Spellweaver (8 page)

The unpleasant truth was, Ruith had kept her as safe as could reasonably have been expected along their journey, never mind that he had said terrible things to her in Ceangail. Those were things she knew he had said in an effort to get her away from his bastard brothers so he could instead die at their hands. Apparently, he’d done the same thing again on the plains of Ailean.

She drew herself up and wrapped as much of her tattered pride around herself as she could manage. “Well,” she said, reaching for all the haughteur she could muster, “the next time we’re faced with death by a thousand spells, I would like you to simply keep your mouth shut instead of treating me like a servant.”

“I will.”

“And just because I don’t have any magic doesn’t mean I can’t do some fairly important things,” she said, though she couldn’t bring a damned one of those things to mind at present. Hopefully Ruith wouldn’t want any examples.

“I watched you before,” he said very quietly, “and I agree. You have strung your loom with warp threads of courage and determination, then woven us all into a pattern that would have been the envy of any mage I know.”

She scowled. “Prettily spoken, but I’m still not going any farther with you.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t trust you.”

“I haven’t given you very many reasons to.”

That was unfortunately not true either. He had been willing to sacrifice his life to save hers. That he’d taken her into a place where that had been necessary was a bit problematic, but to be fair, she hadn’t given him much choice.

She managed to dredge up another scowl. “I imagine you’ll want my apology now for not having been particularly forthright about my lack of magic.”

He shook his head slowly. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

“Since you likely knew from the beginning.”

“I didn’t, and it made no difference to me once I did, except to be profoundly tempted to bring spells to life under your hands—”

“Stop it,” she said sharply. “Stop being kind to me.”

He looked at her, then nodded slowly and went to sit back down in front of the fire.

She looked out the windows for a moment, then glanced up at the ceiling. The firelight flickered against it, revealing it to be covered with all sorts of lovely carvings of heroic scenes. She wondered, absently, if any of the masters of Buidseachd had been a part of those, or if Soilléir simply enjoyed contemplating someone else doing the deeds depicted there.

She took a deep breath, then looked at Ruith again.

He looked impossibly tired. He was also watching her with a very grave expression on his unnaturally beautiful face. She didn’t want to feel comfortable around him—he was who he was, after all—but there was something so ordinary about the sight of him sitting there, she almost let her guard down.

Almost.

The truth was, it had hurt her far more than she wanted to admit to trust him and have him betray her—never mind that she was well aware of his reasons. And if she were to face a bit more truth, she would have to admit that what bothered her the most was not that he was a mage, it was that he was an elven prince. She was not his equal in any way.

Unfortunately, he didn’t act much like an elven prince.

“Did you eat already?” she asked, because she had to say something.

He shook his head. “I waited for you. That, and I didn’t want to be distracted by food and possibly have you escape without my noticing.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. When the time comes—and it will come, I assure you—I will go openly. I’m finished with all this business of mages and magic,” she added, on the off chance he’d forgotten her plans.

“Hmmm,” was all he said.

Sarah found his lack of interest in a fight profoundly unsatisfying. He did seem to be interested in food, though, which she agreed with. She refused his hand when he offered it, just on principle, but if he was determined to hold out her chair for her, or see her served first, or pour her wine as if she’d been a fine lady, who was she to argue? He was no doubt brushing up his manners for the endless line of princesses who would be eyeing him purposefully once word got out he was available.

“So,” she said, once they’d finished their meal and the silence began to make her uncomfortable, “who is this Soilléir person and where is his master?”

Ruith smiled faintly. “
He
is the master here.”

“Impossible,” she said promptly. “He can’t be any older than you are.”

Ruith shrugged. “I would say he’s been here several centuries, but my knowledge of the schools of wizardry perhaps isn’t what it should be.”

She felt her mouth fall open. “Centuries?”

“He’s every day of two thousand, I daresay,” Ruith said thoughtfully. He smiled. “Doesn’t look it, though, does he?”

