Princess of the Sword

  And if her path led into a particular keep shrouded in darkness and heaven only knew what else, it followed that she, having the amulet, was the best one to slip past that evil without harm coming to her. She knew Miach wasn’t going to want her to go, which was reason enough to leave when he might find himself otherwise occupied.

  She came back to herself to find that Miach was leaning against a tree some ten paces away from her with his arms folded across his chest. He was watching her silently.

  “How long have you been there?” she said, her voice cracking unexpectedly. She cleared her throat. “How long?”

  “Long enough,” he said quietly.

  She wondered how many of her thoughts had shown on her face. She was going to need a fortnight in some uninhabited chamber in Tor Neroche where she might review several of Weger’s more strenuous rules of comportment before she felt her disciplined self again.

  Miach slowly held open his arms.

  Morgan hesitated only slightly before she crossed the distance separating them and walked into his embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder and simply breathed in and out, content to be silent and still.

  “Have I told you,” he said, at length, “how much I love you?”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Nay, not today.”

  “Then I apologize. I daresay I’ve thought it a score of times.”

  Morgan closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of his hand smoothing over her hair. “I daresay I have as well.”

  He fell silent and Morgan didn’t protest. She heard the crunch of twigs under a boot, heard Turah apologize quickly for the interruption and walk away, heard the steady beat of Miach’s heart beneath her ear.

  “I’m wondering, love,” he began slowly, “where you found—”

  Morgan leaned up on her toes and kissed him. It was for less-than-romantic reasons, but once she began, she decided that it didn’t matter what her initial motivation had been. Now that she was about it, there was no point in not doing a proper job of it.

  By the time she pulled away, he was breathing raggedly.

  “You’re distracting me.”

  “Trying,” she agreed.

  “Succeeding.”

  She smiled and hugged him tightly for a moment, then pulled out of his arms. “Let’s go back to camp.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve no doubt I look quite ravished. Your grandfather will shout at me.”

  “I’ll protect you,” she said, reaching for his hand. “You can keep yourself out of his sights by drawing me a map of our route. I’m curious as to where we’re going.”

  “If it means he won’t stab me for taking liberties where he thinks I shouldn’t, then gladly. If you like.”

  She did like, and for a more pressing reason than she was willing to let on. She walked back to camp with him, then sat down near the fire. Sosar and Turah were playing cards. Her grandfather was standing in the shadows of the trees, watching the countryside that lay outside his spells.

  She sat with Miach in front of the fire and watched as he smoothed over the dirt in front of him.

  “I’m no cartographer, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “I’m no map reader,” she said, “so I won’t judge you too harshly.”

  He smiled. “I was going to tease you about that, but I don’t think I have the heart to. We’ll just soldier on together as best we can.”

  She nodded, though it cost her quite a bit to do it casually. “Aye. Draw the whole area for me, if you will. Just so I’ll know.” She paused. “For the future.”

  He didn’t look at her askance, so she assumed he thought nothing of her request. He pulled Weger’s knife out of his boot and backed away from the fire a bit so he could draw in the dirt.

  “The Sgùrrach mountains run south from Durial,” he began, “with a branch that forks to the west along the eastern border of Wychweald. Ceangail lies to the east of Neroche and Penrhyn, through the mountains here.” He paused. “The well is here. The keep, Dìobhail, lies to the east of the well, perhaps a day’s enthusiastic march. The village is farther east still, east and a bit north, up in the mountains.” He looked at the map for a moment or two, then shook his head. “I’m not sure why anyone lives there. The climate is not hospitable. Whether that has created the temperament of the people, or those of Ceangail’s ilk settled there because of the climate, is difficult to say. I know there have always been rumors there of darkness. There are places within its borders where . . .” He took a deep breath. “Where no magic is possible. Well, no magic save a particular sort.”

  “Olc?”

  “Nay,” he said, “Lugham. ’Tis the magic of Ceangail.”

  “Ceangail has its own magic?” she asked, surprised.

  “It hasn’t always.” He shrugged. “Ceangail used to be part of Wychweald, though my cousins have become increasingly loath over the centuries to claim it as part of their realm. King Renauld, my cousin Stefan’s grandfather’s grandfather, ceded it to . . . well, to your father, as it happened, some five hundred years ago. Ceangail’s magic is actually a bastardization of Wexham, if you want to trace the history of it.”

  “Do you know any of it?”

  He smiled briefly. “More than I’d like. I have in the past, and definitely without Stefan’s permission, set spells of ward just inside Wychweald’s borders. They would have been useless spells indeed if I hadn’t known how to counter Ceangail’s magic.”

  She looked at his map and considered for a moment or two. “Do you think my father would have used that magic?”

  “Never,” Miach said without hesitation. “His detractors can say what they like about his character, but when it came to magic, your sire was a connoisseur of splendidly wrought spells. He never would have lowered himself to use the vulgar magic of Ceangail.”

  She looked down at his map for a moment or two. “If you were to try to counter those spells,” she asked in as offhanded a manner as possible, “what would you use?”

