Or, rather, she had for the first pair of days until she found she remembered most of the spells on her own.
She was still trying to come to terms with that.
Miach had then presented her with the choice of learning more difficult spells of Camanaë or beginning her study of Fadaire. She chose the latter because she sensed that it amused him to know he was giving her something he shouldn’t know anything about. She’d asked him, at one point, how he’d learned those spells in truth. He’d said that, in addition to truly finding himself locked in King Sìle’s solar one night, one of Sìle’s grandsons had been particularly susceptible to bribery and that the masters at Beinn òrain really should keep better locks on their more perilous elvish texts. He did point out to her that he’d picked the lock on that particular book without any magic so they wouldn’t know who’d been at it.
She rather liked him for that, all things considered.
And so she’d learned what he taught her, a bit because it pleased him, but mostly because she was afraid not to. She told herself that the spells were nothing more than strictures, not unlike what she had learned at Weger’s. She suspected that as long as she considered them only that, she could bear to learn them.
Heaven help her if she ever had to use any of them.
She rolled over onto her belly and rested her chin on her fists where she could look at Miach sitting on a blanket, resting his forearms on his bent knees. He tossed a stick onto the fire, then smiled at her.
She smiled back, because she simply couldn’t help herself. She’d known from their journey north in the fall that Miach was a decent traveling companion, but this trip had been different. Perhaps it had been because she’d allowed herself to accept the small considerations he gave her as a matter of course. She’d stopped telling him she didn’t need help off her horse, that she could fetch her own water, that the cloak she had was sufficient to keep her warm and he could keep his. He was determined to treat her as something delicate and fine; she’d given up trying to convince him that she was anything else.
And she’d come to rely on finding him there when she woke from whatever brief sleep she’d had, on seeing him riding beside her, on having him tell her all manner of tales to keep her awake.
But what she’d come to realize perhaps most profoundly over the past eight days was that there was a depth of resilience to Miach that she’d never expected to find in anyone besides herself. She suspected that even when she had reached the limits of her endurance, Miach would be able to continue on. She didn’t want to find that comforting, but she couldn’t help it.
“Interesting thoughts?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just kind ones about you. I won’t repeat them, lest you blush, but I will tell you that you let me sleep too long. You should have taken a turn.”
He shrugged. “I’ll sleep in Seanagarra whilst you’re about the arduous task of meeting all your relatives.”
She ignored the flicker of unease that ran through her. “We aren’t close, are we?”
He smiled. “Not particularly. We’ve just passed the eastern border of Ainneamh. Seanagarra is half a day’s easy ride farther east still—or a full day’s quick walk.”
“But I thought Tòrr Dòrainn was part of Ainneamh.”
“A story perpetrated by the wishful-thinking elves of Ainneamh,” he said dryly. “Despite rumors to the contrary, it has always been its own country and we are right on its border. I fear, though, that we may reach the palace sooner than you’d care to. The horses seem determined to see us there.”
She twisted around to look behind her. There stood Fleòd and Luath, apparently quite ready to be going. She looked back at Miach. “Do you think they’re following Hearn’s instructions?”
“I imagine they are,” he said, “though I suspect it isn’t entirely altruistic on Hearn’s part. He just wants us back safely so we can see to his well and his garrison.”
“Would you mind?” she asked. “Going back again?”
“To Aherin?” he asked in surprise. “Of course not. Things seem to improve each time we do. This time you didn’t look at me once as if you wanted to stab me—though you did almost roll me out of the loft onto the floor.”
“You threw me in the hay.”
He laughed softly. “And so I did. I promise I won’t the next time we find ourselves there.” He smiled. “May that day come swiftly.”
She nodded, then watched him turn back to his contemplation of the fire. She waited for him to speak again, but he seemed content to merely sit there and watch the flames. He looked impossibly tired and she could understand. He’d stayed awake many times when he’d allowed her to sleep. Perhaps what he needed was to sleep for a pair of hours in that elvish palace up the way before they moved on. Surely spending any more time than that in a place where she would most certainly not find any relatives would be unnecessary.
Actually, maybe it would be best if they just continued on. She could ride behind Miach on Fleòd and hold on to him whilst he slept.
That sounded reasonable.
“Miach?”
He reached out and put his hand on her head without looking at her. “Aye?”
“I think we should keep going,” she said, cursing herself for the tremble in her voice. “The realm calls, doesn’t it?”
“I have business here as well, Morgan,” he said, amused. “A day or two won’t hurt.”
Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt him, but she couldn’t say the same for herself. It wasn’t every day she rode into an elven palace and presented herself to an elvish king as a long-lost granddaughter. That she should have the cheek to even consider such a thing was appalling. That she should intend to do the like and have the outcome be agreeable was yet more far-fetched. She would have begun to seriously doubt herself, but Miach and Nicholas were both so certain…and then there were her dreams.
Difficult to deny the last.
She felt Miach’s hand under her chin. He lifted her face up.
“Don’t worry.”
