Gift of Magic

  Which were, she had to admit, gloriously beautiful. It had reminded her once again how desperately ugly Doìre had been and how grateful she was to know she would never have to see the place again.

  She soon found herself sandwiched between Ruith and Mansourah on a bench pushed up against the wall of the guesthouse. Ned and Oban made themselves at home on another stone seat, though they looked no more comfortable than she felt.

  Sarah leaned closer to Ruith. “Do you know anyone here, or are we at Mansourah’s mercy?”

  Ruith wrapped his hand in both his own and studied the enormous lodge behind the low rock wall. “I could hazard a guess, but I believe I’ll allow our illustrious guide to give us the details instead.”

  Sarah looked at Mansourah, who was only watching them with a smile.

  “Where we are?” he asked, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

  “Taigh Hall, which I believe I mentioned before, where Cuirmear of Bruadair is the self-styled lord. He is actually a decent host, but only because entertaining travelers is how he keeps his folk fed. As for the souls who find themselves here, I suppose you could say this is something of a halfway house for disaffected dreamweavers.”

  “Troublemakers, you mean,” Ruith corrected.

  “Aye, I suppose so,” Mansourah said with a bit of a laugh. “I think the rabble that trickles down from the north is a bit on the subversive side. This is also, as it happens, a popular destination for adventurous travelers who would like to catch a glimpse of a dreamweaver but aren’t so adventurous as to attempt entry into Bruadair itself.”

  Sarah shivered. “That doesn’t sound like a very pleasant place.”

  “I’ve never been inside Bruadair’s borders,” Mansourah admitted, “so I can’t say what the truth is. Those who have escaped won’t talk about it and those who live there still but have dealings with the outside world are equally closedmouthed. I have heard that it is a glorious place, almost too beautiful to look at.”

  “Or too ugly,” Ruith muttered, “which is what I’ve heard.”

  “Well, I doubt either of us will know the truth of it any time soon,” Mansourah said cheerfully, “given that we would never get inside the borders alive.” He shot Ruith a look. “If you think your grandfather is particular about who comes into his land, you should meet the current king of Bruadair.”

  “Have you met him?” Ruith asked in surprise.

  “Not him,” Mansourah said cryptically. “His predecessor, aye, but not him. I think I’m rather grateful for that, actually.”

  “Details, Buck, to keep us awake,” Ruith said with an enormous yawn.

  Sarah listened to them discuss rumor and heresay and found herself wondering a thing or two. If rumor were to be believed and her mother had in truth been a dreamweaver from a land too glorious to be believed, why had she left it? Or, more to the point, how had Athair of Cothromaiche gotten inside its borders to convince her to leave with him?

  Those were questions she decided abruptly that she didn’t need to have answered, so she leaned her head back against the cold stone of the house behind her and enjoyed the fact that she was sitting on something that wasn’t moving. And to keep herself from paying attention to the trading of insults that was now going on over her head, she forced herself to study the enormous hall in front of her.

  Now that she had the leisure to look at it for a bit, she saw that it wasn’t quite as close to the mountains as she’d thought it was, and she wondered what lay behind it. As an afterthought, she murmured her spell of seeing under her breath. Ruith looked at her briefly, smiled, then said something particularly vile to Mansourah. That was likely why he didn’t realize her mouth had fallen open.

  Then again, perhaps he had. He leaned over to whisper to her.

  “What do you see?”

  She wasn’t quite sure where to begin. The enormous lodge was still there, but it was as if a great tapestry had been laid over it, fashioned of colors she had never seen before much less imagined could exist. But it was a living thing somehow, as if the scenes that played out in front of her were being captured by master weavers as they occurred, then the cloth rolled up and a new scene begun as events changed or the players came and went. She watched for another moment or two, then looked at Ruith.

  “I’m not sure I can describe it.”

  “Well, the place gives me the bloody shivers,” he said with a smile, “so perhaps ’tis best you don’t.”

