Dreamspinner (30 page)

“But not enough to terrify Soilléir into giving me things I sincerely doubt even Seannair can remember any longer,” Nicholas said with a snort. “I am assuming
someone
in Cothromaiche has their birthright spells hidden away, but perhaps not.” He smiled at Rùnach. “It must have been amusing to at least see what Soilléir could do, even if you were prevented for the moment from working those spells yourself.”

“For the moment?” Rùnach echoed, pained. “You are too kind. Magic is forever lost to me, Your Grace, but I have been resigned to that for many years now. The seeing, though, is more difficult.”

Nicholas frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I can no longer see anything,” Rùnach said. “Well, save ordinary things at night.” He shrugged, though that cost him quite a bit. “Nothing of a magical nature, though. It was no great loss, I daresay.”

“When, my dearest boy,” Nicholas said, sounding dumbfounded, “did that disaster befall you?”

“At the well.”

“Are you certain of that?”

Rùnach closed his eyes in spite of himself, because suddenly the vision was too strong. He stood at the edge of an ordinary glade, watching events he had intended to stop spiraling completely out of control. He watched his father gather all his sons around him, frown as he looked for his youngest son and daughter,
then turn and beam with approval on one of Rùnach’s younger brothers who had distracted their sire with questions about the mighty magic he was preparing to show them.

Because the focus was and always had been their sire.

Rùnach could remember dozens of conversations he’d had with his older brother Keir about how to help their sire finish himself off. He knew Keir had had scores of the same sorts of conversations with their mother, though Rùnach had never sat in on any of them. Even though her lads had not been children any longer, Sarait had been ferociously determined to shield them from their father’s evil as best she could.

As daunting and impossible a task as it had been.

Rùnach had, he would admit, spent more time than perhaps he should have out in whatever training field he could find, pitting himself against the finest swordsmen he could lure out with him, and this after having worn through several peerless swordmasters. And when he hadn’t been driving himself into the ground physically, he had been pouring over books of spells, taking for his own what served him, honing them endlessly into something better, more powerful, simpler, and more deadly.

He hadn’t slept all that much.

So when he’d stood in a circle around that well with his mother and four of his brothers, he had thought himself quite prepared to counter whatever came his way.

How arrogant and deluded he had been.

His father had, with a single word spoken, either killed outright or stripped three of his younger sons of all their power. Rùnach couldn’t remember and had never cared to find out. Gair had laid the same spell on him and Keir, but Sarait had spared his elder brother the brunt of it and Rùnach had thrown up his own defense, which had been woefully inadequate for the job. The well had opened, the evil therein geysering up toward the heavens and hanging there for what had seemed an endless moment, frozen in time.

It was then Rùnach had realized that his father had loosed something he couldn’t control.

The truth was, he had never heard his father spew out so many spells in such a short time, not even in the heat of his cold angers. He had known with a finality that had left him ill that his father was not going to manage to do anything but kill them all. He had exchanged a glance with Keir, done exactly what they’d planned, which was for Keir to engage their father and for him to protect their mother, leaving Ruithneadh to see to Mhorghain.

Only things hadn’t gone exactly as they’d planned.

Sarait had pushed him aside, then put herself between them and Gair to use on their father spells Rùnach hadn’t realized she’d possessed, but she’d tripped and started to fall into the well. Rùnach could see with perfect clarity each moment that had passed from then on. He had reached out and caught his mother as he’d heard her begin closing the well. His father had continued to scream spells, spells that proved useless against what he’d loosed.

Sarait had shielded them from the brunt of the evil that had fallen down like an enormous wave, but that had left her so overextended magically that when it had crashed down on them, it had wounded her fatally. Rùnach realized that someone had succeeded in closing the well only because they—either Keir or his mother, he couldn’t remember which it had been—had closed it on his hands, the force of that closing pulling him down and grinding his cheek against the stone as he fell. He had seen one last tableau of his mother there, dying, Keir half broken and weeping, and his father crumpling to the ground, a victim of his own arrogance.

And then he had known no more.