She didn’t bother to deny it. “I don’t like not knowing what to expect.”
“Which is why you’re so comfortable with me,” he said dryly.
“At least I know that given the choice, you’ll waggle your fingers—though you have resisted admirably over the past se’nnight. I have no idea what to expect from…well, from this business in front of us.” She found that her mouth was suddenly and quite appallingly dry. “I think we should just keep going.”
“You won’t regret this.” He smiled down at her. “Trust me.”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked crossly.
“It seems to have worked out well enough for you in the past, wouldn’t you say? Nay,” he said quickly with a half laugh, “don’t answer that. Instead, how would you like a brief distraction before we pack up and go?”
“What sort?” she asked, finding it in her to smile.
“The sort that I like best,” he said with an answering smile.
“Cards? Swords?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, leaning toward her.
Morgan closed her eyes.
But the kiss never came.
Morgan opened her eyes, ready to complain, then realized why Miach wasn’t moving.
There was a sword at his throat.
She looked up and saw that they were surrounded by a half dozen men. Miach straightened gingerly, then held up his hands.
“I have no blade,” he said easily.
The man holding the sword snorted. “As if you needed one, Prince Mochriadhemiach. Just remember I could slit your throat before you could spew out a spell.”
“Perhaps you could try, Dionadair, but my magic does not require any spewing,” Miach said evenly, “so slitting my throat would not serve you.”
Morgan blinked. She’d never heard anyone call Miach prince before. She had grown so accustomed to thinking of him as simply Miach that it was unpleasantly surprising.
She wondered, uneas
ily, what else would come as an unpleasant surprise.
She watched Miach sit perfectly still until the elf named Dionadair removed the sword from his throat. He rose without haste, then held down his hand. Morgan took it and scrambled to her feet with far less grace. She didn’t have a chance to say anything before Miach had quickly pulled her hood over her face and drawn her behind him.
Morgan was tempted to protest, but she supposed he had good reason for what he did. She was tempted to run and fling herself on that very fleet Angesand steed, but she supposed Miach knew that. He kept his hand on her arm until she took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. Then he squeezed her arm briefly and released her. She turned around so they stood back to back. At least she would make certain he didn’t find a blade plunged into his heart.
Unfortunately, turning around didn’t accomplish much past giving her a decent look at the men guarding her. She was rather glad her face was in shadow. It saved her from embarrassing herself by gaping at what were easily the most beautiful men she had ever seen—beautiful and terrible and glittering, as if they were come recently out of a dream. No wonder Miach was so mesmerizing to look at. Obviously whatever elven blood he possessed had come to the fore in him.
She paused. Did she look like that? To be sure, she hadn’t spent much time looking into a polished glass—indeed, she couldn’t remember the last time she had—but she was fairly sure that she hadn’t seen anything in herself that came close to resembling the beauty she was looking at.
She leaned back against Miach and fought the urge to weep in appreciation.
“Why are you inside King Sìle’s borders, Prince Archmage?” Dionadair asked coldly.
“I’m bringing His Majesty something he lost,” Miach said.
“Give it to me and I’ll see it delivered.”
“I fear I cannot,” Miach said calmly. “His Majesty can do with me what he wishes after the fact, but I will deliver this to him in person. With or without your escort, Dionadair,” he added.
“Is that so?” Dionadair said scornfully.
“Would you care to test it?”
Morgan had the presence of mind to note that Miach had that same edge to his voice that he’d used with Searbhe at Gobhann. Perhaps these elves would do well to heed it.
Then again, perhaps these lads didn’t care. She couldn’t imagine anyone daring to mar their perfection with any sort of blade.
Dionadair grunted finally. “Very well. We’ll see you there.”
It wasn’t an enthusiastically made offer, but perhaps she and Miach could expect no more. Morgan realized she’d been holding her breath only because she managed to let it out. She straightened and decided that her sword could remain safely in its sheath.
Then she realized her sword was over by the fire.
Truly, it had been a very trying year so far.
“We have Angesand steeds that need stabling,” Miach said. “You know what sorts of tales they’ll bear if they aren’t treated properly.”
A pair of the guardsmen abruptly deserted them to hasten over to the horses, where they stopped and made appreciative noises. Morgan watched another guardsman pick up their gear—including her sword—and carry it off. That left only three elves to escort them. Morgan supposed that if things deteriorated too quickly, she and Miach could easily see to them—swords or no swords.
Though she suspected that wouldn’t be the best way to introduce herself to the court.
Miach turned around and looked at her. “Follow my lead, I beg you,” he whispered.
“That wasn’t exactly a friendly welcome,” she whispered back. “They don’t seem happy to see us.”
“They’re not happy to see me.”
She frowned at him. “Why is it I’m beginning to think there are things we should have discussed before?”
“Because you’re as intelligent as you are beautiful. Just trust me.”
It was too late to do anything else. She tried to take his hand but he shot her a warning look. She scowled at him, but she supposed he knew best. She suspected she would have something to say about it later, though, when they weren’t being observed so intently.
