Spellweaver (13 page)

It was puzzling, that spell of Olc that had protected him. It had been, as he had reluctantly noted before, imminently suitable and very powerful. He supposed wondering who had laid it over him so carefully would take up quite some time. Determining who had managed to slit through it and take Gair’s spells was even less pleasant an activity. Who would have had the power? How had that soul known he had pages from his father’s book stuffed down his boots?

More unsettling still, what did that mage intend to do with what he’d found?

He turned away from that unpleasant thought to face perhaps the worst one of all which was what in the hell he was going to do in those few moments after Sarah had walked out of his life. He could easily speculate on how miserable those moments might be. If he’d had any inkling just how miserable, he never would have opened the door to her that first evening. He most definitely wouldn’t have followed her out of Shettlestoune—

Unbidden, a vision of a garden, the garden of Gearrannan, suddenly presented itself to him, as if it had been simply waiting for him to stop looking at other things long enough to notice it.

He had to take several slow, deep breaths before he could manage to face the thought of that place without flinching. And once he had control of himself, he was able to step back and consider it rationally. It was a lovely garden, true, but it wasn’t a place he had time to visit, or even wanted to visit—

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Nay, the truth was, the garden of Gearrannan wasn’t a place he
dared
visit. There was a particular sort of magic there, a magic that assured the king of the elves that no undesirables would make free with his sanctuary whilst he wasn’t there to inspect the visitors himself.

Ruith let out his breath slowly. That was understating it. There were spells of ward woven into the very fabric of that garden that would not simply repulse anyone undesirable who attempted entrance.

They would slay him.

He had to simply stand there in the middle of a row of books and breathe until he thought he could look at the thought he’d avoided thinking on for almost a se’nnight, since he’d first considered Beinn òrain as a place to flee. The desirability of Soilléir’s chambers as a place to hide had been uppermost in his mind, of course, but he could no longer deny that he’d had another thought as well. A wee trial, as it were, to see just what might become of the world if he stopped being who he wasn’t and became who he had been.

If he walked to the garden of Gearrannan and put his hand on the gate, would it let him enter, or would it slay him as it would have slain his father had he not had a very well-developed sense of self-preservation and retreated from its gates whilst he was still able to?

Ruith wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to find out.

He realized he was cursing—not quite under his breath—only to realize that he wasn’t the only one listening to himself cursing not quite under his breath. He jumped a little when he saw Soilléir leaning back against the wall at the end of the row, his arms folded over his chest, his face expressionless.

Damn, caught.

Ruith reminded himself that he was a man of thirty winters, not a lad, and he was under no obligation to answer any of what he was certain would be not the polite inquiries he’d faced before, but terribly prying and uncomfortable questions about his motives, his ambitions, and his heart. He wouldn’t answer them, not even out of courtesy. He continued on his way to the end of the shelves, stopped, then inclined his head.

“My lord.”

Soilléir only continued to study him, as if he searched for something he’d hoped to find there. Good sense, perhaps. Ruith returned his look steadily. The man hadn’t come to make certain he wouldn’t perish from fatigue over reading too much or outright death from slices to his fingers from pages of books with minds of their own. If there was one thing that could be counted on in the world, it was that Soilléir of Cothromaiche didn’t indulge in idle conversation or haphazard visits.

Soilléir nodded to his left. Ruith didn’t want to but followed him as he walked away, because he had decent manners.

But as he followed, he cursed himself. Not because of the pointed questions he knew were coming his way—he had watched Soilléir pester his mother, after all—and not because they were questions that needed to be answered, but because he was uncomfortable in his own skin. The truth was, he wanted none of what was being thrust upon him, nothing to do with his bastard brothers and his father’s arrogance and idiocy, not one more moment wasted in being brought up hard against the consequences of actions he hadn’t made himself and therefore shouldn’t be responsible for.

How much simpler it would have been to be in his house on the side of a forlorn mountain, baking his bread, enjoying his stews, and indulging in Master Franciscus’s lovely apple-flavored ale.

