Princess of the Sword (40 page)

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Authors: Lynn Kurland

BOOK: Princess of the Sword
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Morgan imagined she wouldn’t be discussing anything with him anytime soon, but she was happy for something useful to do, so she nodded in agreement. It took a few tries, but they finally managed to get Turah walking in the right direction. They helped him sit, then sat on either side of him, keeping him upright.
Gone was the cheeky, teasing lad who laughed often and well. In his place was a man with no light in him at all. Morgan patted his back, but he gave no indication of having felt either her hand or the comfort she’d tried to offer with it. She looked over Turah’s bowed head at Glines. He only shook his head grimly.
Perhaps Miach had it aright. There were just some things that were better not to see.
“How is the young prince?”
Morgan looked up to find that her grandfather was standing in front of her, wearing an expression of concern. She shrugged helplessly. “His body is here, but I think his spirit is very far away.”
“I don’t blame him,” Sìle said darkly. “Death would be too kind a fate for that accursed mage. I hope it is dealt to him swiftly and without mercy.” He squatted down and studied Turah for quite some time before he looked at her. “Would Miach mind, do you suppose, if I took away a little of the horror young Turah has seen?”
“Can you do that?” Morgan asked in surprise. “Would you do that?”
“I can and I would.” He smiled briefly. “I like him. I wouldn’t want him wedding one of my granddaughters, of course, but he could certainly come clean my stables for me.”
Morgan smiled in spite of herself, then smiled again at the sight of Glines gaping at her grandfather. Sìle reached up and put his thumbs over Turah’s closed eyes. She couldn’t hear all the words he murmured, but Turah seemed to, for he shuddered a time or two. After Sìle removed his hands, Turah sucked in an enormous breath, then let it out slowly. He opened his eyes and looked around him as if he’d just woken up.
“Your Majesty,” he managed. “Morgan. Glines.”
“Your Highness,” Glines said, inclining his head. “How are you?”
“I had a terrible dream,” Turah began, then he looked to his left and his mouth fell open. “It wasn’t a dream,” he managed.
Sìle rose and put his hand briefly on Turah’s head before he walked away. “It wasn’t a dream, my boy, but it will fade in time. Do your best to allow it to.”
Turah bowed his head and rested his face against his hands. Morgan put her arm around his shoulders and tried not to notice as they shook with his sobs. She wasn’t adept at comforting others, but she did what Miach would have done for her. She rubbed Turah’s back, patted him occasionally, and let him weep. When he sounded like he might be gaining control of himself, she looked around for something useful to give him. Finding nothing, she ripped off part of her sleeve and put it into his hands.
“Thank you,” he croaked. “I don’t usually weep.”
“Neither do I,” she offered. “Well, unless I’ve been poisoned by Lothar. You could use that excuse as well I imagine, if you like.” She smiled encouragingly. “You didn’t fall apart too terribly, you know.”
“Just don’t tell Mansourah that I did at all. He’ll never let me forget it.” He blew his nose, wiped his face again, then stuck the cloth down his boot. He stared at the keep for quite a long time, then sighed. “Adhémar is dead, isn’t he?”
Morgan nodded. “He is.”
“Cathar must be a little walloped by it.”
Glines looked briefly at Morgan over Turah’s head. “By what, Your Highness?”
“By the mantle,” Turah said. “What was Cathar doing when it fell on him? Did you see it?”
Glines cleared his throat delicately. “It didn’t fall upon Prince Cathar.”
Turah’s mouth fell open. “It didn’t?”
“Nay.”
Turah considered for quite a bit longer, frowned, then shook his head. “I should have thought Cathar, but perhaps not.” He looked at Glines. “Not Rigaud, surely. The realm will fall to shreds. I will be looking for somewhere else to live, for I’ll
not
be subjected to how he’ll expect everyone to dress.”
“Nay, not Prince Rigaud, either,” Glines said, smiling faintly.
Morgan found Turah gaping at her. “Nemed? Nay, not
Mansourah
?”
“It could have been you,” Glines said mildly.
Turah shot him a dark look. “I’m still quite happily unburdened with a score of things I don’t want.” He looked at Morgan for a moment or two, then he began to smile. “Miach?”
She smiled, though she feared it had been a rather sick smile indeed. “Apparently so.”
Turah bowed his head again, then he laughed. He shook his head another time or two, then laughed a bit more. It wasn’t an unpleasant laugh, or one of disbelief. It was one of good humor, as if he’d just learned something that pleased him in a particularly lovely way.
“I am unsurprised,” he said, shaking his head a final time. “It is as it should be.” He smiled at her, a smile that was almost a decent echo of the good-humored ones he’d given her before. “And how did he react?”
“I don’t think he had time to react.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?” she hedged.
He put his arm around her shoulders and leaned close. “You’ll make a glorious—”
“Stop,” she warned. “Stop there and say not another word or you’ll regret it.”
He only smiled again, a better one that time. “Very well, dearest sister-to-be, we won’t discuss the size of your betrothed’s crown, the potential size of your own crown, or my stay in yon keep.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“What shall we discuss?”
“Why don’t you just have a little rest?” she asked pointedly. “Talking is wearying.”
He smiled to himself, then bent his head and studied the ground between his feet. Morgan looked around herself for a similar distraction, but there were none to be had. The swords reminded her of what she’d seen, Turah reminded her of where he’d been, and Miach reminded her of what he’d become. Even Lothar reminded her of a very unpleasant pair of days enduring more of his company than she’d ever feared she might.
At least she had escaped unscathed. She wondered if Turah had managed the same thing. She attempted a surreptitious glance at him, but found he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She scowled at him.
“I was just thinking about you,” she said. “Polite concern, nothing more.”
“ ’Tis a promising start.”
She tried to purse her lips, but there was something about Turah that inspired smiles instead. She managed one, then felt it fade all too quickly. “He didn’t take your magic, did he?”
