Princess of the Sword

  “Barely.”

  “But you bear Weger’s mark, which means you’re my sort of gel.” She looked over Morgan’s shoulder, then moved past her. “I’ll distract your grandfather Sìle for you now, if you’d like to bolt. I think he’s moving this way with the express intention of talking to you.”

  Morgan thanked her most kindly, ducked behind some former king of Neroche or another, then hurried toward the door. She hastened out into the passageway, then leaned back against the wall and sighed, grateful for the simple pleasure of quiet. She closed her eyes and enjoyed it for only a handful of moments before Miach came hurrying through that same door.

  “Run,” he said.

  She did. She ran with him through passageways, past elaborately carved wooden doors, and out into the open. Miach pulled her back to a walk and laughed a bit as he caught his breath.

  “Thank you,” he said, with feeling. “I was ready not to talk any longer. You, too?”

  “Very,” she said, pulling her crown off her head and slipping it over her arm like a bracelet. “Where to now?”

  “The hayloft is likely off-limits, but I would settle for a walk in Uachdaran’s gardens. Interested?”

  “Please. Anything to be out of that chamber.”

  It wasn’t but a quarter hour later that she was walking with him under trees that were like none other she’d seen. They were gnarled and tangled, full of intricate twistings and turnings, looking a great deal like the ceiling she’d woken underneath that morning. Perhaps that had been intentional on the carver’s part. The trees that made a canopy over her head now didn’t leave her feeling stifled, though, they left her feeling embraced. The breath of air that found its way through the still-leafless branches carried with it a song, the same sort of song she’d heard in the stone that morning.

  There were, she decided, many things she’d seen over the past half year that she never would have dreamed might exist.

  “Well?” Miach asked finally. “What do you think?”

  She sighed and looked up at him. “In truth? I think you and I should slip out during supper and be about this task. We could be back before they finished their wine.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and continued on along the path they were taking. “I am tempted to agree,” he said, “but we cannot. We need the power of the Sword of Angesand.”

  “Do we?” she asked, looking up at him in surprise. “Why?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “Were you truly asleep whilst Keir and I talked in your father’s solar, or were you eavesdropping?”

  She sighed. “The latter, which I’m sure you already knew.”

  “Aye, I suspected as much.” He took a deep breath. “Then you heard what he said about how your father took both his and Rùnach’s power?”

  She nodded.

  “Unfortunately thanks to that additional power, your father’s strength was far greater than it should have been when he wrenched open that well. That leads me to believe that it will take more than the usual measure of strength to close that well.”

  “But how will I have any of the sword’s power?”

  He smiled. “You’ll put your hand on the hilt, it will blaze with magelight, and you’ll feel as if a horse has just trampled you.”

  She pursed her lips. “I know that feeling. It was what I felt when you helped me heal Rùnach’s hand.”

  “Only this time, you won’t faint,” he said. “I promise. The sword will know you, just as it did in the great hall of Tor Neroche. The power may startle you, but it won’t crush you. It will give you strength when you’ve exhausted your own. We’ll make certain of that tomorrow.”

  “If you say so.”

  He laced his fingers with hers and smiled at her. “Just walk with me now, Morgan, and leave the rest. We’ll face it soon enough.”

  She nodded, then walked with him until they reached the outer wall and the path ended. It seemed a fitting reflection of their situation.

  She looked up at Miach. “What now?”

  He turned her to him and took her hands. “We’ll reforge the sword in the morning, send out scouts to see what’s afoot, then set off ourselves to do what we must. Then, after the well is closed, I think we just might go back to Seanagarra and sleep for a se’nnight.”

  She smiled and put her arms around his waist. “You could use it.”

  “So, my love, could you. But for now, let us see if we might find a quiet place to rest a bit whilst I see to my spells, then we’ll hope for supper and a bit of dancing. King Uachdaran does set a remarkably fine table and he employs only the finest musicians.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t release him, nor did he release her. He merely ran his hand over her hair again and again, breathing lightly, not speaking. Finally, she pulled back far enough to look at him.

  “Do you think Lothar will be there?” she asked. “Not that I’m afraid of him. I’ve faced him before.” She paused. “Admittedly, I went right along with what he wanted me to do and fainted from the poison he gave me to drink, but I would be better prepared this time. He couldn’t be any worse than Droch, surely.”

  Miach started to speak, then shook his head helplessly. “That’s a bit like saying ’tis better to be slain by a blade in the heart than be staked out in the hot eastern sun and baked to death. Droch is direct and brutal. Lothar may drag things out a bit more out of polite-ness, but I daresay the end result is the same.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her back up the path. “In truth, I think it would be best if we planned to get into the glade and out as quickly as possible and leave Lothar out of it.”

  “And if he comes?”

  He sighed deeply. “I think all we can do is prepare as best we can. The most important thing is what we already have, and that is your courage. The rest is all plotting and scheming and spells. It is the stomach to use them that will win the day.”

  She nodded because she knew he had it aright. Hadn’t she thought the same thing in Ceangail? Perhaps they could take the evening, have a decent meal, then turn their minds to less serious matters.

