Spellweaver

by Lynn Kurland

  He could only nod, because speaking of it was beyond him.

  She walked quietly with him until they were almost to the gates. “Do you think she’s alive?”

  “Droch would lie as soon as he would breathe, but I’m not sure he would see any benefit in lying here.” He shrugged. “We’ll ask Soilléir and see, I suppose.”

  The gate guards recognized them, thankfully, and only waved them through the barbican. Ruith continued on into the courtyard with Sarah, then found himself suddenly in the middle of a circle of swords pointed at his chest. Alarm bells were ringing wildly in the distance. He cursed succinctly, then looked at Sarah.

  “I’m distracted.”

  “And no longer anonymous, apparently,” she said, wide-eyed.

  He wanted to say that it could have been her setting off alarms with her seeing—indeed, he wondered if that might have been that single, delicate bell they’d heard their previous trip through the front gates—but he thought silence might be the wisest course of action at present. He attempted to use what was left of his poor brain to invent a reasonable-sounding tale, but came away empty-handed. All he managed to do was watch as black-robed bodies came flying out of doors and across the courtyard, Ceannard in the lead.

  The headmaster came to a skidding halt, then his mouth fell open, and he looked at Ruith in astonishment.

  “Prince Ruithneadh,” he managed. “Yet another lovely familial surprise.”

  Ruith suppressed the urge to scowl at the words. Aye, Soilléir had several things to confess. He exchanged pleasantries with Ceannard, but kept his eyes open for Soilléir, who had apparently decided the comfort of his solar was preferable to braving the brisk winter breezes—and irritated houseguests, no doubt—outside. Damn him anyway.

  “What an honor,” Ceannard said breathlessly. “And to have seen your grandfather not a fortnight past! We are delighted to welcome you, of course.”

  Ruith was happy to note Ceannard was too flustered to ask him how he’d managed to get himself and Sarah inside the gates without announcing themselves properly. He kept his mouth shut and simply listened to the headmaster continue on breathlessly.

  “I’ll see a chamber prepared for you befitting your exalted and quite royal station. And, of course, one for your guest, who is ...” he trailed off, looking at Sarah expectantly.

  “Worthy of your finest accommodations,” Ruith said without hesitation, “but we won’t be trespassing on your graciously offered hospitality.”

  Ceannard’s expression was one of alarm. “But surely you don’t intend to stay in an inn,” he protested.

  “I’ve business with Master Soilléir,” Ruith reassured him. “I imagine he’ll find a scrap of floor for us tonight.”

  “I cannot argue with that,” Ceannard said, sounding as if he very much wished he could have. “You must at least allow us to provide a luncheon for you and your, er, guest. The honor would be ours, of course.”

  Ruith would have extricated himself from that delight without the slightest hesitation if he could have, but he wasn’t at his best, so he conceded the battle with as much graciousness as he could muster, then accepted an escort fit for a king to Soilléir’s chamber. He gave Ceannard assurances of his presence—and Sarah’s in spite of how hard she elbowed him in the ribs—at a meal befitting his exalted station a pair of hours hence, then escaped into Soilléir’s chamber happily and looked at Rùnach who shut the door behind him.

  “What a collection of imbeciles.”

  Rùnach laughed. “Grandfather would agree, of course.”

  Ruith reached for Sarah’s hand only to find her with both hers firmly clasped behind her back. He frowned at her. “What is it?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “What—oh, that.” He shrugged. “’Tis simply a meal.”

  “Which you’ll enjoy on your own, Your Highness,” she said briskly. “I have other things to do.”

  He was tempted to fight her, but he had the feeling he would be wise not to. That she had come back inside the keep was a large concession on her part. Being willing to continue on a quest he was certain terrified her to the core was something that would leave him in her debt for quite some time to come.

  Besides, the necessity of being polite would be a misery. She would be miserable surrounded by curious eyes, and since one of those pairs of eyes would likely be Droch’s, there were at least three good reasons for her to remain safely out of sight.

