Princess of the Sword

  “Damn you, if I could just reach a blade,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

  He seemed particularly unintimidated by the threat. He merely continued to hold her close. He kissed her hair, then sighed, the deep sort of a sigh a body might indulge in when he was happy to be home after a long journey.

  “Woman, you’re daft,” he said finally, sounding more amused than he should have. “Why would I look at any of those lassies downstairs? My heart is already given. Don’t give them any thought. They’re the same swarm that periodically descended for Adhémar. I imagine they kept their trunks packed for just such an exigency as this.”

  She was tempted to smile, but she managed to avoid it because the truth was just too brutal to ignore. “But, Miach, I don’t look anything like any of them.”

  “Thank heavens,” he said, sounding vastly relieved. He pulled back far enough to look at her. “Morgan, you look like an elven queen of old, grave and remote and so beautiful that any man who sees you will fall to his knees and feel himself fortunate to be allowed to merely stare at your loveliness. I’ll likely spend most of my time in that position as well.”

  “Don’t tease me,” she warned.

  “I’m not teasing you. Don’t I already spend vast amounts of time simply staring at you in a besotted fashion?”

  “Glines seems to think so,” she agreed reluctantly.

  He smiled. “He has it aright.” He hesitated, then his smile faded. “Shall I tell you how I think we’ll survive this? In truth?”

  “Please,” she said with feeling.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve given it quite a bit of thought, actually,” he said. He smiled briefly. “It was the only thing to keep me awake during the past two days of interminable meetings.”

  “Was it, indeed?”

  “It was, indeed. Now, here is my plan. When we must, you’ll be Mhorghain and I’ll be Mochriadhemiach. We’ll wear our crowns and look important. Then we’ll take our crowns off and be just Morgan and Miach. And nothing will change between us because I’ll still best you in every game of cards we play—”

  “Ha,” she snorted.

  “And you’ll still come close to besting me on the field every time we cross blades.”

  She scowled at him.

  He smiled. “See? I’ll love you to distraction, you’ll pour gushing praise upon my head all day long, and we’ll be happy.” He caught her left hand and held it up. “And I think you’ve forgotten something.”

  The circlet of runes glinted very faintly in the light from the window. She sighed, then looked up at him. “Perhaps my grandfather wasn’t so far off with that crown of yours, was he?”

  “I’d like to credit him with foresight, but I imagine ’twas just an attempt to irritate Adhémar,” he said dryly. “And you’re trying to distract me. I seem to remember that you promised yourself to me as we knelt before your grandfather. I definitely remember promising myself to you.”

  She settled herself a little more comfortably in his arms. “There is that, true.”

  “Then what has changed? Does it grieve you that we have the same length of life bound upon us? Are you unhappy that we are heirs of Tòrr Dòrainn’s throne? Queen of Neroche, Morgan,” he cajoled. “Think on what Weger will do when he hears.”

  “He’ll likely fall off his parapet in surprise,” she muttered. “Hearn will choke on his ale.”

  “Hearn will think it the most sensible thing that’s happened in the realm for decades. I’m sure he’ll give you all sorts of instructions on how to keep me in line and have the realm run in a way to benefit him the most.”

  “I didn’t think Angesand was part of Neroche.”

  “The exact nature of our governmental relationship is a bit hazy and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.”

  She looked at his chin for several moments, then met his very pale eyes. “What do you think about all this?” she asked hesitantly. “The business of the crown?”

  “It has made your grandfather slightly less reluctant to allow me to wed you. He told me so himself this morning. The rest of it requires sitting down.” He pulled away and took her hand. “That chair over there looks big enough for two, if we’re friendly.”

  “You’ve said that before in another place.”

  “It was worth repeating here.”

  She smiled in spite of herself, then allowed him to lead her over to a very comfortable chair that was indeed large enough for them both. He pulled Mehar’s knife out of her boot and laid it on the table next to him, then took off her boots and put his hand over her feet. Then he took a deep breath.

  “I didn’t expect this,” he began slowly, “which I’m sure you know. I had hoped to make the best of what I was certain would be Adhémar’s very long reign, then happily leave Tor Neroche behind. I planned to find a lovely spot to build you a sturdy house, with a training field in the back and a stable big enough for mares to keep Fleòd and Luath company and house their descendants. I had then intended that we should live out the rest of our very long lives in peace.”

  “And now?”

  “We’ll still do that last bit,” he said, “but I think our lives may be rather more taxing before we reach that point.”

  She nodded, then sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. She felt him unbraid her hair, then drag his fingers through it slowly.

  “Miach?” she said finally.

  “Aye, love.”

  She chewed on her next words for a bit. “Are you frightened?”

  “Terrified,” he admitted with an uneasy laugh. “You?”

  “The same.”

  He smoothed his hand over her hair. “But you’ll stay?”

  “I fear I won’t make a very good queen.” She paused, then looked at her hand resting on his chest. “Perhaps I should start by having a bath.”

  He laughed in a merry way that made her eyes burn in spite of herself.