  “You’re thinking about dancing.”

  She smiled without looking at him. “I’ve become soft, haven’t I?”

  “Nay, you haven’t. You’ve just seen why I enjoy it so.”

  “Have you always been a dancer, Miach?”

  “Nay, Morgan,” he said quietly. “Just with you.”

  She nodded and continued on with him, saying nothing. There was no more to say. Their path was set out before them, and there was neither turning back nor altering what lay ahead.

  She was past wishing there might be.

  Sixteen

  Miach walked through twisting passageways with Morgan, following the dwarf who’d been sent to escort them to the smithy. He was carrying the shards of the Sword of Angesand in a drawstring bag whilst Morgan carried the hilt. He’d had a surprisingly good night’s sleep, but he suspected he was the only one. Morgan had been out in the lists when he’d woken and gone to look for her. She’d been fighting Paien and Glines at the same time and looking as if she hadn’t slept at all. Her expression had given nothing away, but he knew her well enough to realize that she was extremely ill at ease. Matters weren’t improving any as they continued on their way.

  “Who will be here?” she asked, finally.

  “You and I and the master smith,” he answered. “He is the grandson’s grandson’s grandson of the man who helped Mehar forge the sword in the first place. He is quite honored to be of service to us.”

  She nodded, then looked up at him. “Are we enough to give it the power it needs? Won’t doing so put us both in bed for a se’nnight?”

  “Aye,” he conceded reluctantly. “If we were to do a proper job of it, it might.”

  She looked down and watched the floor for quite a bit longer before she spoke. “Would Mehar and Gilraehen be willing to help, do you think?”

  “That is the reason they came. They just didn’t want to in
trude on something you might have wanted to do alone.”

  “Would anyone else be handy?”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “You can only pour so much magic into steel, love, before it bursts of its own accord, but we might manage a bit of power from Harold and Catrìona as well. I daresay they would come gladly, if you wanted them to.”

  She looked up at him. “You know I don’t like asking for aid.”

  “I know. But considering what lies along the road ahead, help isn’t anything to be refused at this point. Why don’t I send a messenger for them when we reach the fire?”

  She nodded and said no more, but simply held his hand and walked with him down passageways that weren’t meant for men of any height at all. Miach ignored the necessity to duck continually, and continued on.

  Fortunately, the smithy was spacious and the ceilings stretched up into darkness his eye couldn’t pierce. It was cold, in spite of the furnaces. That was no doubt pleasing to the lads there, but he was sure it wasn’t to Morgan. Her hand was already cold as death.

  He drew aside a likely lad and sent him on with messages for the appropriate personages, then sat on a stool next to Morgan and discussed with the master, Ceardach, what would need to be done to weave spells into the folding of the blade. He listened, but in the back of his mind he wondered just how much of their own power Mehar and Gil had poured into the original blade and what it had cost them in trade. The current refashioning of the blade needed to imbue it with power as well, but he couldn’t spare all his reserves or he would have nothing to offer Morgan at the well. He looked up and was, he had to admit, very glad to see Gilraehen, Mehar, Harold, and Catrìona all coming into the smithy looking quite fresh and spry.

  They would need to be.

  It turned into a very long morning. It wasn’t so much the actual forging of the blade that was difficult, though Master Ceardach was exceptionally particular about its crafting. It was the layering it with spells and pouring power into it that took time and effort. Miach didn’t say anything, but he was very aware that the others were sparing him and Morgan the bulk of the work. Catrìona spent a goodly bit of time discussing with Morgan just how the blade should be balanced and how she preferred to feel it in her hand whilst Mehar visibly drained herself of power that went into the blade. Miach shot Harold a dry look when his grandfather several generations removed attempted the same thing with him.

  “Your battle will come later, Miach,” was all Harold would say.

  Even with the lightened burden, Miach was more than happy when the work was done and he was able to go sit on a stool with his back up against a chilly stone wall and rest. Gilraehen sat down next to him.

  “You know, Miach,” he said slowly, “I don’t think it would be a poor idea to keep that blade hidden.”

  “Do you mean send it back to Tor Neroche?” Miach asked in surprise.

  Gilraehen shook his head. “Nay, lad, not that. As much as I would like to think you and Morgan will merely skip along a lovely path and find yourselves alone at the well with time on your hands to do a leisurely job of shutting the bloody thing, I . . . well, I—” He thrust his chin out and seemed to be looking for the right words.

  “You imagine Lothar will be there.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Miach said with a sigh. “I know he’s been there recently because he repaired a spell I had destroyed. Worse still, there are signs that someone else is trying to open the well.” He looked at his grandfather. “If we manage to gain the glade unmolested, I will be surprised. I’ll be even more astonished if we have any peace to shut it.”

  “All the more reason to be prepared.” Gilraehen looked at him seriously. “If I were you, I would go expecting the worst, with as many weapons as possible. Lothar’s had a taste of Mehar’s sword before and he fears it. It might be a handy thing for your lady to have hidden, don’t you think?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Miach asked, already knowing the answer. “A spell of concealment, perhaps wrought from Olc?”

