Princess of the Sword

  “Aye,” he said with a small smile. He turned to look at Sìle. “I see the echoes of his runes first and foremost. Then gossamer layer after layer of the centuries he has lived. Every spell, every flaw in the cloth that overextension of his power has left, every marring of his soul that grief has left behind; ’tis all there for the viewing. But mostly I see a riot of colors, glittering and beautiful, as if out of a dream.”

  She found, to her profound surprise, that she wished she could see as Soilléir did.

  But that would require the seven rings of mastery, then whatever other tortures Soilléir would put her through until he deigned to give her a spell or two. Miach might have managed it, but she was quite certain she wouldn’t.

  That she had even considered the price was truly appalling.

  “Prince Sosar carries that same beauty about him,” Soilléir went on, “though it has not run so deeply in him yet. He is still but a sturdy sapling, of course, compared to the mighty oak that is his sire, but age and experience will no doubt color him as well at some point.”

  “And Miach?”

  Soilléir clasped his hands behind his back and studied Miach for a moment or two. “Miach is Neroche,” he began slowly, “with its ancient mountains sending their roots deep in the earth, its terrible winds sweeping across the plains, its highland meadows full of endless flowers. He is Chagailt with its painful beauty, its bubbling brooks laughing as they cascade over rocks and tumble along banks, its endless rain. His foundations stretch so far down into the earth that there’s no separating him from the land, or the realm, or its magic. And now, laid over it all, is the glamour of Tòrr Dòrainn, something he’s entitled to by birth and is now heir to because of his love for you.” He turned slightly toward her and smiled. “Do you think?”

  She had to take a deep breath. “Aye, I daresay it describes him very well.”

  “Shall I tell you what I see in you?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  He looked at her with the same gentle pity Miach had often in his eyes. “Morgan, no one is completely full of light. Not your grandfather, nor your father, nor your love over there pouring the bulk of his strength into spells meant to keep the darkness at bay.” He studied her thoughtfully for a moment or two. “I think you have the courage to know what I see.”

  She swallowed, painfully, then nodded.

  He lifted the hood back away from her face and studied her. “I see the fire that burns along a freshly forged sword, the beauty of the light of first sun on the peaks of the Sgùrrachs, the shadows of Ceangail where no spring ever comes. You are those dreams that tangle men’s feet as they walk through Seanagarra, under the boughs of trees that whisper Fadairian songs, through the air full of the sweet smell of spring and the sharp taste of rain. And underneath all that,” he continued, “is a well of power that springs from sources that are pure and beautiful. Ainneamh, Camanaë, Tòrr Dòrainn . . . the heritage you claim from those sources will color you just as it has your grandfather.” He smiled. “You have drunk deeply from a very bitter well, my dear, but there will come a day when you’ll have the chance to drink just as deeply from a well of joy.”

  She had to take several deep, steadying breaths before she trusted herself to speak. “I think you flatter me.”

  “Never,” he said seriously. “I will say, though, that you won’t see those things yourself until you dispel the darkness—a darkness that you did not choose, by the way. But often we cannot choose what surrounds us. All we can do is choose to change ourselves to master it.”

  She nodded, then found herself unable to move. A thought occurred to her, a thought that filled her with such dreadful hope, she hardly dared voice it. She was standing next to the man who had given Miach all the spells of essence changing he knew.

  What if he could change more than just fire to air?

  She gathered her courage and looked at him. “Miach says you can change the nature of things with your magic.”

  “Judiciously.”

  She plunged ahead before she thought better of it. “Could you change what spews from my father’s well?”

  He winced. “That is a terrible question.”

  She only waited. She couldn’t unask it.

  He sighed. “Perhaps I could, but I dare not. To change either good or evil would unbalance the world in a way that would destroy it.” He smiled at her. “Besides, if there were no evil, what would there be for good men to do?”

  “Put their feet up in front of the fire and enjoy?”

  He smiled. “Dull.”

  “Safe.”

  “But at what cost?” He shook his head. “Nay, Morgan, there are things in this world that shouldn’t be made to be other than what they are. To change them is to the change the fates of men and mages both.”

  She nodded, because she knew he was right. There were no easy answers for what she faced, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

  “And you don’t know, lass, that you weren’t given this place in the history of the Nine Kingdoms because you were the only one who could see what needed to be done—and had the courage to do it. To take away what will refine you in a fire you didn’t create would be to rob you of the light you were meant to have.”

  “I wish it were a battle with swords.”

  He laughed and put his hand briefly on her shoulder. “I daresay you do, gel. I daresay you do.”

  Morgan sighed, thanked him kindly for the pleasant conversation, excused herself and began her circle of the chamber again before she had to think any longer on what they’d discussed. Aye, it would have been easier indeed had the battle been with swords.

  She touched Miach’s head in passing before she thought better of it, then realized she’d also neglected to pull her hood back up over her face.

  Master Ceannard dropped his fork onto his plate so loudly, she jumped. He stared at her for a moment or two, then leapt to his feet and looked at Sìle in astonishment. “My eyes deceive me.”

