“Well, that’s behind us,” Sìle said once they had all cleared the outer gate. “I’m reminded of all the reasons I haven’t missed talking to those pretenders for the past millennia.”
“You must admit, Father, that they treated you with a proper amount of deference,” Sosar said, fighting a smile. “Perhaps you might even allow the occasional bit of correspondence.”
“Aye, when that correspondence contains reports of how Droch looked with his head on a pike outside their gates,” Sìle grumbled. “I’m not sure why they keep him here, but perhaps they think he’s more easily watched inside their keep than out. Miach, lad, how do you fare?”
Miach was surprised enough at the question to look up from his contemplation of the cobblestones at his feet. “Your Majesty?”
“Last night was unpleasant,” Sìle said gruffly. “In fact, I imagine the whole visit has been unpleasant for you. I hoped you hadn’t suffered any permanent damage. Only for my granddaughter’s sake, of course.”
Miach smiled. “I am well, Your Grace. Thank you.”
Sìle grunted and dropped back to draw Morgan’s arm through his. “I don’t suppose you found what you needed.” He nodded knowingly. “For the business we’re about.”
Miach wouldn’t have told Sìle about the spell Morgan had written down under pain of death, and what he’d found in Droch’s solar wasn’t fit for casual conversation, so he merely shrugged. “I eliminated a few possibilities, which was useful. I’m thinking on other things.”
“Where to now?” Sìle asked.
Miach started to speak, then noticed out of the corner of his eye a shadow near one of Buidseachd’s bulwark foundations. Normally he wouldn’t have paid it any heed past deciding to avoid it, but Léir’s words came back to him suddenly.
You never know what you’ll see where you didn’t think to look.
He turned away from the sight, but he didn’t dare ignore it. He had the feeling he knew just who was standing there. More importantly, he suspected he might know why that soul was taking his life in his hands to leave the protection of Buidseachd to take up such a post.
“Miach?”
Miach felt Morgan squeeze his hand and he put on a smile. “Sorry. Not enough sleep. Where to now, Your Majesty? I think the stables, don’t you? It would likely serve us to make a great production of leaving the city. We’ll decide on a destination once we’re beyond the range of prying eyes.”
Sìle nodded, then gathered the company up and started down the hill. Miach waited until they were ten paces from the Uneasy Dragon, then he stopped suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to put just enough regret in his tone to sound believable, but not so much that Morgan looked at him askance, “but I think I’ve forgotten the notes I was making. In the, er, in the library.”
“Did you, indeed?” Morgan asked, one eyebrow raised.
Damnation, he was going to have to learn to lie more skillfully. He gave her the best look of innocent bafflement he could muster. “In the confusion of the night’s events, of course.”
“Well, then let’s return for them.”
“Nay, love, you go on with your grandfather. I’ll run back and fetch them, then meet you at the stables.”
“If you do not return,” she said slowly, “you will regret it.”
He imagined he would, for more reasons than just what she would put him through. “I give you my word.” He embraced her briefly, then stepped back. “A quarter hour at the most.”
Morgan caught him by the arm before he could walk away. “Miach . . .”
“To the keep and back,” he said seriously. “I vow it upon my life, Morgan. The one you’ve already saved for me once. I don’t count that gift cheaply.”
She released him reluctantly. “Don’t force me to do it again.”
“I won’t.” He made her grandfather a brief bow, smiled at Morgan once more, then turned and strode back up toward the keep. He didn’t dare look back until the road had bent to the left and he knew he wouldn’t be marked by any in his company. He looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing but ordinary townsfolk going about their business.
He slipped into the shadows, drawing a spell of un-noticing over himself, then walked swiftly up the street and to the servants’ entrance of the keep.
He leaned back against the wall and concentrated on simply staying out of everyone’s way. He waited for quite some time with no sight of anyone he might or might not have wanted to see. He had almost given up hope when a shadow detached itself from the row of houses adjacent to the keep and eased its way with a hitching step along the wall. Miach removed his spell of concealment, then waited.
The man who came to a stop next to him didn’t offer any details. There was no determining his expression either, thanks to the cowl that cast all his face in complete shadow. Or it did until the man turned Miach’s way and a shaft of sunlight revealed more than the man apparently cared to. He pulled back and rearranged the material to cover his visage.
Miach wasn’t surprised by what he’d seen, but he made no note of it. The ruin wasn’t limited to the other’s hands, unfortunately. Miach wondered how he’d come by the injuries, but he wasn’t going to ask.
Soilléir’s servant slid a roll of papers out from his sleeve and handed it over. Miach unrolled what he’d been given and glanced through the sheaves. He closed his eyes and suppressed the urge to fall to his knees in gratitude.
In his hands were page after page of fragments of Gair’s twisted spells along with their original sources.
It took him a handful of moments before he thought he could speak with any success. He opened his eyes and looked at the man standing next to him. “Thank you seems inadequate,” he managed.
The other only let out a long, slow breath, as if he’d been holding it for years. “You’re welcome just the same.”
Miach rolled up the parchment sheaves and shoved them down the side of his boot. “Where did you find these?”