Though perhaps a little bit less like a man’s life than the life of a child.

He rubbed his hands over his face and wished he indulged in hard liquor. He was fairly certain that with enough time and effort, he could drink himself into oblivion and keep himself there for quite some time. If he had difficulty at the task, perhaps he could send word to Adhémar of Neroche for advice on how the like was most easily accomplished.

“He’s an ass,” Soilléir said mildly over his shoulder, “but not a drunkard.”

“Stop that,” Ruith said in annoyance.

Soilléir only smiled and opened the door to a chamber Ruith hadn’t known existed. That was surprising because he’d certainly done his share of investigating during his visits to Buidseachd in his youth. His brothers Rùnach and Gille had been happy to investigate the bowels of the keep with him, having themselves been on a constant search for obscure, ancient texts that might have contained something to contain their father. Ruith could bring to mind more than one scolding his older brothers had had from their grandfather for inciting insurrections in the other grandchildren and great-grandchildren who had run wildly about Seanagarra when their parents hadn’t been watching.

He sat down on a stool pulled up to a worktable and looked at the crumbling manuscripts stacked there in a scholarly sort of disarray along with a bookmaker’s tools for the restorations of said crumbling texts. He glanced at Soilléir.

“Are you an archivist now?”

Soilléir shook his head with a faint smile. “’Tis my assistant—if that’s what he could be called—who labors with these. I just come now and again to see what he’s dug up.”

Rùnach would have been teary-eyed with joy over what Ruith could see were more stacks of things to be pored over placed carefully on shelves against one wall. He sighed, then looked again at the keeper of dangerous spells.

“Well?”

Soilléir looked perfectly comfortable perched on the other stool. “I’m curious about a thing or two.”

Ruith pursed his lips. “I imagine you are.”

“’Tis what makes a good mage, Ruithneadh.”

“And you are that, Master Soilléir.”

Soilléir winced briefly, as if something about that reply grieved him somehow. Ruith couldn’t begin to presume to guess what that might have been, so he settled for steeling himself against questions he wasn’t going to enjoy.

“Why did you come here?” Soilléir asked, apparently having decided that making polite conversation before beginning the inquisition was unnecessary. “In truth?”

“I told you yesterday: for refuge.”

“You could have found that at Seanagarra.”

You were closer
was halfway out of his mouth before he called it back, because it wasn’t true. “I needed time to think in a place where Sarah would be protected.”

“You have magic,” Soilléir pointed out. “Why didn’t you use it?”

“Do you need to ask me that again?” Ruith answered, more sharply than he’d intended. Damn that Soilléir. Was there not a time in his life he could dance about a hurt for a bit instead of stabbing it straight to the heart?

Soilléir wrapped his hands around one knee and leaned back a bit, assuming a pose that belonged to a man of a score, not a man of a score of centuries. “You know, Ruithneadh, vows made in one’s youth are often rash.”

Ruith had no patience for where he knew Soilléir was heading. “I believe we discussed this at length before.”

“I thought it merited further scrutiny.”

Ruith shifted to face him fully. “Then allow me to satisfy your curiosity fully, my lord. I don’t use magic because I have rattling around in my wee head almost every last bloody spell that my father ever used. I imagine I could write down for you almost all the spells in his damned book and likely improve upon them because I’ve dreamed them every night of my bloody life, despite how I’ve managed to ignore that fact during the days.”

Soilléir only continued to watch him, unblinking, pitiless, and in his own impossible way, demanding.

“Very well, here’s more,” Ruith said, taking a deep breath. “Almost a month ago, I stood in that accursed glade near Ceangail where my father slew my entire family, unleashed all my wondrous power, and killed three dozen trolls with Olc as easily if I’d been swatting flies. I suffered no ill effects save a weariness that rendered me senseless for several days, but the trolls, however, were very much worse for the wear, which says much about the unwieldiness of my power.” He had to take another deep breath, because he found he was shaking. “I don’t use that power, my lord, because I am so full of rage, a foolish, ten-year-old’s rage, that I can scarce bear it.”