The day marched on. They were allowed to drink from streams as they crossed them, permitted to forage in their saddlebags for the last crusts of bread they possessed, then led ever farther into a pine forest.
A forest like unto nothing she’d ever seen before.
She was beginning to feel even more like a provincial miss than she had when she’d first caught sight of Tor Neroche, terrible and impenetrable, so many months ago. As with that palace, here all she could do was stare, openmouthed, at what she saw.
The trees were laden with sparkling snow, the ground covered in a soft blanket of white that was clearer and more beautiful than she’d ever seen. The path was a dark brown, bare and easily trod, as if something otherworldly kept the snow away from it. She’d seen snow before, and walked in forests before, but here somehow everything was draped in some sort of shimmering magic that made it appear as if it had somehow just been thought of. The colors of needle and bark were so rich, she was tempted to just stand still and drink them in until she’d satisfied herself. The magic that made them so was exquisite.
It was also unsettlingly familiar.
In time, the deep pine-filled woods gave way to leafier, more musical trees. Morgan had scarce managed to decide if she understood the song or not before the trees parted and she saw the palace of Seanagarra.
She stumbled.
Miach caught her, steadied her, then released her. They continued on. At least Morgan thought she continued on. She felt like she was walking into a dream. It reminded her more of Chagailt than Tor Neroche, but even then, the comparison did not do Seanagarra justice. It shimmered with an enchantment that was so beautiful, so mesmerizing, so bewitching that she could not look away. She tried to find Miach’s hand, but he wouldn’t take hers. She tried to look at him, but she couldn’t see him for the haze clouding her vision.
“Miach, please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I can’t wake up.”
She felt his arm go around her shoulders immediately. He pulled her close.
“’Tis Sìle’s glamour,” he whispered in her ear.
“Do you see it?”
“Oh, aye,” he said ruefully. “Try not to heed it. It will pass once we reach his hall.”
Morgan nodded. She closed her eyes and let Miach keep her from falling on her face. It was better that way. She could still hear the shimmer of magic singing around her, but at least she didn’t have to look at it anymore.
It seemed to her that a great deal of time had passed, but perhaps not before Miach squeezed her shoulders, then released her. Morgan looked around her and found that they were inside the gates of the palace and it was sunset.
She walked with Miach over polished stone floors, through hallways covered with beautiful murals of gardens and forests, and finally to a set of heavy wooden doors that soared up into darkness above them that seemed to go forever and be filled with twinkling stars.
The doors opened. Morgan took a deep breath, then continued on with Miach into what she assumed was Sìle’s formal audience chamber. The floor was a pale marble, as were the pillars holding up an intricately carved ceiling. Morgan looked down to the end of the hall and saw the enormous throne there, carved of burnished dark wood.
A man, white-haired and majestic, sat on that throne. Morgan saw the substantial gold crown upon his head and supposed that it could only be Sìle. He was leaning back on his seat, tapping his foot impatiently, as if he’d been interrupted on his way to supper and wanted to have his duty over with so he might continue on to it.
The guards stopped them some twenty paces away from where the king sat, then stepped away, leaving her to stand there with just Miach. Miach made Sìle a very low bow. Morgan curtseyed awkwardly, just because she thought she should. She wished, absently, that she’d made a better job of it. The king’s expression was thunderou
s.
“Well?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
Miach bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for allowing us to come so far with such a distinguished guard. As always, your graciousness is legend—”
“Oh, be done with that,” Sìle snapped. “I don’t like mages, which you well know, Prince Mochriadhemiach, and I don’t like unexpected guests. Why are you here? Tell me quickly before my soup grows cold.”
Miach bowed yet again. Morgan was tempted to tell him to stop, but she knew nothing of the niceties that elves required. Perhaps Miach would have a backache before the audience was finished. He started to speak, but he was interrupted.
“He says he brought you something you lost, Your Grace,” Dionadair put in loudly. “I can’t imagine what that would be.”
“Neither can I,” Sìle growled. “Well? What is it? And who is that filthy urchin you have there?”
Morgan ran into Miach’s hand before she realized he had put it out to stop her. She supposed it wouldn’t serve her to fling her knife at the king, and she also suspected that she did look like a filthy urchin. She took a step backward and watched as Miach clasped his hands behind his back and made Sìle yet another low bow. He straightened.
“Your Grace,” he said slowly, “there is no easy way to prepare you for this.”
“Prepare me for what?” Sìle demanded. “If you’ve wasted my time, boy, I vow you’ll suffer for it.”
Morgan watched Miach as he turned to stand in front of her.
“Ready?” he whispered.
She closed her eyes briefly. “Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t. Here we go.” He carefully lifted her hood away from her face and set it back off her head onto her shoulders. Then he stepped aside.
Sìle’s gasp echoed in the hall.
Morgan watched as the king shot to his feet, then stumbled down the handful of steps from the dais to the floor. She was tempted to turn and flee, but she had passed much sterner tests than this.