Princess of the Sword

  She tried to distract herself with the sight in front of her, but that was no better. The faeries had now formed a very ladylike, sedate line in front of Miach, who had managed to get back to his feet without help.

  Well, the faeries were sedate until the first of them took what was apparently more time than she was allowed. All-out war ensued with pauses only for one faery to shove another of their ranks aside and take her place immediately in front of the hapless archmage of Neroche.

  Morgan wondered, absently, just what they were. Some species of elf, perhaps, though they were not so unrelentingly beautiful as her relatives were. These creatures were alluring in an entirely different way, as if they’d been flowers that were so sweetly luscious that any bee with sense wouldn’t have passed them by.

  And damn them all if they weren’t still fighting each other to be the one closest to Miach. They hovered behind him, in front of him, on either side of him, their gossamer wings fluttering coquettishly.

  Morgan gritted her teeth and wondered if this was indeed what jealousy felt like.

  The only thing that eased her any was how profoundly uncomfortable Miach looked. He was very red in the face and looked pathetically grateful when the knights who had fought for him demanded their own turn. After those goodly lads had discussed the battle to their satisfaction, the stewards took a turn. The faeries began to murmur unhappily. Apparently discussions of strategy that didn’t involve how to get themselves as close to the exceptionally handsome prince of Neroche as possible didn’t interest the ladies much. They fluttered off, disappointed and disgruntled. In time, the rest of the players wandered off as well.

  Miach rubbed his hands over his face, then heaved a sigh and walked over to where they stood near the wall. He stopped in front of her.

  “How are you?” he ventured.

  “Unkissed,” she said tartly. “Not that you find yourself in a similar situation.”

  He laughed uneasily. “I would see to remedying that for you if I could, but perhaps later, when we’ve a bit of privacy.” His smile faded. “That was unpleasant.”

  “I will be happy to see the last of this place,” she whispered. “I’m sorry we came.”

  “Reserve judgment for another hour,” he said. “We might just find what we need, then we’ll count the journey worth it.” He looked at their companions. “Thank you all for staying.”

  Sìle grunted. “What a disgusting display from that reprehensible mage.” He paused. “I will allow that you did well.”

  Miach made Sìle a bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking—”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Morgan interrupted shortly, certain that was what he intended. “No discussion.”

  “I’ll come keep watch over her,” Sosar offered. “Father, perhaps you and Turah might distract a few souls and provide Miach with an extra measure of privacy.”

  Morgan watched her grandfather consider, then nod briskly.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “We’ll be off and see to a few things of a more clandestine nature, if Prince Turah manages to keep his mouth shut for a change.” He took Turah by the scruff of the neck and pulled him away. “Come with me, young one, and let me teach you a bit about not answering questions you don’t care to. Your mother was a master at it. Did you learn nothing at her knee?”

  Morgan would have smiled at the look of panic Turah threw them over his shoulder before he was dragged off, but she was still standing in a garden full of vile spells and all she had the strength for was to hope she could stumble out of them.

  The servant Droch had spoken to made Miach a bow, then turned and walked off as if he expected to be followed. She was quite happy to do so, simply because it meant she could leave Droch’s garden behind her. She would be long in forgetting the sight of the chess pieces still lying motionless on the board behind them.

  “Who were those people?” she asked Miach quietly as they walked through passageways that were only slightly less unpleasant than the garden had been.

  “Kings ensnared by a lust for power, queens ensnared by the desire for riches, knights wishing for something extra in battle to impress those who might want to hire them. They went looking for those things in places they shouldn’t have.” He shrugged. “Olc can be a very seductive magic. Once a mage who had no bloodright to it realizes how much of his soul the learning of it costs, the price has been paid and he is too enamored of the power it gives him to try to pull away.”

  “Like Gair?” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he said, just as softly. “Like Gair. Droch has a right to it, so it hasn’t killed so much of his soul. Then again, I daresay he didn’t have much of a soul to start with.”

