A Tapestry of Spells (18 page)

No matter through which forest it led.

That first step along that path, however, was more difficult than he’d suspected it might be. He stopped, then realized he wasn’t going to be able to take another step. He could only stand there, trembling like a horse faced with an impossible task and torn between the fear of it and the gentle but relentless command of its beloved master that it walk on.

...
Inconvenient for you
togostand guard over
that poormage?

Inconvenient. Ruith smiled bitterly over the word. Inconvenient to do what required so little effort? He shook his head, got hold of himself, and forced himself to continue on as he should have. He ignored the way his legs shook, didn’t think about how he had to wipe his palms on his thighs more than once, didn’t allow himself the luxury of contemplating anything that might lie before him.

He was, however, enormously grateful when he reached Seirceil’s house to find that Sarah had done as she’d promised and taken everyone with her to the village. He managed to get himself inside, hopefully without anyone having marked his weakness. He drew his sword to aid him in fulfilling the task of protecting Seirceil he’d been given, but had to lean it against the wall because his hands were shaking too badly to hold it.

He paced from the door to the hearth and back a score of times, two score, three, until he lost track and feared he might begin to wear a trench there soon. He was torn between his past, the present, and the continual vision of a woman who made allowances for him he didn’t deserve and was too damned grateful for the pitiful things he managed to do for her.

He stopped again at the bedside and looked down at Seirceil of Coibhneas, lying there half mad, and knew that it could have been worse. Even with his dimmed vision, he could see that the mage’s power had only been grazed, not taken. Daniel of Doìre would never manage anything more with only half a spell. Seirceil’s mind had been cleaved in twain, but magic could heal that. A simple spell, half a dozen words at best. A spell he’d used scores of times without thinking in his youth to mend broken bird wings, lameness in his mounts, scrapes on his sister’s knees—

He took a deep breath. It wasn’t as if using that spell meant he then had to change himself into an eagle and fly to the schools of wizardry at Beinn òrain where he would announce that he had returned from the dead and was ready to work all manner of mighty magic to delight and astonish. It was a simple spell. A spell that would do good instead of evil.

It wouldn’t change his life.

He could then rebury his magic as easily as he had twenty years ago and not feel even the slightest twinge of regret. In fact, the entire process of releasing his magic, repeating dutifully the words of a spell of healing, then shoving that magic back down inside himself where it belonged might take less than a score of heartbeats if he hurried. And there wouldn’t even be any finger-waggling involved.

And no one to see what he’d done.

He wished he had an hourglass so he might time himself at the task to consign it to the realms of merely interesting scientific experiments, but since he didn’t, he would simply be about it in as businesslike a manner as possible. He took a deep breath, then turned to examine the spell he’d used to hide his magic.

There were, as he and a childhood friend had discovered whilst about their happy work of appropriating the spell in question, three ways to undo the burying. He could uncap the well containing his magic—an unsettling mental picture if ever there was one—slowly and with great deliberation, which would require time but leave no one the wiser. The second way was more to the point—and proportionally more jarring to the mage—but still just as secret. Ruith imagined more than one dwarvish soldier had used that to release a bit of extra strength when faced with the business end of someone else’s sword. The roughness of the spell surely wouldn’t have been noticed in battle.

The last way took a single word only, but even the book had suggested such a thing never be used except in the most dire of need, for it would send ripples of magic outward for thousands of leagues and anyone with any sensitivity at all to the like would know who had wrought the spell.

Ruith settled for the second, repeated the words silently without hesitation, then steeled himself for the return of something he was certain he hadn’t missed.

And for a moment, he panicked, for he felt nothing at all.

And then the well geysered up, far into the reaches of his soul before his magic cascaded down over him with the power of a thousand pounding waves. He fell to his knees because that magic gave him no choice.

He couldn’t see. He could hardly breathe. He groped for Seirceil hand, held it hard, then spoke the spell aloud. He didn’t wait for it to take effect before he gathered up his power and shoved it ruthlessly back where it had come from and capped it all before he thought better of it.

