Princess of the Sword

  The garden was open to the sky, for what that was worth. The sunlight that fell down through the bare trees wasn’t what shone on other parts of the world, of that Miach was certain. It was viewed through a filter of Droch’s magic, a filter that rendered it unpleasant, garish, and somehow completely without warmth.

  “Vile,” Sosar breathed.

  Miach agreed, but he didn’t say as much. He squeezed Morgan’s arm briefly, then stepped out into the garden. There was a life-sized chessboard there to one side, built from alternating slabs of black and gray marble. Miach looked at Droch.

  “Chess?”

  “If you dare,” Droch snarled.

  Miach shrugged with a casualness he didn’t feel. “Whatever suits you. Are there pieces, or are we to man the board ourselves?”

  “You could use your servant as one,” Droch suggested. “Or your brother.”

  “No, thank you,” Miach said without hesitation. “I value the first’s ability to shine my boots and the latter’s to sharpen my sword.”

  “Then I’ll provide the players,” Droch said. He gestured and his servant ran across the chessboard and over to doors set into a rock wall. The lad opened those heavy wooden doors, then stepped back.

  Miach could scarce believe his eyes.

  Chess pieces, pieces that were not only life-sized but terribly lifelike , shuffled out of the closet. He watched, openmouthed, as creatures who seemed human enough continued their slow, weary march onto the board. First came pieces dressed in black, then another contingent of players dressed in what might have been white at one time but was now a dingy gray that seemed a too-accurate reflection of the absolute bleakness of their souls.

  Miach waited until they’d taken their places, then he walked out onto the chessboard, feeling slightly dazed.

  He looked at the black players, but he could see instantly that if they had been alive before, they were that no longer. Their eyes were empty, their souls long since drained of anything that might have made them mortal.

  It was so shockingly reminiscent of what Lothar did with his captives that Miach thought he might be ill.

  He turned away and looked at his own warriors. He saw, to his horror, that they were most certainly not dead. They were encased in some sort of resin. They looked at him with a desperate hope that was difficult to behold. He rubbed his hands over his face, then went to examine each of the pieces in turn.

  The pawns, he realized immediately, were faeries from Siabhreach, trapped helplessly like butterflies inside a gray, granitelike prison. He took a deep breath, then approached each of them, looking into their eyes and willing them to trust him, hoping to gain their loyalty.

  When he had finished, he went in turn to each of the rooks, stewards of mighty keeps: the knights with their long, sharp swords: then the mages with their tall, pointed hats frozen along with them. Last, he paused before the king and queen and searched back through his own memory of tales and lore for who they might be.

  Uallach and Murdina of Faoin.

  The names came to him as if they’d been spoken aloud. A power-hungry and foolish pair who had traded what magic they had for spells that had seemed more . . . but hadn’t been.

  Olc was a seductive magic indeed.

  The king struggled to put his hand on his sword, but failed. He looked at Miach, his expression one of utter defeat.

  Miach reached up and put his hand on the king’s ice-cold shoulder. “Your Grace,” he began helplessly. He cast about for something to say, but found nothing of substance. He finally merely inclined his head, then turned and looked for Droch.

  Droch was standing next to his own king, smiling coldly. “Have you sufficient courage gathered, young one?”

  “Almost.” Miach gestured to his pieces. “What happens to them if I lose?”

  “I take more of their souls and they continue on their relentless journey toward black,” Droch said. “And I’ll see that you join their ranks—after I’ve had your confession.” He smiled. “I think an archmage would make a particularly fine acquisition, don’t you? Instead of your death for trespassing, I’ll have you forever tucked away in my closet, where I might pull you forth now and again and admire you.”

  Miach suppressed the urge to close his eyes. He had no doubt Droch would do just that. He wasn’t afraid of death—indeed, he’d come within a breath of it not a fortnight before—but he was very afraid of leaving Morgan alone. She was skilled and courageous, but there were things that hunted her, things that might catch her unawares and carry her where she didn’t want to go. Given that he knew where that place was and what she would face, he was particularly interested in making sure she didn’t find herself there.

