Spellweaver (46 page)

Sarah felt her eyes narrow even though she knew perfectly well he was provoking her intentionally. “You great bloody bully.”

“Which is exactly what you need, you vexatious, headstrong wench.”

A pity he’d said the last with a quick, affectionate smile that left her truly undone. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “Don’t be kind to me. I can’t bear it. Not now.”

He reached for her hand and held it, hard. “Then let’s finish this, quickly, and go somewhere where I
can
be kind to you. And to humor you, I’ll tell you what I can see. This,” he said, pointing to the topmost spell of illusion, “is an everyday spell of Olc, fashioned to conceal and repulse at the same time.” He studied the nasty web spread across the page a bit longer. “I can’t see the complete composition of what’s underneath, but there appears to be a bit of Caol—” He shot her a look. “The queen’s magic, as it happens. The other I can’t discern.” He pointed to the four corners where the spell was attached to the floor, then to a spot where other magics were oozing out. He looked at her. “Can you improve upon that, friend?”

“Olc,” she said hoarsely, “holding down the four corners of the concealing spell. Suarach—or it claims it is called—is indeed coming out from underneath it on that side, for it announces itself as it does so, but you missed the Lugham underneath that and a rather vile perversion of Croxteth over there.” Her hand shook only a bit as she reached out and pointed to the farthermost corner of the spell of concealment. “That is Seiche, whatever that is. There is Wexham and something from Léige, mixed together in an unwholesome way.” She looked at him. “Not that I would recognize it as such if the language of the spell wasn’t woven into the spell itself.”

“Is it?” he asked, peering at it thoughtfully. “An interesting combination. The dwarves have, as you might imagine given their riches, a compelling interest in keeping things hidden from unfriendly eyes. The dwarvish bit is there, I would imagine, to leave anyone resourceful enough to get that far feeling as if they were imagining what they were seeing.” He looked at her. “Clever, isn’t it?”

“Diabolical,” she agreed. She paused. “What do we do now?”

“You slit the spell with your knife, we pull the page out, then you tell me how to repair the damage.”

She was silent for a moment or two, then she met his eyes. “You truly cannot see what’s there?”

“Nay, Sarah, I truly cannot see what’s there.” He smiled gravely. “That’s your gift.”

“I think I would rather be
doing
something.”

“And I would rather be sitting happily upon my arse with my feet up, watching you doing something.”

She fought her smile. “A bully, and a lazy one at that.”

“Aye,” he agreed cheerfully, then his smile faded abruptly. “We must hurry. We’ve been here too long.”

She nodded, drew her knife, then reached out and carefully slit a few of what he assumed were threads holding the spell to the ground. She heard no alarms go off, so she assumed they were safe enough. She pulled the page free, then looked down at it.

“There’s something on it—”

“No time to look,” he said.

She held it out on the tip of her knife. “You should be careful with it, unless you want the barbs going into your shin. And you’ll have to patch the hole. I cannot.”

He patched quickly, then rolled the spell up and stuck it down the side of his boot. Sarah supposed he was going to need to find a better place to stash spells than that, but now wasn’t the time to look for it. She heard footsteps coming their way. She looked at Ruith in alarm, but he merely put a finger to his lips and pulled her behind him. He waited until the guard was within arm’s reach before extending a greeting.

The guard never saw Ruith’s fist coming toward him.

He fell without a noise, thanks to Ruith’s catching him, and no doubt had several hours of pleasant rest to look forward to behind the ale kegs. Ruith took her hand.

“Where for the next spell?”

“Up,” she said, but there was absolutely no sound to the word. It was bad enough to have descended into the kitchens. The thought of going anywhere else in the keep was nothing short of terrifying.

But it was what she’d committed herself to doing that morning in Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn’s garden, so she reminded herself that Ruith’s mother had put herself in far more peril than she ever would, put her shoulders back, and nodded.

And if it was unsteadily done, perhaps Ruith hadn’t noticed.

She lost count of the twists and turns they took and the guards they passed. The only thing she could say with any certainty was that the second spell that awaited them was more powerful than what they’d found in the cellar.

