A Tapestry of Spells (8 page)

He suddenly stooped, snatched up a handful of pine needles, and shoved them against his face, ignoring the prickles. The scent trapped in his nostrils was one he wanted to rid himself of as quickly as possible. He threw the pine away after a moment or two. It didn’t matter where he had smelled that smell before. What mattered was that he return home, lock his door, then try to regain the wits he’d obviously lost at some point along the way. Again, the blame could be pinned squarely on that bloody wench. If she hadn’t arrived at his door with her very self setting his great room afire, he would now be enjoying a decent supper and an interesting book. She had driven him from his own home with her ridiculous requests, but no longer. He would return and be about his usual business of doing absolutely nothing that required any magic at all.

He walked unsteadily back the way he’d come only to realize his feet had taken him in a direction he hadn’t intended to take. He stopped, swore, then swore again. He had no intention of walking all the way to Doire to see if Sarah was merely imagining her brother’s plans. He had even less interest in that terrible mark that ran up her arm, as if something evil had wrapped itself around her and burned her flesh. He had ale at home, a very fine pale ale that tasted a bit like apple when Master Franciscus had been feeling particularly generous with the contents of his root cellar. And he’d left bread to bake, bread he might find perfectly browned if he turned back now. That was a far more appealing thought than a three-hour walk to that inhospitable wreck the witchwoman Seleg had haunted for all those years.

Somehow his feet didn’t seem to agree.

He dragged his blood-caked hand through his hair and cursed viciously. He did not want this. He looked west, where his house lay, his house full of things he’d made with his own two hands or bought from the very ordinary labor of those two hands. There was comfort there, and safety. It had been a refuge for him from the moment he’d managed to drag himself inside its front door.

He looked east with reluctance and no small bit of distaste. He had no use for an auburn-haired witch who apparently couldn’t slap sense into her brother, who was surely not her equal in anything.

Nay, that was stating his reluctance poorly. There were simply no words to describe how thoroughly he wanted to avoid the path he could almost see shimmering in front of him. It looked a great deal like Fate and to say he wanted no more than a passing acquaintance with her was understating it badly. He knew if he took a single step toward the east, he would find himself enmeshed in things he had no stomach for.

He realized, with a start, that Fate was taking things into her own hands.

The silver path that ran under his feet turned quietly and relentlessly into something quite different even as he stood in its midst. It became first a stream, then a swiftly flowing river, glowing softly with a light of its own, full of spells that sparkled along the surface with a beauty that was difficult to look at.

It was Fadaire that slipped around his feet and tripped over itself with sweet laughter as it continued on its way. The water was more beautiful because of it, the air more full of things he couldn’t quite see, the trees more inclined to whisper songs he couldn’t quite hear any longer. It was so lovely, he didn’t dare breathe lest he disturb its spell.

But suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something running under the surface of the stream, something dark, putrid, noisome. It tried to mingle with the water running over its surface, but failed. Yet even so Ruith could smell an echo of what he’d encountered in the forest not a quarter hour ago. It was ruin, darkness, death—

A sound startled him.

He realized it was his own harsh breathing.

He reached out and put his hand on a tree to steady himself. He shook his head sharply and the vision disappeared. He was left as simply Ruith of nowhere in particular who had been perfectly content to be nothing but what he pretended to be.

Not a man who had begun to dream again on the night before desperation had sent a woman braving his reputation to come beg him for aid.

He took a deep breath. Perhaps he was making it all out to be more than it was. He could make a quick dash toward the witchwoman Seleg’s house and see what sort of spells Sarah’s brother had left behind. It didn’t mean he had to weave any spell of his own, or actually do anything magical to sweep away the remains of what Daniel of Doire had left behind. It didn’t mean that he had to become involved. Surely.

He started walking, ignoring the fact that he felt like he was walking into a dream.

Or a future he’d always known would catch him up.

It took him just as long as he’d thought it would to reach the house. He approached silently, though he supposed the villagers standing there in a cluster with torches and whatever steel they’d had to hand were yammering too loudly to have noticed him. He listened to them speculate on whether or not the witchwoman’s daughter lay under what was obviously the remains of her mother’s house and barn, but he didn’t care to tell them differently. He merely watched them until they tired of their discussion and trudged off back to the village to seek their beds. Very sensible lads, those.

He slung his bow across his chest, then walked out into the glade and looked by moonlight at the magic that lay in a heap there. He could sense the remains of it, but the spell was beginning to fade now that it had accomplished what it had been created to do. He watched for another half hour as it finally disintegrated, leaving only the faintest trace of having been there at all.

It was Olc. He didn’t particularly care to think about why he knew that. He was too busy being suddenly lost in his past, standing in a ruined, unpleasant keep, lingering just outside a chamber full of spells that were equally unpleasant—

He rubbed his hands suddenly over his face, then turned and walked away before he lost what few wits apparently remained him. Daniel of Doìre’s spell was poorly wrought, which meant anything else he might attempt would be equally flawed. The lad could go off and attempt a dozen terrible things and manage none of them.

Ruith continued on his way home, considering his duty done. He wasn’t responsible for what a stupid lad did with his time, or for what spells that lad dabbled in that he shouldn’t have, or even for determining where a stupid, foolish, dabbling lad might have come by spells that would have made any sensible mage ill just to look at them. He had his own life to endure. He hardly needed to take on the troubles of someone else’s.