Turah muttered something under his breath, then a small clutch of flowers appeared in his hand, tied with a lovely green ribbon. He handed them to her. “Apparently not.” He stiffened. “Did Lothar take your—”
She shook her head. “Not mine, nor Miach’s. He attacked Sosar instead, at the well.”
Turah closed his eyes briefly. “Poor Sosar. I can’t imagine it.” He looked at her suddenly. “You closed the well?”
She nodded. “I daresay it wasn’t worse than your past se’nnight, but it was unpleasant enough.”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, love. It was well done, though.” He looked at her seriously. “Not even Miach could have managed the feat, Morgan.”
She shifted uncomfortably under the compliment. “ ’Tis over,” she said quickly, “and for that I am very grateful. I’m grateful this is over as well, though I’m not sure how the day will finish.”
“Likely with my head on a pike outside Tor Neroche’s gates,” Turah said with a huff of a laugh. “Look at Miach glaring at me already. You’d think he’d have more to think about besides how to injure me when I’m already so crushed, but apparently not.”
Morgan looked up to find Miach walking over to stand in front of them. He folded his arms over his chest and looked at his brother.
“Mauling my betrothed?” he asked mildly.
Morgan held up her flowers. “He made me these as well, if you’re curious.”
“But I didn’t sing any lays to her beauty,” Turah said, pushing himself to his feet, “which I’m sure would have been the tipping point in our relationship.” He embraced his brother and slapped him several times on the back. “I understand congratulations are in order. Or are those condolences I should be offering?”
“What you should be offering is to keep your mouth shut,” Miach said with a snort.
“Where’s the sport in that?” Turah ruffled Miach’s hair. “I’ll have to do that a time or two more before you have the power to toss me in the dungeon, hadn’t I?”
“Turah . . .”
Turah kissed him loudly on both cheeks, slapped the back of his head as Miach had done to Glines, then moved past him before Miach could retaliate. “I’ll thank you later for the rescue. Did anyone over there bring anything to eat?”
Morgan smiled as she watched him go. He walked with the balance of a man who’d just spent the day cozying up to an ale keg, but at least he was moving. It could have been worse.
She looked at Miach and felt her smile falter. He was the same man, of course, but after the morning’s events—
“Oh, nay,” he said, reaching out and pulling her to her feet. “Don’t look at me that way.”
“What way?” she stalled.
“Morgan,” he said with a sigh.
Morgan looked around for an avenue of escape. Glines was looking off into the distance, apparently doing his best to pretend he wasn’t there. No aid from that quarter. She didn’t want to bolt left, for that only led to a place she was certain she had no interest in visiting. She looked down at her hands in Miach’s for a moment or two, then up at him.
“What?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it at the sound of someone calling his name. He cursed lightly, then drew her into his arms. “Nothing has changed, Morgan. Well,
I
haven’t changed,” he amended. “And just so you remember, I went into Gobhann to fetch you once. I’m not opposed to going in after you a second time. I daresay I could pick the lock on the front gate, if necessary.”
“Miach!” came the voice again from across the way.
He sighed, pulled back, then put his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot and full of things she imagined he wished he hadn’t seen. He started to speak, then shook his head. “Wait for me.”
She nodded, mute.
He kissed her forehead, then released her and walked away. He wasn’t much steadier on his feet than his brother had been.
Morgan watched him walk away, then sat back down because her knees weren’t equal to the task of keeping her upright. She couldn’t look at Glines, she couldn’t look at Lothar’s keep, she couldn’t look at Miach. So she looked at the ground at her feet, just as Turah had, and tried not to think at all.
“I want you to remember,” Glines said carefully, “that I knew you when you were a grubby little gel without decent table manners.”
She shot him a glare. “I was never grubby.”
He smiled. “I’ll stay on and be your minister of protocol and deportment, if you like. I think you’re going to need me. There are the formalities, Morgan, that visiting royalty require—”
“Shut up.”
He laughed and reached over to tug on her braid. “Morgan, ’tis no wonder Miach loves you so. Tor Neroche will never be the same once you take the thr—”
She shot him a look that had him biting back whatever else he intended to say. It didn’t, however, keep him from smiling. She would have been quite content to call on a fierce frown of displeasure, but all she could do was feel quite miserable. “I don’t know why you’re enjoying this so much.”
“Because I am a connoisseur of fine irony. ’Tis a bit like fine wine, but has a better bite.”
She imagined it did, which was why she preferred wine. And this was irony she could have done without. It was bad enough that she, a shieldmaiden of stern mien and unmagical tendencies, should find herself the granddaughter of an elven king. It was far worse that she, a mercenary who preferred to eat whilst standing and had a tendency to walk out on strategy sessions that lasted overlong, should find herself facing a lifetime of court niceties and endless ceremonies.
Glines did have a point. She likely would have been a part of those things if she’d merely been the wife of the archmage.
Though she suspected that the queen of Neroche would have a much harder time slipping out the back door to go tramp in the lists or poach a horse from the stables and ride off out the gates without a guard.
She gave Glines a final look of displeasure, because it made her feel better, then turned back to the contemplation of the ground between her feet.
It seemed the safest thing to do.

 

Twenty
M
iach made his way back across the barren ground to Lothar’s hall, trying to keep himself from stumbling. His head was spinning, which he happily and immediately credited to not having had enough sleep. It had nothing to do with what had just happened to him a pair of hours earlier, something he had never expected, never hoped for, and never once considered without having turned his mind immediately to something more pleasant.

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