It hurt to do that, truth be told, more than he’d thought it might.

Seirceil opened his eyes and looked at him before Ruith could leap to his feet and bolt. Astonishment filled his face. “I know you.”

“You don’t,” Ruith managed.

“That was Camanaë,” Seirceil whispered in awe. “I know those healing words.”

“Forget them, forget me, if you have any mercy in you.”

Seirceil smiled, a small smile that was so full of goodness, Ruith had to look away. He didn’t deserve it. He released the man’s hand, stumbled to his feet, and felt for the hearth. He stood with his back to the door, fully intending to flee the very moment the stars completely obscuring his vision dissipated.

Unfortunately, he heard the door open behind him before he could manage anything but to keep himself on his feet.

“Ruith?”

’Twas Sarah. He kept his back to her and concentrated on breathing.

“What befell you?” she asked urgently. “Did someone come?” He realized she was standing in front of him, looking up at him. He didn’t have time to say anything before she’d found a chair and pushed him down into it.

“Are you ill?”

“Nay,” he rasped. “Sympathetic. Again.”

“Daft, rather,” she said shortly. “I had intended to brew this for him, but I think at least some of it had better be for you. Sit there and don’t move.”

Heaven help him, he didn’t think he could. He closed his eyes and listened to her about her work, listened to the others who came in time, listened to talk that should have made sense to him, but didn’t. When Sarah pressed a cup into his hand, he drank without question.

It was marvelous and full of virtue he could taste as it seeped into his flesh. He managed to open his eyes in time to watch her give more of what she’d brewed to Seirceil.

How things happened after that, he couldn’t have said. Events took an alarming turn without his being equal to stopping them. He watched helplessly as Seirceil sat up and began to vie with Sarah in attempting to make everyone comfortable. If Sarah wondered why Seirceil had suddenly regained his faculties, she didn’t say anything. Perhaps she credited it to herbs, which Ruith had to admit had certainly restored him quite thoroughly.

Seirceil was very forthcoming on his last memory, which was of Daniel of Doìre thanking him for supper and informing him that for dessert he would have Seirceil’s power.

Ruith wasn’t at all surprised.

He was surprised, however, to find himself an hour later walking from the village of Firth with a motley crew that he wasn’t entirely sure wouldn’t be the death of them all.

Sarah he would have kept quite gladly. The rest of them, perhaps not. Ned was babbling all sorts of things he likely shouldn’t have to Seirceil, who had decided he could surely be of use to them in some fashion. He was presently tying himself in knots trying to listen to Ned and flatter Oban at the same time. Seirceil had brought along yet another hound, a yipping one that fluttered about Castân, pestering him until Castân, in true horselike fashion, kicked out with one of his hind feet and sent the annoying thing flying.

Ruith approved.

Sarah dropped back to walk next to him. She said nothing, but Ruith could almost hear the wheels turning. He didn’t volunteer anything. Seirceil had looked at him closely a number of times already, obviously because he simply couldn’t help himself, so Ruith had taken to wearing his hood over his face again. The less comment made, the happier he would be. With Sarah, though, he didn’t hold out much hope she wouldn’t tell him exactly what she thought. He only hoped he could bear it when she did.

“I have a plan.”

Ruith tripped in spite of himself. “Another one?”

She looked up at him seriously. “A more necessary one, perhaps.”

He could scarce wait to hear it.

“This is difficult to discuss,” she said, sounding as if it were very difficult indeed, “but I think we cannot go on any longer pretending.”

He found it difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

She looked up at him unflinchingly, then reached up and pushed his hood back where she could apparently see enough of his face to satisfy her.

“I’m not sure what it is you’re hiding,” she said very quietly, “or why you’re hiding it, but it’s obvious to me you have reasons for both. I also think I’ve asked you for magic when you’re unable to give it. I’m sorry. I’ve put you in a terrible position.”