  And he had to admit that he wanted to believe that in some small way she might miss him.

  He was so tempted to turn, reach for her hand, and pull her up into the sky with him, he could hardly stop himself from doing just that. But if he looked at her, Droch might suspect she meant something to him and then who knew what mischief he would combine against her. As much as Miach wanted to tell her once more that he loved her, he knew he couldn’t. He simply took a deep breath and looked at Droch.

  “What now?”

  “Your move.”

  Miach nodded, walked over to one of those beautiful faeries from Siabhreach, and asked her politely to step forward. He could almost see the imperceptible flutter of her wings as she attempted it. In the end, he had to help her step across the boundary from gray to black and back to gray again.

  The moment she did, all hell broke loose.

  It was as if someone had taken an ordinary game of chess, tossed it into a whirlwind, and bombarded it with spells of all varieties coming from all sides at once. It was pieces and spells and strategy; it was war, only compressed, bloody, unrelenting, exhausting.

  And Droch was very good at it.

  Miach lost half his pieces before he understood the threat he faced and managed to get his feet underneath him. He almost cost himself the game at first by his reticence. He realized all too quickly that it was either fight to win, fight to the death and disregard the pieces of Droch’s he’d captured that were now lying lifeless on the side of the board, or lose the game and find himself as one of them.

  He sought to out-finesse Droch, but the man was like a sledgehammer, ruthlessly smashing through defenses, obliterating pieces in his way as if he had no interest in how or where they were won or lost. Miach dug deep for every strategy his father had taught him over countless games of chess in the family’s private gathering chamber at Tor Neroche, considered the things he’d learned in his own life, even searched through his memories of that year spent in Lothar’s dungeon for something underhanded and foul to use as an honorless gambit.

  All it won him was finding himself with two bloodied, exhausted mages defending his king. He watched in desperation as the trap Droch had laid for him began to close.

  And then he realized that it wasn’t the attack from Droch’s knight that he had to worry about.

  It was from Droch himself.

  Miach found himself being bound, just as the pieces had been. He stood there, already half frozen next to his king, and searched frantically for a spell of Olc to counter it. He knew more of that magic than he cared to think about, had walked in many very unpleasant places to learn it, had paid his own share of peace for the spells he knew.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised that none of it served him now.

  He wondered with a growing feeling of fury just what Droch was using on him. It wasn’t Olc, or Wexham, or half a dozen other things he could have easily identified. It was something he’d never encountered before, a slow but relentless piece of magic that surrounded him, leaving him more unable to draw breath each time he exhaled. Fighting it, even knowing how to fight it was almost impossible. In desperation, he continued to try spell after spell, all with the same result. He turned his head to look at his king.

  There was pity in the old man’s eyes. Pity and f
ear.

  Miach heard himself crackle as he turned back to look at Droch. He could hear Sosar shouting at Droch and Droch bellowing for Sosar to mind his own bloody business. Miach saw, out of the corner of his eye, spells go flying over his head from both sides of the board. Olc and Fadaire mingled in the putrid air, becoming something ugly and rancid. For himself, Miach found that he couldn’t shout at all. He could scarcely breathe.

  And still the spell hardened around him.

  He realized that time was indeed running out for him. And all for a bloody ridiculous game of chess where he’d been too stupid to recognize where the true danger lay. He would have shaken his head, but that was now quite impossible, so instead, he did what he’d done countless times in places where he’d been out of his depth: he took the best breath he could and stilled his mind. He calmly and very deliberately gave thought to the tangle and how he might best unravel it.

  Almost without thinking, he put his hand on the simplest spell of binding he could, something a village sorcerer would have taught an apprentice on the first day.

  And then he reversed it.

