ruith rose without being asked, because his mother had taught him decent manners in spite of himself.

  “I’ll show you to another bedchamber,” Sgath began.

  “Nay,” Sarah said quickly. She took a deep breath and put on a smile. “I appreciate the offer, my—” She looked at Sgath and laughed a little. “I keep wanting to call you my Lord, but I can’t fathom why”

  “My wife says exactly the same thing,” Sgath said without hesitation. “But you needn’t, Sarah dear. You might call me anything you liked and I wouldn’t take offense. Now, about your sleeping—”

  “The fire will be more than enough,” she said. “I would actually prefer it, if you don’t mind. Doors make me feel trapped. There’s no reason for it, of course.” She shrugged. “I just prefer the fire nearby.”

  Ruith decided it was best not to even look at his grandfather, first because he couldn’t bear to think of Sarah living with that hellishly unpleasant witch in Doìre, and second, in the language of Camanaë, his father’s first language, Ruithneadh meant fire.

  Not that Sarah would have known that.

  He was tempted to poach the rest of that bottle of wine, shut himself behind a sturdy door, and drink himself into oblivion. But before he could truly examine the merits of that plan, he found himself standing with Sarah in front of a pallet and blankets his grandfather was currently making up for her. Sgath had centuries of practice, having done the same countless times for other guests. Even the high ones of Camanaë and Ainneamh hadn’t been above a night or two in Sgath’s Folly, as they called it.

  “This has been very nice,” Sarah said quietly. She looked up at him. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  “Thank you for making it so I was able to eat supper,” he said with a faint smile.

  “I don’t think I did very much,” she said. She paused. “Your grandfather’s power is ... immense.”

  “He has been a good steward of it,” Ruith said, wanting nothing more than to avoid discussing that, or how she knew, or what else she knew. He put his hand on the small of her b
ack. “Shall I stay with you—”

  She smiled a quick smile. “I think you can guard me just as easily from outside, if that fire your grandfather built in his pit is where you’re headed.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Don’t be daft.” She pointed to the door. “He made do quite politely with me, but I know he’s anxious to have you to himself a bit more.”

  “Call me if you need me.”

  “I will.” She smiled. “Get on with ye, lad, and ease your grand-daddy’s heart.”

  He did, though he did look over his shoulder once as he paused at the doorway. Sarah was standing in front of the fire, holding her hands out to its blaze, looking almost at peace. It was the first time he’d seen her so and he looked perhaps a bit longer than he should have. She glanced at him, smiled, then waved him off before she turned back to the fire.

  He stumbled out of the house, down the steps, and along the path that led the short distance to the roaring fire his grandfather had indeed built in his pit. He found his grandfather sitting on a two-foot-high slice of a tree that was one of many surrounding that fire that he’d no doubt started by hand. Sgath was, as it happened, that sort of man.

  Sarah would have approved.

  Ruith took another step forward, but had to stop. He could see as if it were happening afresh a scene in front of him. His mother sitting with her parents-in-law, laughing as she held her daughter on her lap. Some of his brothers had been sitting at their grandfather’s feet, listening to him spin some impossible tale of glory and ogres, whilst others had been enjoying the remains of their meal. He could see himself holding a book up to the fire, squinting to read it by the flickering light. It had been a book of spells. He was fairly certain he’d eventually taken the book inside and read it by that fire that Sarah was currently warming her hands against.

  He had been, he had to admit, obsessed.

  “Ruith?”

  He blinked and the scene was gone. He was a little winded, but since that seemed to have become his normal condition of late, he thought nothing of it. He walked over to sit on the stump next to his grandfather, accepted a cup of mulled wine, and sipped. He sighed in pleasure.

  “Lovely”

  “Been drinking stream water, son?”

  Ruith laughed a little uneasily. “You don’t want to know what I’ve been drinking, Grandfather.”

  Sgath reached out and put his hand on Ruith’s shoulder briefly, then held his own cup between his hands. “You told me very briefly last night of your adventures these past twenty years. I suppose I can draw my own conclusions as to why you didn’t drag yourself here where you would have been safe and comfortable. Or should I inquire as to the specifics?”

  “Don’t,” Ruith said, more sharply than he intended. He attempted a smile. “I’m sorry. I meant—”

  Sgath shook his head, just as sharply. “I shouldn’t have asked. But one day, Ruithneadh, you and I will descend into my very fine cellar across the way, indulge quite thoroughly in too much of what we find there; then you will tell me what your heart cannot bear to now. But here, I want you to tell me what it is you’re about and what that has to do with a certain fiery lass resting so peacefully inside the house.”

  Ruith smiled. “She is fierce, I’ll admit.”

  “She would have to be. I’m surprised she survived her mother’s temper without having it embitter her. I’m even more surprised anyone braved that woman’s temper long enough to spawn any children with her. How did your lady remain so sweet?”

  “I would imagine ’tis a combination of having spent as little time with her mother as possible and a resolve to be nothing like her.”

  “Determined, is she?”

  “Frighteningly so.” He considered the fire for a bit, then sighed. “Her brother is the reason she left home and I followed her. She asked for my aid, thinking I was a centuries-old, vile-tempered curmudgeon—”

  “Who I’m sure you patterned after Sile of Torr Dòrainn.”

