Spellweaver (4 page)

“What are you doing here?” Táir demanded.

His brother looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “Looking for Ruithneadh. What else would I be doing?”

“Waiting behind like a woman until I’ve taken what’s mine,” Táir snarled. “Perhaps, Mosach, you forget your place.”

“And perhaps you forget to think,” the brother named Mosach said with a snort. “If you wanted Ruithneadh’s power, you should have taken it earlier whilst Díolain was distracted with that whoreson who brought the bloody hall down around our ears. Not that you could have taken anything but his pocket handkerchief with your patched-together incarnation of Father’s spell—”

“Then I’ll have your power instead,” Táir said hotly. “And hers.”

Sarah realized he was pointing at her. She wanted to quickly reassure him that she had nothing he could possibly want, but she couldn’t find breath to speak.

“She has no power,” Mosach said.

Sarah nodded, no doubt more enthusiastically than she should have.

“Are you daft?” Táir demanded. “She
sees
.”

Mosach started to speak, then shut his mouth abruptly. “How do you know?”

“Because
I
have two good eyes and use them now and again!”

Mosach looked at her with renewed interest. Sarah started to give voice to the strangled noises of denial she could feel bubbling up in her throat, but before she could, a kerfuffle of sorts distracted the brothers. The traders, those cold-eyed, heartless lads, had apparently decided that they were more interested in their lives than a bit of gold.

A pity they made so much noise when they fled.

Sarah didn’t dare turn and flee as well—having just seen what that would earn her, which was instant death—but she wasn’t above easing a single step backward so she was standing next to the tree. The bark was rough under her fingers, a solid reminder that there were things in the world that were still as she would have expected to find them. It was a rather comforting contrast to the battle of spells that had begun in front of her.

Ruith’s brothers, robbed of their sport with the traders, had turned on each other instead. Mosach was apparently every bit Táir’s equal in whatever unwholesome magical studies they’d engaged in over the years, and both of them seemed to have fury to spare.

She would have moved, but every now and again, one of the brothers would cast a look her way, a look that said they were perfectly aware of where she was. She had no doubt they would hunt her down if necessary.

Or perhaps not. As the minutes dragged on, their curses and spells became less frequent and a calm descended over the glade. There came a point where they were simply standing there in the flickering firelight, glaring at each other, completely immobile. The spells they had cast were wrapped around each other, as if they had been bobbins in the hands of a master weaver of things no one could see.

Only she could see the spells.

She held her breath, then slowly and very carefully took a step backward.

Then another.

The brothers didn’t seem to notice—not, perhaps, that they could have done anything about it
had
they noticed. She eased back into the darkness in absolute silence, grateful for all the practice she’d had at it over the years.

Once she was certain she could no longer be seen, she turned and strode away swiftly. Or she would have, if she hadn’t walked into horses she hadn’t realized were collected together so closely behind her, contentedly crunching on the underbrush.

She closed her eyes briefly in gratitude. Surely no one would begrudge her a means of escape given that the beasts’ masters wouldn’t be needing them anymore. She started to select a pair of them, then realized she would only be needing one.

Because Ruith was dead.

But he couldn’t be. She had seen him the day before. She had
rescued
him the day before, felt his arms go around her, heard his heart beating—

She took a deep breath and shoved aside thoughts that didn’t serve her. If she didn’t hurry, she would share his fate. If nothing else, she might manage to meet someone someday who could avenge him. She couldn’t do that if she were dead.

She tethered the fastest-looking horse of the group to a handy tree, then turned to the others. She stripped off their gear, finding a happy cache of gold she was quite certain one of the lads had been hiding from the others, then sent the beasts off away from the fire. She found a heavy food bag hung on a nearby tree and put it without compunction into one of her newly acquired saddlebags.

She took the reins in hand, then found herself simply standing still again, staring off unseeing into the darkness. She could scarce believe what she’d heard, but Ruith’s brothers would have had no reason to lie. And the truth was, he had been facing lads who had been positively salivating at the thought of watching him draw his last.

She shook her head, shaking aside thoughts that she couldn’t yet face. She swung up into the saddle and turned her horse south, then paused. Perhaps she couldn’t rush off as easily as she thought. She’d had companions on her journey, companions who were presumably waiting for her in Slighe. But how could she possibly take care of a farm boy, two wounded mages, and an alemaster named Franciscus who she had recently realized was quite a bit more than a mere brewer of very fine apple-flavored ale? She had no magic and no skills past weaving a bit of wool into something useful. She couldn’t even look into the shadows with any sort of courage at all—

She shivered. If Franciscus was a mage, which she had no doubt he was, and if he had survived the collapse of Ceangail, which she could only hope he had, he would no doubt go and collect the rest of her company and keep them safe.

Leaving her free to disappear, which she should do without hesitation. She considered what locales she could bring to mind immediately thanks to all the time she’d spent studying the geography of the Nine Kingdoms on the off chance she had the opportunity to escape to one of them.

She couldn’t go north, because it was the way she’d come from and was host to far too many unpleasant mages. West led her back to Shettlestoune where there wasn’t enough rain yet too much of her past. East was nothing but ruffians, endless plains of grasses that boasted few if any towns of any size, and the schools of wizardry. South didn’t sound very welcoming either, but it might do for a couple of years until she could earn enough money and wrap enough anonymity around herself to be able to move a bit more freely and go where she wanted to.

She silently wished her companions good fortune, promised herself enough time to grieve for Ruith when she was settled, then turned her mount south and gave him his head. She saw nothing, heard no swearing, didn’t find herself immediately felled by magic.

Perhaps things would improve sooner than she dared hope.