  She looked into his very lovely bluish green eyes and thought she just might have a few fond feelings for him. It had nothing to do, she told herself firmly, with the fairness of his face, or that he could put himself in front of her and defend her from all manner of terrible mages or vicious queens, or that he could put all that magic aside and build her a very lovely fire.

  It was that she loved him. Beyond reason, beyond any sense, and beyond any lists that either she or his grandfather had made of suitable matches for either her or Ruith.

  He lifted an eyebrow in question, as if he wondered just what she might be thinking, leaned closer to her, then kissed her. All without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “Oh, please,” Mansourah groaned. “Not that.”

  Ruith pulled away just far enough to look at her. “We will be jettisoning that bit of rubbish as quickly as possible, I assure you.”

  Mansourah snorted. “Don’t think I intend to come all the way with you to the bitter end. I’ve rethought it and decided I have a wedding to attend. I think there might be a handsome lass or two there with nothing more pressing to do than dance with me. I’ll stay until I’m sure you can carry on without me, then I’m off with the first brisk breeze—”

  Sarah watched in surprise as he leapt to his feet and strode forward a handful of paces. She would have asked Ruith what he thought of that—and told him that she was rather glad, all things considered, that she and he were such good friends—but Ruith had jumped to his feet as well and had pulled her up behind him. She put her hands on his back, but they were trembling so she wrapped her arms around herself instead. Ruith reached behind her with his left hand and felt for her hand, then laced his fingers with hers.

  She glanced at the rest of their company to find them perfectly still, then took her a deep breath and looked around Ruith’s shoulder. She couldn’t imagine what the fuss was about—

  Until she saw the man walking without haste but with definite purpose toward them and realized the lord of the hall had indeed finished with his meal. At least he had no magic that she could see. After her morning’s encounter with Morag of An-uallach, that came as something of a relief.

  He stopped a handful of paces away from Mansourah and folded his arms over his chest.

  “Yes?” he asked briskly. “And make your answer brief and to the point. I have things to do.”

  Mansourah bowed slightly. “I am Mansourah of Neroche, Lord Cuirmear, and bring you greetings not only from my brother the king but also Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn.”

  “Did you bring me anything more—shall we say—substantial?”

  Sarah watched Mansourah make a production of reaching inside his cloak which sent Cuirmear’s guards into a frenzy of renewed bristling, but Cuirmear only waved them aside negligently. Mansourah presented a rather substantial bag of something that made a very soothing clinking sound. Sarah had no doubt Mansourah had simply conjured it up at that moment for His Lordship’s pleasure.

  “Unfortunately our journey was in haste and a more suitable gift was not possible,” Mansourah said regretfully.

  Cuirmear hefted the bag with a practiced hand. “Of Neroche strike?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Cuirmear tossed it to one of his aids, then nodded toward the rest of their company. “And who are these?”

  “Friends,” Mansourah said easily. “We’re seeking shelter for the night. We’ll be on our way in the morning.”

  Cuirmear looked at him shrewdly. “Running from something, are you, Your Highness?”
r />   “Morag of An-uallach,” Mansourah answered frankly.

  Cuirmear grunted. “Fortunately for you, I don’t mind vexing her every chance I have, though you’ll regret it if she makes trouble on my front stoop.”

  Sarah supposed, given the tone of his voice, that he wasn’t particularly worried about that. She looked around Ruith in time to see the lord of the hall turn away.

  “My servants will find a chamber for you,” he threw over his shoulder. “Put on decent clothes for supper, if you have them.”

  Sarah suspected she should have felt relieved, but Mansourah wasn’t relaxing and neither was Ruith. Cuirmear was well on his way back to his front door, his guardsmen either trailing along behind him or returning to their posts, but she had the distinct feeling they weren’t completely out of the woods, as it were. She looked at the remaining servants, no more than a handful of them, who remained behind. She likely wouldn’t have thought anything of them if it hadn’t been for a man and a woman who stood in front of the little group. She looked more closely at them, then struggled to identify what it was about them that didn’t seem quite right.

