Princess of the Sword

  “Miach.”

  Miach blinked and he was once again standing in front of Riamh. His eldest brother the king and his bride the queen lay near the front door, unmoving. He wasn’t sure what sort of spell had slain them, but he hoped they hadn’t suffered from it. Well, any more than they’d already suffered from being held in a place where no light was possible and spells created horrors—

  “Miach.”

  He focused on Cathar standing in front of him. “Sorry,” he managed. “I’m distracted.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Cathar said dryly. “I’m sorry to put you through any more today, but there’s something inside you’re going to want to see.” He paused. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter now that Morgan’s shut the well, but I think you should see it anyway.”

  “In the dungeon?”

  “Nay, not there.”

  “What a mercy,” Miach said, dragging his hand through his hair. He managed a weary smile. “Lead on, then.”

  Cathar nodded, then turned back to the hall. Miach followed his brother back into Lothar’s keep, glancing over the great hall as he did so. It was empty, for which he was very grateful. He wasn’t sure what he would have done with servants if he’d found them there. Ending their misery might have been the kindest thing to do, but he’d seen enough of death for the day. He still had Lothar’s kinsmen to deal with, and Lothar himself, of course, but putting innocent servants to the sword was one more thing than he could have stomached.

  He followed Cathar up the stairs, along a passageway and then through an open doorway. He almost plowed into his brother’s back before he realized Cathar had stopped. He steadied himself with a hand on the doorway, then looked over Cathar’s shoulder.

  “Is this Lothar’s solar?” he asked.

  “I suspect so, but I haven’t had the pleasure of a visit before.”

  “Neither have I,” Miach said with a grunt, “so I suppose we’ll just guess.”

  Cathar stepped aside. “I’ll show you what I found, but please don’t take all day looking at everything else. I can’t stand it here.”

  Miach nodded, then frowned. “We should hurry,” he said suddenly. “There are still battles being fought along the border.”

  Cathar looked at him in surprise. “I should ask how you know that,” he said faintly, “but I won’t.” He reached for a stack of papers sitting on a table. “The only reason I know about these is that we found another body in the keep. Not one of Lothar’s kin, I don’t think, and not one of his creatures. He was in a very small room with no door. For some reason King Yngerame seemed to know where it was and how to open it, but I didn’t ask for details. There were a handful of papers in there. These match the hand that wrote the others. Symon thought you should see them.”

  Miach looked at the top sheaf and felt a chill run down his spine. I am Acair, the last bastard born of Gair of Ceangail. My mother was the witchwoman of Fàs, who gave birth to me during my father’s eighth century of life. I have agreed to give Lothar of Wychweald the spell of Diminishing in return for his aiding me in ridding myself of my brothers in the keep at Ceangail.

  Miach looked up at Cathar. “Did you read this?”

  “Just the first page. That was enough.” He shivered. “You don’t think this Acair gave Lothar what he promised, do you?”

  Miach considered, then shook his head. “I didn’t hear Lothar use anything that came close to Gair’s.”

  Cathar’s mouth fell open. “How in the world do you know that one?”

  “Keir gave it to me along with all the other spells he’d memorized from Gair’s private book that he never let anyone see.” He smiled wearily. “As we traveled together from Ceangail to Durial.”

  “Because you had to stay awake somehow.”

  “Aye, we did.”

  Cathar shuddered. “Brother, you know too many things. And what were you doing in Ceangail?”

  “Finding Keir, among other things that I’ll tell you later, when we have several cups of ale at our disposal. As for this Acair, I don’t think we need worry about his giving Lothar any of Gair’s spells. If Gair had even suspected Acair had known any of them, he would have killed him.” He looked about the chamber with its stacks of books, ratty tapestries, and threadbare carpets, and wondered why it was Lothar hadn’t attended to it better. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have gold enough to do so, or laborers at his disposal. Perhaps he spent too much time out in the world, wreaking havoc, to see to his own things.

