muster up the courage to try the spell Soilléir had given her. She wasn’t sure she believed it would do anything but hang there in the air, then blow away like so much smoke.
Believing is seeing.
Soilléir’s words, spoken offhandedly at some point during her stay in Buidseachd, came back to her as if he’d been standing there next to her, whispering them afresh. Her mother had always held to the opposite view, that she wouldn’t believe something until she’d seen it with her own bloody good eyes, as she would have said. Sarah imagined now that Soilléir had chosen his words and their particular order with great care.
She closed her eyes briefly, gathered up all the faith in herself she could lay her hands on, then repeated faithfully the spell he’d given her. The words seemed to come with a power of their own, a power she certainly hadn’t felt the first time she’d said them. She took another deep breath, then opened her eyes.
And she wished she hadn’t.
A spell lay in the middle of the chamber, bubbling up from some unseen source. She would have leapt out of its way, or hopped up onto the bed, or used a chair as a last resort, but she didn’t have the chance. It wrapped itself around her feet before she could blink, then crept up her like a noisome vine, but more rapidly than any earthly thing ever could have.
And that was just the beginning.
She tried to move only to find she couldn’t. She would have cried out for aid, but every time she took a breath, the vines tightened about her chest, stealing her air. She stood there and watched helplessly as the bubbling spring sent forth more things that grew and blossomed in a way that left her watching in horror, mute.
Morag had said she was a farmer.
Sarah had never dreamed just what sorts of seedlings she might have cultivated.
Twenty-three
Ruith walked quickly down the passageway toward Sarah’s chamber. He wasn’t particularly concerned that he might be late for supper, never mind Queen Morag’s insistence that he not be. He was, however, quite concerned that Sarah not find herself in the woman’s sights again alone. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given the queen’s reaction to Sarah any especial thought. Sarah was a very beautiful woman and Morag had six daughters—never mind that he wouldn’t have looked at any of the six even if his heart hadn’t been given. The queen obviously sensed a threat and had lashed out accordingly. There should have been no mystery there.
But they were in An-uallach, and he knew very well that things were not as they seemed.
Especially given that he was sure that if Morag hadn’t killed Athair and Sorcha of Cothromaiche outright, she’d seen it done by someone else. And if what Uachdaran had hinted at was true—that daughters often resembled mothers to an astonishing degree—it stood to reason that Morag might find another murder committed in the near future to be no more difficult than the first two.
He had retired earlier to his chamber and forced himself to sleep for an hour before he’d risen and been about his own investigations in another guise than his own. He had, unfortunately, turned up nothing more than what he would have expected. The keep was full of miserable servants, vicious guardsmen, and spells that reflected an old, unpleasant sort of magic that he was fortunately not very familiar with. It wasn’t his father’s bastardization of Lugham, nor was it of any elven derivation. It wasn’t even as if it had sprung up from the wells of power he could sense lingering beneath the keep’s foundations. It was as if someone during the centuries of An-uallach’s existence had simply taken what was required from other magics, then created something else out of it. It was powerful, though, for all its flaws, so he didn’t take any of it lightly.
He stopped in front of Sarah’s door and knocked. He could see that his spell hadn’t been disturbed save for the servant who had brought Sarah a gown so he was confident she was still inside, unmolested. He sincerely hoped she’d gotten a decent bit of sleep. He had hoped to find where his father’s spells were by himself, but unfortunately Sarah would have to do the honors. He could only hope they weren’t languishing under Morag’s bed. Her husband Phillip likely wouldn’t have minded his rummaging about, but Ruith suspected Morag most certainly would.
He realized that