Spellweaver

by Lynn Kurland

  Damn, caught.

  Ruith reminded himself that he was a man of thirty winters, not a lad, and he was under no obligation to answer any of what he was certain would be not the polite inquiries he’d faced before, but terribly prying and uncomfortable questions about his motives, his ambitions, and his heart. He wouldn’t answer them, not even out of courtesy. He continued on his way to the end of the shelves, stopped, then inclined his head.

  “My lord.”

  Soilléir only continued to study him, as if he searched for something he’d hoped to find there. Good sense, perhaps. Ruith returned his look steadily. The man hadn’t come to make certain he wouldn’t perish from fatigue over reading too much or outright death from slices to his fingers from pages of books with minds of their own. If there was one thing that could be counted on in the world, it was that Soilléir of Cothromaiche didn’t indulge in idle conversation or haphazard visits.

  Soilléir nodded to his left. Ruith didn’t want to but followed him as he walked away, because he had decent manners.

  But as he followed, he cursed himself. Not because of the pointed questions he knew were coming his way—he had watched Soilléir pester his mother, after all—and not because they were questions that needed to be answered, but because he was uncomfortable in his own skin. The truth was, he wanted none of what was being thrust upon him, nothing to do with his bastard brothers and his father’s arrogance and idiocy, not one more moment wasted in being brought up hard against the consequences of actions he hadn’t made himself and therefore shouldn’t be responsible for.

  How much simpler it would have been to be in his house on the side of a forlorn mountain, baking his bread, enjoying his stews, and indulging in Master Franciscus’s lovely apple-flavored ale.

  Though perhaps a little bit less like a man’s life than the life of a child.

  He rubbed his hands over his face and wished he indulged in hard liquor. He was fairly certain that with enough time and effort, he could drink himself into oblivion and keep himself there for quite some time. If he had difficulty at the task, perhaps he could send word to Adhémar of Neroche for advice on how the like was most easily accomplished.

  “He’s an ass,” Soilléir said mildly over his shoulder, “but not a drunkard.”

  “Stop that,” Ruith said in annoyance.

  Soilléir only smiled and opened the door to a chamber Ruith hadn’t known existed. That was surprising because he’d certainly done his share of investigating during his visits to Buidseachd in his youth. His brothers Rùnach and Gille had been happy to investigate the bowels of the keep with him, having themselves been on a constant search for obscure, ancient texts that might have contained something to contain their father. Ruith could bring to mind more than one scolding his older brothers had had from their grandfather for inciting insurrections in the other grandchildren and great-grandchildren who had run wildly about Seanagarra when their parents hadn’t been watching.

  He sat down on a stool pulled up to a worktable and looked at the crumbling manuscripts stacked there in a scholarly sort of disarray along with a bookmaker’s tools for the restorations of said crumbling texts. He glanced at Soilléir.

  “Are you an archivist now?”

  Soilléir shook his head with a faint smile. “’Tis my assistant—if that’s what he could be called—who labors with these. I just come now and again to see what he’s dug up.”

  Rùnach would have been teary-eyed with joy over what Ruith could see were more stacks of things to be pored over placed carefully on shelves against one wall. He sighed, then looked again at the keeper of dangerous spells.

  “Well?”

  Soilléir looked perfectly comfortable perched on the other stool. “I’m curious about a thing or two.”

  Ruith pursed his lips. “I imagine you are.”

  “’Tis what makes a good mage, Ruithneadh.”

  “And you are that, Master Soilléir.”

  Soilléir winced briefly, as if something about that reply grieved him somehow. Ruith couldn’t begin to presume to guess what that might have been, so he settled for steeling himself against questions he wasn’t going to enjoy.

  “Why did you come here?” Soilléir asked, apparently having decided that making polite conversation before beginning the inquisition was unnecessary. “In truth?”

  “I told you yesterday: for refuge.”

  “You could have found that at Seanagarra.”

  You were closer was halfway out of his mouth before he called it back, because it wasn’t true. “I needed time to think in a place where Sarah would be protected.”