  “It depends on how you wanted to do so,” he said, shooting her a faintly quizzical look. “If you wanted to smash the spells ruthlessly but cleanly, you would use Wexham. If you wanted to accomplish the same thing yet terrify your foe in the bargain, you could use Olc. I suppose you could cast a Fadairian glamour over yourself and confuse whoever was coming at you. That seems to have worked well enough for us so far, but I don’t think it will keep Lothar’s creatures from us forever. Of course, you could use Lugham. ’Tis a very ugly magic, though not ineffective.” He paused. “I don’t know if you’d want to learn it any more than I would want to teach it to you.”

  Morgan thought back to the spells Miach had given her the day before in return for three of Weger’s strictures. They had been spells of Wexham, Olc, and Fadaire—but those had been spells of defense. Useful, but not if she wanted to attack.

  She trailed her finger through the borders of Ceangail that Miach had drawn in the dirt, then looked up at him. “You owe me two more spells, you know.”

  “You owe me two strictures for them.”

  She smiled, considered, then gave him two of Weger’s most violent strictures of offense. He laughed uneasily, then gave her what she’d asked for.

  “What were those?” she asked.

  “Croxteth and Wexham.”

  “Does Camanaë have no spells of offense?”

  He shook his head. “None that would serve you in our present business. Camanaë’s purpose has never been to fight wars, though certainly those who possess it have done so. The intent of those who first fashioned their bloodright into spells was that Camanaë be primarily a magic of healing. There are spells of offense, aye, but their design is to strike out as a last resort whilst the mage was protecting those who could not protect themselves.”

  “Very matriarchal,” Morgan said quietly.

  He shrugged, smiling faintly. “It is what it is, and there have been mothers aplenty over the years who have protected the vulnerable quite we
ll with spells of Camanaë. I wouldn’t exaggerate things to say that the ferocity with which those spells have been used has convinced more than one ambitious mage to take his fight elsewhere. But as useful as those spells of offense might be in the right circumstances, they won’t serve you now. I think you should stay with Wexham and Croxteth. You have the power for it.”

  “But you’ll teach me the others eventually?” she asked. “Those Camanaëian spells of offense?”

  He was silent for a very long time before he looked at her from under his eyelashes. “I would, Morgan, but I imagine you’ll find those spells coming to you unbidden. Your mother would have known them, because they would have been effective against your sire who was of Camanaë lineage. I can’t imagine she didn’t teach them to you the moment you could memorize them.”

  Morgan had to take a deep breath before she could manage even a nod. “Of course.”

  His hand covered hers. “Why don’t you rest a bit, then let’s be on our way. I think we should continue to make for Durial. I have the feeling we might find aid there that we might not be expecting.”

  Morgan nodded, because she suspected he might have it aright. She also suspected the reason he hadn’t pushed harder to have her grandfather remain behind in Tòrr Dòrainn was that he wanted him to see her safely to Durial whilst he went off to Ceangail.

  Rùnach had been very specific about what he thought might be found there.

  Miach wiped away his map and resheathed his dagger. “Rest, Morgan. You need it.”

  “Later. I don’t think I could stomach it now. Let’s join Sosar and Turah for a game or two of cards instead.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “What shall I have as my prize when I win?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You, in my arms, in some secluded spot in the forest without your grandfather threatening to skewer me for daring to kiss you.”

  “You have but one thing on your mind.”

  “I have many things on my mind,” he countered, “but that, I will freely admit, is the most pleasant.”

  “Done, then,” she said. “I’ll have the same thing when I best you.”

  He laughed and rose to his feet before he held down his hands for her.

  She happily collected her winnings an hour later, watched Miach work on his spells, then bested him in one last game of cards and took for her winnings his going to sleep first. Once she was certain he was truly senseless, she quickly wrote a note and left it under a rock near his head.

  She looked at the company sleeping there, Miach, Turah, and Sìle, then turned and melted into the forest before she thought better of her plan. With any luck, she would do what she had to and catch up to them within a handful of days.

  She ran bodily into her uncle within ten paces. She cursed as she looked up at him.

  “Excuse me.”

  “And just where is it you’re going?” he asked. “In the dark? Alone? In such haste?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Mhorghain,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking at her seriously. “I know I can’t stop you without finding a blade in my belly, but I’m begging you to reconsider whatever rash thing it is you’ve decided to do.”

  “I have a simple bit of business that’s better carried out alone.” She managed a smile. “I have the amulet, my sword, and a handful of daggers. That is far more protection than I’m accustomed to.”

  “I imagine you weren’t dealing with mages before, though, were you?” he asked pointedly.

  “Nay, but I’m very adept at spotting them so I might avoid them.” She supposed it would have been imprudent to mention that she’d been under the care of Nicholas of Lismòr for a good part of her life without realizing that he was—or had been—the wizard king of Diarmailt, and that she hadn’t recognized Miach for what he was until she’d been standing in the throne room of Tor Neroche with the Sword of Angesand blazing in her hand and both Mehar’s knife and her ring deafening her with their song. She leaned up on her toes and kissed her uncle on the cheek. “Be a good lad and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Miach will torture me for the tidings.”