  Nothing happened. He started to repeat the words, then he noticed a tiny crack appearing in Droch’s spell. It took rather longer than he would have liked for that crack to deepen, but once it had, there was no stopping the damage. Fractures in Droch’s spell raced from Miach’s initial break outward so quickly, Miach couldn’t follow them. He caught sight of Droch’s expression of shock as his spell shattered right there in front of him—in spite of his efforts to stop it.

  And whilst Droch was otherwise occupied, Miach leapt forward and shoved one of his mages, sending him skidding to a halt just out of reach of the black king. The black king crackled loudly as he turned his head to look back over his shoulder along the same gray diagonal the white mage now threatened. His steward stood behind him, frozen in place, wearing a look of horror on his face. There was now no escape for either of them.

  Miach leaned over with his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. He lifted his head and saw Droch gaping in surprise at his king who was now in check. The game was now over except for final formalities.

  Droch reached out suddenly and tore the sword from his knight’s scabbard. He thrust it through his own king’s heart with a vicious curse.

  The black king fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Then he looked up at Miach.

  His soulless eyes were full of tears.

  Miach suspected those were tears of relief. He watched as Droch’s king fell over onto the board. Droch jerked the sword free, then glared at Miach. Miach straightened.

  “An hour,” he said, drawing in a great lungful of air and not feeling the least bit inclined to complain about the sour taste of it.

  Droch crossed the board, kicking one of his dead pawns out of the way, and stopped just in front of Miach.

  “Someday,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Someday, Mochriadhemiach, you will find yourself alone, perhaps unwell, perhaps careless. You will find things do not go so well for you then.”

  Miach inclined his head just the slightest bit. “I’m certain you would be grieved at such a day.”

  Droch looked around Miach and glared at a lad standing nervously nearby. “One hour. You mark the time and mark it well, else you’ll answer to me.” He turned back to Miach. “I won’t forget this.”

  Miach imagined he wouldn’t. He watched Droch spin on his heel and stalk off, then looked at the carnage around him. He walked over to the black king. He was no longer frozen, but he was most certainly dead. The rest of the black pieces lay on the ground, lifeless. Perhaps there had never been any hope for them. Miach turned to look at his own king. The man looked about himself, as if he’d just woken from a terrible nightmare. He flexed his fingers, then swung his arms a bit. His gaze came to rest on Miach and he frowned.

  “Who are you, lad?”

  Miach walked over to him and made him a low bow. “Mochriadhemiach of Neroche, Your Majesty.”

  “I have you to thank for my life, apparently.”

  Miach managed a weary smile. “Nay, King Uallach, you fought well, as did your men. And your queen.”

  Uallach looked at him. “You know me?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. Your fame extends far beyond the bounds of your own land.”

  The king harrumphed a bit in pleasure, clapped a hand on Miach’s shoulder, then went to gather his queen back up to her feet from where she lay sprawled on the grass. Queen Murdina looked as dazed as her husband did. Once she had gotten her bearings, she went into her husband’s arms and wept. Miach left them to it because he understood. He was damned tempted to weep himself.

  He would have searched for Morgan but his way was blocked by the mages who had glided over to stand in front of him. Miach didn’t know either of them, but he was the first to admit he didn’t spend enough time in Buidseachd to know who was who.

  “You look like Gilraehen of Neroche,” the mage on the left said.

  The mage on the right shook his head. “Nay, Anghmar of Neroche,” he insisted. He frowned at Miach. “You a relation?”

  Miach smiled. “I might be.”

  The man frowned. “I heard a rumor he was slain, rescuing one of his witless sons from the dungeon at Riamh.”

  “The son was indeed witless,” Miach agreed, unoffended, “and he was indeed rescued. And aye, his father the king died as a result. His mother too, unfortunately.”

  The man on the right clapped a hand on Miach’s shoulder. “You’re not a bad chessman, lad. Fine command of magic for being a simple village brat.”

