Spellweaver

by Lynn Kurland

  “And just what are you going to do about it?” Morag asked mockingly. “Intimidate me with your pitiful magic?”

  “Tell tales on the Council of Kings?” he returned before he could stop himself.

  Morag’s fury was truly impressive. She looked at him as if he’d been a bug she intended to crush under her shoe, then turned and swept from the chamber. Before Ruith could open his mouth to ask her what her intentions were, the door had slammed shut and the entire chamber had been enveloped in a spell of containment that he could tell immediately was going to be difficult to break through.

  Nay, not difficult.

  Impossible.

  It only took one attempt to slice through the spell with his own magic to tell him that. He dragged his hand through his hair, then turned and pulled Sarah into his arms. She didn’t seem at all opposed to it, nor did she protest when he set her down in a chair, spelled the vile water she’d been left with into something drinkable, then handed her a cup so she could wash out her mouth. She handed it back to him, then looked up at him blearily.

  “You told me to puke on her.”

  He laughed, pulled her out of the chair, then sat down and drew her onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned his head back against the wood.

  “You did a credible job of it, love.”

  She let out a shuddering sigh. “Are we trapped?”

  “For the moment,” he said dismissively. “We’ll escape soon enough.”

  She fell silent. Indeed, he would have thought she had fallen into an uneasy sleep if it hadn’t been for her hand that occasionally trembled as it rested upon his chest. “Ruith?” she said finally.

  “Aye, my love.”

  “What is a dreamweaver?”

  He’d wondered how long it would take her to ask. He had to take a deep breath before he trusted himself to answer. “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about them and what bits I do know may not be terribly accurate.”

  “Are you finished with your caveats?”

  He might have taken her words personally, but he could feel her fighting something. Sobs, most likely. Sobs, he imagined, that didn’t come from fear of being locked in their chamber for the rest of her days.

  “Very well, this is what I know,” he said, reaching up to drag his fingers through her hair. “They aren’t mortal, nor are they elvish. They are who they are, souls that move in and out of dreams at will. I’ve heard—which is rumor only—that not only are they able to weave anything into cloth, they spend a great deal of their time stringing the looms of the world with their dreams and using our destinies as their weft threads. Unbeknownst to we poor fools who think we’re in charge of our lives.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He shrugged. “I’m repeating rumor. Now, if you want to know about Cothromaichian history, I can tell you about a bit of that with better accuracy.”

  “Because of Soilléir?” she asked quietly.

  “Well, I always have admired him,” Ruith admitted with a smile, “and my mother was terribly fond of him even if my grandfather wasn’t.” He paused. “I think perhaps we might find a few more of their tales in that last little book Soilléir gave you.”

  She shook her head sharply. “Not today.”

  He wasn’t going to push her. He simply nodded, then continued to stroke her hair. He covered her left hand with his own and closed his eyes, feeling remarkably peaceful, considering the circumstances.

  “Will we escape?” she asked.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “And here I thought you were snoozing.”

  He smiled. “Just enjoying a brief respite with you in my arms.” He pressed his lips against her forehead, then pulled away before she could hit him.

  Though she didn’t seem particularly inclined to do so.

  He closed his eyes again and considered their tangle. They had horses—if they could get to them—and magic—even if it might not surmount Morag’s spells. He considered half a dozen things he could throw at anyone who dared come through the door.

  And then he realized, quite suddenly, that things coming through the door wasn’t what he had to worry about.

  The chamber was contracting.

  It was almost imperceptible, which was likely why he hadn’t noticed it at first. He looked up at the ceiling and watched with a goodly bit of alarm as it crept downward.

  “Ruith?”

  “Just thinking,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm. “About our leisurely escape.”

  “Will Morag let us go?” she asked. “In truth?”

  “Perhaps you have forgotten who I am.”

  “Impossible,” she said. “Your haughtiness is tangible.”

  “I’m channeling my grandfather.”

  She smiled. “So I suspected, but will that manage to win our release, do you think?”

  “I won’t say that Morag isn’t powerful,” he said, watching the far wall creep toward him, “for she is. But every dragon has a soft spot somewhere on his underbelly, and she is no different. Her vanity is, if I may say so, colossal. I imagine the thought of losing her seat on the Council of Kings is more vexing to her than allowing us to leave unimpeded. That isn’t to say that she won’t try to kill us both and make it look like an accident. It wouldn’t be the first time—” He shut his mouth abruptly. “Forgive me.”

  She lifted her head and frowned at him. “Why—oh.”

  He let out his breath slowly, then nodded. “Aye, oh.” He supposed they could both spend quite a bit of time speculating on the fate of that poor great-great-granddaughter of Seannair of Cothromaiche, but the fate of her parents was indisputable.

  Actually, the identity of that gel was, to his mind, indisputable as well, but he didn’t imagine Sarah wanted to discuss that yet.

  He reached up and touched her cheek. “I understand how it can be to find out things aren’t how you thought they were,” he said quietly. “Things of a parental nature.”

  “Can you?” she said, sounding absolutely shattered.