  “You have magic,” Soilléir pointed out. “Why didn’t you use it?”

  “Do you need to ask me that again?” Ruith answered, more sharply than he’d intended. Damn that Soilléir. Was there not a time in his life he could dance about a hurt for a bit instead of stabbing it straight to the heart?

  Soilléir wrapped his hands around one knee and leaned back a bit, assuming a pose that belonged to a man of a score, not a man of a score of centuries. “You know, Ruithneadh, vows made in one’s youth are often rash.”

  Ruith had no patience for where he knew Soilléir was heading. “I believe we discussed this at length before.”

  “I thought it merited further scrutiny.”

  Ruith shifted to face him fully. “Then allow me to satisfy your curiosity fully, my lord. I don’t use magic because I have rattling around in my wee head almost every last bloody spell that my father ever used. I imagine I could write down for you almost all the spells in his damned book and likely improve upon them because I’ve dreamed them every night of my bloody life, despite how I’ve managed to ignore that fact during the days.”

  Soilléir only continued to watch him, unblinking, pitiless, and in his own impossible way, demanding.

  “Very well, here’s more,” Ruith said, taking a deep breath. “Almost a month ago, I stood in that accursed glade near Ceangail where my father slew my entire family, unleashed all my wondrous power, and killed three dozen trolls with Olc as easily if I’d been swatting flies. I suffered no ill effects save a weariness that rendered me senseless for several days, but the trolls, however, were very much worse for the wear, which says much about the unwieldiness of my power.” He had to take another deep breath, because he found he was shaking. “I don’t use that power, my lord, because I am so full of rage, a foolish, ten-year-old’s rage, that I can scarce bear it.”

  “Ruith, that’s understandable—”

  “Would you give me the spells of Caochladh?” Ruith asked flatly. “Would you trust me with them?”

  “All of them, Ruithneadh?” Soilléir asked mildly, “or just a few?”

  “A pair of them,” Ruith snarled, “damn you to hell. A pair of my choosing.”

  Soilléir studied him for several minutes in silence. “And if I were to allow you to make free with my collection of spells capable of truly undoing the world and all in it, which ones would you want?”

  Ruith looked at him steadily. “Return and Alchemy.”

  There was a noise, followed by a curse. That might have been Soilléir tipping so far backward in surprise that he only saved himself from an undignified sprawl because he was, as Ruith had noted before, fairly spry for a man of his advanced years. Soilléir put his hand on the stool to steady himself and looked at Ruith in surprise. “Why Return?”

  “So I could bring my father back to life.”

  Soilléir sat down. “To what end?”

  “To take your very elegant spell of Alchemy,” Ruith said shortly, “and turn him into a rock, after which I would walk back to his damned well, open it, then drop him inside to fall endlessly into the evil he loved so much.”

  “I think you’ve given this a bit of thought,” Soilléir managed.

  “I think you’re right,” Ruith said. He realized his hands were clenched into fists, so he forced himself to lay them flat on his thighs. “And since we are discussing this fascinatin
g topic, let us say, my lord, that I were to take the afternoon, stroll into the council of the masters and show them exactly what they wanted to know to earn their paltry bits of gold and silver to wear on my fingers. Then let us continue down this path of madness that finds me trotting back into your solar to present myself to you as an aspirant. Would you give me your spells?”

  Soilléir studied him in silence for a moment or two. “Could you convince me to give them to you?”

  “Have you not already seen what lies at the bottom of my soul?” Ruith countered. “Can you not already divine where the point is that you could break me?”

  Soilléir sat back down and looked at him gravely. “I know where that point is, Ruithneadh. The question is, do you?”

  Ruith didn’t fall off his own stool, but he came damned close. Nay, he didn’t know where the breaking point of his own soul was, but he had the feeling he knew exactly where he could learn the location of that unhappy place. All he needed to do was walk through Buidseachd’s front gates, follow that unseen path that would lead to his grandfather’s garden, then attempt entrance into a place that would be a far better judge of his own capacity for evil than any mortal.