  And then she realized what it was. They were part of the tapestry as well, yet at the same time…not.

  Because they were the weavers of that tapestry.

  She focused on them with difficulty, for everything was in continual motion. They were a man and woman dressed in simple homespun, then a crowned king and queen dressed in velvet purple robes trimmed with ermine. Surrounding them was a riot of color, thousands of hues, innumerable variations in saturation that she had never imagined could exist. She clutched the back of Ruith’s cloak with the hand he wasn’t holding and hoped she could keep herself upright.

  The other servants were given permission to take the horses away and see to their stabling. There were yet other guardsmen standing a fair distance away, no doubt left there to make sure no one got into any trouble, but Sarah immediately dismissed them. All she could do was look at the pair most immediately in front of them, those two who were definitely not what they seemed to be. They continued to stand there, as if they’d been frozen in place.

  Mansourah stepped forward and greeted the man first with words Sarah couldn’t quite hear. He turned to the woman, made her a bow—which surprised Sarah quite a bit—then straightened quickly. The woman smiled, as if she’d seen Mansourah before and the memory had been pleasant.

  “Here you find us in less than ideal surroundings, Prince Mansourah,” the man said in a low voice, “though it could be much worse. Could it not, my love?” he asked the woman.

  “It could,” she agreed. She looked at Mansourah. “It grieved us to hear about King Adhémar, but we understand that Mochriadhemiach now wears the crown.”

  “He does,” Mansourah said quietly, “and very well, if I might offer an opinion.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” the woman said. She looked past him with interest. “We’ll find places for you and your friends—our situation does have its advantages when seeing to the housing of guests—for you look as if you’ve traveled here in great haste.”

  “You do look a little windblown,” the man agreed with a bit of a laugh. “Now, my lad, who do you have with you?”

  Mansourah stepped aside. He gestured first toward their companions, naming Ned and the mages. Then he looked briefly at Ruith before he turned back to the pair Sarah had begun to suspect were not servants at all.

  “I believe,” Mansourah began carefully, “that you’ll find no introductions will be necessary here.” He looked at Ruith. “If you would, Your Highness?”

  Sarah felt Ruith pull her forward to stand next to him. She had no idea what Mansourah was doing, but she was the first to admit that the niceties required of royalty were not anything she was accustomed to providing. Ruith was still for a moment or two, then he slowly reached up to pull his hood away from his head.

  The woman gasped, then fainted.

  And then things took a turn for the worse.

  The man had a spell of death tumbling out of his mouth before Mansourah had even stretched out his hands to catch that same man’s wife.

  “Stop, Fréam,” Mansourah said sharply, “before you do something you’ll regret.”

  The man named Fréam was obviously not interested in what Mansourah had to say. Ruith swore at Miach’s brother—no doubt for putting them all in danger unnecessarily—then fought off the servant-now-turned-mage’s very vile barrage of spells that assaulted him from all sides. Sarah would have stepped in front of Ruith, but he pushed her out of the way and continued to counter the attack with nothing more than rather benign spells of defense. That seemed to be sufficient, for the other man’s magic seemed to be nothing more than echoes of true spells.

  Sarah frowned. It was very odd, that magic.

  Sarah started to relax, but then noticed the single, unremarkable black thread that slipped past Ruith’s defenses. She might have though it innocuous enough, but it began to wind itself around him. She looked at him to see what he would do but realized immediately that he hadn’t noticed it. She tried to call out a warning, but he was obviously too busy to hear her. Waving her hands and shouting didn’t garner any attention either.

  It was as if he had stepped into another world where she couldn’t touch him.

  If she hadn’t been panicked before, she was then. She drew the knife out of her boot and turned toward him only to have him look at her, then blink in surprise.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “I’ve been here all the time,” she said, reaching out toward him.

