A Tapestry of Spells (38 page)

Well, since he’d first seen Sarah on his doorstep.

He reached out and carefully brushed a few stray hairs from her forehead. She smiled faintly and he thought he just might weep.

If he hadn’t been such a hard-hearted bastard, that was.

He had to clear his throat roughly just the same. “You aren’t asleep,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears.

She opened her eyes and looked at him with another faint smile. “It wasn’t for a lack of trying, believe me. Unfortunately, you think too loudly.”

He continued to tuck strands of hair behind her ear, one by one, until he simply couldn’t lift his arm any longer. He covered her hands curled under her chin with his and sighed deeply.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I’m alive, and I no longer feel like death. I suspect you might be responsible for both.”

“Might be.”

He smiled, partly because of her modesty and partly because he actually didn’t feel as destroyed as he should have. Killing magic was, he had heard, quite exhausting. He had used magic in his youth constantly for a thousand things he hadn’t thought twice about, but he had never made a piece of magic as large or as deadly as the one he had in the glade.

Then again, he was no longer a lad of ten summers. He had fury to spare. He supposed it should have worried him a bit, that anger, but he decided he would think on that later, when he’d forced himself to come to terms with the ruthless actions he’d taken. After all, he hadn’t destroyed those creatures for pleasure, he’d done it to save Sarah’s life and his own skin. It wasn’t as if he’d walked casually up to a nearby mage, taken tea with him, then stripped him of every particle of his magic just for the sport of it—

He felt Sarah’s fingers intertwine with his.

“Don’t,” she said, looking at him seriously. “Whatever you’re thinking on, don’t. Not today.”

“Have you been eavesdropping on my dreams?” he asked, trying to achieve a light tone. He failed miserably. If she had any inkling of the darkness of his dreams, or of how he’d failed where he should have succeeded—

“Ruith.”

He dragged himself back to her with an effort. “Aye?”

“Leave it. Whatever it is, leave it.”

He stared at her in silence for a moment, then cleared his throat again. “What did I dream?”

“You didn’t, for the most part,” she said. “When you did, it was all darkness.” She squeezed his fingers. “You didn’t cry out, if that eases you any. But you seemed to sleep better if I slept next to you, so I did. I will admit,” she added lightly, “that I am rather bruised because of it.”

He felt his mouth fall open. “Did I hurt you?”

“You held me rather tightly now and again,” she said dismissively, “but I expected nothing less from a man with an unhealthy respect for the fairness of his own face.”

He couldn’t smile. “Forgive me,” he said without hesitation. “I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn‘t,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything about it.” She kissed the back of his hand as casually as if she’d been doing it for years, then untangled her hands from his. She sat up and brushed the hay out of her hair, then shivered. “ ’Tis cold here. I thought we were finished with winter.”

“Not in the mountains,” he said, suppressing the urge to pull her back down next to him and wonder how it was he’d been so weary that he hadn’t known he’d had her in his arms. He pushed himself gingerly into a sitting position and looked about himself. The stall wasn’t overly large, but it was enough for the two of them and his entire collection of wood and steel, most of which lay on the other side of Sarah within easy reach. He looked at her gravely. “You brave gel.”

She shrugged, though it wasn’t perhaps as convincing as she might have wanted it to be. “I fear I gave the farmer a goodly bit of your gold for the stabling of our horses and yet more for his secrecy. I thought it worth the trouble to pay richly for both.”

“I would have done the same thing,” he said. He rubbed his hands over his face, shook his head to clear it, then looked at her. “How did you manage to get us both here?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” she said with a smile. “And we were fortunate that our horses came when I whistled. You weren’t altogether coherent at the time, but you managed to get yourself up on your horse when I shouted that you had to and you stayed there without my having to tie you on. I was prepared to ride with you, but you wrapped your arms around Osag’s neck and didn’t let go until we reached this farm. We’re three days east and a bit north of that ... that place.”