He pulled back to himself and looked at Nicholas. “At the well, Your Majesty?” he asked hoarsely. “Aye, I daresay it was there that I ceased to see.”

Because by the time he’d come back to himself and realized his hands had been pulled free of the stone, he had no longer been able to see the spells covering the glade. He had crawled with his broken hands and ruined face all the way to Buidseachd where he’d known there was one man who would hide him and heal him, if healing could be done.

Of course, it hadn’t been possible, but he had learned to live
with his challenges. He flexed his hands that were now useful in spite of their webs of scars and smiled at Nicholas.

“I don’t miss it,” he added easily. “Seeing, that is.”

Nicholas only studied him in a way that made Rùnach nervous.

“You know, Rùnach,” Nicholas said slowly, “though I wasn’t there for your youth, I had the occasional conversation with your mother and Desdhemar of Neroche, who both knew you quite well.”

“Did you,” Rùnach managed, trying to sound as uninterested as he truly felt. “I shudder to think about what they said.”

Nicholas shrugged. “Desdhemar told me that she and Sarait couldn’t decide what unnerved Sìle more, watching you endlessly hone your sword skill or knowing that you were in his library, tinkering with his spells and pushing them in directions they hadn’t been meant to go.”

“Corrupting the perfection,” Rùnach said lightly. “Aye, he was unhappy enough about that, I suppose.”

“Actually, I think he was—and still is—enormously proud of you.” Nicholas sipped at his cider. “That’s probably why he shouted at you so loudly after the wedding.”

“Heard that, did you?” Rùnach asked.

“Lad, I would imagine
Droch
heard that all the way in his comfortable lair at Buidseachd,” Nicholas said with a dry smile. “And in spite of his fury over your choice of potential occupations, he loves you deeply. That’s obviously why he put runes on your hands.”

Rùnach blinked. “What?”

Nicholas looked at him in mock surprise. “Can you not see even
them
?”

Rùnach looked at his hands before he could stop himself, but of course he could see nothing. He couldn’t see anything, hadn’t seen anything for a score of years, had absolutely no desire to see anything for the rest of his life.

“Is that a poor jest, uncle?” Rùnach said shortly. “I fail to see the humor.”

“I think you fail, my boy, to see much of anything,” Nicholas said without rancor. “Let me change that for you.”

Rùnach opened his mouth to do he had no idea what—protest, perhaps, curse his uncle, surely—but it was too late. He heard the spell come rushing out of Nicholas’s mouth—and unfortunately saw it as well—and couldn’t find the breath to damn his mother’s brother-in-law before things changed for him. Dramatically. As if someone had turned on a light after he had been standing in darkness for years.

A score of years, to be exact.

He realized he had shoved himself backward so hard that he had tipped over Nicholas’s fine sofa only because he almost sent himself through the window. He stood pressed against the wall of Nicholas’s solar and looked at the things he hadn’t seen before: spells tucked discreetly in the corners, the shimmer of Diarmailtian glamour stretched out above his head, things woven into the fire…

Runes on the backs of his hands.

He held his hands up in front of him and gaped at them, scarred and only recently made useful again. There were runes of Tòrr Dòrainn there, runes placed on him to protect and shield.

Runes to give him strength when he had none of his own left.

“Turn it off,” Rùnach said hoarsely.

“Turn off what?” asked a voice next to him.

Rùnach looked to find Aisling standing there. He realized only then that she had her hand on his arm and she was looking at him as if she had seen a ghost. She transferred her look, which then turned into a frown, to Nicholas.

“You have vexed him, my lord,” she said, sounding slightly displeased.

“Nay,” Rùnach managed, “nay, he hasn’t.” He pushed himself away from the wall with hands that his grandfather had obviously marked at some point—no doubt when he had been unconscious thanks to either Ruith or Miach’s fist under his jaw—and walked over to right the sofa. He tried to ignore the fact that Aisling had her hand under his elbow, guiding him as if he’d been approximately eight hundred years old. He sat where she put him, made polite conversation, had more cider, all the while feeling as if he
were standing outside himself watching a very normal dawn turn into morning.

