Princess of the Sword (11 page)

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Authors: Lynn Kurland

BOOK: Princess of the Sword
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“What possessed you to go inside Weger’s gates?” Soilléir continued, turning to look at Miach. “Temporary madness?”
“Nay, I went in to fetch something.”
“Something?”
“Someone,” Miach amended.
“Curious.”
“Isn’t it, though.”
Morgan found that Soilléir was looking over his shoulder at her. She shifted uncomfortably before she could stop herself. She knew him to be the keeper of the spells of Caochladh, but somehow he didn’t look old enough to have mastered anything past the turning of a good row or two for spring planting. Then again, Miach had become archmage of Neroche at ten-and-four, so perhaps looks were deceiving. All she knew was that when Master Soilléir looked at her, she wanted to run lest he see too much.
He turned away, though, and began to speak with Miach of more inconsequential things. It seemed a very normal bit of business, sitting in front of a roaring fire and listening to the talk of men. She’d done it in Nicholas of Lismòr’s solar as a girl; she’d done it in Scrymgeour Weger’s gathering hall as a young woman and an adult. That she should find the same bit of normalcy in the midst of spells and wizardry should have alerted her to the fact that she was becoming far too comfortable in her untoward surroundings.
“Your servant bears Weger’s mark as well,” Soilléir said at one point.
Morgan clapped her hand over her forehead before she could stop herself and cursed silently. It was nothing more than she deserved for letting down her guard. Obviously he’d marked it earlier and chosen, for his own nefarious purposes, to discuss it only now.
She wondered, though, how he knew. Her face was too far in shadows for him to have seen anything that might or might not have resided over her left eyebrow.
“An interesting thing for a woman to have won,” Soilléir continued.
Morgan looked quickly at Miach, but he was quite obviously fighting a smile. She turned to Soilléir and frowned.
“What is it you think you know, good sir?” she demanded. “If I’m allowed to ask.”
“Likely more than you’d be comfortable with, lass,” Soilléir said. “If you’d like to join us, you might have an easier time using one of your blades on me if I vexed you overmuch by telling the rest of what I know.”
“Does the university frown on bloodshed?”
“It frowns on many things, but bloodshed is quite a bit farther down the list than sneaking over the walls with a man who definitely should have known better. Come join us, lady. Miach, why don’t you go fetch a chair for Princess Mhorghain.”
The sound of glass shattering startled Morgan so badly, she had both of the knives Miach had given her in her hands before she realized she’d reached for them.
But it was only Soilléir’s servant who had dropped his bottle of wine.
Soilléir looked up quickly. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said, rising. “That was poorly done on my part. I also should have poured for you. Let me see to the shards.”
Morgan looked at Soilléir’s servant and saw that he had cut himself badly. She would have offered aid, but Soilléir was already wrapping a cloth about his hand. She thought about being surprised that Soilléir had apparently known her without her having shown her face, but decided there was little point. Miach had, after all, warned her of his particular skills. Perhaps she should have taken them more seriously.
She set aside her cloak, then went to stand next to Miach after he’d fetched her a chair. “You, serving me,” she said pointedly. “What a pleasure.”
He pulled her into his arms and smiled down at her. “You know I prefer it that way.”
She did know that, actually, which would save him a mighty thrashing in the lists later, which she supposed he knew as well. She glanced at Soilléir, then back at Miach. “Is he the only one who knows, do you think? About me, I mean.”
“Aye. I can guarantee the other masters didn’t look past their plates this afternoon. You’re anonymous enough for our purposes.”
Morgan watched Soilléir talking quietly with his servant. She was sure that was the same man from the night before, who had been in no doubt of Miach’s identity then and was in no doubt of hers now. She wondered how that boded for their safety.
“And Soilléir’s servant?” she asked with a nod in his direction.
“Time will tell, won’t it?”
She didn’t find that particularly comforting, but there wasn’t really any other answer to offer.
“I think an afternoon here would do us good,” he continued. “If you can bear it.”
“I will allow that this is the least objectionable chamber I’ve been in so far.”
“I’m sure Master Soilléir would be greatly relieved to know that.”
She scowled at him, but he only tugged on her braid, smiled at her, then walked unsteadily away presumably to find more wine.
Morgan sat, but she didn’t relax. Miach obviously needed a bit more time to recover from the events of the day, but she would watch him and suggest they leave the moment he looked equal to it. They might have been in a chamber where the company was pleasant, but that said nothing for what lurked outside the door.
The sooner they were away from the fury Droch was no doubt nursing, the better off they would be.