  Sìle sighed gustily. “My long-lost granddaughter, as you can plainly see.” He shot Ceannard a pointed look. “I wish that her identity remain secret, for reasons that are known only to myself. Those who help me in this endeavor might find themselves invited to her wedding at Seanagarra.”

  “Wedding?” Ceannard squeaked.

  “To the archmage of Neroche,” Sìle said heavily.

  Ceannard’s eyes couldn’t have been wider. “Of course,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “A fine choice. We’ve always thought very highly of him.”

  Morgan watched Miach pull himself away from wherever he’d been, turn, and look at Ceannard in disbelief. The headmaster drew himself up.

  “Well, we have.”

  Miach grunted, then heaved himself to his feet with a groan. Morgan found herself thereafter with his arm happily around her shoulders as he pulled her away from the table and started on another circle about the chamber.

  “Finished?” she asked.

  “I have a bit more to do, but I’ll see to it later.”

  “Miach, you need to sleep.”

  “I’ll do that later, as well. For now, allow me the pleasure of you as much in my arms as I dare with all these chaperons.” He looked at her closely. “How do you fare?”

  “Better, now. Time away from this afternoon has helped.” She continued on with him for some time before she could bring herself to voice her thoughts. “What do you think of that spell?” she asked. “My father’s spell?”

  “Apart from its very vileness,” he said with a weary smile, “it was brilliantly wrought. Whatever else your sire’s faults might have been, he was certainly a talented mage. I’ll have to look at it a bit longer to see what usefulness can be taken away.”

  She shivered. “I don’t know how you can bear to read any of it.”

  “Desperation is inducement for quite a few things.”

  “But surely this all can’t be as simple as reading the bloody thing backward,” she said doubtfully. “Surely.”
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  “Much as I would like to believe it is, I dare not—and I think we shouldn’t go to the glade until we’ve at least a fair certainty of what will work.” He tightened his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll find the answer, Morgan. Somewhere.”

  She stopped him, then turned toward him and put her arms around his waist. There were a dozen things she wanted to tell him, mostly having to do with the things she loved about him, but all she could do was stand there, hold on to him, and be grateful for what he was sacrificing to help her. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  “I’m ready to go,” she said. “Unfortunately, I don’t think the road ahead is any less unpleasant than this place.”

  “I don’t think so either, but I think we’ll have an easier time of facing difficult things in the sunlight.”

  She had her doubts about that, but she didn’t bother to say as much. She merely stood there for a moment or two longer, then pulled away and started again about the chamber with him.

  In time, she found herself with Soilléir’s servant in her sights. Soilléir had taken a place with her family and Turah at the table, so she supposed he wouldn’t notice if they made free with his man. The servant was standing against a wall with his hands down at his sides. The one with the rag tied about it was obviously still bleeding from where he’d cut it on the bottle of wine. Morgan hesitated, then cast caution to the wind.

  “Can Master Soilléir not heal that for you?” she asked.

  The man shifted. “I do not heal . . . well,” he said, his voice very faint. “Your Highness.”

  Morgan couldn’t see his face, so she couldn’t decide if he was uncomfortable because of her scrutiny or uncomfortable around strangers. She could understand both, so she let it pass. She chewed on her words a bit before she dared utter them.

  “I have a spell of my grandfather’s that might work just the same,” she offered. She paused. “It might hurt, though. I’m not good at it.”

  The man was motionless for an excruciatingly long period of time, then he slowly held out his ruined hand.

  Morgan took it in hers, felt a shiver run through him, then she looked up at Miach. “I forgot that my magic is hidden. Can you . . . ?”

  “Of course.” He wove an elvish spell of concealment that sprang up and over them, then cascaded down to enclose the three of them within the walls of a translucent tent.

  “That’s mine!” Sosar protested with a laugh.

  “And you’re surprised?” Sìle demanded. “Damned boy, always pinching spells he shouldn’t.”

  Morgan smiled at Miach, carefully undid the Duriallian spell that hid her magic, then sighed in spite of herself at its return. She decided immediately that it was likely better not to examine that feeling too closely.

  She unwrapped the rag from around the man’s hand. The wound was bleeding freely, still.

  She put her hands over it, then repeated the spell her grandfather had given her to use on Miach in that dreadful battle when Miach had found himself with a very large hole in his chest. That wound had been so severe, it had taken her grandfather’s power as well as hers to heal him. This wound was a paltry echo of that one, but even so, her spell was still inadequate.

  She considered as she kept the man’s hand in hers, then looked at Miach. “Shall we try together?”

  Miach looked a little winded. “Aye, if you like.”

  Morgan nodded and waited for him to put his hands over hers. She wove the spell again, then heard Miach take a quiet breath before he spoke the last word with her.

  She heard someone squeak.

  She supposed that someone might have been her. The magic that streaked through her was not that white-hot business she’d felt when her grandfather had joined his power to hers. This was a hundred times more powerful, a mighty rushing wind, a wall of water unleashed from a bitterly cold mountain pass, so clear and cold and unexpected that she couldn’t catch her breath.