  He folded his arms over his chest. “If I leave you behind, I want you to remain inside the chamber where you’ll be protected by Soilléir’s spells.”

  “Gladly,” she muttered.

  “And,” he said, because apparently he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut, “the next time we’re summoned to a torturous function such as what I’m about to be subjected to, you will come along.”

  She glared at him. “Twelve.”

  “Ten,” he said firmly. “And you may have three.”

  She blinked. “Three whats?”

  “Three instances where you beg off from a formal meal. You’ve just used one.”

  Her mouth fell open, but she shut it soon enough. “I need to weave. And I want ten as well.”

  “Three.”

  She glared at him. “Are we to spend the entire morning haggling?”

  “Nay, I agreed to ten, you’ll agree to three. Which is now two.”

  Rùnach laughed, a hoarse sound that was nonetheless full of good humor, and walked away. Ruith folded his arms and looked down at Sarah. “Well?”

  “I’m humoring you,” she warned.

  “Done.” He found her hand, took it in his own, then pulled her across the solar to find Soilléir sitting in front of his fire, looking perfectly at peace.

  Ruith found Sarah a chair, saw her seated with a cup of wine at her elbow, then sat down and fixed Soilléir with a pointed look.

  “Droch said Miach was here recently.”

  “Had a little chat over tea, did you?” Soilléir asked mildly.

  “Don’t make me do damage to you, my lord,” Ruith warned.

  Soilléir smiled. “Perish the thought. And aye, Miach was here recently.”

  “With Mhorghain.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Soilléir said with a discreet yawn. “But I see you’ve made a few changes in yourself since last we spoke.”

  “Thank you for the spell this morning,” Ruith said shortly, “and aye, I have stopped being a fool and embraced what I am, so thank you for that as well, and what is this about my sister!”

  He realized he was very close to shouting, but perhaps he could be forgiven for it considering the circumstances.

  Soilléir looked at Sarah. “How are you, my dear?”

  “Unable to protect you against him,” Sarah said, a smile in her voice. “He’s had a long winter so far, my lord, and I’m not sure he slept well last night, so perhaps you shouldn’t torment him anymore.”

  “Wise,” Ruith added shortly. “So I beg you, my lord Soilléir, please do me the favor of telling me what you obviously knew and couldn’t see your way clear to telling me before.”

  “You wouldn’t have enjoyed the tidings before,” Soilléir said with a shrug, then held up his hand quickly. “Nay, do not growl at me, Ruithneadh. I’ll tell you the details that are mine to give. Your sister is indeed alive and well. She’s with Sìle and Sosar.”

  Ruith could hardly believe it, but Soilléir never lied, and his own ears worked perfectly well. “Is she at Seanagarra, then?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Soilléir said, “and you won’t care for some of what I am about to say, so hand your knives to your lady—”

  “Comrade in arms,” Sarah corrected without hesitation.

  Soilléir smiled at her. “Take his blades away from him, Sarah, before he loses control during the tale and uses me for a handy place to stow them.”

  Ruith handed Sarah his knives only because he thought it might purchase him a bit more tim
e to control his rampaging and quite useless emotions. If he’d had any idea his magic would have wrought such a foul work on his good sense, he would have left it where it was. He tried to refill Sarah’s cup that needed no refilling, cursed silently as his hands shook, then looked at her in consternation when she took the bottle away from him. He sat back and wished for something to carve at with a knife.

  Sarah’s hand appeared in his line of sight. He looked at her quickly only to find her watching him gravely.

  “A friendly gesture,” she said. “Nothing more.”

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

  “Your face, Your Highness,” she said quietly.

  It said much about how unsettled he was that he couldn’t muster up the energy to chide her for her choice of address. He simply took her hand in both his own, gratefully, then turned to Soilléir.

  “Very well. Now that Sarah’s unbent enough to keep me from throwing myself into your fire in a fit of pique, tell me everything.”

  Soilléir sighed. “If you must know—and I’m not certain these are tidings you should have, I want it noted—Mhorghain has embarked on a quest to shut your father’s well.”