  He backed away with a look of horror on his face. She took hold of his arm and reached out to try to cut the thread, but he spun away from her, looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. That was perilous enough, but the mage king’s spells were also falling on him and wrapping themselves around him too quickly for her to do anything but watch them so obscure Ruith’s vision of the real world, he obviously couldn’t see what was truly in front of him. She took a firmer grip on her knife, then turned to the perpetrator of the attack. She stepped in front of Ruith, pushed her hood back off her hair, then glared at the man.

  “Stop it,” she demanded.

  The king—for she couldn’t deny the crown she’d seen atop his head and the velvet robes wrapped around him—gaped at her, openmouthed. Fortunately for her—something she promised herself a good think on later—his spells fell to the ground like piles of waste yarn that lay there, still and useless. Sarah glanced briefly behind her to see that black thread still wrapping itself around Ruith, forming a barrier between him and where he stood in the world truly. She turned back to the king and frowned fiercely.

  “That as well, Your Majesty.”

  The king spoke a single, very garbled word, and all the spells disappeared as if they’d never been there.

  “Sorcha,” he gasped, then he looked at her more closely. “Nay, you aren’t…but then that would make you—”

  “Sarah,” she said, because the blood rushing through her veins with such violence left no room for caution, “and I insist that you leave that man behind me alone.”

  “Sarah,” the king repeated, sounding as if he hardly dared give voice to the name. “They told us you were dead.” He gestured weakly behind her. “What are you doing with that mage?”

  “I’m helping him,” she said. “And he isn’t who you think he is. Look again.”

  The king of a place she couldn’t yet name had another look at Ruith, then drew his hand over his eyes. He looked suddenly very ill.

  “Forgive me, lad,” he said hoarsely. “I mistook you for your father, but I can see I was gravely mistaken.”

  “I am his son,” Ruith conceded, “but that is where any similarities end.”

  “And you are . . not Gille—”

  “Nay, Your Majesty,” Ruith said. “I am Ruithneadh.”

  Sarah watched the king study Ruith for another minute, look at her just as closely, then shake
his head, as if he hadn’t expected to see anything like them in his courtyard—though Sarah supposed it wasn’t his courtyard if he were relegating himself to simply being a servant.

  “I can see there is a tale here,” he said faintly. “I would be interested in it, if you care to give it, but perhaps later when we might have a bit of privacy.” He turned to Mansourah and took his senseless wife from him. “Thank you for catching her. I think she’s had a bit of a shock.”

  “I daresay,” Mansourah murmured.

  The king shot him a dark look. “You know, little Sourah, there will come a day when you go too far with me. Emissary of your king or not, your love of drama is ill-concieved and excessive.”

  Mansourah smiled. “In this instance, Your Majesty, it was less drama than it was necessity. There was no time to prepare you. We are being pursued by dangerous souls, seen and unseen, and needed a safe place to rest. I sacrificed niceties in favor of expediency.”

  The king pursed his lips. “I’ll consider that an apology, though a poor one. I’ll have one of these lads here lead you to your chamber.” He looked at them all briefly. “I would like to come to you later, when I can manage it.”

  Sarah nodded, because he seemed to be looking at her for some sort of permission, and she didn’t dare deny him. She watched him walk off, then realized tranquility hadn’t been completely restored for Ruith was in the process of threatening Mansourah with bodily harm.

  Mansourah only shrugged. “I did what I thought best.”

  “And almost got me killed in the process!” Ruith exclaimed. “A little warning next time would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Neither of you was in any danger. Well, you were perhaps, but you have magic enough to defend yourself.” He blinked owlishly. “Or am I mistaken?”

  Ruith growled at him. “We’ll discuss that at our earliest opportunity over blades, Your Highness, in the lists—if they have lists in this rustic hunting lodge, which I sincerely doubt. But since that is what you’re accustomed to, living in that flea-infested barn you call a palace, I imagine you’ll be able to lead us to the field without any trouble.”