Spellweaver

by Lynn Kurland

  Ruith wondered why it was he was continually being caught off guard. He didn’t remember his last visit to Buidseachd having been so taxing. “An interesting thought.”

  “You can’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind before.”

  “It has,” Ruith managed. “And I made certain the thought continued on into the darkness where it belongs. I’m quite happy pretending to be something I’m not and ignoring things that make me uncomfortable.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Rùnach said sadly. He shook his head. “How have you managed without me all these years, Ruith?”

  “Poorly,” Ruith admitted, then steeled himself for the better part of an afternoon spent listening to his elder brother point out to him just where he’d gone wrong. Instruction on how to go about winning a woman he wasn’t at all sure would want to be won would no doubt figure prominently in Rùnach’s conversation.

  Ruith supposed that whilst he was listening, he would think more than he should have about the fact that whilst he would happily have retreated to his mountain sanctuary, his brother would have shouldered his burden and marched doggedly into the battle that lay ahead.

  But Rùnach couldn’t.

  While Ruith realized with a start he most certainly could, but he wouldn’t.

  Fadaire is smothered by Olc more often than not, he had said to Soilléir that first night.

  If you believe that, Ruithneadh, then you do not give your mother’s power its due.

  He wondered, casually lest the thought become more important than he wanted it to be, what would happen in truth if he sauntered down to his grandfather’s garden, released all his magic, then attempted entry, just to see what Fadaire in its strength would think of him.

  Aye, he wondered, indeed.

  The thought burned in his soul like a raging fire, leaving him fighting for breath until the sun began to set and Sarah woke. She didn’t look any better than she had before, but Soilléir promised her a walk would do her good. Ruith would have happily avoided the bloody expedition until the next day—or never, if he could have managed it—but Soilléir handed him a rucksack full of supper, assured him that Droch was shut up in his chamber, raging at his current crop of spies, and held open the door for him. Never mind that Ruith had already opened it, perhaps in spite of his better judgement. Sarah didn’t seem opposed to being liberated from a nest of mages, so there was no rescue coming from that quarter.

  He supposed he would just have to carry on down a path that was so full of thorns he could scarce put his foot to it.

  He slipped out the kitchen door with Sarah, then heard her sigh of relief at the reprieve from being inside a keep full of spells. He wished he could have shared the feeling, but what he dreaded lay in front of him, not behind. He walked quickly with her along side-walks just the same, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, following a path that even he could see was laid out before his feet.

  The way to the garden of Gearrannan hadn’t changed at all in a score of years. He found the place without trouble, then stopped in front of the gate. He wondered, absently, if he should have brought a lamp. He knew there was a path whose head lay just inside, but he wasn’t sure they would manage to find the end of it.

  He reached out toward the gate, then froze as memory washed over him. He could see his father’s hand there on that latch, the flat black onyx stone in the ring he always wore glinting dully in the moonlight. But his father had drawn his hand back immediately, as if the gate had stung him. He’d laughed off the moment, then pleaded a sudden thirst as reason not to accompany his family inside the garden. Ruith had thought little of it at the time; he’d simply been relieved to be free of his father’s oppressive presence.

  Now, though, he didn’t feel any relief at all.

  He stood there with his hand on the latch, unable to move. He heard Sarah call his name, but he couldn’t speak—partly because he was still so damned tired he could hardly stand up and partly because he had, at some point during the afternoon, turned into a blubbering ... something. It would have been an insult to call himself a woman because the women he knew didn’t blubber. They wept, when appropriate, or drew steel, or wielded spells. But they never blubbered.

  And still he stood there, motionless, wrestling with things he couldn’t see but definitely couldn’t ignore.

  “I’m going to go.”

  That surprised him out of his stupor. He looked at Sarah. “What?”

  “I appreciate the refuge for a bit,” she said quietly, “but I know you have things to do. I do too. I should be about them sooner rather than later.”

  He was still struggling for something to say when she brushed past him. He caught her hand before she went three paces.

  She stopped, but she didn’t turn around.

  He looked down at her hand in his. It was her right one, the hand with his father’s spell burned into her flesh, tangible proof that there was evil in the world that would stop at nothing in attempting to destroy what was beautiful and whole. And she, Sarah of Doìre, had set out from the ruins of her home with nothing more than a drooling hound, a fierce-looking kitchen knife, and an unquenchable desire to do good in order to try to stop that evil.

  And he had shut his door in her face.

  Never mind that he’d followed after her within hours. He should have offered to help her immediately. He should have told her who he was from the start, then he should have taken back his magic from the ghost of his father and used it to keep her safe.

  He feared it was too late.

  He took a deep breath. “There is a pleasant garden beyond this gate.”

  She still wasn’t moving. “How do you know?”

  “’Tis my ... grandfather’s garden,” he said, having to take another deep breath or two. “His glamour is laid over it, but I don’t think that will trouble you. Fadaire is a beautiful magic.”