  “Miach?”

  Miach pulled his attention back to his brother. “Should I search through this rot, do you think?”

  “Surely not even Lothar would be stupid enough to leave everything of import in one place,” Cathar said. “Besides, destroy this, and it will crop up again in a root cellar on some farm where he’s terrorized the owners. I wouldn’t bother.”

  Miach supposed they might come to regret that, but perhaps not. “I suppose there might be a handful of lads willing to keep watch over it until I can see to it.”

  “I doubt it, but you could try.” He leaned back against a rickety table. “What are you going to do with Lothar, by the way?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Miach said, sighing deeply. “It would be safer to simply slay him, but I daren’t until I’m certain he isn’t the only way for Sosar to have his power back. And as for anything else, slay Lothar and one of his sons will step forward to take his place—and we’ve no way of knowing which one that might be.” He shrugged. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Oh, nay,” Cathar said, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’t presume to offer an opinion. Black mages are your purview, not mine. Though if you truly do want an idea, why don’t you stash Lothar in the dungeon at Tor Neroche and threaten the others with the same to keep them in line?”

  “Do we have a dungeon?”

  Cathar rolled his eyes and pushed himself away from the desk. “You, Miach lad, have spent far too much time in that tower chamber of yours, learning things that make me nervous. Aye, we do have a dungeon, but on second thought, I don’t imagine you want to put Lothar there. But you might want to find sooner rather than later a place to put him, if you plan to leave him alive.” He started toward the door. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

  Miach would happily have put that decision off for another day or two, but he couldn’t and he couldn’t ask anyone else to make the decision for him. Not now.

  He rolled up the papers and stuck them down his boot to join what Rùnach had given him, then followed his brother from the chamber. He paused after a handful of paces.

  “Wait.”

  Cathar looked at him. “Second thoughts?”

  “Aye.” He turned back to Lothar’s solar, considered for a moment, then wove one of Gair’s spells of illusion over it. The Olc and the other nasty things the spell contained came far too easily to him, but given the day he’d had, he supposed he couldn’t have expected anything else. He checked the spell for any flaws, then turned away and took a deep breath. He looked at his brother.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “I should be asking you that,” Cathar said, pausing in the passageway to look at him.

  Miach shot him a dark look. “Until our brother is buried, you are the eldest and therefore in charge. What next?”

  Cathar put his hand briefly on Miach’s shoulder. “Let’s see to the end of the battle, then proceed from there. And did I tell you that you look terrible? Haven’t you been sleeping well?”

  Miach cursed his brother, who only laughed, embraced him briefly, then put his hand on the back of his neck and pulled him along the passageway. “Let’s be out of this place. It gives me shivers.”

  Miach had a slightly more violent reaction than that, but he supposed by the haste in which his brother was dragging him from the keep, Cathar knew as much.

  He stepped out the front door and walked down the steps, profoundly grateful for a breath of fresh air. He was even more grateful to stand to one
side and allow Cathar to arrange for the bodies of the king and queen to be placed carefully in a wagon that someone had appropriated. Then his now-eldest brother turned to the assembled company.

  “There are as yet small skirmishes that need to be attended to. We’ll regroup in my tent after everything is finished.”

  Miach watched the company of his relatives and Morgan’s troop off after Cathar. Well, most of them did. Morgan was still standing next to the two swords driven into the ground, looking very ill at ease. Glines was standing to one side of her, Gilraehen to the other, as if they protected her. Or perhaps they were trying to talk her out of bolting. He honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by either.

  He walked over to them, collecting another grandfather, the appropriate number of generations removed, along the way. He stopped a pace or two away and looked at Yngerame and Gilraehen.

  “Thank you for your aid today, Your Majesties,” he said seriously. “We needed it.”

  Yngerame shrugged. “I like trotting out my mediocre sword skill now and again.” He looked Miach over for a moment or two. “I see you’ve improved yours.”

