“Who?”
He shot her a look. “Your mother, of course. Naturally, I wanted to have a few more details about you from the king of Neroche, who currently languishes in my dungeon, but he was rather unwilling to give them, despite my tactics of persuasion.”
Poor Adhémar. Morgan wasn’t particularly fond of him, but she wouldn’t have wished Lothar’s tortures on anyone. She spared a hope that there would be something left of him by the time they reached Riamh, then turned back to what she faced.
“You might be persuasive,” she said lightly, “but you’re not a very good brewer of poisons.”
Lothar drew himself up and glared at her. “I think you would find, my girl, that I’m quite adept at several terrible things that you daren’t imagine.”
Morgan shrugged dismissively. “Bore me with the details later. If you’ll excuse me, I have business here—”
Before she could even begin to turn away from him, he attacked.
His spell of Taking slammed into her with the force of a score of fists, leaving her gasping in spite of herself. Fortunately, there was no power there for him to have. When he realized what she’d done earlier, he cursed, then tore at the spell of illusion that hid the well containing her power. Morgan searched frantically for something to counter it, but he was everywhere, attacking her from all sides. Her illusion was suddenly ripped aside as if it had been a flimsy spider-web.
Lothar then turned to the spell that hid her magic, seeking for a spot of weakness. Morgan realized, with an enormous sense of relief, that he would not succeed. She was very, very grateful Miach had appropriated a Duriallian spell or two at some point in the past.
She found her feet beneath her again and sighed silently. Then she very deliberately folded her arms over her chest. “Do you need any help?” she asked politely.
The change in Lothar’s mien was swift and terrifying. Morgan wasn’t unaccustomed to seeing that in the lads she had fought over the years, so she paid it little heed. Weger’s strictures ran under the surface of her mind like a swiftly flowing river, loud and strengthening. She watched Lothar dispassionately as his fury exploded into spells of Olc that spun themselves around her and tried to encase her just as Droch had tried to encompass Miach. She waited until they had come within arm’s reach, then slit through them with a simple spell of Olc that came to her tongue uncalled.
Lothar looked at her in surprise. “How did you know to do that?”
“Gair of Ceangail was my sire,” she said contemptuously. “Did you think I was completely without any power?”
Lothar seemed to collect his fury and contain it. “I’m not sure exactly what I thought.” He looked at her for a moment or two, then gestured behind her. “If you are as powerful as you claim, prove it. Open the well.”
She snorted. “Why would I want to do that? So you can benefit?”
“You want to do it because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
Morgan lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think so?”
Lothar only smiled in answer.
She realized, as she lost her breath in a rush, that she’d had only a small taste of his power as he’d tried to take her magic. Miach had been right: Droch was a hammer; Lothar was a sinewy snake, wrapping his spells around her and waiting until she breathed out before he tightened them, leaving her less and less able to continue to draw in breath. She fell to her knees before she realized they had buckled beneath her. She began to see stars swirling around her, sparkling across the field of her vision, distracting her from the smile on Lothar’s face.
She groped for her knife, but her fingers were numb and useless. She tried to put her hand on the Sword of Angesand, but her hand wasn’t working and she couldn’t find the sword’s hilt. She tried to blurt out a spell of death, but Lothar’s laughter carried her words away as if they’d been eiderdown whisked away on a brisk spring breeze.
She felt blackness begin to creep relentlessly toward her.
She gasped out spell after spell, but they were just words without any power behind them. Her steel was useless, her spells impotent, and she had no more breath for even trying to rip aside the spell that covered the Sword of Angesand. She tried to simply think the word she was to use, but it was just a word, nothing more.
She wondered how it was that Miach even dared stand against the man.
And then, quite suddenly, it was all gone. Her breath returned to her and the blackness receded. She looked up blearily from where she lay on the ground at Lothar’s feet and saw why.
Miach was being dragged into the glade, bound in not only ropes but cords of magic that even she could see through the haze that had become her vision. The men holding him shoved him forward.
“I found him lurking in the shadows, Grandfather,” one of the men said shortly. “Perhaps the woman isn’t all alone after all.”
Morgan didn’t dare look at Miach. Obviously he’d seen her distress and allowed himself to be captured. She wasn’t happy about needing a rescue, but she was also no fool. She was even more out of her depth with Lothar than she had been with Droch. If Miach hadn’t distracted Lothar, she likely would have died right there in front of her father’s well, without having done what she’d come to do.
She managed to get to her knees, but she could rise no farther. She groped for the spells of attack Miach had given her, but she found herself, for the first time in her life, afraid to use what she had to hand lest her plans go awry. Weger would have been disgusted.
Then again, she was facing Weger’s grandfather, and Lothar was not without power.
She thought about Weger, about how Lothar had slain his father and brothers, likely because Lothar had known it would grieve him. If Lothar had any idea what Miach meant to her, he would do the same thing for the same reason.
But if he thought she loathed Miach, perhaps she could distract him with that loathing long enough to free Miach. Then, at least, Miach could engage Lothar and leave her at liberty to proceed with her plan.
Which she wasn’t altogether sure hadn’t been Miach’s intention anyway.