She stopped Ruith outside a particular door, then leaned back against the wall as he put his hand on the wood and bowed his head. After a brief moment, he looked at her.

“No one inside.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m guessing.”

She pursed her lips at him, but followed him inside just the same. The chamber was empty, as he’d said, but that wasn’t a relief. She walked immediately over to a wall sporting shelves full of treasures. There in the place of honor was what they’d come for. There were no strands of barbed magic laid across the glass case, which surprised her. In fact, there was nothing at all there, just a sturdy lock, as if Morag didn’t think anyone would dare make it into her inner sanctum.

“Which spell is that?” she asked, because she had to do something to keep from weeping.

“Finding,” he said, “which surprises me because it isn’t a particularly powerful spell.”

“And the other one from downstairs?”

“I didn’t stop to look, but I can tell you it’s burning a bloody hole in my leg—”

She would have smiled, but she had been jerked off her feet—literally—and pulled into a corner of the solar. Ruith backed her up against the wall, then pressed himself back against her. If his intent had been to crush her, he was coming close to succeeding. She put her hands on his back, closed her eyes, and forced herself to breathe silently. It was surprising how accustomed she’d become to having him put himself between her and danger.

A gel could learn to appreciate that about a man.

The door opened, bodies entered, then the door slammed shut.

“I think you should let them go,” a male voice ventured.

“Are you mad? He’s Gair’s
son
, you fool.”

Sarah forced her hands to remain flat against Ruith’s back instead of clutching the cloth of his tunic in terror. Ruith didn’t seem to be panicking, but, then again, he never had during the whole of their acquaintance. He simply stood in front of her, an intimidating and hopefully quite invisible barrier to the terrible storm brewing there before the fire.

“He’s no good to you dead,” the prince consort said.

“I have no intention of killing him. I want him for what spells he might have.”

“But you don’t have the power to use ... ah . . . them—”

“I know where to have help with that!” Morag bellowed. She took a deep breath. “Let me explain this to you again, Phillip, and simply, so you’ll understand. I am, as you can’t help but have noticed, collecting spells.”

“Gair of Ceangail’s spells?” Phillip asked hesitantly.

“Aye, Gair of Ceangail’s spells,” Morag repeated, in the same tone of voice she might have used with a small child. “These are very desirable spells because whilst Gair was the most hated mage of his generation, he was also the most powerful. Indeed, it wouldn’t be exaggerating to say he was perhaps the most powerful mage of all. To have even one of his spells commands great respect and admiration.”

“But everyone respects and admires you already—”

“It isn’t enough!” Morag bellowed. “Is it possible you’re this stupid? I don’t want respect, I want power!”

Sarah listened to Morag in fascination. Indeed, if she hadn’t been cold with terror, she might have been slightly amused by the queen’s tantrum. It must have been extremely frustrating for Morag to find herself trapped in a keep that no doubt seemed far below what she likely supposed she should have had, being forced to socialize with rustics, remaining unadmired for her obviously superior self. Sarah couldn’t imagine that having any more of Gair’s spells would help with any of that, but what did she know? She could only see spells, not use them to flatter her vanity.

“Why do you think I’ve been looking for these spells for so long?” Morag demanded.

“Well, not you personally,” Phillip protested.

“Nay,” Morag said in a deceptively soft tone, “you have been looking for me, haven’t you, my love? Traveling the world for the past twenty years, trying to make up for your blunder.”

“I couldn’t kill a child—”

“So you left her to rot in the moors instead,” Morag snarled. “At least I would have made her death quick.”

Sarah felt Ruith flinch, but she had as well, so she couldn’t blame him. Killing a child? What sort of woman was Morag that she could contemplate the like?

And what had the child seen, or done, or known that would have merited such a fate?

“I couldn’t kill a child,” Phillip repeated, sounding as if he would rather have been having a different conversation. “So I saw to her end as I saw fit.”

There was silence in the chamber for so long, Sarah finally could bear it no longer and gingerly peeked out from behind Ruith’s shoulder.