  He nodded slowly. He cleared his throat. “I was six when I realized that my brothers were not teaching me endless numbers of spells for their amusement and my edification. It was then I realized that whilst my mother put on appearances for us, she was desperately worried that she wouldn’t live to see us raised—much less save our lives. It was also then that I realized that my father was the reason for all of it and that he was most definitely not what he seemed to be. But,” he added, “I will admit that at least I knew my parents were mine.”

  Sarah’s breath caught on what might have passed for a half sob in someone else. “I’m not sure we can rely on the queen for accurate information about anything.”

  He smoothed his hand over her hair and continued to watch the ceiling drop. “Perhaps not, but would you trust Soilléir?”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. “Why would that matter?”

  “Because he sent along that little book with his genealogy in it. I don’t think he would relate it inaccurately, do you?”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “Do you have a spell to keep me from falling apart?”

  “I might, but it would require that you spend lengthy periods of time in my arms.”

  She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Do you ever think about anything but that?”

  He smiled. “I do, but those thoughts mostly concern how long I’ll manage to keep you in my ardent embrace if I’m fortunate enough to get you there. Such as now. But as lovely as that thought is, I think we should perhaps concentrate on escape first.”

  “Why—” She looked at the wall behind him, then up at the ceiling. She sat bolt upright. “She’s going to kill us.”

  “I think she would like to try.”

  Sarah fell off his lap, but scrambled to her feet before he could aid her. “What are we going to do?”

  “Pack your gear, my lady. I’ll work on the other tangle.”

  She shot him a look that spoke volumes
about her panic, but walked quickly to the bed just the same and began to shove things into her pack.

  “Not the horse.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, then nodded and set him aside. Within a handful of moments, she was standing next to him.

  “Well?”

  He started to spew out a spell, then he remembered something Uachdaran had said to him.

  The man who crafted those knives for his daughter-in-law first crafted that blade you carry for his son, as a coming-of-age gift.

  He considered how easily Sarah’s knife had slit through the spells Díolain had wrapped around him in Ceangail. And if his sword and Sarah’s knives had been made by the same person, it was possible they enjoyed the same spell-shattering properties. And if Franciscus had made the blades for Athair and his bride, wasn’t it possible there had been something woven into their forging that could be useful in countering a known enemy?

  Perhaps the enemy to the south who obviously had borne them ill will for years?

  Ruith drew his sword. It blazed with a golden glow that startled him so badly, he almost dropped it. He took a firmer grip on it and looked at Sarah.

  “Try one of yours.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off him. She merely reached into one of her boots and drew out a knife—with the same results.

  “Well,” he said, dumbfounded. “I daresay Adhémar of Neroche might just be jealous of this steel.”

  “Does the Sword of Neroche glow?”

  “With a horrifying bloodred light, no doubt in honor of those Nerochian rules of fair play you’re so fond of,” he said with a snort before he could stop himself. “But these works of art . . . I’m not sure what sort of rules they abide by.”

  “Will they slit spells?”

  “I believe we’ll see presently. Resheath your blade, love, and fetch your horse.”

  “And just what am I to do with him?” she asked.

  “Toss him out the window and hope for the best.”

  She laughed a little, but it sounded rather more like a gasp. “Are we flying?”

  “If Ruathar has any love for your tender care of him so far,” Ruith said with feeling, “aye.”

  He waited until she’d shouldered her pack and picked up her horse from off the bed. He took a deep breath, cast one last glance up at the ceiling that was quite a bit closer to his head than it had been a quarter hour ago, then took a firmer grip on Athair of Cothromaiche’s sword. He sliced through the spell with his sword the same way Sarah had cut through the threads that had bound him in Ceangail.

  The spell shrieked.

  “Off we go,” he said, resheathing his sword and grabbing his pack before taking Sarah’s hand.

  She tossed Ruathar through the small arrow loop, Ruith smashed an enormous hole into the rock with the first spell that came to his hands, then he pulled Sarah up onto the resulting ledge with him.

  Ruathar hovered there in the air three feet beneath them, a glittering, jet-black dragon who looked as if he were barely restraining himself from flapping off in a tearing hurry. Obviously, he was the lad for them at the moment.

  “Jump,” Ruith suggested.

  Sarah didn’t hesitate. He followed her onto the dragon’s back, sent out a mental call for Tarbh to follow, and hoped neither he nor Sarah would fall off given Ruathar’s speed and lack of saddle.

  Alarms sounded wildly. Ruith felt the bolt from a crossbow go through the hood of the cloak he’d just conjured up before he had the presence of mind to protect them in a more ordinary fashion.

  It was not a pleasant trip, those first few moments as Ruathar carried them out of the heart of Morag’s darkness. Ruith realized there were more spells there than he’d counted on, and they were more difficult to counter than he’d expected. He fought off things that leapt up and tried to wrap themselves around them, repelled spells of death that came at them in enormous, crashing waves, and countered outright assaults that perhaps would have caused Ruathar pause if he hadn’t been raised on the steppes of those magical Cothromaichian mountains.

  It was a very rough ride.

  By the time Ruathar had driven himself up over the hills that ringed An-uallach, Ruith was shaking with weariness and thought he just might be ill. He realized that Sarah had drawn his arms around her and was patting his hands soothingly. He would have smiled, but he just didn’t have it in him.