  She turned slowly and looked at him. She was silent for so long, he wondered if she was wondering how best to stab him and be free of him, or if she was looking for something particularly cutting to say to put him in his place, which he supposed he would have deserved. Or perhaps she, like he, was wrestling with things that for all their innocence were very serious indeed. Such as her sight. Or his ability to survive the evening without his grandfather’s garden snuffing out his existence.

  “It would be a safe place to linger,” he added.

  She hesitated, then let out her breath slowly. “Perhaps for a few minutes.”

  “An hour,” he countered.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Very well, an hour, but then I will go.”

  It was a start, but only half the battle had been won. He would have to get them both inside the gate—alive—before safety would be theirs. He took a deep breath, then very carefully released his magic. He felt Sarah catch her breath.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  She gestured helplessly at him. “What you just did. I saw it. The riverbeds are now full to overflowing.”

  He didn’t mean to gape at her, but he couldn’t help himself. “Riverbeds?” he echoed.

  She waved away the words. “Don’t ask. Let’s just go.”

  He promised himself a goodly bit of speech with her later—hopefully he would still be alive to do so—then nodded. He hesitated, then cast caution and pride to the wind. He put his hand on the gate, then looked at her.

  “We have a bit of a problem here.”

  She looked over her shoulder immediately, as if she expected Droch and a contingent of his vile minions to be standing there, then back at him with a frown. “What sort of a problem?”

  “The garden is not without its safeguards,” he said slowly. “To keep out undesirables who might attempt entrance where they shouldn’t.”

  She stared at him blankly for a moment or two, then a look of profound pity came over her face. “Oh, Ruith.”

  If he hadn’t been finished before,
he was then. He didn’t dare reach for her, simply because he found he did have a bit of pride left and he couldn’t stomach the thought of her knowing how badly he was trembling. He attempted a casual shrug.

  “There’s nothing to it, truly,” he said, tossing away the words as if they touched him not at all. “Just a feeble spell that keeps out what the garden doesn’t want in or, more insultingly, allows the refuse in but doesn’t acknowledge it. If my grandfather were here, the trees would make light of their own for him. Actually, I think they would do it for any of his family. But for me, assuming the gate doesn’t fell me on the spot the moment I open it ... well, I imagine I won’t be welcomed.”

  Sarah’s expression was very grave. “Because of Gair?”

  “Because of Gair.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind the dark.”

  He most certainly did, and she was lying. He knew the dark bothered her even more than it bothered him, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He wanted to mutter a casual nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh? but he found he could do nothing but stand there and breathe for several minutes in silence, like a poor, spooked nag facing what terrified it the most.

  Sarah squeezed his hand, just the slightest bit. “You are not your father.”

  He laughed a little. “So we could hope.” He started to open the gate, then paused and looked at her. “If something happens to me,” he began carefully, “the garden will let you inside, I’m sure. If you can bear to, wait for Soilléir. He will know if I perish. He won’t leave you here alone.”

  The last galled him to say out loud, but more galling would have been the thought that he’d left Sarah unprotected.

  Which, he supposed, was why he was willingly trying to find the place where his soul would shatter and doing so by presenting himself to a place that judged mercilessly, just to see if it would reject him.

  Sarah said nothing. She merely squeezed his hand again and waited.

  Ruith took a deep breath, then reached out with a trembling hand and opened the latch of the gate.

  He didn’t feel anything amiss, and he still drew breath. It was promising, but not overly. His grandfather, it could be said, was nothing if not imaginative whilst about the happy business of tormenting miscreants.

  Ruith walked inside, drawing Sarah behind him. He shut the gate and felt his grandfather’s glamour drape down behind him and seal itself with a click. Sarah shivered, but he supposed that came more from the twilight mist rather than the spell.

  “Still breathing,” he said, a little more breathlessly than he would have liked. He looked at the path beneath his feet, trying not to think about the last time he’d walked up it. It had been with his mother, Rùnach, and Gille. In fact he could almost see them hurrying up the way in front of him, laughing, heedless of the magic that protected them as only lads who’d enjoyed its benefits for the whole of their lives could be. The path had been lit, of course, because of his mother and his brothers.

  “What now?” Sarah asked.

  “We carry on.” He nodded toward the path. “That leads upward to a bower. A lovely place, truly. Happily secluded and undeniably safe.” He hesitated. “I would make light—”

  “We’ll manage without it.”

  He supposed they’d both managed over the years with less light than they would have liked. He promised himself a decent bit of werelight at the top of the hill, but until then ... well, until then, he would just make do.

  A bit like he’d been doing for the past score of years.

  He squeezed Sarah’s hand, then started up the path. He felt as if he were walking into a battle, just waiting for the first blow to fall, the first arrow to find home in his chest, the first sound of a knife slicing through the—

  Sarah gasped.

  He looked up, then froze.

  Lights had begun to appear in the trees, faintly where he stood, but more brightly as the path wound upward. The flowers on either side of the path began to glow as well, as if they were, well, pleased at something. Ruith struggled to breathe normally.

  “They’re doing it for you,” he managed.