Morag and Phillip were facing each other in front of the fire, frozen there, as if they’d been statues. She initially suspected that Morag was angry and Phillip equally so, then she realized that wasn’t the case at all. Morag wasn’t angry. She was something else, something that went beyond anger.

She was mad.

Sarah could see her lunacy wrapping itself around her as if it had been a fine cloak she had reached for, swathing herself in its comfort with a pleasure that was actually quite difficult to watch.

“You didn’t send her out to the moors, did you?” she asked in a soft voice. “Come, now, Phillip. You have no need to fear me.”

“I don’t fear you, Morag.”

Even Sarah could tell that was a bald-faced lie. The poor man looked as if he might soon fall to his knees and beg his wife to kill him quickly rather than end his life in other, more painful ways.

“What did you do with the babe?” she asked soothingly. “The truth, now, after all these years.”

“Why does it matter?” Phillip asked nervously. “I got rid of her.”

“Why does it matter,” Morag repeated slowly. “Why does it matter?” She lifted her arm and pointed back toward the door. “It
matters
, you imbecile, because of what walked through my gates this morning!”

“Gair’s get—”

Morag took a deep breath. “Nay, Phillip, not Gair’s son. The girl, the girl that came with him. Surely if anyone would see her for who she is, it would be you, given how often you admired her dam.”

Phillip looked at her in surprise. “But she doesn’t look like Sorcha—”

“Of course she looks like Sorcha!”

The prince fell silent, obviously considering things he hadn’t before. “But that’s impossible.”

“Because you killed her?” Morag asked in a low, furious voice. “Or is there another end to this tale you haven’t told me?”

“Ah—”

Phillip swallowed convulsively. “I sold her, her and a kitchen lad I picked at random, to a gypsy—”

“You
liar
!”

“Very well,” he shouted back, “I didn’t sell her, I gave her to the witchwoman Seleg and begged her to carry her off somewhere you wouldn’t find her because I
could not kill a child
!”

Sarah blinked. She would have shaken her head, but there were stars spinning around it already and she didn’t want to add to the cluster of them. Ruith’s hand was immediately around her, holding her to him. She clutched his arm and continued to look at the pair before her, because she couldn’t look away. Phillip had apparently found the spine he’d been missing for quite some time, but the truth was, he wasn’t his wife’s equal in power or craft. Sarah watched spells gather in front of Morag, spells of death and misery and horror that sprang up and blossomed into a single something that towered over them both. Phillip watched it, openmouthed and unmoving.

But it never fell upon him.

It took Sarah a moment or two to realize that someone was pounding on the door. The spell disappeared, Phillip collapsed against the mantel, holding himself up by willpower alone, no doubt, and Morag walked over to the door and threw it open.

“What?” she snapped.

“My queen,” a guardsman said, sounding thoroughly terrified, “I’ve heard word there was one of the night lads found on the floor of the kitchens—”

“Put a guard in front of Gair’s get,” Morag said immediately. She shot Phillip a look. “Guard the spell here, if you have any power at all.” She sent him another withering look. “I
told
you we should have killed her.”

“But she has no magic,” Phillip protested. “She had no magic as a babe, which was why you wanted her in the first place, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up, you fool,” Morag said, drawing herself up and looking down her nose at him. “What would you know of it?”

“I know what you did to her sire—”

“Enough,” Morag thundered. She swept out of the chamber and jerked the door closed behind her.

Ruith walked immediately over to the case. Sarah could only watch him, numb, as he picked the lock with an adroitness she might have admired another time. The prince consort had been staring into the fire, but when the hinges on the glass squeaked, he whirled around, his mouth open.

He watched for a moment or two, then shut his mouth.

Sarah could still see Ruith, perhaps only because she could
see
, but obviously Phillip could not. Until, rather, Ruith dissolved his spell of un-noticing. He locked gazes with the prince as he rolled up the spell and stuck it down his boot. Phillip looked around him in surprise—presumably for her, but she was apparently too well hidden by Ruith’s spell. Sarah supposed that was just as well. She knew she must have looked like death.