  “I owe it all to Weger’s instruction and Morgan’s patience with me in the lists,” Miach said with a smile.

  “She saved your sweet neck today more than once,” Gilraehen informed him. “If I were you, I would finish up what needs to be done, then find a quiet place where you might thank her properly for it. Perhaps in verse. Accompanied by flowers or other such tokens of your affection.”

  Morgan looked at Gilraehen as if he were the one who’d lost his mind. Miach found that to be a vast improvement over having that look thrown his way, so he agreed readily with Gilraehen, then looked at Yngerame.

  “I must do something about Lothar,” he said quietly.

  Yngerame nodded. “You must. You cannot leave him standing out there in the middle of the field and I don’t think you want him cluttering up the palace. I wouldn’t trust his children with him. He wouldn’t survive the spring. And his sons and sundry are something you’ll need to attend to as well.” He looked at where Lothar stood, silent and bound by spells, then looked back at Miach. “When Symon and I bound him and left him in his hall, he didn’t have as many descendants and they weren’t all dark-hearted. We hoped that someone might redeem his line. Now, though, I fear there is no hope for any of them.”

  Miach rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at his grandfather. “I shouldn’t be thinking twice about it. If ever there were a mage who deserved death, ’tis him. I owe him, if nothing else, for the deaths of my parents and my brother.” He wondered if any of the consternation he felt showed on his face. “I can’t bring myself to do it.”

  “I understand, believe me,” Yngerame said. “I suppose you could search out a magic sink somewhere and lock him in it.”

  Miach blinked. He looked at Morgan to find her wearing an expression that he was sure matched his. He lifted one eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked slowly.

  “Well, you did promise him something in return for his mark.” She smiled faintly. “I’m not sure what he would think to find his grandfather deposited inside his gates with your thanks accompanying him.”

  “I think it might be worth the risk.” Miach turned to Yngerame. “I wonder, Your Grace, if you would be amenable to a little trip south.”

  Yngerame was smiling. “To Gobhann?”

  “It is a magic sink,” Miach said. “And I’m sure Gobhann’s lord would take particular care of his new guest.”

  Gilraehen smiled wickedly. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. Lothar deserves it richly, but if I were him, I would fear for my life if I found myself in Scrymgeour Weger’s hands.”

  “Then come with me, Gil,” Yngerame said. “You can help me jot down the slew of curses Weger spews out when he sees what Miach has sent him.”

  “Gladly,” Gilraehen said. He put his hand briefly on Morgan’s back. “Mehar’s at camp, Mhorghain, if you want to see her. She’ll be interested in how you fared with the sword, I daresay. Grandfather, I’ll be waiting for you near Scrymgeour’s new inmate. Shall we collect Symon on our way south to keep us company?”

  Yngerame nodded. “I’m certain he would relish the thought of watching his brother once again silent and bound. I’ll be along in a moment.” He waited until Gilraehen had walked away before he turned to Miach. “We’ll be back tomorrow, I imagine. Later, if there’s anything edible in Gobhann.”

  “Eat at Lismòr,” Miach advised. “Nicholas sets a much finer table than Weger does. And why is Symon at the palace and not here?”

  “He left to go guard your crown,” Yngerame said with a smile. “He thought given how fond you are of wearing things on your head, you might appreciate that.”

  Miach didn’t even have the energy to grunt. “Did he know about all this? Before it happened?”

  “He knows everything, lad. He and Gil spend long winter evenings speculating about the fate of Neroche and its rulers. It isn’t your time to join them on those evenings, though you will eventually.” He started to walk away, then turned back and looked at Miach gravely. “Son, you did well today.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” Miach said quietly.

  “Your parents would be proud and your people will continue to be grateful.” He stepped back. “Your work isn’t completely finished though, children. Be careful whilst you’re about it.”

  Miach watched him walk away, then turned and looked at Morgan and Glines.

