Spellweaver

by Kurland, Lynn

  “’ Twas a mistake,” he said. “My eyesight isn’t what it was a millennia ago, but perhaps that is to be expected.”

  He continued to spew out a lengthy bit of nonsensical excuses for his bad behavior, but she had long since stopped listening to him. She found a marginally sturdy chair, dusted it off, then sat down and looked at him expectantly.

  His hands fluttered like nervous butterflies up and down the front of his tunic, finally coming to rest briefly on his cheeks before he seemed to gain some measure of control over himself. He took a deep breath, then put his hands down. They continued to twitch nervously, but perhaps that couldn’t be helped.

  “How may I serve you?” he asked, only half sounding as if he were choking to death.

  “You can tell me why you’ve been following me,” she said sternly. “It’s been three days now.”

  “You noticed.”

  “I’ve become accustomed to looking for things in the shadows.”

  He looked as if the very thought might have induced a bout of terror he wouldn’t soon have recovered from. He sank down on a tall stool behind his table, wrapping his arms around himself. “I see.”

  “And I’ve seen as well—you, following me. I want to know why.”

  “I mistook you for someone else,” he said promptly. “My apologies.”

  She had no reason not to take him at his word, but she had to admit it was a little unsettling to find a king’s bard following her. Then again, the entire journey had been unsettling so perhaps this was just another in a long series of things that would unbalance her.

  Or perhaps he was lying through his teeth.

  She decided that since she was so comfortable, perhaps she would take a few more minutes and determine which it was.

  “You were prepared to favor the king with an heroic tale or two,” she said smoothly. “I am a very sympathetic listener, should you care to relate those tales just to me.”

  He looked at her suspiciously for a moment or two. “In truth?”

  “In truth,” she promised. “I am always interested in a good tale.”

  Especially if those tales might lead to the odd bit of truth slipping out unnoticed. Perhaps during the course of the afternoon she might even manage to pry from him a detail or two about Soilléir’s kin. Finding someone to undo what he’d done to her eyes might be very useful.

  Eachdraidh eyed her suspiciously for another moment or two, then sidled around his table and took up a chair a goodly distance away from her.

  “I’m not sure you’ll find them interesting,” he said slowly.

  “I don’t know many dwarvish tales,” she said, which was mostly true. Franciscus had only told her a handful, and she hadn’t paid the attention to them she likely should have, having been more interested in torturing herself with tales of elves. “I would hear yours quite happily.”

  That seemed to put him at ease. He settled a bit more comfortably into his chair, looking quite a bit like a hen settling onto her roost, then he began spinning a tale that featured several dwarves in the thick of heroic deeds. She nodded in what she hoped were the right places, made the appropriate noises of shock, horror, and appreciation, then waited a bit longer whilst he was about the happy labor of providing refreshments for them. She accepted a small square of cake, a cup of tea, and the invitation to direct him to other things she might be interested in.

  “What do you know of Cothromaiche?” she asked.

  He spewed out a mouthful of cake all over his finely embroidered robe. He looked at her, a few crumbs clinging to his chin.

  “What?” he asked, his eyes darting about nervously as if he looked for an escape.

  “Cothromaiche,” she said. “The country, if that’s what one calls it. I met someone from there recently, but I couldn’t seem to pry anything interesting out of him besides a book of poetry and a lexicon.”

  Eachdraidh’s ears perked up. “A lexicon?”

  “It isn’t mine, or I would give you a peep at it. I might anyway, if the inducement is sufficient.”

  He looked horribly torn, over what she couldn’t imagine. She waited, then waited awhile longer as he struggled to apparently overcome his aversion to telling her what she wanted to know. He leaned closer.

  “What do you want to know?” he whispered.

  “Everything.”

  He looked as if she’d just handed him a bag of gold—or manuscripts, rather. Before she could catch her breath, or finish her tea, he had launched into a recounting of things she couldn’t keep pace with. Perhaps he was a good historian for Uachdaran, but as a raconteur of tales he hadn’t planned in advance, he was like a mouse darting across a kitchen full of hungry cats. She had scarce attempted to determine who one set of players might have been before he was off recounting the exploits of another. There seemed to be a great many wars and more bloodshed than a single, small country merited, but a good deal of that seemed to stem from their neighbors to the southwest.

  Sarah would have asked for a map, but she didn’t have time before Eachdraidh leapt to his feet, sending his tea and a cake that hadn’t made it into his mouth crashing to the floor.

  She looked behind her to find Ruith leaning against the doorframe, watching her solemnly. She lost her breath—an alarmingly regular occurrence where he was concerned—then managed to find enough of it left to speak.

  “What are you doing here?” she managed.

  “Shadowing you.”

  “I thought you were training.”

  “I finished.”

  He looked impossibly tired, but he was still standing, so perhaps it had all been a success.

  She gestured helplessly toward the historian. “He kept following me. I followed him instead to find out why.”

  “Did he answer you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ruith pushed away from the doorframe and walked—slightly unsteadily, truth be told—across the chamber to lean against the edge of Eachdraidh’s table. He looked down at the historian.

  “Well?” he asked politely. “Why were you following her?”