  It occurred to him, when he could think clearly again, that he wouldn’t have managed their escape if he hadn’t spent those days with Uachdaran deep in his mountain, facing much worse things.

  Which he suspected Uachdaran had foreseen.

  As had Soilléir.

  He would have to make a list, he supposed, of favors he owed various souls. The mucking out of stables would no doubt figure prominently in repayment at both Buidseachd and Léige.

  He looked over his shoulder to see an owl flapping majestically behind them in the distance, and he relaxed just the slightest bit. Morag couldn’t shapechange, which was something to be very grateful for.

  He turned his mind to the future and considered a direction, but nothing useful came to mind. He tightened his arms around Sarah and simply held on for quite a while before he thought he could speak calmly.

  “Any ideas on where now?” he asked.

  “Away was my first thought,” she said. “But now?” She took a deep breath. “West. But not very far west.”

  “I’m sorry to ask you to navigate.”

  “Why?” she asked, sounding surprised. “It isn’t difficult.”

  He regretted it because he regretted that she had to be a part of what he was doing, but he supposed that ground had been covered too often already. He only sighed and closed his eyes against the wind.

  West it was.

  It was dawn before Sarah told him they needed to stop. Ruathar, that endlessly energetic beast, followed her unspoken directions as if he’d read her thoughts—which Ruith supposed he could. They landed in a little glade without any undue signs of distress from Sarah. Either she was growing accustomed to flying or she was simply too tired to protest. Ruith understood both.

  Ruathar turned himself into a quite ordinary-looking horse and eyed them purposefully.

  “He’s hungry,” Sarah said. “There is a farmhouse up ahead.”

  “Is there?”

  She looked at him. “I can see a spell in the barn.”

  He let out his breath slowly. “Very well. I’ll see if I can’t purchase us a bit of peace for the morning—and you the opportunity to do a little spell hunting.”

  “Where did you get gold?”

  “Out of thin air.” He smiled wearily. “Magic is useful now and again.”

  “Don’t expect me to disagree,” she said with feeling. “Especially after our escape last night.” She looked behind her. “Where’s Tarbh?”

  “Flapping along languidly behind us,” Ruith said. “I’m sure he’ll catch up. Let’s go find oats for this hungry beast here. I imagine my pony-turned-owl will find his own breakfast.”

  She nodded and waited as he gathered both their packs, shouldered them, then trudged off with her toward the farmhold he could see in the distance. Sarah was very quiet, which didn’t surprise him. She had not only their rather unpleasant exit from An-uallach to recover from, but things to think on, things he’d suspected she couldn’t avoid much longer.

  He put that thought aside for further consideration as he saw the farmer walking across his fields toward them. He looked quickly at Sarah, but she only smiled bleakly.

  “The spell is in his tack room. I imagine our good landholder has no idea it’s there.”

  “Let’s find it sooner rather than later,” Ruith murmured, “then have a nap.”

  “Happily,” she said with a gusty sigh. “I’m exhausted.”

  He nodded, then stopped a handful of paces away from the farmer. He nodded politely and had a nod in return.

  “Looking for shelter?” the man asked.

  “A
nd stabling for our horse,” Ruith agreed. “Just for the day, if possible.”

  “More than possible,” the farmer said with a shrug, “for the right price.”

  “Name it,” Ruith said without hesitation.

  The man assessed them, then nodded. “I’ll think on it later.” He started to turn and walk away, then hesitated. He looked at them with a frown. “I don’t suppose either of you has magic.”

  “A little,” Ruith conceded. “What is your need?”

  “There’s something in my barn I don’t like, but I’ll be damned if I can divine what.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Some leaking of something. Animals don’t like it and the cow stopped giving milk a month ago. Can’t say as I blames her, actually.”

  “I think we could investigate,” Ruith conceded. “Before our horse has his breakfast, of course, as a good-faith token.”

  “You fix it, my lad, and I’ll even feed you and your wife.”

  “We would be most grateful,” Ruith said. He looked at Sarah. “Wouldn’t we, darling?”

  She only rolled her eyes at him, but walked with him after the farmer just the same. “One more to go, Buck,” she murmured. “Your tally is not yet seen to.”

  “I should have danced with Morag.”

  “At the peril of your soul, I daresay. I’m not sure it would have been worth it.”

  “I believe I’ll be the judge of how much peril you’re worth,” he said with a smile.

  “You’re daft.”

  “Again, besotted,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll tell you of it in glorious detail if you can stay awake long enough to hear it.”

  She smiled at him, which eased his heart a bit. He saw to the stabling of Ruathar, then investigated the tack room with Sarah. A spell was indeed there, tucked into the bottom of an old and obviously unused saddlebag. Ruith didn’t bother to see which one it was. He simply rolled it up and stuck it down his boot. He walked with Sarah down the aisle to where the farmer was waiting for them, laying spells upon the animals as he went. He accepted a basket of supper, thanked the farmer kindly for his hospitality by handing him a pair of gold coins, then shut himself inside the stall with Sarah.