  She frowned. “Then why did the faeries find themselves trapped? Surely they weren’t interested in power.”

  He smiled. “They’re lovely, but not very smart. They were most likely just caught with a net.”

  She bumped him companionably with her shoulder. “You are a dreadful man.”

  “I’m still blushing.”

  “I don’t know that I’ve seen you blush before when kissed.”

  “Given that you have your eyes closed most of the time when we’re about that pleasant activity, I daresay you don’t know what I do, do you?”

  She wanted to smile, but they were walking along passageways that were suddenly all too familiar, and she couldn’t. She swallowed, hard. “I’m so sorry you’re going in there.”

  “I’ve been in worse places,” he said easily. He shot her a quick look. “Thank you for waiting for me, though. I daresay it will help.”

  “You can thank me later.”

  “I will, when I can burst into tears safely away from prying eyes.” He took a deep breath, then stopped. “Here we are.”

  Morgan realized he was right. Her uncle shuddered visibly as they stopped in front of Droch’s door. She watched their guide pull an hourglass from his pocket, look at Miach, then set the glass on the floor.

  “One hour, Archmage of Neroche.”

  Miach nodded, looked at Morgan again, then walked into the chamber and shut the door behind him. Morgan leaned back against the wall and wished for the comforting chill of her swordhilt beneath her hand, not the horrible, bone-numbing bitterness that seemed to freeze more than just her body. She hadn’t noticed it the night before—perhaps she’d been too terrified to—but Olc’s darkness seemed to not only chill her form, it began to work on her mind as well. Unreasonable fears assaulted her, fears of things that lurked in shadows in the depth of night when there was no light to drive them away.

  She took a deep breath, then looked around Sosar at the glass on the floor. Unfortunately, only a barely discernable amount of time had passed.

  She looked up at her uncle, but his eyes were closed and he was breathing very carefully. Perhaps he was walking in the garden at Seanagarra where songs of Fadaire whispered through the leaves and his father’s spells kept the worst of winter away.

  She closed her eyes to attempt the same thing, but once she did, she was immediately assaulted by visions of the serpents she’d seen inside Droch’s chamber the night before. No aid from that quarter. She opened her eyes and looked about her for some other, less evil distraction.

  She found it in the person of the tall man who was walking down the passageway toward them, looking for all the world as if he too strolled peacefully in Seanagarra’s pleasant gardens. She elbowed Sosar, and he opened his eyes reluctantly. He looked, then smiled at the ageless man who stopped in front of him.

  “Master Soilléir,” Sosar said, inclining his head, “I didn’t have the chance to greet you properly at luncheon today.”

  Master Soilléir made him a very low bow. “Not to worry, Prince Sosar. The circumstances there were less than ideal. Tell me, how long has it been since last we met?”

  “Three,” Sosar began, squinting up at the ceiling, “perhaps four hundred years?”

  “Too long,” Soilléir said without a hi
nt of irony. He turned to her and held out his hand. “I’m Léir,” he said simply. “And you are . . . ?”

  She took his hand in a firm grip and answered before she thought better of it. “The archmage’s servant.” She made what she hoped was a gruff, manly noise as she pulled her hand back and tucked it into her sleeve. “Buck.”

  Soilléir only looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “Indeed, Buck. I thought you were mute.”

  “It comes and goes.”

  He laughed. “I imagine it does—to your lord’s edification, no doubt. Would you mind if I kept vigil here with you and Prince Sosar?”

  Morgan shook her head. “I’m sure Miach—I mean, my lord Mochriadhemiach—would appreciate it.”

  Soilléir gave no indication of having marked her slip. He merely leaned against the wall next to her and folded his arms over his chest. He looked around her now and again, as if he checked the hourglass as well, but said nothing more. Morgan didn’t want to credit him with more sterling qualities than he deserved, but she had the feeling he was just as interested in keeping Miach safe as she and Sosar were.