She related the events as if they’d been nothing, but he wasn’t fool enough to believe she hadn’t paid a substantial price for what she’d done. He looked at his hands for a moment or two, then slid her a sideways look.

“And how do I begin to repay you for this? Shall I rebraid your hair for you or let you sleep?”

“Both,” she said with a smile, “but the last first. I will admit I’m tired. You’re damned heavy.”

He laughed a little in spite of himself. “I daresay I am.” He rolled off his cloak and patted the spot he’d just relinquished. He waited until she had argued with him for a bit, then given up and taken his place. He covered her with her own cloak, then smoothed the hair back from her face. “I’ll go chop wood or find something to trade for another meal or two and a bit more secrecy.”

She looked up at him seriously. “The farmer has magic.”

“Does he?” Ruith asked in surprise. “How do you know?”

“He hid us.”

“From prying eyes wanting a look at the lovely daughter of the witchwoman Seleg?” he asked with a smile.

“From my brother.”

Ruith felt a little winded. He trailed his fingers through the hair at her temple a time or two, but his hand trembled as he did so, so he stopped. “Indeed.”

“He’s on his way to the keep at Ceangail,” she said, looking at him seriously. “I only know because I heard him ask the farmer for directions. I’m assuming he didn’t find what he needed at that well.”

Ruith shook his head. “I imagine we would likely know of it otherwise.”

She put her hand over her mouth and yawned suddenly. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure I can stay awake much longer.”

“How long has it been from the well?” he asked.

“Six days. Three to get here, then three secluded here in luxury.”

“I owe you a fortnight at a palace,” he said, with feeling.

She smiled and turned toward him, her eyes already closed. “Where you can see to the garrison and I can join the weaver’s guild. At least there we might have a decent place to sleep, though, so I accept. Though this is a very ... comfortable ...”

He didn’t imagine she would finish that thought anytime soon. He waited until she was well and truly asleep, then he collected the knives that went down his boots. There was no sense in terrifying the farmer with anything else, though if the man had magic, perhaps he was less disposed to being intimidated than others of his ilk.

Ruith didn’t think he wanted to know what sort of magic the man possessed.

Six hours later, he had chopped a month’s worth of wood and rid himself of his lingering malaise. He happily accepted a basket with things that gave off steam and smelled quite edible, then walked back to the stall, ducked under the spell of un-noticing the man had used, an eminently functional and sturdy spell of Wexham, and set his burdens down. He spelled the lamp in the corner into lighting without thinking about it, only then realizing that he hadn’t managed to rebury all his magic. Again.

He was beginning to think that hadn’t been an accident.

He stood there, wrestling with himself for quite some time. He knew what needed to be done. It should have been a burden to him, that magic in his veins, and getting rid of it a blessing.

He shook his head sharply. He couldn’t go any further down that path. If nothing else, his actions in the glade had proven that to him. He was a man in full control of his passions, but he was also Gair of Ceangail’s son. Whatever magic he might have inherited from his mother was also tainted with his father’s. He leaned back against the stall as again the vision of that river of Fadaire he’d stood in washed over him. Beautiful, almost too beautiful, but running through banks that were corrupted with Olc and Lugham and a half dozen other ugly things his father had been master of.

Perhaps he could have ignored all of that and hoped that he could have overcome his father’s legacy, but the absolute rage that had rushed through him in the glade proved that even thinking about it was foolhardy. Better to leave the possibility as something merely to be speculated on when he was in front of his fire with his feet up.

But one more thing first.

He knelt down next to Sarah, sleeping so peacefully, and took her right hand lightly in both his own. He held his breath until he was certain she was still sleeping deeply, then with great care worked on her arm. There were many spells for healing, but the most efficacious were those of Camanaë. He had not only the right to use them, because of his grandmother, but the power to constrain them to work where others might not. Even with only a fraction of his power to hand, they came easily to his tongue and did his bidding without hesitation. He took away the swelling, repaired the damaged tissues, then removed the source of the pain.

