Princess of the Sword

  She followed the guardsman in front of her as he made for the tower door. She slipped in behind him as he opened it, then leapt out of his way before he could shut it on her.

  He did, apparently, try to shut it on someone else.

  The only reason she knew this was that she could hear that someone else cursing. She certainly wasn’t going to look behind her to see who might or might not have been there.

  She never allowed herself to panic, but she also wasn’t one to linger where moving suited her better—especially when moving might prevent her from having to see what was in the guardsman’s way.

  Obviously now that she didn’t have her gruesome companions, that soul who had been following her—Cruadal, she decided without hesitation—had decided she was unprotected enough to be taken. Why he’d thought doing so inside Dìobhail was wise, she couldn’t fathom, but it was yet another reason to believe it was Cruadal. He was a fool—and a dangerous one.

  She ran lightly down the circular stairs, leaping aside to avoid someone coming up them. She stepped out of the stairwell—

  And felt her spell of un-noticing be stripped from her instantly.

  Spells tangled about her and held her in place. She tried to pull her feet free of them, but with no success. She groped for Mehar’s knife and used it liberally. She was almost surprised to find that it severed the spells as if they’d been naught but worn threads. The only thing that ruined that happy bit of good fortune was the fact that once she cut one spell, another sprang up to take its place.

  She cursed viciously as she continued to cut through spells. The sooner she found the vile lord of Ceangail, the better off she would be. At least she could force him to call off the magic that tormented her.

  She drew her sword and carried on as best she could. She continually fought both the spells that caught at her and the men who confronted her. The man behind her seemed to be doing the same thing. It was either take the time to dispatch him or press on. She chose the latter. And once she had the lord of the keep at her mercy, she would demand that he toss Cruadal into a dungeon that would hopefully be full of very unpleasant spells.

  She bested the guards standing in front of what she hoped were the great hall doors, then commanded the doors to open. They obeyed her without hesitation, which surprised her, but she didn’t pause to examine it. She strode inside and was vastly relieved to find that the floor was no longer swimming with things she was going to have to wade through. That was made up for, though, by the number and viciousness of the men who attacked her from all sides.

  That, at least, was something she was accustomed to.

  She fought Dìobhail’s guardsmen coldly and with a detachment that might have earned her a nod of approval even from Weger himself. That might have eased her if it hadn’t been for the darkness that had followed her inside.

  She couldn’t see who it was, but she could feel him in her wake, ten paces behind her, without a sword drawn or a knife flashing in the torchlight, sending men sprawling with spells alone. She didn’t recognize the magic that rendered him unseen, and she didn’t understand the spells that he used to fling his enemies away from him.

  Damnation, she was not going to find herself in over her head again. Once she had Ceangail’s lord well in hand, she would turn and use the spells of offense Miach had given her. She refused to be intimidated by a lad who didn’t have the spine to even put his hand to steel.

  She calculated furiously, but she couldn’t manage a full count of the men in the hall. Lads were strewn along the floor behind her in various stages of being overcome, but still more came at her. It would have been very useful if the bloody place had possessed even the smallest of windows. Apparently light wasn’t a sought-after commodity in Dìobhail.

  She saw, in the gloom, a raised dais at the end of the hall. There was a chair there, not quite a throne, but more than a simple seat for supper. A man sat there, swathed in darkness, unmoving. Morgan supposed it might take her all morning to reach him, but she had no other choice. She needed free rein in the keep and ’twas obvious secrecy wasn’t going to win her that. She would have to capture him openly.

  She continued her slow progress to the end of the hall. She was tiring more quickly than she should have been and that made her angry. She dredged up another measure of fury and continued, sending men scattering in front of her.

  She realized, suddenly, that the man behind her was now fighting with swords as well.

  It occurred to her, just as suddenly, that he was fighting for her, not against her.

  She looked over her shoulder, then felt something rush through her. She wasn’t sure if that something was surprise, anger, or relief.

  Miach stood there.

  “What spell of un-noticing was that?” she demanded.

  “Lugham,” he said, shivering. “Very unpleasant.”

  Had it been him following her the entire time instead of Cruadal? She wasn’t sure if she should be furious that he’d felt the need to do so, or grateful that he had bothered. Perhaps she would determine that later, after she’d decided whether or not she should kill him.

  She turned back to her own fight and continued inching her way forward.

  After there were no more lads for her to fight, she turned on Miach. Fury it would be and he deserved every bit of it, the lout, for not having listened to her.

  She realized that she’d forgotten, oddly enough, that he also bore Weger’s mark and his swordplay said that he had earned it, no matter how brief his stay. It took her quite a bit just to stand against him, and she supposed it would take more strength than she had to best him. She finally caught his blades between hers, then gave him a mighty shove backward.

  “Damn you,” she said fiercely, “I thought you were going on without me.”

  “I did,” he said, his chest heaving.

  She blinked in surprise and lowered her swords. “Then you haven’t been following me?”