  “He didn’t say he was a simple village brat,” the other mage said, drawing the first aside. “He said he might be kin to the king of Neroche—the late king, rather.” He shot Miach a look. “Perhaps a cousin. Let’s go nose about in the library and see if we can find his name.”

  “They won’t let us in the library any longer. Not after the last time.”

  “That was decades ago. Surely they’ve forgotten by now. And if not, we’ll feign hunger and sit on the bench by the door. You make a great production of calling for food, whilst I sneak off to look for books of Nerochian genealogy to filch.”

  Miach watched them go, then turned to see if Morgan was standing, sitting, or waiting for him to come closer so she could stab him. He’d barely caught sight of her when his line of sight was obscured by a flurry of wings. Eight giggling, fluttering, very silly faeries were crowding around him, touching his hands, his hair, his face, and, heaven help him, fighting over who would be the one to kiss him first.

  He wondered if it would be impolite to bolt.

  He managed to catch sight of Sosar, who was only standing there laughing at him.

  “Help!” Miach called.

  Sosar put his arm around Morgan’s shoulders. “I believe I have my hands full here.”

  Miach looked desperately about for Turah, but his brother was only smirking as well. Even Sìle was smiling just the slightest bit. He would have shot the king a pleading look, but he was borne to the ground and overcome before he could.

  And he thought he’d survived the most dangerous part of the afternoon.

  Five

  Morgan wished, not for the first time that day, that she’d had her sword. She wasn’t sure on whom she would have used it first: Sosar or Miach. Well, perhaps not on Miach. He couldn’t help the fact that he was currently under assault. Her uncle, however, could most certainly have helped his unnecessary mirth. It was levity sorely misplaced after what they’d just watched. She glared at him, then turned to see how Turah was taking the events of the day.

  He looked as gray as she felt, though he seemingly managed a smile in spite of it. “Well,” he said, “that’s done.”

  “Your brother takes terrible risks,” she managed.

  “He always has. Perhaps you should talk to him about it.”

  “I’ve tried, but he ignores me.” She took a deep breath. “I need a chair.”

  “S
o do I. And since you’re Miach’s servant, why don’t you be a love and run fetch us one?”

  She looked up at him in surprise only to have him wink at her. She wasn’t sure she knew him well enough to do damage to him, but thought an elbow to his ribs wasn’t anything more than he deserved. He laughed weakly.

  “I can see you’re not inclined to do any fetching,” he said, “so perhaps we’ll just soldier on as best we can until Miach is finished with his, er, business there. I don’t suppose you’d want to hurry him along, would you?”

  “Aye,” Sosar agreed. “I should think you would want to rush over and defend your lord’s abused honor. Those lassies are notoriously . . . well, they’re notorious.”

  Morgan gave them both looks of warning that they should have taken more seriously, then turned back to the spectacle in front of her. Was it not enough that she’d spent the past half hour wondering how she could possibly save Miach before he was killed; now she had to watch him be fawned over by half a dozen truly lovely women?

  “Faeries,” Sosar corrected. “And there are eight of them.”

  “Are you reading my thoughts now, my lord?” she asked shortly.

  “You’re muttering.”

  She didn’t want to think about where she’d learned that bad habit, but she suspected it might have been from Miach, who had learned it from Adhémar. Reason enough not to investigate any further.

  She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together under her cloak where no one would be able to watch them tremble. It had nothing to do with the faeries; it had everything to do with the battle she’d just witnessed. She wasn’t terribly fond of chess. She’d played it with Weger to humor him, and bested him a respectable number of times, but she far preferred to be out on the battlefield instead of merely playing at it.

  The speed of the game had been swift, the battle ruthless, and the outcome far from certain. Indeed, the entire thing had come about too swiftly for her to decide what, if anything, she could do to be helpful. She wouldn’t soon forget the sight of Miach becoming increasingly bound by Droch’s spell.