  “I love you,” he said with feeling. “Morgan, I . . .” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know how I could possibly manage this without you.”

  “You just want someone to sneak out the back door and fly with you.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, smiling at her. “That and so much more.” He leaned closer to her. “Stay.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him unflinchingly. “I don’t truly think I could have brought myself to leave you.”

  He kissed her for her trouble. Well, that at least was something familiar in a swirling sea of things she didn’t recognize and wasn’t sure how to best. Then again, that wasn’t anything different from her condition over the past six months, so perhaps she had nothing to complain about.

  “Your mind is wandering,” Miach murmured against her mouth. “Daydreaming about the joys of endless state dinners?”

  She smiled and put her arms around his neck. “I was actually thinking about how you are truly the only thing constant and beloved in my life.”

  He caught his breath just a bit, then pulled her close and made quite substantial inroads into what she assumed was a reward for something approximating a term of affection.

  It was quite a while later when a throat cleared itself quite uncomfortably from the doorway. Morgan lifted her head and peered blearily in that direction to find one of the king’s pages standing there, shifting nervously. She looked at Miach.

  “It’s for you.”

  Miach sighed lightly, then shifted a bit so he could turn and look at the door. “Aye?”

  “Prince Mochriadhemiach,” the lad said, bowing several times, “they call for you.”

  Miach looked at Morgan. “And so it begins.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “ ’Tis Adhémar’s funeral today,” he said quietly. “They would like to crown me tomorrow.”

  “So quickly?” she asked in surprise.

  “I don’t think anyone thought Adhémar would come back, so they’ve been preparing just in case. All is ready save the king’s wardrobe. I fear t
he seamstresses are busily adjusting clothes they had intended to fit Cathar.”

  “Oh, Miach,” she said with a wince. “How is your brother taking all this?”

  “With vast quantities of relief and ale.” Miach looked over his shoulder. “Run along, Peter, and tell them I’ll follow in a minute or two.”

  “Aye, Your Highness.” The lad smiled, bowed, and fled.

  Miach turned back to her. “Where was I?”

  “About to be late to a funeral,” she said seriously.

  “They’ll wait.”

  Morgan shivered as Miach pulled her to him, buried his hand in her hair, and kissed her again.

  Heaven help them, he was going to be more than a little late.

  “When is this wedding?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Probably not soon enough,” she said honestly.

  He laughed, buried his face in her hair, and held her tightly. “I agree. I’ll talk to your grandfather about it later. “ He pulled back and smiled at her. “I should go.”

  “I can’t get up until you let me go.”

  He laughed uneasily. “I’m having a hard time with that.”

  She threw her arms around his neck again and hugged him tightly. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” He held her for another minute or two, then reached for her boots and put them on her feet. He handed her Mehar’s knife. “I think I may need to sit with my brothers today, out of respect—”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said quickly.

  “You might be, but I won’t. After the funeral, I will convince Sìle to give you to me formally, in front of witnesses.” He paused. “It might be a little unpleasant then for a moment or two. Actually, it might be rather unpleasant until then.”

  She shrugged. “If I can’t face a gaggle of spoiled princesses, then I don’t deserve the mark above my brow.” She crawled off his lap and held down her hands for him. “You are going to be late if you don’t go now.”

  He stood, put out the fire with a word, then took her hand and pulled her toward the door. “Want to fly after supper?”

  “Please.”

  He hesitated, then turned and pulled her into his arms again. Morgan rested there happily until she heard someone from below calling both their names. She frowned. “Am I hearing things?”

  “I think it’s your grandfather. He’ll come find us if we don’t go now.” He took her hand. “Let’s be about this day of grief and have it over with. I think we may both wish for a bit of freedom tonight more than we realize now.”

  She nodded, then walked with him out of the solar and down the stairs. Sìle was indeed waiting for them in the passageway below. He looked at Miach with a scowl.

  “Your ministers are prowling the passageways looking for you. I threw them off the scent, but I think they’ll hunt you down eventually. I’ll keep Mhorghain safe if you want to try to outrun them.”

  Miach made Sìle a very low bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for the head start.” He leaned over and kissed Morgan on the cheek. “Meet me after supper on the battlements.”

  “She most certainly will not,” Sìle growled. “I know what it is you want to do with her, and I’m telling you for the final time that elves do not shapechange!”

  Morgan watched Miach laugh, then wink at her before he left at a trot. She smiled, then looked up at her grandfather and felt her smile falter.

  “How do you fare, my liege?” she asked. “And how is Grandmother?”

  He sighed as he drew her arm through his and started down the passageway with her. “I grieve for Keir and for Sosar and for all those who were touched by Lothar’s evil, as does she. But we also credit you and your lad for having ended that evil, at least for your generation.” He paused, then smiled briefly. “He’s a good boy, Mhorghain. I won’t complain too loudly at your wedding, though I am going to have a very stern discussion with him before the fact about what elven princesses do and do not do. He will not be leaping off the battlements at Seanagarra with you.”

  “Grandfather, you don’t have battlements at Seanagarra.”