  Ruith was on his feet without knowing exactly how he’d gotten there. He glared down at Soilléir. “She most certainly—”

  “Is,” Soilléir finished for him. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop her, so you may as well sit down and spare my floor your stomping. Sìle isn’t happy about it, but you’ve seen the monsters the evil is producing. They’re created by a spell of Lothar’s, or so I understand.”

  “And they’re hunting those with Camanaë,” Rùnach said, from his accustomed position against the wall. “And Father’s get, more particularly.”

  Ruith shot his brother a look—equally irritated with him for not having said anything—paced for a moment or two more, then cast himself back down into his chair. He pulled Sarah’s chair closer to his without asking permission, then reached for her hand again.

  “I refuse to believe that Sosar and Grandfather are going to go to that bloody well with her,” he said. “They never would have agreed to such a thing, especially Grandfather.”

  “Believe it or not, they did,” Soilléir said, “and they are very concerned with keeping her safe, as you might imagine. She has other companions as well, to aid her with her task.”

  “Who?” Ruith demanded. “They’d best be decent ones.”

  “Turah of Neroche—”

  “Turah?” Ruith interrupted incredulously. “And what is he going to do? Sing a lay to all the monsters there and hope to distract them?”

  “I heard—” Soilléir paused, then sighed. “Very well, I saw her with Keir. They’re currently in Léige, if you’re curious, preparing their assault. And reforging the Sword of Angesand, which Mhorghain broke in the fall.”

  Ruith felt his mouth fall open. “She did what?”

  “She was ... angry,” Soilléir said carefully.

  Ruith rubbed his free hand over his face, exchanged another pointed look with his brother, who he was quite certain knew many things he hadn’t seen fit to share, then glanced at Sarah. “Wake me when the nightmare is over.”

  She smiled gravely. “You’ll manage.”

  “I’m not sure how,” he said honestly. He turned back to Soilléir. “I can’t believe any of this. To start with, I’m stunned she’s alive because I saw no sign of her after ... well, after. I should think she would have sought out one pair of grandparents, but she was very young so perhaps she found refuge in a place I don’t want to think about. Last of all, I can’t fathom why she would touch Mehar of Angesand’s sword, much less destroy it. What in the hell has she been doing all these years?”

  “I’ll leave the intimate details of her life for her to give you when next you meet,” Soilléir said carefully, “but I’ll tell you as much of her tale as you need to know now. She found herself, through a series of fortuitous events—”

  “Orchestrated by someone, no doubt,” Ruith interrupted darkly.

  “There have been those interested in keeping her safe,” Soilléir agreed, “which shouldn’t surprise you. She was taken in by mercenaries after they found her near the well, then deposited on the doorstep of Nicholas of Lismòr where she proceeded to turn the university upside down until she made her way to the opposite side of the island for studies that didn’t include books.”

  Ruith wished he could keep his mouth from continuing to fall open. “Gobhann?”

  “The very same. And she bears Weger’s mark, so I’d be careful about challenging her to any sort of contest with steel. After her release, Nicholas sent her on a quest to take a knife, which happened to be one of Mehar’s, to the king of Neroche.”

  “And why would Nicholas ...” He found himself considering things he hadn’t before. “Something isn’t right there. Why would the head of a backward university on a provincial island have one of Queen Mehar’s blades?”

  Soilléir only waited, silent and watchful.

  Ruith suppressed the urge to scratch his head and instead settled for keeping his jaw from falling yet again to his chest. “He’s Lismòrian’s Nicholas. The wizard king of Diarmailt.” He looked at Soilléir in surprise. “I’d never considered that before.”

  “I believe he counts on that sort of thing to protect his anonymity,” Soilléir said. “I also understand that your mother asked him to watch over you all if something happened to her. He looked after Mhorghain as best he could.”

  “Then why in the hell did he allow her to go into Gobhann?” Ruith asked, incensed.

  “I don’t think he had a choice. You’ll find that your sister is very determined when she’s chosen a path for herself.”

  Ruith pursed his lips. “I’m surrounded by stubborn women.”