But the blackness remained, thin trails where the spell had burned her.

He frowned and tried again, without any more success than his grandfather had had. He sat back on his heels and quickly rifled through his enormous store of spells, ones he had learned in his youth and others he had memorized from the books he’d found in his house, just for the sake of keeping his mind sharp. He tried half a dozen, but with the same result.

Which was no result at all.

Sarah stirred. He didn’t release her, but he took a moment and gathered up the rest of his magic,
all
his magic, and buried it again under thick, impenetrable spells of illusion and un-noticing. Should anyone have looked his way to see what he might have possessed, they would have found him not worth a second look. Had they been determined enough to look twice, they would have found only distraction and confusion. He took a deep breath, stepped back figuratively into his familiar and comfortable world of swords and unremarkableness, then waited for the relief he knew he should feel.

Odd that it didn’t seem to be coming.

“You have healing hands.”

He blinked and realized Sarah was looking up at him. “What?” he asked, feeling unaccountably nervous. If she had any idea who he truly was, or what he was capable of, or what his father had done...

“My arm feels better,” she said, squeezing his hand and smiling. “Perhaps it was a decent bit of sleep that did it.”

“It was,” he said without hesitation. “How does the rest of you feel?”

“Starving. Is that supper I smell?”

“Aye, and it’s still hot. Care for some?”

“Please.”

He pulled a milking stool over, put the basket on it, then sat on the other side of it from her and ignored everything that had just happened in the previous ten minutes. It was a pleasure to simply enjoy a remarkably tasty supper whilst being nothing more than a simple, unremarkable swordsman. It was made all the more enjoyable by pleasant company, to be sure.

And he didn’t miss his magic.

Not at all.

“You look better,” she said.

He smiled, putting his thoughts behind him. “Sleep and a little axe work do wonders,” he agreed. “You look better ... Rested, I mean.”

She smiled. “I’ve no vanity to wound, trust me. I’m sure I wasn’t a pleasant sight.”

“Actually, a more pleasant sight I’ve never woken to,” he said honestly.

She blinked, then turned slightly red. She looked at him, blushed a bit more, then threw a hunk of bread at him. He laughed a bit, then gave up any more attempts at compliments and simply watched her as she ate. That seemed to please her even less, but at least what she threw at him was edible, so he helped himself to it and found himself smiling more than he had in years. And whilst he smiled, he considered the lovely woman he had the pleasure of looking at in rather unlikely surroundings. He realized he had completely taken for granted the beauty he’d enjoyed in his youth. Seanagarra was, he had to admit, a spectacular place in which to pass a childhood, especially given that it had been contrasted nicely with profoundly unpleasant fortnights spent at his father’s keep in Ceangail, something he had done his damndest to forget. At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of Torr Dòrainn’s forests full of mighty pines and stately oaks. He had no doubt spent more time trampling over flowers that sang and stomping through brooks that laughed for the mere joy of their existence than he had appreciating the incredible gift of enjoying them he’d been given.

His life hadn’t been without its share of human beauty as well, of all kinds. Elves in Torr Dòrainn, noblewomen in other locales, the stark, harsh beauty of the south where stumbling on a clutch of wildflowers clinging to a sheer rock face was an unexpected reminder that not all the world was full of darkness.

But never in all his years had he looked at something that affected him the way a lovely face framed by hair the color of cognac when held to the fire had. Only it was more than just her visage, or her tenacity, or her willingness to walk into darkness when there was no light to guide her. It wasn’t her ability to pick up a weapon that wasn’t hers and fight to defend someone weaker than she, or her clear sight, or the reserves of strength and determination he suspected he hadn’t seen but a fraction of.

It was her light.

He didn’t want to think how badly he needed that light.

There was also the fact that when he complimented her, she threw food at him, but he supposed he should reserve that bit of deliciousness as something to be savored later.