A Tapestry of Spells by Lynn Kurland Page A

in the house behind her had the power to keep the entire world at bay and himself safe in his snug house, so therefore cared nothing for what her brother might manage. Perhaps he simply assumed he would never be troubled by things he imagined she should have been able to stop herself. She didn’t hold out much hope that anyone else of a magical ilk would be any more inclined than he to see to the same thing.
    Nay, she would see to Daniel alone, because she had no other choice. It wasn’t the quest she wanted, and it wasn’t one she went on willingly, but it was one of necessity. Unglamorous, unforgiving, unpleasant necessity.
    She thought about the tales of Heroes she’d heard from the alemaster in the village, tales told to her during her youth when he’d been certain her mother wouldn’t overhear them, tales of courageous men striding off into the deepening Gloom with their bright swords shining and songs of battle and victory on their lips. She’d heard a handful of tales about women as well—many of whom, oddly enough, had somehow thereafter found themselves queens of Neroche—who had challenged powerful forces and come away victorious. They had generally been skilled with either the sword or a spell, which had lent to them an undeniable advantage. There had been only a handful about ordinary souls who had undertaken tasks far beyond their skills or means. She supposed she would do well to avoid thinking on the terrible price those last souls had paid along the way or what that boded for her.
    All she could do was stride into her own deepening Gloom and pray she had the strength to face what it contained.

Four

    R uith walked back to his fire to cast himself down into his chair there. He couldn’t help but notice that spot on his table where that ridiculous wench had begun to clean with her apron. He supposed it could have been worse. She could have tried to clean him.
    Of all the things he’d expected to have come to his door, she had been the last. Tales of the witchwoman Seleg’s passing had reached him several fortnights ago, and whilst he’d suspected that any restraint her son might have shown earlier out of respect for his mother wouldn’t last long, he’d hoped the fool would merely come to a bad end thanks to his own spells. Apparently that happy event hadn’t come to pass yet, though Ruith was certain it couldn’t be far off.
    The daughter, Sarah he thought her name was, had always been something of a mystery. Rumor had it that she wove fine cloth out of wool and invisible tapestries out of spells. He’d never been one to give credence to the results of eavesdropping in taverns leagues from Doìre itself, but he could say that he had verified at least one thing for himself: she was astonishingly pretty. In a wholesome, weaverish sort of way, of course. And her hands had been green. For some reason, that had been rather reassuring.
    Why those hands hadn’t managed to prepare an extra spell or two a bit sooner to counter her brother’s inevitable madness was a puzzle. Surely she should have given thought to the eventual unraveling of her brother’s wits. It wasn’t so difficult to seek out spells for use in such a case—
    Unbidden, a memory came to him, a memory of sitting in front of a different fire with books sitting in piles around him. He could hear his mother’s voice as clearly as if she spoke to him now.
    Ruith, love, come away from the books and go to bed.
    In a moment, Mother. I haven’t yet found what I seek.
    He couldn’t say even now how much more time had passed before he’d looked up from yet another round of searching through heavy tomes full of spells—for there had been innumerable such searches—but he remembered on more than one occasion seeing his mother sitting across from him, simply watching him. His terribly beautiful, impossibly courageous, and determined mother, who had been watching him with love in her eyes.
    Now that he was a man full grown and not a