She pushed herself to her feet, swayed, then steadied herself. She leaned over and tried to catch her breath.
“I can’t seem to rid myself of him,” she wheezed.
“Who? The wee one of Neroche?” Lothar asked in surprise.
“Aye,” Morgan said, putting as much disgust as possible in her voice. “He follows me everywhere.” And thank heavens that he did. She straightened with an effort. “I wish he would stop.”
Lothar considered, then nodded to his lads. They shoved Miach so hard that he went sprawling—directly in front of the well. Morgan didn’t dare look at him, but she could tell from where she stood that he was bound by more spells of Olc than she’d realized at first. She wasn’t altogether certain that they weren’t too many for him to rid himself of. And if she opened the well, the evil would wash directly over him and kill him.
She wasn’t sure how this was any better, but it was done and there was no turning back. She rubbed her hands over her face suddenly, managing to snatch a look at Miach as he did so. He was watching her tranquilly, as if he willed her to know he trusted her.
She hoped that trust wasn’t misplaced.
“I think I can aid you,” Lothar said pleasantly. “In return for a favor from you, of course.”
Morgan could only imagine what that would be. “I don’t think I would like the favor you want,” she said slowly. “I’ve seen what happens when that cap comes off and I have no desire to see it again. Unless, of course, the incentive inspires me. And I don’t think removing the annoyance of the archmage of Neroche would be very inspiring.”
“Then what would you say to being rid of him and having all his power in the bargain?” Lothar asked pleasantly.
She shook her head. “I don’t want it.”
He turned his dark, fathomless eyes on her. “And what is it you want, Gair’s daughter?”
“No more magic,” she said before sh
e could stop herself.
“Easily done,” he said smoothly. “I’ll take the power from the well for myself, kill the archmage of Neroche so he doesn’t trouble you further, then, if you like, I’ll rid you of the nuisance of your power as well. Then I’ll let you go, freely.” He smiled, but that smile was a very cold one indeed. “That seems a reasonable trade, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve heard worse,” Morgan said with a shrug, though she doubted very much Lothar would allow her to leave the glade alive. She started to turn away, then looked back at him. “I have your word on all that?”
“Of course.” He lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “Why would you think otherwise?”
Because every word that came out of his mouth was a lie, that’s why. She nodded, as if she believed him, then turned away, calculating furiously. If she could, as the well was opening, manage to undo her magic and then free Miach’s as well, the balance of power in the glade would shift. A pity everything useful was buried under layers of—
She froze. It took a moment before she could catch her breath. Everything was under layers of spells.
What if the end of her father’s spell was burned into the underside of the cap?
Lothar made a brief sound of impatience. “Surely it can’t be that difficult to use a simple spell of opening.”
She ignored him. It was possible, wasn’t it? If she had time to open the well, find the word, then slam it shut . . . she could do all that whilst Miach kept Lothar busy. Besides, her grandfather was also in those trees, as was Sosar, and their power wasn’t insignificant. They could prevent Lothar from taking the well’s power, surely.
She took a deep breath, then very slowly began the spell of opening she had used on the bottle of wine in her father’s solar. She had only a fraction of her power free, but the spell began to take shape just the same.
Apparently, she wasn’t working fast enough. Lothar was standing at her shoulder, his impatience a tangible thing. She pretended to hesitate, but that only sent him into a sudden frenzy of cursing.
“Stop it,” she spat, glaring at him. “I can’t concentrate.”
He started to throw a spell at her—she saw it begin to form in the air—then he snapped his fingers and it was gone.
“Your sire would find your proficiency to be quite lacking,” he said, looking down his nose at her, “but I have no choice but to make do with your pitiful self. Hurry, or it won’t go well for you.”
“I need room.”
He sighed gustily, then turned and strode away. Morgan turned back to the well, shot Miach a look, then concentrated on repeating the words in the order she’d written them down.
“Make haste!” Lothar shouted from behind her.
In one single, smooth motion, she drew the Sword of Angesand and spoke the word that stripped away its spell of concealment. It blazed forth with magelight as she slit the spells of Olc that kept Miach bound. She spoke the single word that released all her power before she even paused for breath, then pulled Miach to his feet as he did the same for himself. He squeezed her hand, then pushed past her and engaged Lothar. Morgan took a deep breath.
Then she spoke the last word of her father’s spell.
The cover sprang open. Evil shot up out of the well, though not as fiercely as it had when her father had released it. She knew she should have moved, or called a warning, or woven some spell of protection over herself and those she loved, but all she could do was stand there, openmouthed, and watch the evil as it fell back down toward the earth.
It shied away from her. She realized, with a start, that the power that pushed the evil away was coming from not only the magelight of the Sword of Angesand, and not only from the amulet she wore resting against her heart, but from the sparkle of elven magic that sprang from the runes about her wrist and wove itself through that same magelight.
And then there was the song that her blade began to sing.
“Stop that!” Lothar shouted in fury.
Morgan didn’t bother to look at him. She watched the evil as it tumbled over the edge of the rock to soak into the ground. The sight of it was at once both familiar and horrifying. All she could do was stand there and watch as it avoided splashing itself against her boots.
