“You see, young Ruith,” Thoir said slowly and patiently, as if he prepared to launch into a discourse that might just be a bit too complicated for Ruith to understand, “the beginnings of my fascination with a more powerful magic than is found inside Tòrr Dòrainn’s puny borders began, oddly enough, with a sincere desire to help my great-aunt.” He looked at Ruith knowingly. “That would be your mother.”
Ruith found himself with the almost overwhelming urge to walk over and plow his fist into Thoir’s face. He resisted with difficulty. For one thing, it would rob him of the opportunity to find out just what his cousin was planning. Secondly, he himself was standing too close to Sarah. The last thing he wanted was for one of Thoir’s spells of retaliation to go awry and strike her instead.
He forced himself to take deep, even breaths and move slowly and carefully. He conjured up a sturdy stool, shot Ardan a pointed look, which he was surprised to note his cousin seemed to understand without difficulty, then sat himself down with great ceremony. Ardan strode off purposefully, took Sarah by the arm on his way by, then pulled her along with him to join Franciscus’s company. Ruith pretended not to watch them go and instead settled himself more comfortably on his three-legged, humble milking stool. Perhaps that would help Thoir feel even more superior, which he seemed already inclined to do.
“Go on,” Ruith invited.
Thoir’s look of loathing was surprising enough that Ruith flinched in spite of himself. He would have been happy for the luxury of a few moments to search back through his memory and determine when it was he’d neglected to suspect his cousin of truly vile deeds. Perhaps later, if he survived what he was certain would be an afternoon that would rapidly descend into madness.
“I was,” Thoir said stiffly, “as I was attempting to tell you, trying to aid your mother. It was as I was about that noble work that I realized that whilst Gair’s spells were disgusting, they were also extremely powerful.” He shot Ruith a look. “Though you may not be intelligent enough to discern the difference, Ruith, I certainly am.”
“Oh, I see the difference,” Ruith said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. Of course he wasn’t going to tell Thoir that when it came to black mages and their spells, there was no difference in the damage they could do.
“I began to look for ways to weaken Gair,” Thoir continued, “which I knew would be very difficult. When I learned of Gair’s book from Keir, I decided that it might provide me with the means to defeat him. I had been looking for it in the library at Ceangail when one of your bastard brothers set the whole bloody place on fire. If the witchwoman of Fàs hadn’t offered me refuge, I’m not sure I would have survived.”
Ruith couldn’t find anything innocuous to say. He was beginning to think that woman was a keeper of more than just the most detailed history of the Nine Kingdoms in existence. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find her library, covered as it was in cobwebs and dust, rivalled the one at Buidseachd. He shuddered to think of the notes she’d made about him.
“When I saw a black leather volume on her shelf, I thought it might contain the spells I was looking for. I considered it prudent to take it with me when I slipped out whilst she was napping.”
Ruith didn’t want to point out to Thoir that there were many black, leather-covered books in many libraries but not all of them were books of spells. The truth was that whilst the cover of his sire’s book of spells had indeed been black, it had had a square on the cover—
A square that was about the same size as the indentation on the door to his right, actually.
He set that aside to think on later and concentrated on his cousin. Sìle’s grandson. Sarait’s nephew. An elven prince who should have known better than to dabble in dark arts.
“The cover proved to be empty,” Thoir continued in sonorous tones better reserved for lecturing at the schools of wizardry, “but I considered that merely a reason to continue on. Years passed after your mother’s death, and whilst I found the occasional bit of information, I found my search thwarted.” He had been looking off into the distance, but he swung his gaze to Ruith. “Until a handful of months ago when I happened upon the intrepid Daniel of Doìre nosing about in places he shouldn’t have been. I followed him home, naturally, because he continued to mutter to himself about Gair and spells and wells of power. How could I resist?”
How, indeed, Ruith thought.
“One thing led to another and soon I was eavesdropping on more conversations than just Daniel’s with himself. Imagine my astonishment at finding out that you and your little country mouse there were going to do for me what I’d been trying to do for a score of years.”