  “Don’t be daft,” she said without hesitation. “They’re doing it for you.”

  He wanted to curse, but he thought that might be inappropriate in his current location. He supposed Sarah had seen him at his worst—or very near to it—so there was no shame in a very minor display of emotion. Unfortunately, by the time they reached the top of the hill, he feared he’d wept more than a stray tear or two. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes and looked around himself.

  The trees were singing a song of Fadaire in which his name was whispered over and over again, as if they not only recognized him, but had longed to see him and wondered why he had been away. The lights sparkled, clear and warm, casting a beautiful light over the bower. He turned around in a circle, stunned at what he was seeing, then looked at Sarah.

  “I can’t believe this,” he whispered. He started to say more, but he couldn’t. All the years he’d spent with his back turned on himself, denying himself the pleasure of family, the beauty of his mother’s magic ... all years apparently wasted. He looked at Sarah helplessly.

  “Regret is a terrible thing,” she said very quietly.

  “Are you reading my thoughts now as well?” he managed.

  “Your face, rather.”

  He dragged his sleeve across that face, then attempted a smile. “Well, at least we have light. What do you say to a game of cards?”

  “Ruith, surely not—”

  “Please,” he interrupted. “I’ll weep in truth if I must think on this any longer. Please let’s discuss food, or steel, or the many and varied flaws of a certain master of Buidseachd who talks too much about some things and not enough about others.”

  “I would join you in that,” she said, dabbing at her own cheeks with the hem of her sleeve, “but I haven’t the heart for it.” She looked at him seriously. “I’ll play cards with you, but for every time I win, I want a memory of yours that’s beautiful. Franciscus didn’t know very many tales, but I loved the ones he told me. Despite my loathing of all things elvish, of course.”

  “I know many tales—”

  “Memories, Ruith. Good ones.”

  He took a deep breath, looked over her head at the trees behind her with their lights swaying delicately in their boughs. “Very well. And from you, I’ll have an hour more of your company for each hand I win. Here in the elven king’s garden where his spells will keep you safe.”

  “I don’t belong—”

  “And I do?” he asked with as much of a careless laugh as he could manage. He felt his smile fade. “Please, Sarah. I’ll help you in the morning if you still want to go. You shall choose a place and I’ll make it safe for you. But tonight, I want you to stay.”

  “Why?” she asked, pained.

  “Because I don’t want you to go, and I’m putting off the misery of it as long as I can,” he said, before he thought too much about it and talked himself out of being honest.

  She closed her eyes for a moment or two, then looked at him. “I’m terrified.”

  He didn’t need to ask her why. Of course she was terrified because she had an enormous amount of good sense and a very long list of things to be terrified by.

  She swallowed. “I’ve been blustering before about it all, but I’m not sure I can ... that I can face ...”

  He drew her into his arms before she could reach for blades to place delicately in his gut. When she continued to shiver, he took off his cloak, wrapped it around her, then pulled her close again.

  “We’ll put it aside for the night,” he said, hoping he sounded more confident and hopeful than he felt. “You can decide what you’ll do in the morning.”

  She didn’t want to give in, he could sense that, but she did. Eventually.

  “Be thinking on my prizes,” she said, pulling away finally and dragging her sleeve again across her eyes. “Now, Your Highness, stop dawdling and conjure us
up a deck of cards and a place to sit before I turn off your lights with my salty language.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he said quietly.

  Her smile faded. “I said it before to hurt you. But not now. Not here.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “What shall I call you, then?”

  “I suppose darling is out,” he said, struggling to capture a light tone, “as is Your Handsomeness. I suppose you’ll just have to settle for Ruith.”

  “Very well, Ruith,” she said, waving him on. “Stop talking and start thinking.”

  He had, as it happened, an enormous store of lore in his poor head, most having to do with Heroes trotting off on their trusty Angesand steeds to do marvelous deeds with their swords, but he supposed if he tried hard enough, he might be able to remember a few things he’d read in his grandfather’s library. Or manage a few decent memories of his own for her.

  He made them a place to sit, enjoyed the supper Soilléir had packed for them, lost badly at cards, then didn’t argue when Sarah said she thought she could perhaps lose a game or two to save his pride if she stretched out and played with her eyes closed. She was asleep long before the game was finished.

  He pulled her cloak over her, but she shivered still. He considered what he might do to remedy that, but realized it could only be solved with magic. He sat up and took a very deep breath. The trees seemed to be waiting for him as well.

  “Well,” he said reasonably, “I’m just thinking about her.”

  The lights only sparkled pleasantly and the boughs began to sing again, a sweet song of peace. Ruith looked down at his very sensible hands, thought about what they could do, then thought about what they could do if he allowed them to.

  If I had been Gair, I would have kept my family safe.

  He had said those words to Sarah on their journey toward Ceangail. And he had meant it. If he’d had a family, a wife he adored, sons he wanted to show how to be honorable men, daughters he wanted to keep safe, he would have protected them to the very limits of his endurance and power. That he hadn’t done so for Sarah on their journey was inexcusable.