“Ruith, that’s understandable—”

“Would you give me the spells of Caochladh?” Ruith asked flatly. “Would you trust me with them?”

“All of them, Ruithneadh?” Soilléir asked mildly, “or just a few?”

“A pair of them,” Ruith snarled, “damn you to hell. A pair of
my
choosing.”

Soilléir studied him for several minutes in silence. “And if I were to allow you to make free with my collection of spells capable of truly undoing the world and all in it, which ones would you want?”

Ruith looked at him steadily. “Return and Alchemy.”

There was a noise, followed by a curse. That might have been Soilléir tipping so far backward in surprise that he only saved himself from an undignified sprawl because he was, as Ruith had noted before, fairly spry for a man of his advanced years. Soilléir put his hand on the stool to steady himself and looked at Ruith in surprise. “Why Return?”

“So I could bring my father back to life.”

Soilléir sat down. “To what end?”

“To take your very elegant spell of Alchemy,” Ruith said shortly, “and turn him into a rock, after which I would walk back to his damned well, open it, then drop him inside to fall endlessly into the evil he loved so much.”

“I think you’ve given this a bit of thought,” Soilléir managed.

“I think you’re right,” Ruith said. He realized his hands were clenched into fists, so he forced himself to lay them flat on his thighs. “And since we are discussing this fascinating topic, let us say, my lord, that I were to take the afternoon, stroll into the council of the masters and show them exactly what they wanted to know to earn their paltry bits of gold and silver to wear on my fingers. Then let us continue down this path of madness that finds me trotting back into your solar to present myself to you as an aspirant. Would you give me your spells?”

Soilléir studied him in silence for a moment or two. “Could you convince me to give them to you?”

“Have you not already seen what lies at the bottom of my soul?” Ruith countered. “Can you not already divine where the point is that you could break me?”

Soilléir sat back down and looked at him gravely. “I know where that point is, Ruithneadh. The question is, do you?”

Ruith didn’t fall off his own stool, but he came damned close. Nay, he didn’t know where the breaking point of his own soul was, but he had the feeling he knew exactly where he could learn the location of that unhappy place. All he needed to do was walk through Buidseachd’s front gates, follow that unseen path that would lead to his grandfather’s garden, then attempt entrance into a place that would be a far better judge of his own capacity for evil than any mortal.

He looked at Soilléir, but couldn’t muster up even a halfhearted glare. “You are a heartless bastard,” he managed.

“I know.”

“You were never this vicious to my mother.”

“Your mother never wanted any of my spells.”

“And if she’d asked for them?”

“Ruith, my friend, I would have given your mother anything she wanted,” Soilléir said with a deep sigh. He studied his hands for a moment or two, then looked up. “Do you want them? In truth?”

“Don’t ask,” Ruith said, shaking his head sharply. “I’ve no stomach for joining the ranks of those you’ve shown where their souls will shatter. I can only imagine who is on that very short list.”

Soilléir smiled. “I imagine you could name a pair of them.”

“Yngerame of Wychweald,” Ruith said without hesitation. “He couldn’t resist complaining about you to my grandfather every chance he had. I remember one particular evening when he described in great detail just how heartless you could be.”

“He just wanted to ingratiate himself with Sìle so he wouldn’t have to spend the night in the stables, no doubt,” Soilléir said dryly. “I don’t imagine Desdhemar of Neroche was that unkind.” He frowned. “Or her son, though I imagine you haven’t had a chance to discuss the same with him.”

Ruith felt his mouth fall open. “Adhémar?” he asked incredulously. “You gave your spells to
Adhémar
?”

“Nay, to Miach,” Soilléir said with a smile, “but you would have realized that, had you thought about it long enough.”

“Did he crawl out of your solar when you were finished with him?” Ruith asked sourly. “Or did you just toss him out into the passageway and hope for the best?”