“In the library,” the man answered in his ruined voice. “They were hidden in the margins of books.”
“But there must be thousands of books in that library,” Miach said, stunned.
“I’ve been looking for years.”
Miach imagined he had been and he imagined he knew just how many years the man beside him had been looking. He had wondered that first night when he’d been sitting at the man’s table in his work-chamber, watching him try to accomplish simple tasks with his ruined hands, if he might have an idea who had rescued them. He’d dismissed it as fanciful imaginings—until he’d watched their unforeseen rescuer’s reaction to Morgan’s true name.
And then he and Morgan had healed the man’s hand and he had known beyond all doubt.
“I hoped someone would come wanting these,” the other man continued slowly. “I’m somehow not at all surprised to find it is you. Use them well, my lord Archmage.”
“I will, Prince Rùnach.”
The other man froze, then bowed his head and let out his breath slowly. “How did you know?”
“Last night, when we healed your hand. Your essence is very powerful.”
“But my power is nonexistent.”
Miach blinked in surprise. “Why—”
Rùnach looked over his shoulder, then shook his head. “I must go. Be well, Your Highness.”
Miach watched him go and fought the urge to dash after him and ask a score of questions beginning with how long he had been at Buidseachd, why his body was destroyed, and why he hadn’t gone to Seanagarra?
And what had he meant about his power being nonexistent?
Miach watched Rùnach of Ceangail slip back into the kitchens and thought back to the night before. It was true enough that he hadn’t felt anything but Rùnach’s essence, but that had been all he’d managed before he realized he’d sent Morgan tumbling into oblivion. If Rùnach didn’t have any magic, perhaps it made sense to masquerade as Léir’s servant. Léir had the power and stomach to protec
t him from Droch—though Miach was certain Droch didn’t know who was lurking in Soilléir’s chambers. He would have tried to kill him, else.
He wondered, too, if Rùnach had come for the same reason Sarait had spent so much time in libraries: to find Gair’s spell.
Miach now had more questions than answers, but that seemed to be the way of things, so he wasn’t particularly surprised. He was, however, desperately curious about what was now stuffed down his boot. The sooner they were away from the city, the sooner he could have a look and see just how great a gift Rùnach had given them all.
He waited in the shadows for several minutes more, then pushed away from the wall and made his way quickly back to the inn. He saw no one save Turah, who was waiting for him under the sign of the Uneasy Dragon.
“What took you so long?” Turah asked crossly.
“I was having a rest,” Miach said with a sigh. “Where are the others?”
“At the stable,” Turah said, nodding down the way. “Let’s be off. And whilst we’re walking, tell me how it is you managed to pry not two, but four horses now from Hearn of Angesand’s stablish vault.”
“He likes Morgan.”
“I can see why,” Turah said. “What she sees in you, I don’t know.”
Miach smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you.”
“I think after we’re through with all this,” Turah said, smoothing his hands down the front of his tunic, “I will make a journey to Melksham and see what King Nicholas can do for me. Or perhaps I’ll venture inside Gobhann and see if there might be another shieldmaiden of Morgan’s ilk available. It can’t be that difficult to get in and out of Weger’s gates.”
“You’ve no idea.”
“Oh, come now, Miach,” Turah said with mock surprise. “Are you telling me that isn’t a pity mark over your brow?”
Miach glared at his older brother. “Pick up a sword in the next day or two, Turah, and see for yourself.”
Turah slung his arm around Miach’s shoulders and laughed. “I’m provoking you. Haven’t you been sleeping well? You’re terribly cross.”
“And you’re a dolt,” Miach muttered. “You wouldn’t like Gobhann, brother. It’s a magic sink.”
Turah blinked in surprise and pulled away. “Is it?”
“Aye.”
“Well, I haven’t much magic anyway, so it wouldn’t matter.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Miach said, because he knew it would gall his brother. “Mother once told me that you were next in line after me for the lovely office of archmage.”
Turah gave Miach a hearty shove. “That isn’t amusing.”
“She told me as much after you’d blundered into a pair of her favorite rosebushes and cut your way out of them with your sword, so perhaps she was merely vexed.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
“I wouldn’t wish that curse on anyone,” Turah said with a shiver. “Look what a sourpuss it’s turned you into. Ah, there are the stables—”
Miach found himself suddenly jerked back into a deep doorway. He had his knife out of his belt before he realized who was holding him captive by the back of his cloak.
A long, slender-fingered hand pointed over his shoulder toward the street. Miach turned around and saw none other than Droch of Saothair, who had apparently braved the overcast skies to see what mischief he could stir up in town. It was his companion, though, who left Miach gaping.
“Who’s that with Droch?” Turah asked, pushing himself back farther into the shadows.
“Cruadal,” Miach murmured. “A prince of Duibhreas whom Sìle thought to see Morgan betrothed to. And before Morgan tells you as much, you may as well know that he shoved a sword through my chest less than a fortnight ago. I daresay Cruadal wants me dead almost as much as he wants to make Morgan his wife.”