“Find my father’s spells?” Ruith asked sourly.
Thoir shot him a look that Ruith supposed was answer enough.
“I’m still unclear as to why you would want them,” Ruith said slowly.
Whatever mask Thoir had been wearing slipped. The glimpse was brief, but Ruith flinched in spite of himself. It took Thoir a moment to regain control of himself, but he finally managed to recapture his look of disinterest.
It was then that Ruith realized his cousin was mad.
“I realized, after I escaped from that unpleasant skirmish in Ceangail where Prince Franciscus fair brought the entire place down upon our heads,” Thoir said, continuing on as if he hadn’t heard Ruith, “that I had been missing something. I will admit to having been slightly baffled as to how you and your little dalliance over there were finding the spells you’d found, for you seemed to follow no logic I could discern—especially after you left behind populaces large enough to merit their own wizards. All I knew was that if anyone could find Gair’s spells, it would be his son. It was in my best interest to keep you safe.”
“Then were you the one to cover me with that spell of Olc near Ceangail?” Ruith asked in surprise.
“Of course not. That lovely spell had been cast by Urchaid of Saothair. I merely stood to the side and watched events proceed unimpeded. After I had slit through his pitiful spell and relieved you of the burden you were carrying in your boot, of course.”
Ruith nodded slowly. “I see. And then you followed us to Buidseachd?”
“I though it prudent,” Thoir conceded, “if not a little unnecessary on your part. I watched that—” he pointed to Daniel’s corpse—“attempt a little business with Droch’s servant whilst you and your little trollop were in Buidseachd. Once I’d recovered from laughing myself sick over his foolishness, I dropped a piece of the spell of Diminishing there on the plains of Ailean with what his servant had ripped to shreds, then waited to see what you would do.”
“And you’ve followed us ever since?”
Thoir shrugged. “Or led you, rather. When I realized you were making for An-uallach, I went ahead to leave you a marker there.” He smiled, but it was a cold, unpleasant smile. “Always a step ahead of you, Ruithneadh, as I always have been.”
Ruith wasn’t about to comment on the direction Thoir had been taking, so he shrugged it aside. “As you say, cousin.”
“You might, if you had the wit, imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered that your admittedly lovely but lowborn lass over there had the gift of sight. It was then that I hit upon the plan of leading you here. That she had seen the rest of the spells and their location came as a bit of a surprise, but once I realized that she was, as they say, sallying forth after them, I knew my work was being done for me. At that point, I knew I didn’t need to leave any more clues for you. You were headed where I wanted you to go without my leaving you a trail to follow.”
“I don’t think I understand why here,” Ruith said carefully. “Why this house?”
“Because after that unfortunate business at the well I listened to Díolain and his warty-nosed dam discussing where Gair might have gone if he’d survived. Of course Díolain was unable to get anything out of his mother and went off in a huff. I was masquerading as a potted plant in her library and found out all the details I wanted.” He smirke
d slightly. “She talks in her sleep. Of course I’d always assumed that your sire had more than one bolt hole, but I’d never thought he would come this far north. I believe I was wrong about that.”
Ruith felt something crawl down his spine. “This far north?”
Thoir looked pointedly at the house cut into the rock. “Must I lay everything out for you, Ruith? That unassuming spot behind holds more than cobwebs.”
Ruith wasn’t sure he agreed, but there was no sense in saying as much. “Any idea what?” he asked casually.
The light in Thoir’s eyes was just a little too bright, as if he burned from within in a way that Ruith wouldn’t have wanted for himself. “Why would I tell you?”
Ruith shrugged. “There isn’t a good reason to, I suppose, except for the fact that you seemed to want us here so very badly. If you wanted what was beyind that door, why didn’t you just look for a key? Or, even better, just knock?”
