Spellweaver - By Lynn Kurland
One
The magic was a mighty wave that rose with terrifying swiftness toward the sky, hovered there for an eternal moment, then crashed down again to earth, washing over everything in its path.
The lad who had been standing at the edge of a glade watched with horror as the wave rushed toward him. He started forward to save his mother from being washed away only to remember that he had another task laid to his charge. He took hold of his younger sister’s hand only to feel her fingers slip through his grasp despite his efforts to hold onto her. He shouted for her, but his calls were lost in the roaring of the evil as it engulfed him, sending him tumbling along with it. He groped blindly for his sister in that uncontrollable wave—
Only to realize he wasn’t a lad of ten winters, but a man of a score-and-ten, and it wasn’t his younger sister Mhorghain he was so desperately seeking.
It was Sarah of Doìre.
And it wasn’t a wave of evil from a well he was running from, it was a terrible storm washing down the hill from the castle that had collapsed in on itself, the castle at Ceangail where his sire had lived for centuries, endlessly honing spells that never should have been created ...
Ruith woke with a gasp.
He forced himself to remain motionless and breathe shallowly, simply because it was his habit. When one had to rely on more pedestrian means of protecting himself than magic, one learned early on to not give an attacker any more advantage than necessary.
It took him longer than it might have otherwise simply because he was still fighting against the memories that flooded back in a rush that was unpleasantly similar to the wave of spell that had overcome him in his dream, and, it would seem, in his waking life. He kept his eyes closed and felt for Sarah’s hand—
Only to realize that he couldn’t move.
But that could have been because he was sitting with his hands tied tightly around the tree behind him. He opened his eyes a slit, then fully when he found that no one was watching him. His companions were none but a trio of rough-looking lads who stood twenty paces away, arguing not over the best way to put him to death, but the quality of his weapons and how they might reasonably poach the same without harm to themselves. He prayed their discussion might go on for quite some time so he might determine where he was and why he seemed to be the only one within earshot who wasn’t talking about his knives. He took another slow, careful breath, then looked around himself.
There was no one else there.
Sarah.
He suppressed the urge to panic. Anything could have happened to her. She could have been lying where he couldn’t see her, or been slain, or carried off beyond his reach. There were any number of mages infesting not only the keep up the way, but now no doubt the woods surrounding the keep, mages who would have taken her and ...
He wrenched his thoughts back from that unhelpful place. He couldn’t rescue her if he were dead, so the most sensible thing to do was get himself free and make certain he remained alive. Sensible sounded so much more reasonable than frankly terrified at the thought of what could have befallen her, which he was.
He quickly assessed his own situation. His knives were both still down his boots and two others were still strapped to his back—not that he could have reached either set at the moment, but he would remedy that as quickly as possible. He also still had his magic, safely buried inside himself in an impenetrable well capped with illusion and distraction that he knew from recent experience was impervious to all assault. Lastly, and perhaps most fortuitously, the lads in front of him weren’t paying him any heed.
He kept those lads in his sights as he focused on his hands, working the rope binding them against the bark of the tree and finding the knots poorly tied indeed. If he had been in the market for potential guardsmen, he would have invited them to tie a knot or two so he might examine their work before entrusting them with anything more complicated than securing a bedroll to a saddle—
The rope gave way without warning. He froze, partly because he didn’t want to reveal what he’d just managed to accomplish and partly because the pain of blood rushing back into his hands was so intense, it almost rendered him senseless. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing evenly until his hands stopped throbbing enough that he could think clearly again. And once he could, he turned his mind quickly to how best to escape.
Fortunately, luck was with him. The lads were so involved in their conversation, they weren’t paying him any heed. Then again, they hadn’t paid heed to the mage standing just outside the circle of their torchlight either.
Damn it anyway.
It was Amitán of Ceangail who stood there, watching silently. Ruith held out no hope that his bastard brother hadn’t seen him. He was only surprised Amitán hadn’t already plunged a knife into his chest.
Then again, that might have been because it would have been deflected by a spell of protection Ruith suddenly realized he was covered by. It was, he had to admit, a rather elegant thing, fashioned from Olc—if such grace were possible from that vile, unwholesome magic. He was so surprised to find it there; he could only stare at it in silence for several moments. Given that he certainly hadn’t provided the like for himself, he had to wonder who had. Obviously someone wanted him alive and unharmed.
He wasn’t sure he dared speculate on who that might be.
He supposed he could at least eliminate from the list his half brother, who stepped close to the spell, had a look at it, then swore at him in a furious whisper.
“Don’t think that will save your sorry self,” Amitán hissed. “Once I have what I want from you, I’ll kill you in spite of that rot. And once you’re dead, I’ll find that pretty little wench of yours and have what I want from her as well.”
“But she has no power,” Ruith said, because it was true. Sarah had no magic, and the sooner he convinced everyone within earshot of that, the safer she would be.
“You fool,” Amitán said scornfully, “she sees spells. Did you think we hadn’t noticed?”