“Understandable.” Turah turned to look at Morgan. “Are you still looking for a current spouse and might I—oof—very well, never mind answering that. Goodness, Morgan, you’re testy. I think, though, that you’re beginning to feel quite comfortable with me, if these displays of affection are any indication.”
“Turah,” she said with a sigh, “be quiet.”
Turah only rubbed his side where Morgan’s elbow had recently resided and turned back to the street.
Miach smiled to himself, then took Morgan’s hand, more relieved than he wanted to admit to find it free of any blades. He watched for several minutes as Cruadal tried to carry on some species of conversation with Droch. The master of Olc merely stood there with his arms folded over his chest and watched as Cruadal became increasingly agitated. Finally he simply looked at Cruadal with the same distaste he might have a steaming pile of dung and walked back up the street.
Cruadal cursed loudly for a moment or two, then threw up his hands in frustration. A heartbeat later and in full view of everyone on the street, he turned himself into a black dragon and leapt into the sky with a harsh cry of anger.
But it was Beinn òrain, after all, so none of the villagers did much past looking up, yawning, then returning to their tasks.
Miach let out an unsteady breath, then turned to look at Morgan. It was too dark to take full measure of her expression, but he didn’t suppose she was smiling.
“How long had they been there?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’d forgotten a knife and run back to the inn to fetch it. I saw them as I was coming back down the street.”
He started to ask her if she’d gone farther than just the inn, then thought better of it. Even if she had shadowed him, she couldn’t possibly have heard any of his very brief conversation with Rùnach.
Though he wondered if it might have been better if she had.
“Let’s go find the others,” he suggested. He leaned out of the doorway and looked up and down the street. Droch was nowhere in sight and no dragons hovered overhead, so perhaps they were safe enough for the moment.
They walked quickly down to the stables to find the rest of their company waiting for them.
“Took you long enough,” Sìle said impatiently. “Now, how are we to escape this accursed place?”
“What say you to flying?” Miach asked.
“Elves do not shapechange,” Sìle said, though he didn’t sound as convinced about it as he usually did.
“I wasn’t suggesting we shapechange,” Miach said. “I was thinking perhaps that we might convince the horses to take wing. Turah can take my horse and I’ll fly with Morgan. If the beasts are willing.”
“Hearn won’t like it,” Sosar said in a singsong voice. “And you know the horses will tell tales when they return to Angesand.”
“Go convince them for me,” Miach said pointedly. “Your elvish beasts, too. It is either that or leave them behind—which would probably be safer for them but less comfortable for us. Speed is, I daresay, of the essence.”
Sosar nodded readily and went into the stables, followed by his father, less readily. Miach turned Morgan to him and put his arms around her, resting his cheek against her hair. He looked at his brother, but Turah was only watching him with the gravest expression Miach had ever seen him wear.
“Be careful with yourself,” Turah said. “And I say that for the most selfish of reasons. I don’t want to be taking over any positions of . . . well, any positions in the kingdom, if you know what I mean.”
Miach nodded. He had his own reasons for wanting to be alive and well, and they were certainly no less selfish than Turah’s.
Turah put his hand briefly on Miach’s shoulder, then went inside the stables. Miach continued to hold Morgan, watching the street as he did so. She was very quiet, far quieter than she should have been. That she had no questions for him about his supposed return inside Buidseachd’s gates led him to a conclusion he didn’t think he could avoid any longer.
“You followed me back to the keep, didn’t you?” he asked.
“I thought it wise.”
He smiled. “A spell or just skill?”
>
She pulled back far enough to scowl at him. “The latter, assuredly.”
“Did you hear any of my conversation with our erstwhile rescuer?”
“Nay, but I saw you shove something down your boot, which makes me very curious about what it was your friend found in the library during all those years he spent looking.”
“Morgan, where were you?” he asked with a half laugh.
“Twenty paces behind you.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
He smiled down at her. What a marvel she was. “Weger would be impressed.”
“Nay, he would have chastised me for not having rid you of both your papers and your purse whilst having left you feeling as if but a gentle breeze had stirred your cloak. I’ve grown horribly soft.” She looked at him in silence for a moment or two. “It was Soilléir’s servant, wasn’t it?”
Miach nodded.
She was silent for quite a bit longer. “Was it Rùnach?”
“Aye, but surely you couldn’t have heard me call him by name.”
She smiled briefly. “My powers of eavesdropping are not so formidable.” She shook her head. “Nay, it was what happened last night. I healed his hand, then I dreamed about him. I never dream of my brothers.” She shrugged, though she didn’t look very blasé about it. “I wondered.”
“I think it made him happy to know you were alive,” Miach offered.
She nodded slowly. “I should like to see him again. If we’re successful.”
He tucked stray strands of hair behind her ear. “We’ll do our best. In the meantime, we can rest easy knowing that Léir will keep him safe. Now, do you have anything else to tell me?” he asked politely. “Any more nuggets gleaned from eavesdropping? Spells stolen from under the very noses of powerful mages? Purses pinched and papers pilfered?”
She looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “Nothing so exciting, though Master Soilléir did tell me something about your mother this morning whilst you had your nose buried in a book. I think he relished the tale, truth be told.”
“I imagine I will as well.”