  He looked at Soilléir, but couldn’t muster up even a halfhearted glare. “You are a heartless bastard,” he managed.

  “I know.”

  “You were never this vicious to my mother.”

  “Your mother never wanted any of my spells.”

  “And if she’d asked for them?”

  “Ruith, my friend, I would have given your mother anything she wanted,” Soilléir said with a deep sigh. He studied his hands for a moment or two, then looked up. “Do you want them? In truth?”

  “Don’t ask,” Ruith said, shaking his head sharply. “I’ve no stomach for joining the ranks of those you’ve shown where their souls will shatter. I can only imagine who is on that very short list.”

  Soilléir smiled. “I imagine you could name a pair of them.”

  “Yngerame of Wychweald,” Ruith said without hesitation. “He couldn’t resist complaining about you to my grandfather every chance he had. I remember one particular evening when he described in great detail just how heartless you could be.”

  “He just wanted to ingratiate himself with Sìle so he wouldn’t have to spend the night in the stables, no doubt,” Soilléir said dryly. “I don’t imagine Desdhemar of Neroche was that unkind.” He frowned. “Or her son, though I imagine you haven’t had a chance to discuss the same with him.”

  Ruith felt his mouth fall open. “Adhémar?” he asked incredulously. “You gave your spells to Adhémar?”

  “Nay, to Miach,” Soilléir said with a smile, “but you would have realized that, had you thought about it long enough.”

  “Did he crawl out of your solar when you were finished with him?” Ruith asked sourly. “Or did you just toss him out into the passageway and hope for the best?”

  “He walked, if not a little unsteadily,” Soilléir said gravely. “But he was but a lad of ten-and-six when he’d passed all my tests. And he hasn’t used any of my spells ... yet.”

  “Which means Adhémar still sits on his throne, instead of lounging on a lily pad in the back garden,” Ruith said with a snort. “Though how Miach bears him, I’ll never know.”

  “Actually, Adhémar is now residing somewhere quite a bit less comfortable, but I won’t bother you with the details since you’re not terribly interested in the goings-on in the Nine Kingdoms.”

  Ruith blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Are you referring to your disinterest in the realms of the world or Adhémar’s fate?”

  Ruith glared at him. “I never said I wasn’t interested. At least in the former.”

  “Careful, Ruith,” Soilléir said mildly. “You might find yourself getting involved in things that will require more than sitting in front of your fire and avoiding Fate’s heavy hand.”

  Ruith found himself on his feet, pacing, without truly knowing how he’d come to be doing it. He turned to Soilléir and folded his arms across his chest. “What happened to Adhémar?”

  Soilléir looked up at him. “He was riding the border with his lovely bride, Adaira of Penrhyn—”

  “A perfect choice.”

  “Miach thought so too,” Soilléir agreed. “Unfortunately, she might be regretting her choice now given that her husband was too stupid to take the sort of guard he needed and both of them now find themselves unwilling guests of Neroche’s neighbor to the north.”

  “Lothar?” Ruith asked in astonishment.

  “The very same.”

  “What an idiot,” Ruith said without hesitation. “Adhémar, I mean.”

  “Agreed,” Soilléir said. He looked up tranquilly. “Very foolish to take one’s lady anywhere close to a nasty sort of mage when one has no magic to protect that lady.” He paused. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ruith started to agree, then realized just what Soilléir had said. He wished the words felt less like a kick in the gut. He wished he’d not been so stupid as to fail to continually remind himself that with Soilléir of Cothromaiche, conversation was rarely just words. He had to take a handful of decent breaths before he could speak with any success.

  “Do you ever just talk for the pleasure of it?” he managed.

  “Only to myself.”

  Ruith closed his eyes briefly. “I would say I loathed you, but I am not a silly serving wench.”

  Soilléir shrugged. “What else am I to do with you, Ruith? Slap your good sense back into you?”