 

Six
M
iach fetched a new bottle of wine, then poured glasses all around. He looked up as Léir’s servant walked unsteadily back to stand in the shadows, his hands tucked into the folds of his robe. He wondered who he was and how he had come to find himself in Léir’s company. Or if he’d come upstairs earlier that morning and told Léir everything he’d seen.
Perhaps that was something better reserved for later contemplation, after he’d stopped shaking and could think clearly again. And perhaps later he would also think on the spells he’d memorized in Droch’s solar, the books he’d thumbed through, the personal diaries he’d managed to free from their locked box in the darkest corner of the chamber. He would consider Droch’s fury with Gair over his stinginess with his knowledge, speculate on the other magics Droch was certain Gair had unearthed from unpleasant places, and give himself time to wonder why Droch seemed to be so concerned that Gair might have passed on to others spells he shouldn’t have had.
He hadn’t found what they needed in Droch’s solar, true, but he’d found an entirely new set of things to chew on.
But not now. For the moment, he was quite happy to be where he was: safe, warm, and in a chamber where the books on the shelves didn’t make his skin crawl. He drained his cup, then set it aside and turned so he could watch Morgan. What he wanted to do was pull her into his arms again and hold her close until his heart was no longer so cold, but he was nothing if not discreet. He settled for pressing his booted foot against hers and enjoying the simple pleasure of watching her.
She looked at him in surprise, then rolled her eyes and reached for his hand. She laced her fingers with his, then turned back to Léir. Miach looked at Léir as well, smiled sheepishly, then sat back and let the conversation wash over him.
It took a while, but Morgan finally decided that Léir was deserving of at least a few tales of her time in Weger’s tower. It was with obvious relish that she related to him the strictures she’d learned on the first day alone, ones that seemed to relate in a particular way to ridding the world of the plague of finger-wagglers.
Miach shook his head in silent wonder. Morgan was sitting across from a man who, half a year ago, she would have spotted for what he was at a hundred paces, then either killed him or avoided him—yet now she was chatting almost as easily as if she’d been in Nicholas of Lismòr’s solar. Perhaps it was Soilléir himself. He was a man without guile, skilled enough that he no longer worried about his place in the world, and old enough that he likely no longer cared. Miach knew he terrified most of the other masters and baffled the remainder. He also tended to have mud on his boots during most of the year thanks to the time he spent tramping about in his garden.
The conversation deteriorated rather quickly into a polite argument about what was more useful, a sword or a spell. Miach supposed Léir would never convince Morgan it was the latter, though she did concede after a bit that spells were not quite as abhorrent as she had once thought and Léir agreed that a knife up the sleeve could indeed come in handy in the right circumstance, such as when a lad might be slipping over a wall in the middle of the night and didn’t particularly care to use any magic.
“What do you think, Miach?” Leir asked.
“I think Morgan is lovely, your wine is lovely as well, and I might need a nap soon,” Miach said lazily.
Léir pursed his lips. “Stay awake long enough to discuss this. Why is it, do you suppose, that the lad who made a clandestine foray into the keep last night didn’t just use the front gates?”
“Not challenging enough?” Miach suggested.
“What did you want from Droch, my friend?”
Miach sighed and waved a fond farewell to any hope of a rest anytime soon. Léir was relentless when he was in the pursuit of answers.
“I needed a particular spell,” Miach admitted, “and I thought I might find it in Droch’s chambers. I was, as you might imagine, less than eager to have him know I was looking for it.”