“I tried that,” Thoir snarled. “What sort of fool do you take me for? If I’d managed to have what I think lies behind that door, why would I need you?” He scowled. “I found the first half of Gair’s spell of Diminishing here behind that rock all by myself and only because I’d risked life and limb to eavesdrop on the witchwoman of Fàs—”
“You spend a goodly bit of time in her house,” Ruith interrupted.
Thoir glared at him. “This was all during a single visit, you fool. Her house is so full of clutter, I doubt she would have noticed me if I’d been standing there in purple silks and a pointed hat. She had been muttering her displeasure over Díolain’s conduct, then she ventured off into several unkind words about Gair and his stupidity in hiding his spells in rather pedestrian places. I gathered, as I sifted through the torrent of complaints, that she thought Gair was a fool to hide even part of one of his spells near his lair of escape. She was good enough to describe where that lair might be found whilst about her boasting that she had told him many times that he would live in this desolate place alone. She was perfectly happy tending her garden of poisonous plants near Ceangail and had no desire to live so close to any bloody dreamweaver.”
“And so you came here,” Ruith prompted, when Thoir seemed to become distracted by his memories of flora and fauna.
Thoir swung his gaze back to Ruith. “Aye, I did, and ’twas a bloody perilous journey.”
“What did you find?”
“As I said, the first half of the spell of Diminishing, hiding behind that rock. I memorized it, of course, and took just a piece of it, to prove I had it should I need to. After I’d removed the second half from your boot, I tried the spell on one of your bastard brothers.”
Ruith wasn’t going to speculate which one it had been.
Thoir frowned thoughtfully. “It didn’t work, which leads me to believe the spell isn’t complete.” He shot Ruith a look. “I don’t suppose you would know what’s missing, would you?”
“I don’t suppose I would.”
Thoir frowned. “I’ll have to see to it myself, as usual. All I can say is it didn’t work very well, for I haven’t quite felt the same since.” He put his hand protectively over his belly. “I think perhaps there’s just something amiss with my digestion.”
Ruith suspected there was more amiss with Thoir than his digestion, but he wasn’t going to say as much. Trying to convince his cousin that Gair’s magic would eventually be the death of not only his body but his soul and his reason was a futile exercise.
“So, now that I can see that that most coveted of spells isn’t complete, I have decided that the answer must lie behind this door.”
“And you think I’m going to help you find the key?” Ruith asked.
The look Thoir sent him was unpleasant in the extreme. “Not you,” he said softly. “Her.”
“Why her?” Ruith said quickly, desperate to draw attention away from Sarah. He could only hope Franciscus was having the good sense to ignore the instinct as spawn of Seannair of Cothromaiche to do nothing and instead stand in front of her.
“Because she sees,” Thoir said. “Táir and Mosach weren’t particularly willing to divulge the particulars, but I found new ways to inspire them. I believe that I will ask her very politely to determine for me how that door is opened. Which is, of course, the only reason I brought you both here.”
“You could ask her, I suppose,” Ruith agreed, though Thoir would speak to Sarah only after he himself was dead, “but I’m curious about another thing or two first. Why go to the trouble of finding my father’s spells if all you wanted to do was come here to this hovel?”
“Because,” Thoir said, holding the black leather cover aloft, “I suspected that given how assiduously Gair protected them, there must have been something else to his spells besides just the words. I still believe that, which means there’s something missing here.”
“One of the spells?” Ruith said slowly.
Thoir shot him a look. “Or several. Who knows? It is hardly my fault that neither you nor Keir seems to be able to count.” He seemed to search for the right way to say what he wanted to, then finally gave up and threw the cover down on the ground. “I think there must be more spells behind that door. Once I have them all, they’ll go into the cover, and then the book will be complete.”
“And then you’ll have what you want, is that it?” Ruith asked. “All the power you want?”
The light in his eye burned brighter. “The spells are the key, cousin, to all his power. I’m not surprised you can’t see that, given your blindness where your father was concerned, but they are the key to it all.”