  Eachdraidh’s hands recaptured their former inability to remain still. “I, er, I … ah … I thought your lady reminded me of someone, but I was mistaken.”

  “It is easy to be dazzled by her beauty.”

  Eachdraidh sank back down onto his chair and nodded enthusiastically.

  Ruith glanced at what was behind him on the table. “Working on something in particular?”

  Eachdraidh leapt to his feet and hurried around his table to show Ruith just what that had been. Sarah couldn’t bear to listen to any of it. She realized at that moment that she had simply listened to too many tales—told by mortals or stone, as the case was—to be interested in yet another. She busied herself cleaning up the tea things and tidying up Eachdraidh’s floor. She put everything to rights, then looked for something else useful to do. She would have stacked books, but that seemed a bit too invasive, so she settled for sitting in front of the fire. She put her fingers over her eyes to stave off the headache she could feel coming on.

  Too many tales of bloodshed and woe, no doubt.

  Surely only a moment or two passed before she felt Ruith’s hand on her head.

  “Let’s be off,” he said quietly.

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Are you finished already?”

  “I think you are,” he said wryly, “and actually I only came to fetch you.” He held down his hand, then pulled her to her feet. “Thank you, Master Eachdraidh, for the pleasant conversation.”

  Eachdraidh was profuse in his returning niceties, but fortunately Ruith had apparently dealt with that sort of thing before because he politely extricated them from the stuffy chamber without delay. Sarah didn’t feel her headache ease any, but her brow definitely unfurrowed.

  “He is well suited to his life’s work,” Ruith remarked as they walked down the passageway.

  “He was full of all manner of tales, none of which answered the question of why h
e kept spying on me.”

  “Your beauty overwhelmed his good sense.”

  “And too much time in the lists has overwhelmed yours.”

  Ruith laughed. “I am in full possession of my good sense and all my wits. What did he bludgeon you with first? Anything useful?”

  She walked with him down the passageway, rather more happy than she should have been to find his arm suddenly around her shoulders. She leaned on him a little, which she likely shouldn’t have given that he was the one who had been wrung out for the past three days, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “I encouraged him to talk by asking him for the tales he’d intended to give the king that first night. After that, I attempted to learn details about Cothromaiche since I seem to have been given the task of translating the runes on my own knives.”

  “The runes that match my sword.”

  There was no point in denying it. “Aye. I thought that perhaps he could enlighten me.”

  “And did he?”

  “Unfortunately not. He blurted out some ridiculous tale about a renegade dreamweaver—whatever that is—and an equally dreamy lad from Cothromaiche who wed her.”

  “It sounds like a love match.”

  “I think it was, but it didn’t end well for them. Apparently, one of their neighbors was convinced they had a mighty power between them and wanted it. When they wouldn’t do as he bid, he slew them.”

  “Tragic,” Ruith murmured.

  “And not at all what I was looking for,” Sarah said grimly. “It isn’t as if I can travel to meet this pair and have answers from them that Soilléir won’t give me, is it? I am left to myself to learn what I can from the books Soilléir gave me.”

  “I could attempt to intimidate Eachdraidh for you tomorrow, if you like.”

  “I’m not sure you’ll have any more success than I did, but you’re welcome to try.” She looked up at him. “Are you finished with your training in truth?”

  “I could spend a year here and not be finished,” he said with a sigh, “but Uachdaran was afraid any more of his tender ministrations might kill me.”

  She smiled. “You’re not serious.”

  Ruith smiled in return. “Those were his words, and he was certainly serious. For myself, I’ll say that … well, I’ll say that it was time well, if not pleasantly, spent.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know what you’ve been fighting the last three days.”

  “You don’t,” he agreed, “which is why I wouldn’t let you back through the door after I pushed you out of it.” He shivered, no doubt in spite of himself. “I do not want to know where he’s learned what he’s learned and if I meet one of those spells again, it will be too soon. But,” he said brightly, “’tis done and I’m the stronger for it. The king has called us to his solar for a parley and then I believe we’ll have the opportunity for more dancing tonight.”

  “If you can stay awake for it.”

  “I wasn’t asleep last night. I was resting my eyes.”

  “I saved you from planting your face in your soup, Your Highness.”

  “A feat for which I am most grateful, my lady,” he said politely. “Even if I’ll bear the bruise from your elbow in my ribs for some time to come.”

  She laughed a little, then felt her smile fade abruptly. “I’m not sure the king will be pleased with me.”

  “And what terrible thing have you done?” he asked gently.

  “I fear I made free with the king’s map.”

  “I know. That’s why I came to fetch you. Well, other than I missed you.”

  She looked up at him quickly. “Is he angry?”

  “Curious,” Ruith said. He slid her a look. “You’ve marked the locations of the pages, haven’t you?”

  She could only nod.

  “Have you been dreaming them?”

  “I don’t have to any longer.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, then stopped and pulled her into his arms. “Ah, Sarah,” he said, his voice full of pity. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

  “’Tis a gift, or so says Soilléir.”

  “He would say as much, being who he is.” He held her close for several minutes in silence. “I’m sorry I haven’t attended you as I should have recently.”

