Spellweaver

by Lynn Kurland

  His grandfather, Ruith would admit, could venture into the earthy description now and again if it suited him.

  And the thing Ruith would have pointed out to Morag now but thought discretion suggested that he not was that if Seannair took his seat on the Council, it would be the one Morag currently occupied with such grace.

  “Perhaps he does fear to be shamed,” Ruith conceded, reaching for his wine and toying with the glass, “or perhaps ’tis his grief that keeps him from taking his proper place in the world.”

  Morag looked at him, a puzzled frown on her face. “His grief?”

  “I understand he lost one of his great-grandsons, Athair.” Ruith didn’t hear Sarah’s breath catch, so she either hadn’t paid any heed to his conversations with Uachdaran—which he knew she had—or she was a very good cardplayer. “A hunting accident, I believe.”

  “I’m not sure,” Morag said doubtfully. “I’ve heard that the lad did perish tragically. Of course, that was likely his fault because instead of looking for a woman of rank and station as he should have, he wandered off to perilous locales and wed himself a commoner. More the fool was he, for there are certainly plenty of titled gels in the surrounding environs for him to have chosen from.”

  Aye, and six of them were sitting on her other side. Ruith frowned. “Perhaps he should have chosen one of your daughters, Your Majesty. Indeed, I’m not sure how he could have made any other choice after seeing them.”

  “Perhaps you will be wiser than he was, when you choose to wed,” Morag said. “It wasn’t that I didn’t invite him here several times to see the glories of my hall. Instead, he chose a peasant from Bruadair, where they pretend to see things they cannot.” She shrugged. “Seannair did the same thing, so perhaps Athair isn’t to blame for his stupidity.”

  “Then perhaps it is fortunate that Seannair remains in his rustic hall,” Ruith said with a conspiratorial smile, “given that he obviously doesn’t have the wit to take his place amongst more sensible and foresightful kings. And queens, of course.”

  Morag wasn’t buying what he was selling. He would have wondered if it was perhaps that he had been too long out of polite society and his ability to woo and befuddle others had been sadly diminished.

  Or it might have been because he had Athair and Sorcha’s daughter sitting behind him.

  It almost defied belief, but he found that the longer he thought on it, the more he believed it. Franciscus might have been a common name in the north, but it certainly wasn’t in the south. And what were the odds of an alemaster—a painfully well-educated alemaster, at that—named Franciscus taking up residence not a quarter league away from a gel who, according to hints delivered by the king of the dwarves, looked just like Franciscus’s daughter-in-law?

  The only question that still puzzled him was that if Morag had done away with Athair and Sorcha, why she hadn’t done away with their daughter as well.

  Unless she had and he was imagining things where he shouldn’t have been.

  “Perhaps it was for the best,” the queen said, with that smile that still didn’t reach her eyes. “That Athair and his lovely dreamweaving bride disappeared without a trace, I mean. They might have produced a child, and then Seannair would have allowed her to be raised like the savage lads he has rampaging about his kingdom.” She looked at Ruith. “Stupidity is the only answer I can divine.”

  “Fortunate it is, then,” Ruith said politely, “that you sit on the Council of Kings and not a rustic from the north.”

  “It is,” she agreed. She looked at him assessingly. “Your grandfather has met my gels, you know.”

  Ruith had no trouble understanding where she was leading him. “I regret that he didn’t make mention of them to me,” Ruith said slowly, “but it has been many years since last we met. I was too young to have appreciated the tales then.”

  “Have a falling out with him?” she asked, sounding rather more pleased than was polite by the thought.

  “Something like that,” Ruith agreed. He had a final sip of his wine, then set his glass down. “And I know ’tis terribly impolite to retire before one’s host does but I was hoping that I might retire early tonight that on the morrow I might have the pleasure of passing the morning with your fair daughters? Chess or cards—or something else, if they prefer. I’m sure Sarah won’t mind.”

  “I’m equally certain she won’t,” Morag said. “And I will alleviate any discomfort you might feel by forcing myself to retire first.” She motioned for her servant to pull her chair back.

  The rest of the table rose, then the prince consort and Morag’s daughters followed her from the chamber. Ruith stood, waiting as they all vacated the hall, wondering what it was that set so ill with him. It wasn’t any of the looks Morag had given him, or the glares her daughters had given Sarah—irritating though those had been. There was something ...

  They might have produced a child, and then Seannair would have allowed her to be raised like the savage lads he has rampaging about his kingdom.

  Ruith frowned. Why would Morag have thought Athair and his bride would have produced a girl child?

  “Ruith?”

  He looked at Sarah. The thoughts tumbled over and over in his head, as if they’d been caught in a mighty wave and couldn’t right themselves. Athair and Sorcha had died . . . if they had produced a girl child . . . Morag wanted more power . . .

  He looked at Sarah, then saw her, that beautiful, obscure gel who had inherited no magic at all from the witchwoman Seleg, but had somehow acquired the ability to see, an ability augmented by Soilléir of Cothromaiche, who had certainly taken a great interest in her.

  Hadn’t he?

  “Ruith.”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “I didn’t say you weren’t,” she said. “Shall we go?”