  “See?” he said pleasantly. “Already I feel better about this marriage. I’ll feel even better about it after I offer young Miach a few more pieces of advice about the proper way to run a kingdom.”

  “I’m sure he would be grateful for them.”

  Her grandfather looked at her narrowly, as if he weren’t sure if she jested or not, then he apparently decided she’d been in earnest. He harrumphed in pleasure and continued down the passageway with her. Morgan found it much easier to bear the grandeur of Tor Neroche when she was distracted by family.

  But after her grandfather left, she would have Miach and he was much more likely to tramp about with mud on his boots than her grandfather was.

  She took a very deep breath. This wasn’t what she’d expected for herself, but that was nothing new. Miach hadn’t expected it either. Was it any more difficult to accept her heritage as a princess of Tòrr Dòrainn than it would be to think of herself as the queen of Neroche?

  She hesitated, then shook her head. It was better not to think on it.

  We’ll take our crowns off and be just Morgan and Miach.

  She held onto that thought with all her strength. It was, she was quite sure, all that would get her through the next few days.

  Not to mention the rest of her life.

  Twenty-two

  Miach sat in front of his fire in his tower chamber, finished with his spells of defense for the moment. He leaned his head back carefully against his chair and remained still with his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath. It had been a very long day, though he supposed he couldn’t have expected anything else. Funerals were actually quite rare in the house of Neroche, for which he was rather grateful, but they tended to drag on. It was fitting, though, that the day just passed had been full of last tributes to a king. Miach had been very relieved to have Cathar be the one receiving condolences from emissaries from other countries. It had been enough to endure the drove of prospective fathers-in-law who had wanted to pull him aside for a bit of a chat about the undeniable merits of their particular daughters.

  He had tried to politely alert them to the fact that he was already betrothed, but he’d been told more than once that until Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn had been seen to actually hand over his beloved granddaughter in front of a very large audience, Miach wasn’t going to be believed. When he’d discussed with Sìle the possibility of that happening sooner rather than later, the elven king had vowed that he wouldn’t be handing anything over until after Miach had a very large crown atop his head.

  Miach had shown Sìle the runes about his wrist, but that had availed him nothing. Suggesting that he and Morgan might be better off eloping hadn’t improved the discussion any.

  He’d also wanted to fly with Morgan after supper, but he’d walked out of the great hall and into a collection of ministers who were convinced the future of the realm depended on speech precisely at that moment.

  He had decided right then that things were going to run a bit differently when—and if—Cathar actually managed to get that crown on his head.

  He would have insisted that such change begin then and there, but Peter had slipped up to his side and tugged on his sleeve. Miach had bent down to have Peter whisper in his ear that a certain mercenary gel thought he should send his ministers to bed and go there himself, then she would meet him on the roof before breakfast if he liked.

  Miach had conjured up a lovely handkerchief, handed it Peter, and sent him back with an aye to the plan for the morning. He’d then done just as Morgan had suggested. He’d sent everyone to bed for a decent night’s sleep, then retreated to his tower chamber to carry on with his usual tasks.

  And now that those were seen to, he had other things to think on. The well was shut, Lothar was tucked safely in Gobhann, but there were still the questions of what to do with Lothar’s kin and how best to rid the realm of Lothar’s monsters that were still at liberty. Perh
aps all he could do with Lothar’s sons and their sons was to wall them into Riamh with spells they couldn’t break through until he could bring himself to either slay them or wring promises from them that they would turn away from Lothar’s path.

  And given what he was sure would be the response to the latter, he supposed they wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

  The second problem was easier to solve. He had to rid the realm of Lothar’s creatures as quickly as possible. He couldn’t leave his people to face those horrors when there was aught he could do to prevent it.

  He sighed, then opened his eyes. He jumped in spite of himself at the sight of his now eldest brother sitting in the chair across from him. Cathar reached down and picked up a mug of ale to hand to him.

  “Thought you might need this.”

  Miach accepted it gratefully, drank, then wrapped his hands around the cup. “Been here long?”

  “About an hour.”

  “You’re always here about an hour.”

  Cathar smiled. “I lose track of time. I thought you might want a bit of company.”

  “Or a guard?”

  Cathar shrugged. “That never hurts either.”

  Miach studied his brother. “Are you sorry about all this?”

  “I’m thrilled,” Cathar said without hesitation. “Rigaud is another tale entirely, but if you were to make him the minister of something important—like the silk trade with Sròl—he might forgive you for something you had no control over.”

  Miach looked down into his ale for a moment or two, then at his brother. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.”

  “Bloody hell, Miach, didn’t I just say as much?” Cathar said with a snort. “I know I spent more time worrying about my potential place in the succession than I did what horrors Adhémar was enduring in Riamh that whole damned time. I can’t imagine you wouldn’t have done the same in my place.” He shook his head. “Nay, I was delighted to see that mantle fall on you. You’ll make a fabulous king. I’ll happily stand behind you and keep Rigaud from slipping a knife between your ribs.”