  “As repulsive a thought as that is, aye, that’s what I’m suggesting.”

  “I could weave the spell so a single thread pulled would unravel it completely—and instantly,” Miach said unwillingly.

  “You’re a clever lad, aren’t you?”

  Miach shot him a disgruntled look. “Why do I always feel as if I haven’t quite graduated to long trousers when I’m around you?”

  Gilraehen elbowed him companionably. “Because ’tis my duty as your grandfather just a step or two away from my dotage to keep you in your place. You are barely out of short pants from my point of view.”

  Miach smiled in spite of himself. Gilraehen of Neroche might have had a bit of silver glinting at his temples, but in all other aspects, he looked not a day over a score and ten. Dotage, indeed.

  “I should live to see your length of days,” Miach said quietly.

  “Make sure that you do,” Gilraehen said, suddenly serious. “For your lady and for the realm. I don’t need to tell you to be careful, nor not to underestimate Lothar, but I’ll tell you as much just the same. I’m quite certain he does little besides sit in his wreck of a hall and think on ways to vex his enemies. You in particular, these days. Be wary.”

  “I will,” Miach promised. He glanced at Morgan, Mehar, and Catrìona, who were standing over the sword, apparently teaching it to sing, then turned to Gilraehen and his son Harold, who had sat down next to his father. “Thank you. I know what you both did this morning.”

  Harold shrugged. “Father and I have no pressing appointments for the next few days. We can sleep; you cannot.”

  “Not that that wife of yours will let you sleep,” Gilraehen said with a snort. “You would think her years would have taken a toll on her somehow.”

  “Never,” Harold said with a smile. “The woman will drive me into the ground someday. She is absolutely exhausting.”

  Miach didn’t think Harold sounded particularly displeased by that. He leaned back against the wall and watched the three women gathered together, discussing spells and steel. He admired them all in turn.

  Mehar was, he would readily admit, one of his favorite people. She was just as likely to sit down and tell a tale to a small child as she was to leap onto the back of some Angesand steed she’d talked the current lord of Angesand out of and ride like the wind. She was a weaver of cloth, spells, and love that had been felt in his family for generations.

  Catrìona was, much as Harry had said, an effervescent spring that bubbled up continually into a fountain of merriment. Though she had certainly seen her share of sorrow, somehow when she entered a hall, the fire sparkled brighter and the music shimmered more sweetly, seemingly just to please her. She and Mehar were lovely, courageous, and full of magic that they had honed over centuries.

  And then there was the third lass standing there. Miach looked at Morgan and felt something in his heart give way as it always did when he looked at her. She was terribly beautiful, true, but that wasn’t what he saw now. He watched her moving in a world that was uncomfortable for her, yet she pressed on. He watched her take spells from Catrìona and Mehar and use them, though he knew she wasn’t happy with how easily they came to her hands.

  But she didn’t flinch or shy away.

  “Besotted, isn’t he?” Harold remarked in a loud whisper.

  “Very,” his father agreed.

  Miach looked at them both. “Can you fault me for it?”

  They both shook their heads, smiling as if they understood perfectly.

  “Your Morgan doesn’t need you to,” Gilraehen remarked, “but guard her well just the same. And tell her daily that you realize how fortunate you are she looked at you twice.”

  “I agree, Father,” Harold said with a smile. “It works wonders.”

  Miach looked at them both wryly. “Any other words of advice?”

  “Have you wooed her well?” Gilraehen asked.

  “Ah—”
>
  “Go have a nap,” Harold suggested. “We’ll have a list of appropriate ideas waiting for you when you wake. Really, Miach, you would think you could manage this on your own.”

  Miach favored his progenitors with a choice curse or two and had laughter as his reward. A nap, however, sounded like the best idea he’d heard all morning. Morgan needed it far worse than he did and he was completely spent. He pushed himself to his feet and went to stand next to his lady.

  “Have I told you today how fortunate I am you looked at me twice?” he asked politely.

  Predictably, she looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  He shot his grandfathers a pointed look, then made Mehar and Catrìona bows before he took Morgan’s hand. “I think there might be a free spot in front of a hearth somewhere. Let’s go make use of it whilst we’re able to.”

  Morgan nodded wearily, thanked Mehar and Catrìona for their aid, then walked with him from the smithy. She was silent until they’d reached the ground level of the palace, then she looked up at him.

  “They spared us, didn’t they?”

  “They did,” he agreed, “though they tried to be subtle.”

  “It was very kind.”

  “They’re under no illusions about what you face, Morgan. I daresay you would have done the same in their place. For all you know, you will someday for someone else.”

  She shivered. “I can’t bring myself to think about that.” She paused for several minutes before she spoke again. “When do you want to leave? Tonight?”

  “I think it best, don’t you?”

  She nodded, then put her shoulders back. “I’ll look at the spells again whilst you work. I might see something new.”

  “Of course,” he said, because he knew he wouldn’t convince her to do anything else. He had the feeling, and it wasn’t a pleasant one, that no matter how long or hard they looked at what they already had, they wouldn’t find the last part of the spell until they reached the well itself.