  “Please,” he agreed.

  She didn’t look any better than he felt. “Interesting dinner conversation.”

  Aye, it had been. He reached for her hand. “We need to be about our business tonight, not tomorrow night.”

  She looked as if she would rather have put it off a bit longer, but she nodded just the same.

  He leaned close. “I’ll walk you to your chamber, then come fetch you after the house settles down to sleep.”

  She took a deep breath. “I might try to use that spell again to see exactly—”

  “Wait for me to come to you first.”

  “But—”

  “Wait for me.”

  “I want you to understand, Your Highness, that the only reason I am submitting to your bullying now is that I’m almost too terrified to speak. It will not last, I assure you.”

  “’Tis for your own good.”

  “Why is it I’m fairly certain Soilléir said the same thing to you?” she muttered.

  He only smiled and took her hand. His smile faded as he walked, though, for he knew that the unpleasantness at supper could only be intensified the longer they stayed.

  Until it possibly spiraled into something he might not see coming.

  He wondered why Morag had a pair of his father’s spells, why she was so obsessed with Seannair of Cothromaiche, why she feared the peoples of the north who wouldn’t possibly want her land or her keep. He understood the lust for power. He had spent the first ten years of his life watching it in full bloom. And though it had been dangerous, it hadn’t been directed solely at him.

  Or at the woman he loved.

  Aye, they would be about their business and get the hell out of the castle whilst they still could, before something happened to Sarah.

  Something more than what he feared had already happened to her as a wee babe.

  Twenty-four

  Sarah stood in front of the fire Ruith had made her earlier in her chamber that still seemed to be smoldering from the spells he’d used to rid it of what had been there before, and looked around her. He had changed the closet into a rather lovely place, all things considered, with enough light to keep her from having to lo
ok into corners for unpleasant things. It was difficult to believe, sometimes, that the only reason he did what he did was that he wanted to make certain she was comfortable.

  A pity there wasn’t anything he could do to ease the terror she felt over the task that lay in front of them.

  She tried not to think about Athair and Sorcha, that poor pair who had perished in a way no one seemed to want to talk about. It occurred to her, as she stood there and looked into the flames of the fire, that if they were descended from Seannair of Cothromaiche, that patriarch with no delusions of grandeur, and so was Soilléir, then he and Athair were cousins.

  Odd that Soilléir had said nothing.

  Then again, she hadn’t mentioned their names after that morning in the garden of Gearrannan, so he would have had no reason to discuss them with her.

  She felt rather than heard something behind her. She had scarce gotten one of her knives in her hand and turned before she realized it was only Ruith there, standing just inside her door. She replaced her knife with trembling hands, then glared at him.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “No choice,” he said, dropping his pack onto the floor, then striding over to her. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “How are you?”

  “About as you might think,” she managed.

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close. Perhaps she should have protested, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She put her arms around his waist and held on, hoping he wouldn’t realize how badly she was shaking.

  “We should go, shouldn’t we?” she asked, her voice sounding far more breathless than she would have liked.

  “In a moment,” Ruith said. “I don’t think the spell is going anywhere.”

  “Spells.”

  He took a deep breath. “Spells, then.”

  She stood with him for several moments in silence, then pulled back and looked up at him. “I’m appalled by my lack of courage.”

  He reached up and brushed a few stray strands of hair back from her face. “A wise warrior doesn’t shun the fear that prepares him for battle.”

  She pursed her lips at him. “Did you just invent that?”

  “I believe ’tis one of the more famous strictures of Scrymgeour Weger, who you may or may not know is without a doubt the fiercest warrior of our age. I would imagine he knows of what he speaks.”

  “Did he face a keep full of spells tended by a queen who wanted his escort to wed one of her daughters?”

  “Escort,” Ruith echoed, sounding amused. “Is that what I am?”

  “It seemed a circumspect thing to call you,” she said, feeling altogether quite ill. She took a deep breath. “Might we go? I can’t think about this any longer.”

  He blew out his breath, then nodded. “I’m going to cover us in a spell of un-noticing. I’m afraid it won’t be pleasant, but I think it best to use a magic the queen won’t think out of the ordinary.”

  “Olc?” Sarah asked uneasily.

  He only nodded. “I’ve been studying the spells slathered all over my chamber and found one that I’ll use to cover the Olc. Morag wouldn’t see us if she stood between us.”

  Sarah closed her eyes briefly. “Don’t wish that on us.”

  “I wouldn’t,” he said fervently. “Just trying to reassure you.” He reached for her hand. “In and out, Sarah. A trivial exercise.”

  She nodded, then steeled herself for the sight of his spell falling over her. She found, to her dismay, that the reality of the spell was far worse than the thought of it. She didn’t doubt that Ruith was right about using it, though, so she closed her eyes and let him lead her from the chamber. It wasn’t as if she needed her eyes to see where the first spell was anyway.

  “Where to, do you think?” he murmured.

  “Down.”

  Ruith nodded, then took her right hand. She winced initially at the pain, but soon forgot it in her terror. They paused every time a guard approached and then walked past, then continued on. By the third time and after a set of stairs, Sarah flattened herself against the wall and squeezed Ruith’s hand.