  The hour passed with excruciating slowness. Morgan tried not to think about what Miach might be finding, or—worse still—not finding. She had no choice but to believe he had been in more terrible places than Droch’s solar, but that was of little comfort.

  And still the sand dropped one grain at a time.

  Droch appeared precisely as the last grain fell. He pushed the servant out of the way, then threw open his door as if he expected Miach to be plundering his coffers. Morgan saw Miach standing just inside the door, as if he’d been preparing to come out. She knew this because in the scuffle, she’d moved to stand where she might most advantageously fling her knives into Droch’s back if he tried anything untoward.

  Droch shoved Miach aside roughly, then strode inside his chamber. Miach said nothing. He simply came out into the passageway and pulled the door shut behind him. He leaned back against the wall, his face ashen.

  Soilléir walked over to speak to the servant, who had picked up the hourglass. “I’ll be the archmage’s escort from here, my friend. Thank you for your service to him.”

  The lad nodded, shot Miach an uneasy look, then hurried away. Soilléir turned to Sosar. “I’ll take him to my solar for a bit of peace. You’re welcome to come as well, if it pleases you.”

  Sosar smiled. “I imagine I should go make certain my father isn’t trying to discover ways to undermine the foundations of the keep.”

  Morgan might have laughed, but she supposed such a thing wasn’t beneath her grandfather. Soilléir seemed to find it humorous enough, though, for he laughed and clapped a companionable hand on Sosar’s shoulder.

  “I’m sure Master Ceannard would appreciate that. Perhaps your father will have finished with his explorations by supper. I’ll have it prepared in my chambers and send for you then, shall I?”

  “That would be lovely,” Sosar agreed. He looked at Miach. “Be well, Miach. And you, Buck, be a good lad and do just as your master tells you.”

  Morgan cursed her uncle under her breath, then resheathed her knives and jumped forward just in time to catch Miach as he swayed. She drew his arm over her shoulders and put her arm around his waist.

  “Let me aid you.”

  “Nay,” Miach protested, “I am well.”

  “You’re a fool. Lean on me.”

  Master Soilléir sighed, then put himself on Miach’s other side, taking much of Miach’s weight on him. Miach didn’t protest, though Morgan supposed she should hold off on congratulating him on his show of sense given that he was having difficulty even standing. If they hadn’t been holding him up, he likely would have fallen on his face.

  “Let’s be off then, shall we?” Soilléir said easily, as if they were merely heading out for tea in the garden. “Down the passageway, Buck, and up the stairs. Miach, lad, one foot in front of the other.”

  Morgan was more grateful for the aid than she wanted to admit. Miach was much taller than she was and while he was lean, he was also quite heavy when not sailing fully under his own power, as it were. She took what of his weight Soilléir would accord her and was happy to listen to Soilléir speak of naught but meaningless gossip and useless political tidings as they made their way slowly down the passageway. The longer Miach walked, the less he trembled. Perhaps just being away from Droch’s lair was enough to restore him to himself.

  They wound their way through hallways and up flights of stairs until Soilléir stopped before a heavy wooden door. He opened it, then stood back to allow them to go inside first. Morgan only made it a handful of paces before she had to stop and stare.

  She was struck first by the sight of floor-to-ceiling windows along one side of the room. There was so much glorious light pouring into the chamber, it was difficult to take in.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Miach whispered.

  She nodded, because she couldn’t speak. She turned in all directions, looking at the windows, then walls covered with bookshelves, then at an enormous hearth set into the wall at the far end of the chamber. The chamber reminded her greatly of the gathering hall in Weger’s tower, but here there were the true luxuries of carpets on the floor and tapestries lining what walls weren’t already lined with books.

  And there was the light.

  It was exactly the sort of place she knew Miach would be comfortable in, somewhere where he could put his feet up on the furniture and talk about his turnip crop whilst being bathed in glorious daylight. She imagined, based on his surroundings, that Soilléir was that sort of man as well.

  A pair of very large dogs scrambled to their feet and raced across the chamber toward them, jumping first on their master, then turning to see about more interesting victims.

