He quickly built a fire in the hearth, then sat down in the chair next to her and put his hand on her back, partly to soothe her but mostly to make certain she didn’t pitch forward out of that chair and onto the floor. He was handy enough with his own bumps and bruises, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d used a spell of healing beyond slapping one on someone else so he could torment them a bit more.
The only thing that gave him any comfort at the moment was knowing exactly how impervious the spell laid over his house—
He froze. His spell was designed to keep out everything and everyone who wasn’t him, unless he had specifically allowed them inside it.
What might that mean for that damned spell of death?
“I’m going to go fetch you something to drink,” he said, which he would just as soon as he’d engaged in a little experiment that might or might not leave him dead. “Don’t scamper off quite yet.”
She only groaned and cursed him. He left her to it and made for his front door at something close to a run. He wrenched it open, then was somewhat relieved to find there was nothing waiting for him there save that spell of death caught up in the web of protection that lay over his house like a clear dome.
He didn’t think; he simply held out his hand and made a ball of werelight—from Fadaire, as it happened, in honor of Rùnach. He would have permanently changed it into a ball of quartz and set it aside to be later tossed with enthusiasm at Soilléir of Cothromaiche’s head, but alas, one made do with less when one’s catalog of enchantments was missing a few critical entries.
That terrible spell of death shrieked as if it had been stabbed with a thousand daggers.
Yet it remained trapped.
“Shut up!” he exclaimed. “Ye gads, man, my father can hear you in Shettlestoune!”
The spell fell silent. The look of malevolence it sent his way would have alarmed him had he been made of less stern stuff, but he was who he was and he had definitely seen worse. He waited, but still drew breath. That he was surprised by that said more than he liked about the state of his life at present.
Being able to use his magic however, even just inside his own home, was an unexpected turn of events.
He stepped back inside the house, slammed the door shut behind him, then lit the hallway lamps in a thoroughly magical fashion as he passed them. He rummaged about in his study for the most potent bottle of whisky he could find, then walked swiftly back to the kitchens.
Sianach was giving his feline self a wash in front of the fire, and Léirsinn was still sitting where he’d left her, her arm resting on the table at that unwholesome angle. He found a glass, poured her a generous amount of what he was sure would do her a world of good, then sat down next to her. She opened her eyes and took the glass he handed her, then stared at it as if she had no idea what to do with it.
“Drink,” he suggested.
She nodded, then downed most of what he’d given her. He was half surprised it didn’t come right back up, but the gel was no weak-kneed miss. She sat still for a moment, then looked at him.
“What now?” she said hoarsely.
“Well,” he said, removing the remains of his cloak from around her arm with a silent spell, then cutting her sleeve away with the dagger shoved down his boot that he sharpened with an equally silent but different spell as he drew it, “let’s have a look and see where we are.”
She looked at him blearily. “You’re using magic.”
“To my surprise,” he said, “aye, I am.”
“And you’re not dead.”
“Not yet, darling,” he said. “Apparently my ability to craft a spell of protection is as formidable as I always thought it to be, which is a fortuitous turn of events given my limits as a proper physick.”
She shifted, then winced. “Can you set this?”
“Better than that,” he assured her. “Whilst I should probably lay out all the possible magics we could use and let you choose the one you fancy the most, I think the ferocious growling of your tum and the fact that you just knocked back a substantial amount of my favorite libation might leave you a bit more short-tempered than usual. Let’s settle for Fadaire.”
She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. “I thought you never used prissy elven rot,” she murmured.
“Clever you for reminding me of my own standards,” he said, “but I have to admit it is a rather pretty magic. I’m quite sure King Sìle would approve of having it used on your fetching self, though I’m guessing he would be less thrilled about my being the one to use it. Let’s see if we can’t hear him roaring all the way from Uachdaran’s most comfortable guest chamber.”
“You talk a great deal,” she whispered.
He shot her a quick smile he was certain she hadn’t seen, then bent to his work. He did indeed know several spells of healing, though it probably said more about him than he wanted it to that he didn’t use them all that often. He also knew more Fadaire than Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn would have been happy with, but he would offer an apology for that later.
Or not, more than likely. He suspected he might have used up a millennia’s worth of fawning words of regret in just the past half year alone.
He began the spell carefully, partly because he wasn’t entirely sure how much of the pain the spell would take away whilst doing its goodly work, and partly because the magic was beautiful and brought an undeniable peace along with it. He had used it before for a thing or two and found it coming reluctantly to his call. Perhaps that had something to do with his bloodright to Ehrne of Ainneamh’s magic, but he’d never cared to investigate that overmuch.
At the moment, however, Fadaire seemed to feel that having a few of its relatives lingering in the vicinity of his own black heart was reason enough to do his bidding. He spoke the final words and watched them fall softly onto Léirsinn’s arm. He could hear the faint echo of her bones knitting together, then watched as that elvish business worked its way out through her flesh and up not only her arm, but his. He sighed in spite of himself. Whatever King Sìle’s faults might have been, he was at least the guardian of a truly lovely magic.
He looked at Léirsinn to find her watching him with tears streaming down her face. He cleared his throat to cover his own emotion, only surprised that he didn’t cough out a handful of Fadairian sparkles as a result. Never mind any of his previously complimentary thoughts, the damned stuff was going to be the death of him some day.
Léirsinn moved her fingers, then pulled her arm from under his hand and held it up. She looked at him in astonishment.
“That’s healed,” she said faintly.
“You stepped between me and death,” he said easily. “Again, I wish you wouldn’t.”