He had to stop, because he was simply too winded to go on. “What?

She put her hand on his arm, gently and briefly. “I would like to ask you not to be a mage, but to be my guardsman. An
elite
guardsman, of course.”

He blinked. He had to blink again. It was all he could do not to stick his fingers in his ears.

“A hired sword?” he managed, narrowly avoiding choking on the words.

She nodded quickly. “Aye. You’re very skilled, too skilled for my purse, surely, but I promise you I’ll pay you what you deserve in time—if you can be patient for that payment. I am short what I intended to have at this point.” She smiled, though it was a very strained smile. “Skill with a blade is hard-won, I know, and the fact that it is what you possess instead of magic is something to feel only pride in.”

He could hardly believe his ears. The daft wench was trying to spare him embarrassment. He could only gape at her, speechless.

She smiled gently. “I realized it this morning. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone in the world has magic. In truth, I think the world might be better off if no one did.”

He had to agree with that, but he decided he would have to agree later, when he could wrap his mind around what she was saying.

She thought he had no magic.

And she was trying to spare him any discomfort over that fact.

“We’ll go on more easily without cluttering up our lives with spells,” she continued. “In time, I’m sure we’ll find a way to stop Daniel, then undo what he’s done so far. Perhaps we’ll eventually collect enough injured mages to make up a single whole mage, then the lot of them can do what needs to be done. But until then I’m quite sure I need a guardsman to watch over me.” She looked up at him. “Is it a bargain?”

Ruith looked down to find that she’d held out her hand, as if to seal that bargain.

He wasn’t sure if he should haul her into his arms, or use that hand to spin her away from him and nudge her in an entirely different direction before his descent into madness was final.

He did neither. He simply turned and walked away. He had to, whilst he still had some control over himself.

He walked five paces, then stopped. He took several deep breaths, then shook his head. Madness? He was fully in it and the blame for that could be laid at the feet of that astonishing woman standing behind him. He rubbed his hands over his face, then turned and walked back to where she was standing. She had dropped her hand to her side, though, and she looked as ready to bolt as he generally felt himself.

He stopped a pace away from her, then held out his hand. He waited until she reluctantly put hers into his; then he bent over it with a courtly, formal bow even his mother’s mother could have found no fault with.

“I would be,” he said, straightening, “honored to serve you thus, my lady.”

She pulled her hand away and smiled uncomfortably. “You’re daft.”

“I’m afraid so. ”

She laughed a little and it was like sunlight streaming down into the very depths of an impenetrable forest. Pure, pale, and so very welcome.

“They’re leaving us behind,” she said. “Well, save for that damned dog of Seirceil’s. Tell me again why we had to bring him?”

“So he can torment your horse.”

She smiled. “I imagine so.” She looked up at him briefly. “I’m tempted to ask you if you ever had magic, but perhaps that is too personal a question.”

“Once, perhaps,” he said quickly, before he thought better of it. The words were easier than he’d thought they might be. “Not now.”

Only that wasn’t exactly true. He realized with a start that he hadn’t managed to stuff all his magic back down into that well. There was a tiny bit running around inside him, inciting all sorts of anarchy. He started to chase it, then he stopped himself. He would later, when he had the peace to do it properly. For now, he had more than enough to occupy his time.

Master Oban called for Sarah and she shot him a smile before she ran to catch up to the others. Ruith watched her go work her magic on someone besides him.

She had tried to save his pride. She was currently trying to save two very damaged mages as well. She collected souls as she likely collected skeins of yarn, waiting until the perfect pattern presented itself so she could weave them all into something beautiful.

He was starting to think she was going to use him in that pattern as well.

He grasped for his fast-departing shreds of common sense. He didn’t need to be woven. He wanted to find Daniel, use his magic a final time to stop the whoreson, then put it all behind him and go home. He wanted his roaring fire, Master Franciscus’s pale ale, and his very pedestrian, unmagical life.