  “Necessarily so,” Soilléir said, “to keep you from running rough-shod over them.” He smiled briefly at Sarah, then continued on. “And to continue, Mhorghain couldn’t refuse Nicholas’s request to take the blade to Tor Neroche, though I understand she wasn’t overly fond of the knife, having no knowledge of her own parentage and a healthy disgust for all things magical.”

  “She didn’t know?” Ruith asked. “Anything?”

  “I daresay she blocked most of it out, for reasons you would understand. Once on this quest, though, she began to remember things about her past. It would also seem that during the journey she also became rather ... fond, I believe is the word ... of a certain member of a company she acquired on her way north. When she found out he was not the simple farmer he’d claimed to be, she took the Sword of Angesand and slammed it against the edge of the high table in the great hall of Tor Neroche, shattering the blade into countless shards.”

  Ruith looked at him evenly. “You can’t mean Adhémar. If you tell me my sister has fallen in love with that great horse’s arse, I will—” He spluttered a time or two before he could manage further coherent speech. “I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it will be dire and it will include departing immediately for Léige to bring her to her senses.”

  “It wasn’t Adhémar, but you would know that if you remembered our discussion in the library below. He is wed to—”

  “Adaira of Penrhyn,” Ruith interrupted with a sigh. “I’d forgotten.”

  “Any other guesses, then?” Soilléir asked with a smile.

  “Not Cathar,” Ruith said immediately. “Nor Rigaud, I daresay. I can’t imagine she would have patience for his preening. Nemed she would grind under her heel inside a se’nnight. That leaves Mansourah, but he hasn’t the wit to see to her.”

  “Nay, he does not,” Soilléir agreed.

  Ruith considered other brothers, then realized there was only one left to consider. He looked at Soilléir in surprise. “Miach?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “But, he’s a child!”

  “He’s a score and eight,” Soilléir said calmly. “Almost a score and nine. A scant year and a bit younger tha
n your own ancient self, if I’m counting it aright.”

  Ruith sat back and shook his head. “How in the hell did she meet him?”

  “As I hinted, he was a member of her company. He had been following Adhémar, who was supposed to be looking for a wielder for the Sword of Angesand but was instead studying the inside of as many taverns as possible. I believe that for Miach it was love at first sight. Your sister, I understand, resisted her feelings for a bit.”

  “I’ll help her resist them a bit longer,” Ruith growled.

  “Too late for that, I fear,” Soilléir said cheerfully. “Your grandfather betrothed them whilst they were here. In the garden of Gearrannan, if memory serves.”

  “He did,” Sarah said helpfully. “The trees were singing about it this morning.”

  Ruith shot her a dark look. “You didn’t say anything.”

  “At the time I didn’t know who the names belonged to,” she said. She paused. “They were singing about quite a few people, truth be told.”

  Ruith looked at her sharply. He’d heard the trees singing as well, but the only names he’d heard had been his own and Sarah’s. He frowned, promising himself a goodly think on it later, then turned back to Soilléir.

  “I’m surprised Grandfather agreed to it.”

  “He offered it,” Soilléir said pleasantly, “which I think surprised Miach as well. The runes are actually quite lovely. I’m not sure you can gouge them off, but I suppose you might try.”

  Ruith scowled. “The last time I saw the youngest prince of Neroche, he was hiding under a table in my grandfather’s library, memorizing spells and eating figs. I’m sure he hasn’t improved since then.”

  Soilléir laughed. “I think you’ll find he has. And how is it you saw him there?”

  “Because I was sitting next to him, eating figs and memorizing spells. We were hiding from my grandfather, who had threatened to take a switch to us both for spending the morning flying in dragonshape.” He looked up at his brother lounging against the wall, his expression inscrutable. “You didn’t say anything.”

  “I’m discreet.”

  Ruith snorted.

  “I said nothing to Mhorghain, either,” Rùnach added. “Because of ... well, I said nothing.” He shrugged. “Miach knew ’twas me, of course, but he always was a clever lad.”