  “Stop,” she wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Of course.”

  She decided after a minute or two and another pair of guardsmen tromping by that it was best they just get on with their work. She nodded in the direction they’d been going. “We should hurry.”

  He nodded, then continued on without comment.

  She followed him through passageways, down stairs, then down more stairs until they reached the point where they could go no farther. Sarah found that after what she’d been through upstairs, waiting for guardsmen to pass now was easily done.

  Sarah padded silently through the cellar with Ruith and led him without either haste or enthusiasm to the spell that lay there behind casks of grain. Ruith squatted down by it, then looked up at her.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” she managed. “I’ve gotten you here. You do the rest.”

  “I can see the spells,” he said slowly, “but not as you can. Is there a flaw or a weakness that you can see?”

  She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. She supposed she looked as if she were exactly three heartbeats away from either bursting into tears or sinking to the floor and rocking herself in misery. “Are you trying to make me feel useful?”

  “I wish I were,” he muttered, “but unfortunately I’m not. I’m also fresh out of time to coddle you, so be about your work quickly.”

  Sarah felt her eyes narrow even though she knew perfectly well he was provoking her intentionally. “You great bloody bully.”

  “Which is exactly what you need, you vexatious, headstrong wench.”

  A pity he’d said the last with a quick, affectionate smile that left her truly undone. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “Don’t be kind to me. I can’t bear it. Not now.”

  He reached for her hand and held it, hard. “Then let’s finish this, quickly, and go somewhere where I can be kind to you. And to humor you, I’ll tell you what I can see. This,” he said, pointing to the topmost spell of illusion, “is an everyday spell of Olc, fashioned to conceal and repulse at the same time.” He studied the nasty web spread across the page a bit longer. “I can’t see the complete composition of what’s underneath, but there appears to be a bit of Caol—” He shot her a look. “The queen’s magic, as it happens. The other I can’t discern.” He pointed to the four corners where the spell was attached to the floor, then to a spot where other magics were oozing out. He looked at her. “Can you improve upon that, friend?”

  “Olc,” she said hoarsely, “holding down the four corners of the concealing spell. Suarach—or it claims it is called—is indeed coming out from underneath it on that side, for it announces itself as it does so, but you missed the Lugham underneath that and a rather vile perversion of Croxteth over there.” Her hand shook only a bit as she reached out and pointed to the farthermost corner of the spell of concealment. “That is Seiche, whatever that is. There is Wexham and something from Léige, mixed together in an unwholesome way.” She looked at him. “Not that I would recognize it as such if the language of the spell wasn’t woven into the spell itself.”

  “Is it?” he asked, peering at it thoughtfully. “An interesting combination. The dwarves have, as you might imagine given their riches, a compelling interest in keeping things hidden from unfriendly eyes. The dwarvish bit is there, I would imagine, to leave anyone resourceful enough to get that far feeling as if they were imagining what they were seeing.” He looked at her. “Clever, isn’t it?”

  “Diabolical,” she agreed. She paused. “What do we do now?”

  “You slit the spell with your knife, we pull the page out, then you tell me how to repair the damage.”

  She was silent for a moment or two, then she met his eyes. “You truly cannot see what’s there?”

  “Nay, Sarah, I truly cannot see what’s there.” He smiled gravely. “That’s your gift.”


  “I think I would rather be doing something.”

  “And I would rather be sitting happily upon my arse with my feet up, watching you doing something.”

  She fought her smile. “A bully, and a lazy one at that.”

  “Aye,” he agreed cheerfully, then his smile faded abruptly. “We must hurry. We’ve been here too long.”

  She nodded, drew her knife, then reached out and carefully slit a few of what he assumed were threads holding the spell to the ground. She heard no alarms go off, so she assumed they were safe enough. She pulled the page free, then looked down at it.

  “There’s something on it—”

  “No time to look,” he said.

  She held it out on the tip of her knife. “You should be careful with it, unless you want the barbs going into your shin. And you’ll have to patch the hole. I cannot.”

  He patched quickly, then rolled the spell up and stuck it down the side of his boot. Sarah supposed he was going to need to find a better place to stash spells than that, but now wasn’t the time to look for it. She heard footsteps coming their way. She looked at Ruith in alarm, but he merely put a finger to his lips and pulled her behind him. He waited until the guard was within arm’s reach before extending a greeting.

  The guard never saw Ruith’s fist coming toward him.

  He fell without a noise, thanks to Ruith’s catching him, and no doubt had several hours of pleasant rest to look forward to behind the ale kegs. Ruith took her hand.

  “Where for the next spell?”

  “Up,” she said, but there was absolutely no sound to the word. It was bad enough to have descended into the kitchens. The thought of going anywhere else in the keep was nothing short of terrifying.

  But it was what she’d committed herself to doing that morning in Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn’s garden, so she reminded herself that Ruith’s mother had put herself in far more peril than she ever would, put her shoulders back, and nodded.

  And if it was unsteadily done, perhaps Ruith hadn’t noticed.

  She lost count of the twists and turns they took and the guards they passed. The only thing she could say with any certainty was that the second spell that awaited them was more powerful than what they’d found in the cellar.