“Indeed,” Léir said with interest. “And what is this particular spell meant to do?”
“Close a well of evil.”
“Ah,” Léir said slowly. “Gair’s well?”
“Aye,” Miach said. He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, holding Morgan’s hand in both his own. He considered for a moment or two, then looked at Morgan. “May I be frank with him about what we’ve seen?”
“You said he was trustworthy,” she said.
“And so he is,” Miach agreed. He took a deep breath and looked back at Léir. “What I left out earlier was that it was Morgan I was traveling with in the fall. I began to suspect at one point that the dreams she was having of Gair of Ceangail were actually memories, and that she might be Gair’s long-lost daughter. Nicholas of Diarmailt confirmed this to both of us at different times. I thought that perhaps Morgan should meet her mother’s family—giving me a chance to ask her grandfather permission to wed her—so we traveled to Seanagarra.” He paused. “I also thought I might have a little peep at the books in Sìle’s library whilst we were there.”
“Miach, you are going to nick one too many spells someday,” Léir said, sighing lightly.
“So I tell him,” Morgan agreed without hesitation, “constantly. He’s incorrigible.”
“Well, in this case it turned out to be useful,” Miach said seriously. “I found directions to the well Gair opened, then traveled there myself. Not only is the evil still trickling forth, that evil is being shaped by a spell into the creatures that are roaming unchecked.”
“And whose is the latter spell?” Léir asked. “Lothar’s?”
Miach pursed his lips. “That isn’t much of a surprise, is it?” He started to say more, then looked at Morgan. “I didn’t tell you everything I learned there, but I likely should now. Care to hand me all your blades before I do?”
She blanched. “I think you’ve been traumatized enough for the day. Carry on.”
He smiled at her, then turned back to Léir. “These creatures fashioned from the well’s evil have instructions to hunt two things: those with Camanaë magic and those with Gair’s blood. The heirs of Camanaë are to be slain.” He couldn’t look at Morgan, but he supposed he didn’t need to. She was holding his hand so tightly it pained him. “Those of Gair’s legacy are to be captured and carried back to Riamh.”
Morgan was absolutely silent. Léir only continued to watch him without surprise.
“Avoiding the monsters is, perhaps, the least of our worries,” Miach continued. “We must shut the well once and for all. I tried to shut it myself, but failed, of course. I thought to have a look inside Droch’s solar and see if there might be something there that would lead me to the spell we need.”
“Why did you think Gair’s spells would be Olc?” Léir asked.
“Because of a letter Sarait left for Sosar,” Miach said. “It contained as much of Gair’s spell of closing as she could piece together. I’m not certain if it was one he’d used before, or one he intended to use, though I suspect the latter. It was mostly Olc with a bit of Camanaë thrown in for good measure, if you can fathom that.”
Léir pursed his lips in distaste. “I’m not surprised. Gair was famous for taking pieces of whatever suited him and forcing those pieces into things new and revolting.” He stopped abruptly and looked at Morgan. “I’m sorry, Mhorghain, to speak of your sire thus.”
She shook her head sharply. “Until the end of fall, I didn’t know who he was, much less suspect he might be my father. I’m under no illusions about his character.” She paused. “Did you know him?”
“Aye, quite well,” Léir said with a faint smile. “He was younger than I am, of course, so I was able to watch him grow into his power—which was formidable. He was a restless man, never content with his situation or his heritage. He roamed the Nine Kingdoms for decades until he settled upon Ceangail as home. How he came to be lord there is something better left in the shadows, as are the years he spent there, stretching his power. I encountered him in various locales and grieved for what he could have been but chose not to be. When he wed Sarait, I hoped he had turned his back on the darkness.”

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