Sarah hadn’t answered. He knocked again, more loudly that time, but still no answer.
“Sarah?” he called, ruthlessly squelching a sudden bout of panic. His spell hadn’t been breached; he could sense it still hanging there, just inside her door.
Yet she didn’t answer.
He turned the knob, broke the lock with a spell, then shoved the door open.
Sarah was standing next to the window, so pale he half feared she was dead. Tears streamed down her cheeks, though, and she was gasping very carefully for breath. He started inside the chamber only to realize why she was standing where she was. He laid no claim to any special sort of sight, but even he could see what lay inside the minuscule bedchamber.
Spells of Olc and that other rot that passed for magic in An-uallach covered every conceivable surface, hung down from the ceiling like spiderwebs, wrapped themselves around Sarah in a vile embrace.
He destroyed them all with a single word—or tried to, rather. It took him a handful of moments to wipe out everything there, which irritated him further. He slammed the door shut behind him, locked it with a spell of Wexham he’d appropriated from Miach of Neroche, then strode over and pulled Sarah into his arms.
She wasn’t hysterical, but she was close. He held her tightly with one arm, then smoothed his hand over her hair again and again, whispering what soothing words he could lay hold of. It was difficult when all he wanted to do was stride off into the keep, find the queen, and ...
He channeled his anger into more useful things, such as creating for Sarah the chamber she should have been offered. He couldn’t say his was overly luxurious, but it wasn’t a soot-encrusted, spell-strewn closet just one step up from a cesspit. He lit a fire, draped tapestries from the walls and laid them on the floor, then created as much light as he could. And when Sarah finally managed to breathe normally again, he swept her up into his arms and carried her over to the bed, a much more comfortable rendition of the like than what he’d found there before.
He laid her down, then perched on the edge of the bed. “Have you been standing there this entire time?”
“Aye.”
He drew his hand over his eyes. “Forgive me, love. I had no idea.”
“I’m afraid I did it.”
He blinked in surprise. “What do you mean?”
She tried to mop up her tears with the hem of her sleeve. “I didn’t like how the chamber felt, so I thought I would try one of Soilléir’s spells, just so I could see what needed to be changed.” She looked at him from bloodshot eyes. “I think I should have kept my mouth shut. Whatever I said woke up whatever was here before.”
He smiled and put his hand over hers. “Give me Soilléir’s spell again, won’t you, just for curiosity’s sake. I fear I didn’t listen very well to it in Buidseachd.”
She repeated it, but with a wince, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to work for her again. He considered the words. It was like nothing he’d ever heard before, but it had been from Soilléir and that one had a repertoire of spells which Ruith could only hope one day to acquire.
“And what happened when you used it?” he asked. “To you, I mean, not to the chamber.”
She looked at him helplessly. “I saw. More than I usually see, truth be told.” She paused. “I’m not sure how to turn it off.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” he said slowly. “Until we leave.”
She nodded uneasily. “I daresay you’re right. I hate to think of what might be swimming in the soup tonight.”
Ruith looked at her, her cognac-colored hair highlighted by the flickering flames of the lights he’d made, then down at her hands, hands that could so deftly work with cloth she’d woven herself. She was, he could say with all honesty, the same sort of woman his mother had been. Fierce, courageous, profoundly stubborn. He wondered, absently, as he watched her, if he would ever convince her that what she thought she lacked didn’t matter a whit to him. He had magic enough for the both of them when it came to safety and security. They could soldier along quite happily through everyday life without the benefit—or annoyance—of kettles walking off when they weren’t supposed to or fires starting themselves without permission. He quite liked starting his own fires and cooking his own meals.