  Miach submitted to a thorough investigation of his person, but Morgan wasn’t so sure she wanted to. She patted the enormous dogs, then tried to shoo them surreptitiously away. It was an instruction they ignored entirely. She found, to her consternation, that the beasts were as determined to shadow her as she was Miach. Soilléir invited Miach to come sit in front of the fire. Morgan trailed along behind them because Soilléir nodded at her as well.

  Miach fell back to walk alongside her. “Will you be well here?” he murmured.

  “If the dogs fail in their plan to make a meal of me,” she said, “aye, I will be well enough.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps a rest would serve you. We’ll leave after supper, I promise.”

  “You are the one who could do with a rest,” she said, “though I’ll concede that you look better than you did a quarter hour ago.” She wanted to ask him what he’d found—if anything at all—but she couldn’t bring herself to. He looked a bit like a man who’d woken from a horrific nightmare only to find he hadn’t been dreaming.

  She walked with him to the hearth, then settled for a small stool near the fire where she could watch the door yet still hear whatever conversation might go on. She looked up as a hooded servant stepped forward and poured wine into cups for both his master and Miach. The bottle trembled as he did so, but it was obvious it wasn’t from any nervousness on his part. His hands, Morgan could see, were horribly scarred.

  She realized with a start that it was the man who had helped them the night before.

  She looked quickly at his face, but it was hidden too deeply in shadow for her to see his expression. He hadn’t lingered near Miach, nor had he leaned down to whisper in his master’s ear about Miach’s traitorous activities of the night before, so Morgan supposed all she could do was wait and see if he attempted anything foul.

  Miach didn’t seem concerned even though she had seen him mark the man’s hands as well. Perhaps he was also willing to wait and see what the rest of the afternoon would bring. He sat back in his chair and sighed in contentment.

  “Thank you,” he said to Soilléir.

  “First good breath of the day, eh, lad?” Soilléir said with an amused smile.

  “Actuall
y, it is,” Miach said. “I appreciate the peace to enjoy it.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Soilléir said. “And not just today, I suspect.”

  Morgan fingered the hilt of one of her daggers, because it made her feel more comfortable. She would have liked to have believed that they were safe, but they were still in a nest of mages and mages were unpredictable. There was no sense in not being prepared for the worst.

  “It was a taxing journey here,” Miach said, lifting his shoulder in a half shrug. “There is always a bit of weariness that follows such a journey, isn’t there?”

  Soilléir slid Miach a skeptical look. “You’re hedging, Mochriadhemiach, but I won’t press you until you look a bit less like you’ll sick up your lunch on my rug. Give me tidings instead. I’ve heard rumors about powerless swords, foul creatures roaming in places one wouldn’t expect, and archmages escaping death.”

  “Is that all?” Miach asked, smiling.

  “Of course not. I’ve heard all sorts of things about all sorts of other things. I’m just giving you an easy place to start.”

  Morgan imagined Miach appreciated that more than he cared to show. He humored Soilléir by giving a rather vague recounting of his activities in the fall, starting with his sending his brother the king on a quest to find a certain thing and finishing with his and Adhémar’s return to Tor Neroche. He made no mention of anyone who might or might not have been the wielder of the Sword of Angesand—or who might or might not have taken the Sword of Angesand and smashed it to bits against the king’s high table—and for that she was most grateful.

  “You were looking for a wielder for the Sword of Angesand?” Soilléir asked when Miach finished.

  Morgan pursed her lips. She had apparently begun to breathe easily a moment too soon.

  “I thought I might need the sword’s power,” Miach conceded, “since Lothar took Adhémar’s. I’ve come to the conclusion, though, that I can do without it at present.”

  “Has Adhémar regained his power, then?”

  “Nay,” Miach said slowly. “And worse still, he’s now captive in Lothar’s dungeon. He was fool enough to take his bride too near the border without a large enough guard. Not that any sized guard would have served him, I suppose.”