  “Be a man, Sosar, and refuse to tattle.”

  He didn’t smile. “I don’t like this. Where are you going?”

  “To see a man about a spell.” She pulled away from him. “I’ll see you in Durial.” She hesitated, then looked at him seriously. “Don’t say anything. Upon your life.”

  He considered her for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Swear it.”

  He only folded his arms and said nothing. Morgan supposed she would have nothing else from him, and there was little point in forcing bloodshed.

  She turned away and walked quickly into the forest until she thought she dared run. With any luck, Miach would read her note and leave her to do what she needed to. If not, she would outrun him and be over the walls of where she intended to go before he could reach her—and she had the feeling that the only way to breach the defenses of her intended keep was to slip over the wall, alone.

  She started to run.

  Ten

  Miach woke to a weight on his chest. He usually woke quite well, with his head clear, fully aware of his surroundings. That he didn’t at present likely spoke volumes about his weariness. He needed a long succession of days where he had a full night’s sleep whilst someone else saw to the defense of the realm.

  But since that wasn’t going to happen in his lifetime, he would just make do. He shook his head to clear it, then opened his eyes, expecting to see Morgan sitting next to him with her hand resting on him.

  Instead, what he saw was the furious king of Tòrr Dòrainn standing over him, with Turah and Sosar on either side of him looking unsettled and faintly amused, respectively. The weight on his chest was the point of Sìle’s sword. The only reason it hadn’t impaled him was because it was occupied by impaling a sheaf of paper instead. He looked up at Sìle in surprise.

  “I didn’t know you had a sword.”

  Sìle growled at him. “I made a very sharp one, just for you.”

  Miach rolled out from under the king’s blade and was on his feet with Turah’s sword in his hands before Sìle could begin to curse him.

  “Impressive,” Turah said, his eyes wide.

  Miach shot him a glare, then turned back to Morgan’s grandfather. “What did I do this time?”

  Sìle held up the missive gored onto the end of his sword. “You slept through the writing of that, apparently. I did, too,” he admitted stiffly, “but I woke quickly enough when Sosar prodded me and said what he’d found.”

  Miach blinked. “Is Morgan on watch?”

  “Nay, she most certainly is not!” Sìle roared.

  Miach had to rub his hand over his face and yawn before he felt even slightly more awake. He gingerly plucked the sheaf off the end of Sìle’s sword before the king could stab him. He read, his heart sinking more with every word.

  Miach,

  I’ll meet you in Durial. I have protection none of the rest of you do, which is why I must go on my errand alone. Keep my grandfather from following me, please.

  I love you,

  Morgan

  “Well?” Sìle demanded. “What are you going to do about that?”

  “Determine where she’s gone, first off,” Miach said wearily. He looked at the three men facing him. “I don’t suppose any of you has any idea. Sosar?”

  Sosar held up his hands. “I almost gave my word I wouldn’t say anything. I made sure Father woke you, which didn’t seem unreasonable. I imagine you’ll come up with the rest on your own.”

  Miach looked at his other two companions. Turah was merely watching Sìle continue to curse loudly. No aid from either of them.

  He considered for a few minutes in silence, then realized what had been so odd about that morning.

  Morgan had handed him something of Rùnach’s that he hadn’t lost.

  He reached
down into his pack and slowly pulled Rùnach’s papers out of it. He glanced at the top sheaf, the one he had shoved back inside when Morgan had given it to him that morning, then noticed that it had been creased differently from the rest. Obviously, he’d either slept too much or too little.

  He turned the sheaf over and looked at the final words scrawled there, words he’d not wanted Morgan to read, words about what might or might not find itself in Ceangail.

  There is a book in the library at Ceangail, hidden, a book containing all my father’s spells in their entirety. I looked for it during my youth, as boys do, but never found it. All the books are covered by a powerful magic that causes the titles to change even whilst you’re staring at them. It might take a while to find the right book. That and more magic than I have.

  I didn’t have the strength to attempt a search myself. Not after what happened at the well.

  Miach looked off into the distance and gave that a bit of thought. Rùnach had seen the book himself, which meant that it had at one point definitely existed. It was entirely possible that the book was still there, hiding amongst other things in that library. And if it did exist, and if they could find it, it might quite possibly solve all their problems.

  All of Gair’s spells in their entirety. The very thought of that was almost enough to make him want to sit down.

  Morgan had obviously gone off to look for it herself. Perhaps she thought Sarait’s amulet would give her protection that even he couldn’t match. How she thought that would help her strip spells of illusion off books, he couldn’t have said. It certainly wouldn’t be because she wouldn’t try.

  His first instinct was to immediately go after her, but he forced himself to stop and think. It was another two days’ march to Dìobhail, and he doubted she would be making that journey on wing. He had time for a little investigation of his own.

  His spells of defense were still far more intact than he was used to finding them. The only possible reason he could divine for that was that Lothar was concentrating his efforts elsewhere.