  “Well,” he managed.

  Glines smiled. “Aye, well, indeed. Let’s go see if we can be of use, shall we?”

  Miach nodded. He watched Morgan sheath the Sword of Angesand, then pull the Sword of Neroche out of the ground and hand it to him hilt-first.

  “This is yours, I think,” she said quietly.

  He had to take a deep breath. “I don’t think so.”

  “But I left your other sword behind,” she said. “I think near where Lothar is.”

  Miach could see exactly where it lay, and Morgan had the location aright, but he wasn’t going to go fetch it, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask her to do it for him. The only problem facing him was that he had no sheath for the Sword of Neroche—it lay near his sword—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to touch it again.

  That would have been a bit like putting the last nail in his coffin.

  But Morgan only continued to hold out the king’s sword to him. He looked at her for several minutes in silence, then stretched forth his hand and took hold of it.

  It blazed forth with a bloodred magelight that blinded him for a moment, then the light subsided into a glimmery sort of illumination that had struck fear into countless enemies over the centuries.

  He sighed.

  Morgan said nothing. She only nodded, then turned and walked away.

  Miach looked at Glines, had a very low bow as his reward, then sighed and followed Morgan back toward the border.

  Three hours later he was wandering restlessly about the camp. The battle was won with very few casualties, he’d found the sheath for the king’s sword and put it up where it couldn’t cause any more trouble, and he could easily sense that Lothar was on his way south in the tender care of a trio of former kings of Neroche who were amusing themselves by flying along the coast where the breezes made for a very bumpy ride indeed.

  More important still, Gair’s well had been shut, and he now had nothing but the future he’d looked forward to for several months stretching out in front of him, his to enjoy.

  Only his future had completely changed.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and suppressed the urge to run. Though the work was difficult, he enjoyed being the archmage of Neroche. True, he hadn’t had a reason to think he would ever be anything else, but he had never been unhappy with his lot. He’d had privacy, he’d had freedom, and he’d had an excuse to duck out of unbearably tedious meetings with foreign dignitaries. He’d also had the license to distance hims
elf from the insufferable ego that Adhémar had worn along with his crown and mock the king at will.

  Now he would be in the thick of all that, the politics, the petty grievances between neighboring kingdoms, the painfully dull meetings with ambassadors he knew couldn’t be trusted, and the even longer, even more painful attendance at the council of kings.

  State dinners. Was there anything worse?

  It occurred to him, accompanied by a sinking feeling that left him rather nauseated, that he was going to have to do a bit more growing up.

  He looked for an avenue of escape. He was accustomed to outrunning his demons and his nightmares. He had never thought he would be outrunning a crown.

  But since he had the feeling he might have company in that endeavor if he looked hard enough, he stopped wandering aimlessly and started looking for a particular gel. He strode through the camp, hurrying past souls before they could genuflect to him, and finally found the lass he was looking for.

  She was standing near Cathar’s tent, wrapped in a cloak yet still looking very chilled. Mehar was laughing at something Catrìona had said, but Morgan didn’t join them. She merely stood next to them as if they were a cheery fire that she hoped to warm herself by. She didn’t look as if it were working very well. Indeed, all she seemed to be succeeding at was looking thoroughly ill at ease.

  He understood, completely.

  He walked over to the little group, then came to a stop at Catrìona’s elbow and made the three of them a low bow.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said politely.

  “Practicing your courtly manners, love?” Mehar asked with a smile.

  “He’s just naturally polite,” Catrìona said, elbowing Miach companionably in the ribs. “I think he’s trying to dazzle us with his lovely smile so we’ll release his lady to him. Am I right, Miach?”

  “You are,” he agreed. “Might I borrow my betrothed for a bit? I’m in need of a bit of a run.”

  Mehar smiled in understanding. “Of course. I think whilst you’re about your run, Catrìona and I will turn for the palace. Catch up as you can, children.”