“Nay, he does not, though I’m increasingly alarmed at how poor a judge I am of these things.” She felt her eyes narrow. “How old is Sgath? The same?”

“At least,” Ruith agreed.

She pushed back from the table, then rose and began to pace, because she had to. She wanted to tell Ruith she didn’t want to know any more, but she was afraid if she allowed too much silence, he might be tempted to fill it by asking her what she was thinking to leave her brother possibly alive out in the Nine Kingdoms to bring them all to ruin. Then he would likely point out his need for her to come with him and find the spells he had stuffed down his boots.

Which, she realized, she couldn’t see.

She looked at him in surprise. “Where are the spells?”

He had to take a deep breath. “I lost them. Well,” he amended, “not precisely that. They were taken from me after we were overcome and whilst I was senseless. I still have the cloth you so cleverly filched from Connail of Iomadh’s chamber, but nothing else.”

She sank down in a chair opposite him because it was the closest thing available to keep her from landing on the floor. “Who took them, do you think?”

“I have no idea. Whoever it was didn’t take the trouble to slay me whilst he was about it, though he certainly could have. I was covered in an Olcian spell of protection by someone I can’t name, then relieved of the pages by another mage who slit through the first spell with another spell of Olc—all whilst I was senseless.” He shrugged. “An interesting mystery, I daresay.”

That was understating it. She wasn’t sure what, if anything, she could possibly say. Ruith’s expression was inscrutable, though she knew that was a ruse. He had to have been greatly surprised to find himself alive but very upset over the loss of what they had so carefully collected.

It occurred to her abruptly that he’d had to decide between searching for the spells and searching for her.

She put her hands over her face for a moment or two, then took a deep breath and looked at him. “Thank you for coming after me.”

“The choice was easily made, believe me.” He looked at her gravely. “Sarah, I truly do regret what I said on the way here and at Ceangail. In the keep, I had no other way to take Díolain’s attentions off you. On the plains, I feared our hunter might have been someone from Ceangail, so it seemed prudent to carry on with that charade.”

She nodded, though that cost her quite a bit. It also took her quite a bit longer than she supposed it should have to manage a decent breath. She cast about quickly for something else to discuss before she had to think on the forgiveness she should no doubt offer after such a flowery bit of sentiment.

“Tell me of this place,” she said, hoping she sounded more casual than pleading.

Ruith sat back and fussed absently with the spoon he’d used to stir honey into his tea. “The school has been here for a pair of millennia, perhaps longer. My grandmother, Eulasaid, was here at its founding, and she’s at least that old. It was begun to formalize the training of mages, as you might imagine, though over the centuries it has perhaps evolved into less of an elite school for the finest of mages and more of an all-encompassing place where even a village lad might earn a ring or two to call his own.”

“My brother wanted one,” she admitted. “He wasn’t disciplined enough to even attempt to gain entrance here, though.”

“I understand it isn’t easy,” Ruith conceded.

“Did you never think about—” She shut her mouth before she went on with that question. Of course he wouldn’t have thought about coming to the schools of wizardry. He had been too busy living in seclusion, no doubt trying to forget who he was. She stole a look at him, fully expecting him to be offended, but if he was, he didn’t show it.

Damn him anyway. She would have felt better about insulting him if he’d actually given her a fight about something.

“Actually, in my youth, I considered it beneath me,” he said with a shrug, apparently willing to answer the question she hadn’t finished. “Now? I don’t want any of it, but for different reasons. Others, though, want the seven rings of mastery very badly indeed. Very few lads manage all seven. I imagine Soilléir could name all those who have without having to scratch his head once.”

“Is he one of the seven masters, then? I assume each ring has a master who gives it.”

“It does,” he agreed. “And whilst Soilléir could certainly offer the instruction that is associated with each ring, he doesn’t. There are other mages here, mages not associated with the levels of mastery, who teach things that not everyone should know—or would want to know, for that matter.”