  He rested his blades against his shoulders and simply caught his breath for a moment or two. “It wasn’t for a lack of trying,” he said with a dry smile. “I went on a little errand of my own, then turned back to look for you. I’ve been hunting for two days.” He paused. “You were going in the wrong direction.”

  “I know that,” she muttered.

  He smiled briefly, then sobered. “Cruadal was following you, which I imagine you knew. I caught him before dawn and clunked him over the head with my sword as he resumed his proper shape to fight me. I did him the favor of sparing his nose this time.”

  “Good of you.”

  “Aye, I thought so.”

  She dragged her sleeve across her forehead, grateful for a brief moment to rest and enjoy the chill of the hall. Her cloak had been the first thing to go near the hall door, flung into some poor man’s face so she could have his sword. She looked at Miach and attempted a frown. “You didn’t need to come after me at all, you know. I would have met you in Durial.”

  He looked at her gravely. “I know you don’t need my protection, Morgan, but I thought it best to offer it just the same.”

  She pointed toward the dais with her sword. “I think I could have captured him more easily on my own. You might not like to watch what I have to do.”

  Miach chewed on that for a moment. “I wonder if he has an opinion?”

  Morgan looked to her left to find that the lord of the hall had risen to his feet and was standing there stiffly. It was difficult to judge his expression, for he was swathed in a darkness she couldn’t see through. Obviously more of that Ceangail magic that even Miach found unpleasant.

  She put herself in front of Miach only to have him pull her behind him.

  “Damn you, move,” she said, stepping around him.

  “Nay—”

  “Aye!”

  “Absolutely not—”

  Morgan decided, as she caught sight of the lord stumbling off his step, that arguing with Miach could wait. Miach backed into her, hard, when the man took a step clo
ser. The lord looked at them in silence for several protracted moments, then lifted his hand.

  Morgan watched as scores of men poured into the great hall. She turned to put her back against Miach’s but saw immediately that there was no point in it. They were sorely outnumbered.

  She was appalled to find herself willing to let go of her blades because she knew she had magic at her disposal, but she had done several appalling things over the past few fortnights so perhaps this was just another to add to the list.

  She listened to Miach toss his swords onto the stone floor, then did the same herself—almost without hesitation. She did, however, protest when Ceangail’s lord came to face her and held out his hand for her knives. Miach elbowed her in the back, so she acquiesced grudgingly. The knife Weger had made him was already there, so perhaps he had a plan for getting them all back.

  The lord of Ceangail handed off their gear, then nodded to his guards, a handful of whom drew their swords and looked prepared to do business with them. Morgan walked with Miach out of the hall, through more passageways laden with spells, and up stairs into a chamber that at least had light from windows set into one of the walls. Even though winter was fading, the light streaming into the chamber was cold. Perhaps the sun didn’t shine very well in Ceangail.

  Morgan found herself turning around again and again, unable to find a comfortable place to rest her gaze. There were window seats set into the wall to her left, tapestries of battle lining the far wall in front of her, a hearth set into the wall to her right, stone floor beneath her feet that was uneven in spots . . .

  She felt her mouth fall open. The stone floor beneath her feet was uneven in spots that she recognized.

  Miach’s arm was suddenly around her shoulders. “Are you going to faint?” he whispered urgently.

  She shook her head sharply, but willingly allowed him to keep her on her feet as she continued to gape at the chamber she was in and let unbidden and unwanted memories of it wash over her.

  She had lived in the keep she was standing in.

  She was surprised the possibility of it hadn’t occurred to her before, but she’d never stopped to consider it. She’d been thinking about spells and magic and righting wrongs. She hadn’t been thinking that she might be walking back into a place where she had lived as a child with her family.

  “Leave us,” the lord of Ceangail demanded of his men.

  “But, my lord,” one of the guardsmen protested, “surely not. There are two of them, and only one—”

  The lord laughed. Well, it might have passed for a laugh if a great amount of imagination was used. Just the sound made Morgan shiver.

  The man walked his guardsmen to the door, telling them all along the way quite bluntly how he would reward their disobedience. Morgan took a deep breath, then looked up at Miach.

  “Tell me again how this is better?”

  “We’re being underestimated.”

  She wished suddenly that she’d had her cloak. She was far colder than she should have been, given the circumstances. “I’m not happy with you,” she muttered.

  He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. “Would you dance with me just the same if our good lord of darkness here could produce any minstrels?”

  She shot him a glare, though it was a weak one. “Are you trying to distract me from my unpleasant thoughts about this chamber, or my unreasonable fears about this chamber’s lord?”

  “A bit of both,” he said with a grave smile.

  Morgan smiled in spite of herself and was cheered, also in spite of herself. There was something about Miach that was very grounding, as if he were a keep whose foundations reached deep into the earth, with soaring battlements, scores of chambers full of unexpected delights, and several pairs of boots near the door encrusted with mud from the garden.

  Well, that and he had a very lovely smile.

  “I suppose we could fight our way out with magic,” she said with a sigh.

  “Difficult.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Even for you?”