  She felt as if the palace of Tor Neroche had just been dropped on her.

  She happily pitched forward into blackness.

  She woke at some point during the night. She lay still for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She ached abominably from head to toe and her magic was again hidden, only this time it was not only at the bottom of a well, the well was capped, and the entire thing buried under layers of illusion so thick, she had a brief moment of panic during which she was quite sure she’d lost it all forever.

  She was going to have something to say to Miach about that.

  She sat up silently and looked around to get her bearings so she could do just that. The fire still burned brightly in the hearth, and pallets had been set up in front of that pleasant warmth. Her grandfather, uncle, and Turah were sound asleep. Soilléir’s servant was stretched out by the fire and even Soilléir himself was asleep there on the other side of the hearth.

  The cot next to her, however, was empty.

  Morgan had no doubts that Miach had gone to the library. Why he thought it was a good idea to go alone when he was in the same keep with Droch was something she would discuss with him—loudly—as soon as she found him.

  She rose silently, pulled her cloak up from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her, then crossed Soilléir’s chamber soundlessly. Hoping that just opening his door wouldn’t set off alarm bells, she left the chamber, then pulled the door closed behind her. She considered, then turned to her right. The library was in the bowels of the university, so surely if she continued downward, she would find it eventually.

  She hadn’t gone fifty paces before she realized she was being followed. She didn’t dare turn and see who it might be—not that it would have done her any good considering the gloom in the passageway. She tucked her hands in her sleeves and took hold of the blades there. Comforted by the feel of cold steel in her hands, she stopped the first student coming her way and leaned in close.

  “Library,” she said in her huskiest voice.

  “Left after the apothecary’s chamber, down the stairs, then continue on ever downward,” the lad said absently.

  Morgan pursed her lips. That much she had supposed without aid. She thanked the lad just the same, then brushed past him, hastening down the passageway as if she truly had some urgent bit of business to be about.

  Unfortunately whoever was behind her had the same sort of haste.

  She ducked into a stairwell and bolted down the circular stairs, wondering as she did so which she dared do first: stab the lad following her, or rip the covering off her magic and send the entire school into a panic.

  A heavy hand clapped onto her shoulder as she exited the stairwell. Before she could protest, she was dragged under a torchlight and the hood was shoved back away from her face. She had her blades up in front of her before the man she faced had gasped in surprise.

  She understood the feeling, though she supposed her surprise was more of an unpleasant sort.

  Master Droch stood there, looking at her in absolute astonishment. “Sarait? But nay, that is impossible.”

  Morgan would have stabbed him, but he caught her by the wrists before she could. She was so repulsed by the combination of his handsomeness and his absolutely vile magic that she could hardly think clearly. She grasped for Weger’s strictures only to find them slipping away from her as if she’d only glanced at them, not burned them into her soul.

  Droch released her hands and stepped backward. Morgan realized with a start that her knives were no longer in her possession. She heard them clattering down the hallway to her right. She pulled one of Turah’s knives from her belt, flipped it so she was holding onto the blade, and flung it.

  He raised a hand and the blade bounced harmlessly off the wall behind him.

  “Mhorghain,” he said and even the sound of her name from his lips was abhorrent. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Apparently not.” She looked at him for a moment, feinted left, then turned and fled right. She didn’t make it five paces before he’d caught her and slammed
her back against the wall. She looked around frantically for aid, but saw only someone scuttle into the safety of the circular stairway she’d just exited.

  She tried to wrench herself away from Droch, but with no success. “Let me go,” she spat.

  “When I have Gair’s daughter here, with all her power within my grasp?” he asked with a smile. “You must be mad.”

  Morgan reached for the word that Miach had given her to undo the dwarvish spell, then realized that Droch was looking for the same thing. And in that moment, she realized with startling clarity what he would do if either of them managed to release her magic.

  He was going to take it from her.

  “Well, aye,” he said pleasantly, “I will. And if you think that brat from Neroche could possibly have given you anything to stand against me, Your Highness, you are sorely mistaken. The easiest thing for you to do is simply hand your power over to me.”

  “You underestimate me,” she managed. Never mind that what he underestimated was her ability to do anything with her magic besides try to ignore it most of the time. It was probably better that he not know that.

  “I think you’ll find it’s in your best interest to surrender voluntarily,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I can take your power from you, of course, but you wouldn’t care for that. At least I’m offering you a choice. Your father didn’t even do that.”

  “You’ll have nothing from me,” she said with as much coldness in her tone as she could muster.

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  Morgan saw darkness spring up around him, darkness that was full of things from the worst of her nightmares. She fumbled for the pendant around her neck, the amulet that her grandfather had made as a protection for her mother, only to remember that she’d left it in her saddlebag at the inn lest it reveal her presence inside Buidseachd.

  She cursed Droch, but found she was fast losing the ability to do anything but struggle to breathe and stop herself from screaming. Damnation, she should have at least brought her sword. It might have been some protection from the man who simply stood a handful of paces from her, smiling, waiting for her to give in.