He made it home with a minimum of fuss. His bread was burned, but he cut off the crust and settled for slices of the innards. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in front of his own roaring fire with a tall glass of apple-scented ale in one hand and a butter-slathered piece of bread in his other. Of course he needed the fire because it was still winter. His hands were shaking because he was hungry. He was cursing because it made him feel warm and happy to toss a few expletives out into the midst of his chamber and watch them hang there in the firelight. He anticipated nothing but a very fine evening in which he could enjoy his warm bread and delicious ale—

Whilst some silly wench with flyaway hair and an inability to keep herself from dusting his table was out in the wild. In the dark. Alone, save for her brother who had managed to use—albeit poorly—spells he couldn’t possibly have the bloodright to.

And not to forget possibly more of those creatures from hell who would slay an unprotected woman before she could manage to blurt out even a simple word of protest.

He wrenched his attention back to more interesting things: good ale, warm bread, and fire against his toes. Sarah would manage to do good and right wrongs without him. Just because she had knocked on his door and asked for aid didn’t mean he had to offer it or even pretend to have heard her. Just because he had taken a brief, unremarkable foray out into a county he owed nothing to didn’t mean he had to now hire himself out as rescuer of maidens faced with tangles they should have been able to unravel on their own.

Nay, he would leave that sort of thing to others. Perhaps those Neroche lads who didn’t seem to mind it, or an intrepid fool from Meith who was more interested in having his name carved in stone along with other Heroes of legend than he was in not making a fuss. Ruith would be quite content with remaining out of sight, because he knew exactly what doom looked like and it didn’t have a lovely visage and a scorch up her arm that he couldn’t stop thinking about.

It didn’t look like that at all.

And Daniel of Doìre’s bloody sister was going to try to keep him from doing it.

Ruith looked at the bread in his hand, considered, then cursed vigorously.

He loathed traveling in the winter. He was certain it was going to snow. He was even more convinced that taking even a single step in a direction he didn’t want to go would spell nothing but complete disaster for him. He had no desire to become involved with magic, or witches’ get, or the righting of wrongs—

Or with rivers of elven magic that had been polluted by things ugly and deadly.

He looked at his weapons he’d propped up against a chair, looked at the books on the table that he had yet to read for the third time, looked at the fine supper that had been provided by eminently pedestrian, non-magical means.

And he thought about that woman who was out in the forest, alone.

He fought with himself for a good half hour until his bread was cold and his ale warm in his hand.

Then he cursed viciously, slammed his glass down on the table, and went to look for a warmer cloak.

S
arah knelt next to a pile of kindling and struck her knife against her flint. It would have helped if the moss had been dry, or if she had possessed anything of an otherworldly nature that might have been useful in convincing dry underbrush to light. Unfortunately, she was who she was and she was limited to what she had on hand, which wasn’t much.

She set her knife down and blew on her fingers. Snow had begun to fall during the first night of her flight and continued on steadily ever since. At least she had boots, and she had taken her skirt and turned it into a makeshift cloak. She supposed that considering she’d spent most of the last two days running or walking as if the very demons of hell—or angry villagers, as might have been the case—were behind her, she should have at least been warm from that exertion. The truth was, all that running had done nothing but leave her exhausted and profoundly chilled.

She dropped her knife twice before she managed to take a decent hold of it. She started to curse, then stopped abruptly, less out of a desire to be ladylike and more from a desire to know if snow weighing down a branch in the distance had caused that cracking noise, or if it were something more sinister.

She wished desperately for light. Or a sword. Or the skill to wield the latter and create the former.

Castân was standing a handful of paces away from her, sleeping on his feet, seemingly unconcerned about what she thought she was hearing. Then again, he was a very confused beast, so perhaps he wasn’t to be relied on. He had, over the course of their journey so far, grazed on too much dry grass, vomited it all up, dashed after a rabbit, then held it in his jaws and looked at her in consternation. She couldn’t have agreed more. Magic was, as she had said more than once, a perplexing business—

A twig snapped behind her.

She froze, then reached down carefully for her knife. The blade was actually quite large and fierce-looking—chickens lived in fear of her, truly, along with several of the less gentlemanly lads down at the pub—but her hands were cold and clumsy and the blade seemed more unwieldy than it should have. But she was now convinced there was more in the woods than met the eye, so she would use her knife whether it came to her hand easily or not.

She staggered to her feet, then spun around to find a shadow standing ten paces from her. It was dark despite the snow that lay in drifts around her, and that did nothing to help her determine a strategy. She supposed when it came down to it, how she fought was less important than winning the battle, so she would just have to make do in the dark.

She ripped her skirt-turned-cloak off over her head so it didn’t hamper her and brandished her knife. Her attacker tilted his hooded head, then reached up and drew two long hunting knives from sheaths strapped to his back. The steel glinted wickedly in the faint light, but Sarah didn’t flinch. She had discovered from years of hard experience that the surest way to embolden an opponent was to show weakness. It was also advantageous, she had learned, to make certain her opponent thought her too much trouble to bother with.

She threw herself into the fray, such as it was, with her best curses, signaling to the man that he would be much happier to look for trouble elsewhere. Unfortunately, he merely stepped aside to avoid her thrusts, the lout. She followed them up with yet another barrage of parries, fully intending to drive her blade into his chest if possible, but he caught it between his knives, made an indulgent noise that was particularly annoying, then set her backward with a gentle push.