  “It wouldn’t work.”

  “I didn’t think it woul—”

  Ruith realized that Soilléir had stopped bludgeoning him with things he didn’t want to listen to only when he realized someone else was talking in a hoarse, ruined voice that made him flinch just listening to it. He turned around to find Soilléir’s servant standing at the doorway.

  “The young miss,” he rasped. “I left her at her loom whilst I went to fetch her something to eat. When I returned—”

  Ruith leapt forward only to run into Soilléir’s outstretched arm. He cursed, but the words died on his lips when he realized Soilléir was looking for Sarah.

  That Seeing magic was ... well, it was damned spooky, that’s what it was. He could see spells, of course, and he had been, in his youth, able to hear the sentient things in Tòrr Dòrainn—brooks that laughed as they bubbled and flowers that sang as they bloomed. He’d been able to remain unaffected by elvish glamour cast by his grandfather. He’d heard rumors that some kings could see what was passing in their realms, though most of those sorts of tales had come from Neroche. He had assumed, over the years, that Adhémar’s sight had been limited to the quickest path to the ale kegs in every village pub cellar, but perhaps he’d been mistaken about that.

  But Soilléir’s craft of sight?

  It was unsettling.

  Soilléir swore suddenly. “She’s walking toward Droch’s garden.”

  Ruith pushed past him, but Soilléir caught him by the arm. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m going to rescue her, of course,” Ruith said.

  Soilléir shot him a look. “With what magic, Ruith?”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Soilléir said sharply. “Against Droch? You cannot aid her with good intentions.”

  Ruith supposed over the course of his life several things had stung him to the very quick. His father telling him he would never be his equal was one. Sarah telling him she couldn’t bear to be within five paces of him was another. Soilléir telling him in not so many words that he hadn’t the skill to fight the master of Olc, the master of the magic his father had taken and twisted in ways that Droch envied to the depths of his soul.

  It was almost enough to make him reconsider his vow of magical celibacy, as it were.

  “Go back to my solar and wait,” Soilléir said shortly. “We’ll be there presently.”

&nb
sp; Ruith dragged his hand through his hair and hesitated. He had never hesitated in his life and it galled him to the depths of his soul to do so now.

  Nay, that wasn’t what galled him. It was being sent back to the house like a woman whilst another man went off to rescue the woman he loved.

  “You cannot aid her,” Soilléir repeated.

  Ruith would have cursed Soilléir, but it was difficult to condemn someone else for telling the truth. He couldn’t fight against Droch’s spells with a sword, and he couldn’t fight off the spells of death he knew Droch would throw at him the very moment he realized whom he had within reach.

  But he would be damned if he would go upstairs and wait like a woman.

  Eight

  Sarah began to suspect she might have taken a wrong turn.

  The journey to her current location had started out quite innocently, actually. She’d woken to find Ruith gone but a loom waiting for her in the corner of Soilléir’s chamber. She’d happily spent part of the morning weaving, but found that whilst the warp threads had been innocuous enough, the yarn Master Soilléir had found for her to use was full of things she hadn’t expected, tales she hadn’t wanted to listen to gathered up with the roving, memories and magic she hadn’t wanted to be a part of spun into the wool. Not that any of it had been unpleasant; it had just been too much to look at. She liked her yarn to be just yarn, in colors she had made herself without any magic attached. She definitely didn’t like it to feel like a live thing under her hands.

  She had remembered, as she’d sat at that loom, a particular fire she’d seen along their journey to follow Daniel. Seirceil of Coibhneas had made it, but as she’d sat there, she’d seen other things dancing along the wood. She realized now that it had most likely been Ruith to add those little touches. It had been elven magic, of that she was now certain.

  It had been beautiful.

  That memory had pushed her to her feet and left her hastily snatching up a cloak before she left Soilléir’s chambers and went for a walk to clear her head. Not that being outside in the passageways was much of a help in that. The entire place was crawling with spells, though she’d realized that if she closed her eyes, it wasn’t so obvious.