“Actually,” Ruith said mildly, “I think the key you’re looking for needs to fit into that lock there.”
“I know that too!”
Ruith didn’t want to speculate on what might lie behind that door. It was enough for the moment to send his cousin off on yet another useful endeavor.
“Perhaps you should go have another look,” Ruith said, “and see if something doesn’t strike you. I daresay you have more experience with my father’s methods than I could ever boast of.”
Thoir looked as if he couldn’t quite decide if Ruith were being serious or not, then rose carefully. He kept Ruith in his sights as he eased over to the door and had his look. He ran his fingers over the hollowed-out square that sat in the precise center of the door.
“We need something here,” Thoir announced, though he didn’t look particularly sure of that. “The hilt of a knife, perhaps, or the head of a staff. Something square.”
“Something square did you say?” Ruith interrupted, feigning a look of utter bafflement.
Thoir shot him a look. “Do you know what a square is, Ruithneadh?”
Ruith scratched his head, then pulled off his boot. He shook his father’s onyx ring into his hand, then put his boot back on. No sense in not being prepared to fight if necessary, though he seriously doubted a battle with Thoir would be with steel. He looked at his father’s ring, then held it up.
“I don’t know, Thoir,” he said seriously, “is this a square?”
“It is a ring, you fool.”
Ruith turned the flat onyx stone just so. “And this?”
Thoir gasped.
Ruith was, he would readily admit, prepared for the spell Thoir threw at him. He wasn’t, however, prepared for the same spell to encompass Sarah. He caught it—a very unpleasant spell of death initially conceived and thereafter perfected by none other than Gair of Ceangail, as it happened—and flung it back with added force at Thoir. He looked briefly over his shoulder to find Franciscus standing in front of the rest of their company. He knew without asking that Franciscus wouldn’t help him, but he would keep Sarah safe.
Ruith turned back to Thoir. His cousin was not as powerful as their grandfather, but he was not a novice either. Ruith was immensely grateful not only for those impossible three days with Uachdaran of Léige, but the subsequent time spent with a ruthless and relentless Miach of Neroche. He found himself not only unsurprised by the
nastiness Thoir dredged up—all too easily, as it happened—but unmoved. Even when Thoir added a bit of shapechanging to his display, Ruith remained unaffected.
And then, without warning, Thoir took Ardan’s power.
Ruith knew that because he heard the words coming out of Thoir’s mouth and saw they weren’t directed at him. He stepped to one side—mostly so he would see things coming at him he hadn’t realized were in the air—and watched Ardan fall to his knees, gasping in horror.
Thoir swelled up, as if he’d been a dragon drawing in an enormous breath to spew out fire that no amount of water could quench.
“Give me that ring,” he commanded.
Ruith looked at his cousin. “No.”
Ruith could see the spells gathering around Thoir. They weren’t pleasant ones. They were also somehow not quite right, as if Thoir were using things he hadn’t memorized properly. Ardan’s power—however much of it he’d managed to steal—added to his own made him formidable indeed, but Ruith had the feeling things were not going to turn out quite like Thoir expected. He braced for the onslaught, grateful beyond measure that Franciscus was there to protect Sarah, then began to weave several spells of protection he’d learned from Uachdaran of Léige over not only himself but the rest of his company as well.
Thoir opened his mouth.
Then he froze, as if time had stopped. He looked at Ruith, then he began to list to the side, as if he’d been a boat that had had all its cargo roll to starboard. He continued to tilt until he had fallen completely over.
Ned stood there, a rock in his hands, trembling like the last courageous leaf clinging to a bare-branched tree in the depths of winter. He looked down at Thoir, blanched, then looked at Ruith.
“He did it first,” Ned said, pointing at Ardan. “To Sarah’s brother.”
“So he did, Ned,” Ruith said, feeling a rather unwholesome sense of relief. “So he did.” He caught sight of Ardan, though, and sobered immediately. He turned and squatted down in front of the man he had suspected of such nefarious deeds.