Immediately, the memory of that dark-haired man came back to her. She looked at Ruith and swallowed with a bit of difficulty.

“Who was that?”

“Droch of Saothair,” Ruith said very quietly, obviously knowing exactly of whom she was speaking. “He is master of the spells of Olc.”

Sarah shivered in spite of herself. “Was that his passageway I ...”

“Aye.” He paused. “’Tis how he amuses himself, leading novices astray until they find themselves tangled so fully in his spells that they cannot free themselves without aid.”

“And you would know?” she asked casually.

“I would know,” he agreed. “’Twas a good thing my mother was so protective of us and always knew where we were. I was caught in his trap for only a moment or two before she swooped down and rescued me. Ironic, though, that I didn’t recognize spells fashioned of my father’s favorite magic.”

She sat back and shook her head. “I don’t understand how your father could use that when that wasn’t his lineage. I thought you could only use what you had a bloodright to. My mother could only use Croxteth.”

“Indeed,” he said, sounding faintly surprised.

“We didn’t discuss it often, as you might imagine, but she was rather proud of her roots.”

He toyed with his spoon a bit longer. “Did she vex you because of, er—”

“Aye,” she said shortly, “she did, but let’s talk about you instead. Why did your father choose Olc? It isn’t a pleasant magic, is it?”

He looked at her briefly, then set his spoon down. “’Tis a seductive magic,” he conceded, “but the seduction doesn’t come without a heavy price. It eats at the mage’s soul, something he doesn’t realize until it’s too late.”

Her brother had been dabbling in Olc. She suspected that was what had destroyed her mother’s house.

Ruith rose and went to fetch a blanket. She thought to decline it, but she realized as he wrapped it around her that she was far colder than she should have been.

“Tell me something else,” she said, wishing quite desperately for anything else to discuss. “What does Master Soilléir do here if he doesn’t dole out rings? Obviously he’s not involved in—” She had to take a deep breath. “Well, in that dark sort of business.”

“He holds the spells of Caochladh,” Ruith said, sitting back down in his chair and rubbing the fingers of his hands as if they pained him somehow. “Spells of essence changing. He rarely gives them out, and then only to lads who hold the seven rings of mastery. Actually, I’m not sure how many of those ring-holders have proven themselves to be trustworthy enough for his spells. I understand the process to win them is ... arduous.”

“Are those spells so powerful, then?” she asked doubtfully.

He looked at her seriously. “Powerful and terribly complicated. Of course, there are easier ways to effect a change, with a spell of reconstruction, perhaps, which would change something into something else for a fixed amount of time—usually not more than a day or two. Rock to water, air to fire, man to toad.”

“Tempting.”

“Isn’t it, though?” he said dryly. He looked at his hands thoughtfully. “With the spells of essence changing, however, you change the substance in question permanently. Air to fire, rock to water, man to beast. And thus it remains until the mage changes it back again, though I understand that it is enormously difficult, even with great power, to have the restoration be complete. I suppose that is what keeps a mage from turning his valet into an end table on a whim.”

“Does Master Soilléir ever use the spells himself?” she asked faintly.

“You could ask him,” Ruith said. “I’m quite certain he keeps Droch in check with the threats of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s had the occasional pointed conversation with other black mages of note from time to time.”

“Would you want those spells, Ruith?” she asked, before she thought better of it.

He looked at her evenly. “Don’t ask.”

She wasn’t sure why the question bothered him so. Perhaps he feared if he had those mighty spells, he might turn all his bastard brothers into mice and set a herd of starving cats upon them.

She nodded, consigning all conversation about spells and their wielders to hell where they should have been, then pushed back from the table. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. I need my rest if I’m to be on my way tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Of course. It has been a very long journey here.”

She didn’t fight him when he pulled out her chair for her, then escorted her over to the fire. He sat and looked at her.