Ruith didn’t have a chance to respond before Amitán strode out into the light cast by the fire. Aye, he’d very much hoped his bastard brothers hadn’t noticed what Sarah could do. But if they had and if they thought they could force her to use that gift to further their own ends ...
Nay, he wouldn’t let that happen to her. He rubbed his thighs as surreptitiously as possible to bring the feeling back to his legs and watched his guardsmen spin around to face Amitán, their hands on their swords.
“Oy, what do ye want?” the largest of the three demanded, with an admirable amount of fierceness.
“Tidings,” Amitán said shortly, jerking his head in Ruith’s direction. “Who captured that one?”
“Can’t say,” the first said stubbornly.
“Can’t, or won’t?” Amitán asked in a low, dangerous tone.
The second stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with the first. “I don’t see as that matters, friend, do you?”
“It matters, friend, because I want the answer. And if you have two wits to rub together, you’ll give it to me before I reward your refusal in a way you will find very unpleasant indeed.”
The lads stood firm, but Ruith imagined they were beginning to regret having taken on the task of guarding him to begin with. He couldn’t blame them. He had his own very vivid memories of encounters with his elder half brothers. They were, to a man, unpleasant and without mercy. He supposed he could concede that they were justified in their hatred of him and his siblings given that he was certain they had looked upon them as usurpers, but he’d suffered enough as a child thanks to their abuse not to feel compelled to extend any undue understanding their way now.
“There was a woman with him earlier,” Amitán pressed on relentlessly. “Where is she?”
The third elbowed his way to the front of the group. “Sold her to traders, did His Lordsh—”
Ruith watched as his companions jerked him backward and shouted him into silence. He wasn’t sure if it was because Sarah’s fate had been revealed or if the man had been on the verge of unwittingly revealing who had hired them.
If Amitán didn’t pry the entire tale from them, he certainly would.
He continued to rub his hands against his legs as he listened closely to Amitán and the men carrying on their discussion in increasingly belligerent tones. He quickly looked around him for a convenient escape route, then noticed something he hadn’t before.
The spell he was covered with was sporting a great rent in itself, as if someone had sliced through it. He would have assumed it was Amitán to do the like, but if he’d managed it, he would have continued on by making a great rent in Ruith’s chest. Perhaps someone had been trying to rescue him and been interrupted in the act—
But the rent had been made by another spell of Olc, Olc mixed with something he couldn’t quite see.
That was odd.
He would have examined that a bit more closely, but he was distracted by Amitán beginning to lose what little patience he possessed.
“I don’t care about the traders from Malairt!” he shouted, “I want to know who hired you and why he wanted you to guard that thing over there.”
The third of the group, the bravest by far, told Amitán in the most detailed of terms just what he could do with his questions.
That man crumpled to the ground quite suddenly, either dead or senseless. That seemed to bring the other two to a spirit of cooperation they hadn’t enjoyed before.
“I don’t know who the man was,” the second blurted out. “In truth. He just gave us orders to keep watch until he returned. Said that lad over there was a lord’s brat who needed tending.”
“What did this beneficent lord look like?” Amitán demanded.
“I couldn’t look at him,” the first answered promptly. “He was all darkness.”
“But that could have been anyone!” Amitán thundered.
Ruith had to agree. Given the nature of every bloody soul inhabiting the keep up the way and the surrounding environs, the description could have applied to anyone within a thirty-league radius.
But why would darkness have wanted to keep him whole? He ran quickly through a list of black mages and dismissed them all as he watched the escalation of hostilities in front of him. Amitán was demanding that the guardsmen bring Ruith to him; the remaining two were refusing just as adamantly. It said something about the man who had hired them that they were terrified enough of him to choose facing down the angry mage in front of them presently to facing his wrath later.
Amitán cursed them, then turned and flung a spell at Ruith.
Ruith shifted away from the mysterious rent in the spell of protection, more than willing to use something not of his own making to save his own sweet neck. Amitán’s spell was absorbed easily, then it gathered itself into something quite different and hurtled back toward him. It slammed into him with the force of a score of fists, then encompassed him from head to toe.
Amitán began to scream.
Ruith wasted no time in making his escape. He shoved apart the spell, dove through it, then rolled up to his feet, drawing his knives as he did so. The pain of that almost sent him to his knees. He looked at his palms in surprise only to find them covered with blisters.
What in the hell was in that spell?
He would have given that more thought, but he was too distracted by watching the spectacle of Amitán clawing at his face, trying to remove what had attached itself to him. Ruith winced as Amitán staggered about the glade, making altogether inhuman sounds of agony before he dropped to his knees.
Ruith turned away from the spectacle. He took a firmer grip on his knives, ignoring the pain of his ruined skin, and walked over to the remaining guardsmen who were gaping at him as if he’d been the cause of Amitán’s suffering.
“Where did the traders go with the woman?” he asked shortly.
They lifted their hands, then, as one, pointed to the south.