  “I’m not particularly eager to have anyone know I’ve been here,” he said. “A battle would require quite a substantial bit of magic considering what’s here, magic that would leave my presence very plain to anyone who cared to look for it.” He shivered. “This place is so slathered with Olc, it’s making me queasy. Can’t you feel it?”

  She shook her head. “I just thought I was hungry. I haven’t eaten in two days.”

  He smiled at her, an affectionate smile that was almost sweet enough to make her forget where she was. He started to speak, then looked up and sobered abruptly. Morgan found herself pulled behind him. She would have argued, but he had taken her hand and put it against his back.

  There was a dagger shoved through his belt, hidden by the back of his tunic.

  “I think I just might dance with you as a reward for this,” she murmured.

  He tightened his hand around her wrist briefly, then put his hands down at his sides.

  Morgan supposed the lord of Ceangail wouldn’t find them as cooperative as he’d hoped.

  Or perhaps he wouldn’t even find them worth his notice. Morgan looked over Miach’s shoulder and watched in surprise as the man took their weapons from his final guardsman, shoved him out the door, then barred it. He then turned and walked across the solar to the hearth, tossing their weapons onto a long bench set against the wall as he did so. Without comment, he squatted down and kindled a fire by eminently pedestrian means.

  Morgan wondered at that. Perhaps he was so full of magic that he didn’t fear what they might do to him. Apparently that was the case, for he merely fetched a bottle of wine and three silver goblets from a table near one of the windows, then came back to the fire where he set his burdens down on a low table surrounded by not-uncomfortable-looking chairs.

  “What’s he doing?” Morgan whispered to Miach.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Food, then torture?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he heard your stomach complaining and thought to appease it.”

  She pursed her lips. “Are you ever serious?”

  “About food and dancing? Always.”

  “Well, the first I believe,” she muttered. She pulled the dagger out of Miach’s belt and hid it behind her back. If things went south, at least she would have some means of protecting them. She hadn’t bothered to hide her magic and she was actually surprised to find that Miach hadn’t either. Surely this lord of Ceangail could sense what they were, if not who.

  Perhaps he could, but he certainly didn’t seem to care. He merely stood in front of his fire with his back to them. Darkness surrounded him, a darkness so complete that he almost wasn’t discernable. The firelight flickered quite merrily over the wine bottle and the goblets, but it made no mark on him. He was mad if he thought she and Miach would simply sit down and have a pleasant afternoon drink with him.

  She leaned closer to Miach. “What now?”

  “I have no idea,” he said with a shrug. “We could rush him, I suppose, or try to dazzle him with a spell or two. I’m inclined to merely wait and allow him to make the first move.”

  She wasn’t surprised by that tactic, and she would have told Miach so, but the lord was slowly turning around to face them. Morgan took a step forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with Miach. If nothing else, they would fight together. She took a firmer hold on her blade and prepared herself for the worst.

  The lord of Ceangail took a handful of steps closer to them.

  And then he pulled his hood back from his face.

  Twelve

  Miach gasped, but his was covered quite handily by Morgan’s. He wasn’t unaccustomed to finding things where he hadn’t been looking for them, but this was something else entirely. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was looking at a ghost. But the man standing in front of them with hands that trembled slightly wasn’t a ghost.

  He was Keir.

  Keir was watching
Morgan with the same expression of dreadful hope that Sìle had worn when he’d first seen her. Miach would have offered Sarait’s eldest son a shoulder to lean on, but Morgan needed it more. She was leaning against him so hard, he had to brace himself to keep from being pushed over. He put his arm around her shoulders and felt her hand come up to hold his, almost painfully.

  And all the while Keir looked at her, as if he simply couldn’t believe what was before his eyes.

  “Mhorghain?” Keir said hesitantly.

  Morgan cleared her throat, then nodded very slightly.

  Keir of Ceangail threw his cloak onto one of the chairs, then strode across the distance that separated them. He hesitated a pace or two away, then reached out and pulled his sister into his arms. He bowed his head and made several rough noises, as if he sought not to weep.

  Miach stepped away and let them have a bit of room. Actually, releasing Morgan’s hand let him drag his sleeve across his eyes, but he supposed that might escape anyone’s notice but his, which was as it should have been.

  Morgan stood in her brother’s embrace, then turned her head and looked back at him. Her eyes were dry, but they were full of absolute anguish. Miach smiled, pained, knowing what she was thinking. All the years she’d thought she was alone in the world and now to find out she needn’t have been. Miach imagined Keir was thinking something akin to that. He watched Morgan’s brother hold her as if he simply couldn’t bring himself to let her go. Miach understood that as well.

  Keir finally pulled back and looked down at his sister.

  “You look so much like Mother,” he said faintly. “In truth, I thought for a moment that you were Mother. But that isn’t possible.” He shook his head. “Little Mhorghain. But you’re no longer a child.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I thought you were too,” she managed.

  Actually, Miach knew it was worse than that. She hadn’t even remembered that she’d had brothers until the fall.