  Ruith laughed in spite of himself. “I fear I had no opportunity to display any of my maternal grandfather’s most autocratic ways to the locals, though he no doubt would have considered it a vast compliment to his admittedly quite superior self.”

  “He would have,” Sgath agreed. “So, that lovely woman sought you out, then what? You fell for her instantly?”

  “I haven’t fallen anywhere.”

  “Ruithneadh, you are a terrible liar.”

  “And you’re a terrible romantic.”

  “I want grandchildren. And I like the look of her.”

  “A witchwoman’s daughter?” Ruith asked quietly. “A witchwoman’s daughter who doesn’t have a shred of magic to her name?”

  “Perhaps you underestimate her. She lit the candles for supper.”

  “I lit the candles for supper,” Ruith said dryly, “whilst she was admiring your fishing gear.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Sgath said promptly. “I was distracted by the thought of more grandchildren. And how is it you did what she could not? I thought you said you buried all your magic with that dastardly spell you and the youngling from Neroche pilfered.”

  Ruith shrugged. “I briefly freed it to heal Seirceil of Coibhneas. I don’t think I managed to stuff it all back where it belonged.” He shot Sgath a sideways look. “Little bits of Fadaire escaped. They’ve been causing me trouble ever since.”

  “I would say they would, being what they are, but that would disparage your sweet mother, which I could never think to do.” He set his cup aside, then leaned back with his hands wrapped around his knee. “What did you and Miach want that spell for, anyway?”

  “To hide dessert from our elder brothers,” Ruith said solemnly.

  Sgath laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me, especially considering Adhémar’s fondness for sweet cakes.”

  “If he doesn’t weigh twenty stone by now, I’ll be surprised,” Ruith said sourly. “How is the illustrious king of Neroche? As obnoxious as ever?”

  Sgath smiled deeply. “I’ve avoided any royal visits from him, though I did manage to drag myself to his coronation, out of respect for his parents. I’m certain he’s slowly driving Miach mad, or so Miach says when he can endure Tor Neroche no longer and comes to visit. He arrives on wing, as you might imagine, shakes off in my courtyard whatever shape he’s taken, then happily lingers at my table as long as I’ll let him before I send him off to bed.” He shook his head. “You would like him still, I imagine. The mantle of archmage has sobered him, but not soured him. I assume you heard of his calling.”

  “I assumed it would fall to him should something happen to Queen Desdhemar,” Ruith agreed. “Riding accident, or something less pleasant?”

  Sgath looked at him, openmouthed. “She died rescuing Miach from Lothar’s dungeon. Good heavens, Ruith, where have you been?”

  Ruith realized his own mouth was hanging open. “What in the hell was he doing there?”

  “Being an arrogant young man, I imagine. He won’t talk about it, but I understand from others that he was riding the border without a guard and found himself overcome. Desdhemar and Anghmar both perished rescuing him.” He shook his head and sighed. “He keeps Lothar on the far side of his northern border, though I can’t help but feel things will come to a head between the two of them someday. ’Tis a pity, really. I think Miach would like nothing better than to retreat to some piece of land near Chagailt and grow turnips. He’s spent his share of time eyeing my vast stretches of fertile farmland, if you’re curious.”

  “No lady for him yet?”

  “I think Adhémar’s tried several times. You know Miach, though. He can be slightly ... How shall we say it?”

  “Intense,” Ruith said without hesitation. “Driven. Colored by an annoying tendency to do good at any cost. All character flaws, I’m sure. He should watch his back. He’ll find himself falling for some wench someday who’ll send him in circles.”

  “I can scarce wait to see who she’ll be,” Sgath said
with another deep smile. “I imagine he would offer the same happy wish to you, did he know you were alive. But we digress from details I want and you don’t want to give. Your lady came to you for aid and you did what?”

  Ruith knew he should have corrected his grandfather. Sarah was not and likely would never want to be his lady, even if he wanted her to be such—which he was fairly certain he didn’t. He fully intended to do for her what he’d offered to, then retreat to his house and hide.

  Only now, he might have to make the occasional visit to Lake Cladach. And if Sgath and Eulasaid knew, then word would eventually leak out and his other grandparents would know and then he would most definitely need to visit there.

  And he would have to visit Sarah as well, and make certain she was safe, and happy, and had enough sheep to provide the wool she needed for her art.

  “Ruith?”

  He looked at his grandfather. “What?”

  Sgath smiled. “You know, I offered her a bit of land down the way. There’s that little clearing that I’ve been keeping to myself for the past few centuries. Just right for a little house, on the right part of the lake for the sun to warm a garden, close enough that a quick walk would bring her to the big house.”

  The big house. Taigh-mòr, it was called, and it rivaled any elven palace he’d ever traipsed through.

  Ruith looked at his grandfather. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “I want more grandchildren.”

  “Don’t you have enough?”

  “I want some from you.”

  Ruith rolled his eyes, because it was either that or heartily agree with his grandfather that providing those joys for him was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

  Sgath waved him on. “I’m vexing you overmuch. Go on with your tale. Sarah sought you out, but you didn’t tell me why.”

  “She feared her brother was off to do evil,” he said, turning his thoughts in less pleasant directions. “She was particularly concerned about a torn page from a book she had seen briefly on her brother’s table. We found another page she’s sure was in the same hand.” He had to take a deep breath. “It was a page from my father’s book of spells.”