“Fair enough,” Ruith said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “If I were you, I would hurry away and hide somewhere you think you won’t be found. Because that”—he tilted his head toward Amitán—“will be the least of what’s coming.”
The men looked at each other, then turned and bolted.
Ruith would have followed them in like manner, but there was at least one answer he needed to make his journey less perilous. He resheathed his knives, then turned to his bastard brother, who was now lying on the ground, panting.
“Who survived the fall of the keep?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t tell you ... if my life ... depended on it,” Amitán gasped.
Ruith cursed him. Though that list of what had now been loosed into the world would have been useful—perhaps even critical—he didn’t have the time to wait until Amitán was in enough distress to unburden himself.
“Help ... me,” Amitán wheezed.
Ruith actually considered it, even though the little stinging things Amitán had tossed at him whilst he’d been captive in Ceangail’s great hall were still quite fresh in his mind. Unfortunately, he possessed nothing—or, rather, nothing he would use—to counter what had taken his half brother in its painful embrace.
“I think you’ll need a mage for what ails you.”
Amitán looked at him with naked hatred on his face. “I’ll find you ... and kill you.”
“I imagine you’ll try,” Ruith agreed.
Amitán struggled against the spell that seemed to be wrapping itself ever more tightly around him. Ruith wasn’t above seeing a black mage come to his own bad end, but he wasn’t one to enjoy overmuch the watching of that journey there. He started to walk away, then paused. He turned back to Amitán.
“There appears to be one end of the spell near your left boot,” he conceded. “I think if you could reach it, you might be able to unravel the whole thing.”
Amitán wasted a goodly amount of energy condemning Ruith to a score of different deaths, each more painful than the last, before he apparently decided he would be better off saving his breath. Ruith left him to it.
He left the camp in a southerly direction, following the tracks of a handful of horses. He hadn’t gone twenty paces before what had struck him as odd before presented itself as slightly more than odd.
Someone had made a rent in that spell of protection. He was willing to bet his knives that the maker of the spell and the maker of the rent were not the same mage simply because it made no sense to weave a spell then slice it in half. But if that was the case, who had cut through that spell, and why?
He leaned down absently to adjust one of the knives stuck down the side of his boots and found the answer.
The pages from his father’s book of spells that he had rolled up and stuck down his boots were gone.
He turned immediately and strode back to the camp. It cost him precious time, but he forced himself to methodically look through everything his guardsmen had left behind. He ignored the continuing shrieks of his bastard brother as he rifled through packs and searched all about the tree where he’d been bound. The spells were gone. He started to curse, then felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Someone was watching him from the shadows.
He straightened his knives, furiously considering the facts he was now faced with. Sarah was captured and carried off to points unknown, he was being stalked by an unnamed mage—either the maker of the spell of protection or the mage who’d broken through it to take the spells Ruith had been carrying—and his magic was buried, which left him unable to address either problem easily. But if he released his magic and someone took it, he would be unquestionably powerless, which would leave Sarah alone, unprotected, unable to fight what he was quite sure would be hunting her.
Then again, perhaps the fact that he was still breathing said something about who was following him. Apparently he was worth more to that mage alive than dead, which led him to wonder if perhaps his unexpected benefactor intended to follow him and take his magic at a later time.
That left him with only one choice. He would find Sarah, then remain as attractive a prize as possible until he could get both himself and Sarah somewhere safe. He didn’t dare hope the mage standing motionless under the trees behind where he’d been captive would simply give up and go home.
He left Amitán trying to bring his foot up toward his face where he could presumably take hold of the end of the spell with his teeth and pull, then walked off toward the south, looking for tracks. There were two sets: one made by horsemen and the other made by a single soul.
That single set of tracks would eventually lead him all the way back to his own house where he could shut his door on things he didn’t care to look at anymore. It was the road he had taken as a lad of ten winters when he’d been seeking refuge from the storm. But he was no longer a lad of ten winters, and he had taken on a quest willingly, knowing that it would lead him into a darkness he knew all too well.
Only now that quest included a woman who had relied on him for protection and been repaid with harm.
He turned away from a path he wouldn’t have seriously considered and started quickly down the other because the truth was, the quest was no longer just about finding Sarah’s ridiculous brother and stopping him from trying to make magic far beyond his capabilities. He had himself loosed things in Ceangail’s keep that would need to be contained, he had lost spells that could wreak untold damage on the world, and he had failed to hold on to a woman whose only error in judgement had been desiring to do good.
And to trust him.
He would give her no reason to regret that trust in the future. Once she was found, he would seek out the closest safe haven for them both where they could hide until she was rested and he had unraveled a mystery or two. Perhaps by then he would have had the time to consider just who might have protected him with magic whose main purpose was to destroy.
He wasn’t sure he would care for the answer.
But have it he would, then he would leave Sarah safely behind and follow the trail of his father’s spells himself. There was naught but darkness in front of him and darkness following, and he would be damned if she would have any more of it.
He pushed aside his absolute dread that he would find her too late and concentrated on the tracks before him.
He could do nothing else.