 

 

 

Two days later, she had to face the fact that, despite her tentative hopes, things weren’t improving as quickly as she had wanted them to. That was mostly because she was obviously a worse judge of horses than she’d thought herself. She’d taken to calling her mount
Plodding Clod
—which he perhaps resented—because he’d had absolutely no interest in her terrible haste. Keeping him in a canter had been almost impossible. His trot had been a horrible thing that not even her decent riding skills could compensate for. She couldn’t help but think she would have made better time and been less weary if she’d used her own two feet.

She looked up at the darkening sky and decided she’d had enough for the day. She was only a few hours into her ride across the plains of Ailean, which was something of a two-edged sword. She had left forests and hills behind, which made it more difficult for anyone to follow her unseen, but being out in the open left her less unseen herself. There was a line of trees in front of her that shimmered with something that spoke quite strongly of illusion. It was a pleasant illusion though, so she felt somewhat safe in making for the spot.

She told her horse to stop, but he, being who he was, completely ignored her. She finally wrestled him to a halt, then dismounted.

He reared. The moment his feet touched the ground, he ripped the reins from her hand and bolted, displaying a gallop she could have certainly used long before then.

She stood there and gaped as he carried off not only her pilfered gold but her borrowed sword and all her food. His hoofbeats faded so quickly into the distance that she imagined she wouldn’t manage to catch him without considerable effort, if at all.

She turned and looked around her, half expecting to see something horrible leap out at her from the trees. There was nothing save that strange glamour that was woven into the last of the winter grasses at her feet and hanging like a curtain from the bare winter branches of the trees before her. There were spots in the grass that were burned, as if someone had recently made a great bonfire there. She could only hope they hadn’t chosen to remain behind to see who might come along and admire their work.

Well, there was nothing to be done but seek shelter for the night, then regroup on the morrow. She had started off her journey with only a handful of coins, her meager store of courage, and her skirt pulled over her head to be used as a cloak. At least now she had a decent cloak to keep her warm and a pair of elegant and useful knives stuck down the sides of her boots. Things could have been much worse.

She took a deep, calming breath, then walked through the trees, trying to ignore how quickly twilight had fallen and how much darker it was in the trees than it had been out in the open. She pulled her cloak more tightly around her and walked silently to the stream she could see glimmering in front of her. She knelt down at the water’s edge, then had a long drink whilst there was still enough light to manage it. She sat back on her heels and rested her hands on her knees. Perhaps she would find a bit of peace after all.

Or so she thought until she heard the crack of a twig behind her.

She suppressed the urge to shriek. Truly, she was finished with the dark and magic and things she couldn’t possibly fight any longer. She managed a deep, quiet breath, then pulled the knife from her boot with a badly trembling hand. She took it by the tip, took her courage in hand, then rose, turned, and flung the blade at the hooded figure standing ten paces away in a single, fluid motion.

Curses filled the air.

Sarah closed her eyes, because she was fairly sure the curser wouldn’t see her at it. Apparently, Ruith’s bastard brothers were as poor at judging his condition as she was at judging horses, for Ruith was most certainly not dead.

He was also not rushing forward to proclaim his joy at seeing her alive. He merely turned without comment to fetch her knife that she could see quivering in the tree behind him. He pulled it free, then walked back toward her and handed it to her wordlessly before he squatted down and had his own drink. Judging by the time he spent at the task, it had been a while since he’d managed it.

Sarah stood there, unsure if she should stab him whilst he was otherwise occupied or let out the shuddering breath she was still holding.

He was alive. She was slightly surprised to find out how relieved she was by that fact.

She was still trying to master her rampaging emotions—and recover from the fright he’d given her—when he finally splashed water on his face, dragged his hands through his hair, then rose and turned to look at her. His face was so deep in shadows, she couldn’t see his expression. He wasn’t bursting into tears or pulling her into a joyful embrace.He wasn’t doing anything save standing there with his arms folded over his chest.

“I thought you were dead,” she managed weakly. “How did you—”

“I don’t suppose you brought any food,” he interrupted coldly.

She blinked in surprise at his tone. “Well, actually, nay—”

“I imagined not, but never mind,” he said, taking hold of her good arm. “I don’t have enough myself for even a pair of days. You’ll see to earning meals if we’re fortunate enough to find farms along our road.”

She found herself stumbling alongside him as he pulled her away from the river. She was dumbfounded—nay, appalled—not only by the unfriendliness of his tone but the roughness of his grip. It was as if none of their previous journey had taken place. Instead of Ruith, she was now facing that gruff, intimidating mage she’d first met as she’d been desperate enough to brave his front door to beg for aid.

“What is wrong with you?” she managed, trying to pull her arm away.

“Be silent,” he said harshly.

“I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t,” he said curtly. “No matter. I’ll explain it to you in simple terms as we go, that you might. Now, come along, wench, and don’t argue with me.”

She would have pulled away and plowed her fist into his face, but she wasn’t a brawling sort of gel. That and since it was too dark to see him properly, she feared she might miss.

“Need aid with your slurs along with your spells?” he taunted, the sneer plain in his voice.

“I ... I ...” She groped for something useful to say, but couldn’t find anything. She continued with him only because he didn’t give her any choice. She was so surprised at what he’d said—and how he’d said it—that she didn’t think to stop walking until they were free of the trees and out in the open. The moon gave no light, but that was because it was obscured by a healthy collection of rain clouds.

Sarah slipped as she tried to jerk away from Ruith. She found her feet and whirled on him, fully intending to give him back as good as he’d given—

Only she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

There was something in the trees behind them. Or some
one
, rather.

Ruith pulled her along with him. “Don’t dawdle,” he said sharply.

Her desire to stab him was quite suddenly and fully eclipsed by an intense desire to flee. She would have, but Ruith seemed determined to keep her beside him. She imagined that was so she could shovel a bit of manure at their next stop so he could have something to eat.