  “I don’t need a keeper, Ruith.”

  “A betrothed, then?”

  “Not when he might be a man who has eight princesses left to seek out,” she said, pulling away from him and feeling profoundly flustered.

  “Seven.”

  “Oh, very well, seven, then,” she said, grumbling because it was easier than facing the fact that he seemed to be quite serious about his offer. She took him by the hand and pulled. “Let’s go.”

  He didn’t argue. He also didn’t let go of her hand as he opened the door to the king’s solar and led her inside. Sarah found Uachdaran standing at his map table, studying it. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.

  “Sarah, gel,” he said. “I trust you’ve passed your time pleasantly today.”

  “Forgive me,” Sarah said, gesturing toward the table. “I was restless. I should have asked leave to trim your map before I took the liberty.”

  “Of course you shouldn’t have, as I gave you leave earlier to be free with my things. The map was simply sitting here, waiting for some fierce strategy to be planned upon its surface.” He shot her a quick smile. “In case you’re wondering why I have this here, I believe ’tis always best to be prepared when you have a world’s ransom in gems hiding in your cellar. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” she said faintly.

  “I’m curious, though, what sort of battle you have planned here,” he said slowly. “You seem to have chosen two kinds of stones, which I’m assuming represent two different things? I hesitate to ask the details of you, but I think it might be of some use to your lad there.”

  Sarah looked at Ruith, who only watched solemnly. She knew he wouldn’t push her, but then again, he didn’t have to. She was under no illusions about the critical nature of their task that lay before them. She took a deep breath and looked at the king.

  “They’re Gair’s spells,” she said. “The black stones represent the spells we’ve either found or I’ve dreamed.” She had to pause for a bit before she thought she could finish. “The others are ones I’ve seen whilst … whilst not dreaming.”

  Uachdaran motioned to her left, and Ruith fetched the stool that waited there and brought it to her. She sat, because she suddenly felt very close to being ill. It was ridiculous, actually, because she had been all alone in the solar with the map and the stones and hadn’t suffered any ill effects before.

  She realized Uachdaran and Ruith were speaking in low voices but didn’t understand at first what they were saying. There was an annoying buzzing in her ears, which she realized was her headache ascending into new and hitherto unexplored heights of pain.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Uachdaran was saying.

  Sarah squinted to see Ruith’s face. He was absolutely grey.

  “Aye,” he said. “A pattern.”

  Uachdaran stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The first thing to decide,” he said slowly, “is whether the pattern comes from the spells themselves, or if someone has placed them purposely in that particular order. Or is someone merely using them to lead an inquisitive mage on a merry chase?” He looked up at Ruith. “What do you think, lad?”

  “I don’t know,” Ruith said hoarsely.

  Uachdaran lifted his eyebrows briefly. “I suppose if a mage wanted to gather a certain collection of spells, he could hope enough foolish wizardlings would happen upon and become enspelled by them, then march off with them to a predetermined place without knowing why they’d done so.”

  Ruith didn’t answer. Sarah couldn’t blame him for that. Some of his color had returned, but not enough to leave him looking anything but shocked. She understood. She’d wondered, as they’d hunted the spells, why it was her brother had looked so, well, mesmerized in
his bedchamber that day he’d destroyed their mother’s house.

  “I think that part’s true,” she said, realizing then that she hadn’t said anything to Ruith about it. She shrugged helplessly when he looked at her in surprise. “After I touched that spell on his table, Daniel appeared in his doorway. I hadn’t been expecting him or I wouldn’t have dared enter his chamber. He was very angry with me, but once he saw the spell, he completely forgot about me. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I would definitely say he had been …” She paused. “Well, enspelled is as good a word as any. “

  “And afterward?” Uachdaran asked.

  “He wanted more spells, as Ruith will attest, but I wouldn’t say that was anything more than his own greed driving him.” She paused. “I could be wrong.”

  Ruith shook his head. “I think either answer is perfectly reasonable, which doesn’t aid us in determining the truth of it.” He looked at the king. “Why would anyone want to lure a mage—any mage—to a predetermined spot? And who would attempt it?”

  “The only reason I can think of,” Uachdaran said slowly, “is that someone who wants these spells very badly has no other way to gather them to himself.” He paused and looked at Ruith. “Perhaps he can’t see them himself. In that case, it would certainly be useful to know someone who could see them.”

  Sarah felt the chamber begin to spin. It spun even more violently when Ruith picked her up, carried her over to a chair in front of the fire and sat down with her in his arms. She heard, through the thunder rushing behind her ears, the dwarf king settle into a chair across from them.

  “Someone wants my father’s spells very badly, then,” Ruith said.

  “I agree,” Uachdaran said. “Unfortunately, even knowing that much doesn’t solve the riddle of why someone would tear a piece from a very valuable spell and leave it behind. It wasn’t unintentionally done, I can almost guarantee it.” He paused for a rather lengthy bit of time. “Unless the mage knew, again, that there was someone in the world who could see them and would find them.”

  “Then perhaps the spells themselves aren’t the pattern,” Ruith said, unwillingly. “Perhaps the pieces of the spell of Diminishing are.”