herself in far more peril than she ever would, put her shoulders back, and nodded.
And if it was unsteadily done, perhaps Ruith hadn’t noticed.
She lost count of the twists and turns they took and the guards they passed. The only thing she could say with any certainty was that the second spell that awaited them was more powerful than what they’d found in the cellar.
She stopped Ruith outside a particular door, then leaned back against the wall as he put his hand on the wood and bowed his head. After a brief moment, he looked at her.
“No one inside.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m guessing.”
She pursed her lips at him, but followed him inside just the same. The chamber was empty, as he’d said, but that wasn’t a relief. She walked immediately over to a wall sporting shelves full of treasures. There in the place of honor was what they’d come for. There were no strands of barbed magic laid across the glass case, which surprised her. In fact, there was nothing at all there, just a sturdy lock, as if Morag didn’t think anyone would dare make it into her inner sanctum.
“Which spell is that?” she asked, because she had to do something to keep from weeping.
“Finding,” he said, “which surprises me because it isn’t a particularly powerful spell.”
“And the other one from downstairs?”
“I didn’t stop to look, but I can tell you it’s burning a bloody hole in my leg—”
She would have smiled, but she had been jerked off her feet—literally—and pulled into a corner of the solar. Ruith backed her up against the wall, then pressed himself back against her. If his intent had been to crush her, he was coming close to succeeding. She put her hands on his back, closed her eyes, and forced herself to breathe silently. It was surprising how accustomed she’d become to having him put himself between her and danger.
A gel could learn to appreciate that about a man.
The door opened, bodies entered, then the door slammed shut.
“I think you should let them go,” a male voice ventured.
“Are you mad? He’s Gair’s son, you fool.”
Sarah forced her hands to remain flat against Ruith’s back instead of clutching the cloth of his tunic in terror. Ruith didn’t seem to be panicking, but, then again, he never had during the whole of their acquaintance. He simply stood in front of her, an intimidating and hopefully quite invisible barrier to the terrible storm brewing there before the fire.
“He’s no good to you dead,” the prince consort said.
“I have no intention of killing him. I want him for what spells he might have.”
“But you don’t have the power to use ... ah . . . them—”
“I know where to have help with that!” Morag bellowed. She took a deep breath. “Let me explain this to you again, Phillip, and simply, so you’ll understand. I am, as you can’t help but have noticed, collecting spells.”
“Gair of Ceangail’s spells?” Phillip asked hesitantly.
“Aye, Gair of Ceangail’s spells,” Morag repeated, in the same tone of voice she might have used with a small child. “These are very desirable spells because whilst Gair was the most hated mage of his generation, he was also the most powerful. Indeed, it wouldn’t be exaggerating to say he was perhaps the most powerful mage of all. To have even one of his spells commands great respect and admiration.”
“But everyone respects and admires you already—”
“It isn’t enough!” Morag bellowed. “Is it possible you’re this stupid? I don’t want respect, I want power!”
Sarah listened to Morag in fascination. Indeed, if she hadn’t been cold with terror, she might have been slightly amused by the queen’s tantrum. It must have been extremely frustrating for Morag to find herself trapped in a keep that no doubt seemed far below what she likely supposed she should have had, being forced to socialize with rustics, remaining unadmired for her obviously superior self. Sarah couldn’t imagine that having any more of Gair’s spells would help with any of that, but what did she know? She could only see spells, not use them to flatter her vanity.
“Why do you think I’ve been looking for these spells for so long?” Morag demanded.
“Well, not you personally,” Phillip protested.
“Nay,” Morag said in a deceptively soft tone, “you have been looking for me, haven’t you, my love? Traveling the world for the past twenty years, trying to make up for your blunder.”
“I couldn’t kill a child—”
“So you left her to rot in the moors instead,” Morag snarled.