“Mhorghain!”
She looked up and saw Keir standing next to the well.
“Hurry,” he said, turning quickly to thrust his sword through the heart of a troll. “Damnation, the spell of opening isn’t holding.”
Morgan saw that was true. The lid had begun to quiver in place, as if it couldn’t decide what to do. She heard Lothar shouting behind her and realized that he was weaving his own bit of magic over the well, but she couldn’t tell if he was trying to open or close it. Keir leapt on top of the well with his back against the stone, holding it up by sheer strength alone. He stood with feet braced on either side of the yawning darkness.
“Find the last word,” he commanded. “It must be here somewhere.”
Morgan dropped to her knees and looked frantically under the cap of the well. It was too much in shadow to see without aid, so she made werelight and sent it skimming along every surface. She crawled to Keir’s left to look behind him, but saw nothing. She scrambled to her feet and lurched to the right.
Engraved into the stone behind her brother was a single word.
She could hardly believe her eyes. She didn’t dare rub them, though, lest it be a dream she had stumbled into and any stray movement might force her to wake. She looked at the word again, memorized it, then leapt to her feet.
“I found it,” she said, feeling slightly giddy. “Keir, the word was exactly where . . . we . . .”
She found she couldn’t finish her words.
There was a sword protruding from Keir’s chest.
She blinked, then looked to Keir’s left. Cruadal stood there, smiling disdainfully. Morgan leapt toward him only to have Keir shout hoarsely at her.
“Forget him and weave the spell, Mhorghain!”
Miach bumped into the back of her, almost sending her tumbling into the well itself. He cursed, then pulled her back away from the edge before he continued on with his own fight. Morgan looked at her brother. There was, and she could hardly believe it, an expression of peace on his face.
“Someone of Gair’s blood must close the well,” he said calmly.
“But,” she said, blinking, “it cannot mean this. Grandfather and I can heal you. We’ve done it before.”
Keir flinched as Cruadal wrenched the sword, then pulled it free. Morgan would have turned on him, but her grandfather was seeing to that well enough on his own, engaging Cruadal with spells and steel both. The magic became an annoyance to her, buzzing against her ears, drowning out what she thought Keir was saying to her.
She realized suddenly that it wasn’t her grandfather’s magic she was listening to.
It was Lothar’s spell of Taking.
But it wasn’t directed at her. She realized with a start that he was preparing to take the power of the well, just as he’d promised he would. And if he did, there would be no finishing him. Morgan wasn’t sure where to turn first. Keir was struggling to counter Lothar’s spell with Fadaire, Miach was fighting Lothar with very ugly spells of Olc, and the magic from her father’s well had apparently now decided she was worth its notice, for it was lapping at her boots.
“Mhorghain, close the well,” Keir gasped.
She wrenched her gaze up to meet his. “But you—”
“Weave the spell, then use the final word before you forget it.”
Morgan realized she couldn’t see her brother any longer and that made her angry. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes, then looked at him. “I have a very good memory,” she said, because those were the first words that she could hold on to. “You don’t have to do this!”
He looked at her, tears streaming down his face. “Mother would have been very proud of you. I’ll sit with her soon, sister, far beyond the east where there is no more toil or sorrow.” br />
“Oh, Keir, please,” she begged. “Please, nay—”
“I’m dead already,” he said with a faint smile. “I’ve been dying for years and not even grandfather’s magic could mend it. This is how it was meant to end. I always wanted to undo what Father had done. Now, I’ll have that chance.” His breath rattled loudly in his chest. “Help me, Mhorghain. Help me do what I must.”
Morgan found the words of closing on her tongue, but they were so bitter, she didn’t think she could spit them out.
“Hurry.”
She took a deep breath, held Keir’s gaze with hers, then repeated the words she had no choice but to use. She paused, the last word shimmering in the air between them.
Keir looked at her one more time, then called to the evil. Whether it recognized his voice or his blood, she couldn’t have said. All she knew was that it rushed back toward the well, almost unbalancing her in the process. It surrounded Keir, swirling up around him and surrounding him like a particularly generous cloak. He didn’t protest; he merely released the stone lid and disappeared down into the darkness. Morgan whispered the last word and the cap of the well fell onto the rock with a crash and sealed itself with a faint click.
No more evil trickled from it. Morgan fell to her knees on ground that was simply innocent dirt, unpolluted by what had troubled it for a score of years. She heard fighting going on all around her, but she couldn’t force herself to be a part of it. She had never felt such bone-wearying exhaustion, not even when she’d fashioned spells of death.
Perhaps it was her grief that had broken her.
She watched dully as her mercenary companions fought trolls, aided by elves she supposed Sìle must have called to himself. Perhaps they had been sent by Làidir. She wasn’t sure and, worse, yet, she wasn’t sure she cared. She had accomplished what she’d set out to, but she felt no satisfaction.
And then she caught sight of Cruadal.
He was fighting her grandfather furiously. He attempted to change his shape, but Sìle wrenched him out of his spell and sent him sprawling. He heaved himself back to his feet with a curse, then attacked Sìle with renewed fury, forcing Sìle back.