“Aisling, my dear, I don’t suppose you would do me the very great favor of fetching something from the library for me, would you?” Nicholas smiled at her affectionately. “I think you are the only one I would trust with my more valuable tomes, knowing your love for books.”

“But what of Rùnach, my lord? Will you look after him?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Then, as you will, my lord.”

Rùnach couldn’t watch her go. In fact, he hadn’t watched her at all. He had spent most of the time with his eyes closed, that he might not see. He did, however, look over his shoulder to make certain she had left Nicholas’s chamber.

Then he fixed his uncle with a steely look.

“Turn it off,” he said, barely able to restrain his fury.

Nicholas only lifted an eyebrow. “Would you care to know what spell I used?”

“No,” Rùnach said shortly. “I just want you to reverse it.”

“It was, my dear Rùnach, a spell of clarity.”

“Unclarify me then, damn you!”

Nicholas shrugged, then undid the spell. Rùnach knew he had, because in spite of himself, he’d listened to and memorized both spells Nicholas had used. The magic in Diarmailt was of an odd kind, not elegant like Fadaire, nor full of twists and turns and hidden things such as they used in Durial. It was simple, deceptively so, and full of meanings that were only seen after the spell had been spoken.

Rùnach was, he found, utterly unsurprised that Nicholas’s spell had not muddied what it had clarified.

“Did it not work?” Nicholas asked innocently.

Rùnach couldn’t even find the energy to curse him as he so richly deserved. He drew his hand over his eyes, but that only reminded him of what he’d seen on the backs of his hands. He turned his hands over and looked at the runes there.

“At least he didn’t put you in line for the throne,” Nicholas offered. “Unlike your sister.”

Rùnach blinked. “Mhorghain wears the runes of ascension?”

“As does Miach,” Nicholas said, “though I imagine Làidir will have something to say about that when your grandfather gives up his crown. But for the moment, aye, they both wear them. I believe they have served them very well up to this point. As for you, I can only speculate on what your grandfather laid upon you, not being an expert in Fadairian runes, of course. I suppose you would know what they represent.”

“I suppose I might,” Rùnach said unwillingly, “but I’m not sure I have the stomach to look at them, not even now that I have no choice.”

“I suggest you don’t look in any polished glasses either, then,” Nicholas said mildly. “I believe he placed something there over your brow as well.”

“Damn him,” Rùnach grumbled. “’Tis no wonder Weger’s mark wouldn’t take.”

“You can’t be surprised,” Nicholas said with a smile. He looked at Rùnach, then sobered. “I can only say to you what I think your mother would have said to you and that is that you have mighty gifts that you have, quite understandably, hidden away for twenty years. I believe the time has come for you to use them.”

Rùnach dragged his hand through his hair, feeling rather more grateful than he likely should have that his hand was able to accomplish such a pedestrian task. “For what purpose, I can’t imagine.”

Nicholas shrugged. “I suppose you will discover that in time.”

Rùnach looked at his uncle for several moments in silence. “Why is it I think you know what lies before me?”

Nicholas pushed his lips out a bit, as if he considered just how much—if anything—he should say. Then he shrugged. “I see many things and hear more.”

“Such as Acair of Ceangail wandering about Melksham, looking for a place to take tea?” Rùnach asked sourly.

Nicholas lifted his eyebrows briefly, but said nothing.

“Your Majesty, I think you forget who I am. I have no magic, very little sword skill, and my father is safely tucked away where he can’t do anything but shout at his neighbors. There is no great task for me to accomplish, no feat worthy of song, nothing but the simple life of a simple swordsman carving out an unremarkable existence wherever I choose to land.”

“Wearing the runes of Tòrr Dòrainn on your hands.”

“I didn’t choose those.”

“And ofttimes, Rùnach, we don’t choose the events we’re faced with, we are chosen to face them.”

Rùnach let out a gusty sigh. “I don’t think I can stomach any more of this conversation.”

“Then let’s turn to another one,” Nicholas said mildly. “You were pacing this morning. Why?”

Rùnach was so unbalanced that he could scarce bring himself to form words. He rose and went to stand in front of the fire because he had to do something besides sit. He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at his uncle.