Princess of the Sword (16 page)
Read Princess of the Sword Online
Authors: Lynn Kurland
He’d thought about it earlier, then decided that perhaps if she had even a handful of things to reach for without thinking, she might be better prepared to fight the battle that lay before her. He’d asked her that morning to think on Weger’s five most useful strictures, then trade him those for his five best spells. It wasn’t a question of courage; it was one of habit.
Though he supposed she would probably never lay a hand on a spell first before she laid her hand on her sword.
“Princess, you’re going to give yourself a headache.”
Miach smiled at Morgan’s scowl.
“I’m trying to see,” she grumbled. “It is, if you can believe it, the first magic I think I’ve truly wanted. I’m trying not to think about
that
overmuch.”
that
overmuch.”
“I daresay,” Léir said dryly, shooting Miach a look over Morgan’s head. “And lest you ruin yourself for all useful labor today, why don’t you leave off for now. Come back with your love after your task is finished, and I’ll teach you what you want to know.”
Miach blinked in surprise. The art of seeing was one that required serious study and a great amount of power. Miach felt Morgan’s hand tighten around his, though she gave no sign of being affected by such a historic offer. Léir was even more stingy with those lessons than he was with the spells of Caochladh.
“Miach will be jealous,” Morgan managed.
“Miach may eavesdrop,” Léir said. “If he likes.”
“Feeling guilty about past torments, my lord?” Miach asked politely.
“Or he can wait outside in the passageway,” Léir said pointedly. “It will, as usual, depend on my mood.”
Miach smiled to himself and continued on, listening to Léir and Morgan discuss whether or not she would need to present seven rings of mastery to get inside the gates—and whether or not Miach’s own rings would serve if she could find them where they no doubt languished under his most uncomfortable set of court clothes—or if simply repeating a few of Weger’s more terrifying thoughts on mages would do.
They had still come to no useful conclusion by the time the gates were reached. Miach stood with Morgan and watched the masters taking advantage of one last opportunity to flatter Sìle. He wasn’t surprised to find they were all there save Droch. Miach snorted to himself. The sunlight likely pained him. He was heartily glad he wasn’t the mage keeping that one in check.
Miach stood aside as Sìle was sent off with even more compliments and praise than he’d been welcomed with. Sosar and Turah were also farewelled in a manner befitting their station. He went through his own rounds of good-byes, though he had to admit he had little patience for them. They might have passed a relatively pleasant pair of days in Beinn òrain, but in the world outside, creatures were still roaming about and Gair’s well was still spewing evil. The sooner they saw to both, the better.
Léir put his hand on Miach’s shoulder as they stood just under the barbican gate. “I wish you good fortune in your journey, my friend.”
“Thank you for the refuge,” Miach said. “We needed it perhaps more than you might guess.”
“ ’Tis always here for you when you need it.” He hesitated, then looked at Miach seriously. “You should keep your lady close, lad. I daresay Droch isn’t the only mage she needs to avoid.”
“Aye, I daresay you’re right.”
“Keep your eyes open,” Léir suggested. “You never know what you’ll see where you didn’t think to look.”
Miach didn’t dare speculate. He thought he might have seen enough to last him quite a while, but he didn’t say as much. He merely thanked Léir again for his hospitality, bid him good-bye, then caught up with his company, which was already ahead of him.
“Well, that’s behind us,” Sìle said once they had all cleared the outer gate. “I’m reminded of all the reasons I haven’t missed talking to those pretenders for the past millennia.”
“You must admit, Father, that they treated you with a proper amount of deference,” Sosar said, fighting a smile. “Perhaps you might even allow the occasional bit of correspondence.”
“Aye, when that correspondence contains reports of how Droch looked with his head on a pike outside their gates,” Sìle grumbled. “I’m not sure why they keep him here, but perhaps they think he’s more easily watched inside their keep than out. Miach, lad, how do you fare?”
Miach was surprised enough at the question to look up from his contemplation of the cobblestones at his feet. “Your Majesty?”
“Last night was unpleasant,” Sìle said gruffly. “In fact, I imagine the whole visit has been unpleasant for you. I hoped you hadn’t suffered any permanent damage. Only for my granddaughter’s sake, of course.”
Miach smiled. “I am well, Your Grace. Thank you.”
Sìle grunted and dropped back to draw Morgan’s arm through his. “I don’t suppose you found what you needed.” He nodded knowingly. “For the business we’re about.”
Miach wouldn’t have told Sìle about the spell Morgan had written down under pain of death, and what he’d found in Droch’s solar wasn’t fit for casual conversation, so he merely shrugged. “I eliminated a few possibilities, which was useful. I’m thinking on other things.”
“Where to now?” Sìle asked.
Miach started to speak, then noticed out of the corner of his eye a shadow near one of Buidseachd’s bulwark foundations. Normally he wouldn’t have paid it any heed past deciding to avoid it, but Léir’s words came back to him suddenly.
You never know what you’ll see where you didn’t think to look
.
.
He turned away from the sight, but he didn’t dare ignore it. He had the feeling he knew just who was standing there. More importantly, he suspected he might know why that soul was taking his life in his hands to leave the protection of Buidseachd to take up such a post.
“Miach?”
Miach felt Morgan squeeze his hand and he put on a smile. “Sorry. Not enough sleep. Where to now, Your Majesty? I think the stables, don’t you? It would likely serve us to make a great production of leaving the city. We’ll decide on a destination once we’re beyond the range of prying eyes.”
Sìle nodded, then gathered the company up and started down the hill. Miach waited until they were ten paces from the Uneasy Dragon, then he stopped suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to put just enough regret in his tone to sound believable, but not so much that Morgan looked at him askance, “but I think I’ve forgotten the notes I was making. In the, er, in the library.”
“Did you, indeed?” Morgan asked, one eyebrow raised.
Damnation, he was going to have to learn to lie more skillfully. He gave her the best look of innocent bafflement he could muster. “In the confusion of the night’s events, of course.”
“Well, then let’s return for them.”
“Nay, love, you go on with your grandfather. I’ll run back and fetch them, then meet you at the stables.”
“If you do not return,” she said slowly, “you will regret it.”
He imagined he would, for more reasons than just what she would put him through. “I give you my word.” He embraced her briefly, then stepped back. “A quarter hour at the most.”
Morgan caught him by the arm before he could walk away. “Miach . . .”
“To the keep and back,” he said seriously. “I vow it upon my life, Morgan. The one you’ve already saved for me once. I don’t count that gift cheaply.”
She released him reluctantly. “Don’t force me to do it again.”
“I won’t.” He made her grandfather a brief bow, smiled at Morgan once more, then turned and strode back up toward the keep. He didn’t dare look back until the road had bent to the left and he knew he wouldn’t be marked by any in his company. He looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing but ordinary townsfolk going about their business.
He slipped into the shadows, drawing a spell of un-noticing over himself, then walked swiftly up the street and to the servants’ entrance of the keep.
He leaned back against the wall and concentrated on simply staying out of everyone’s way. He waited for quite some time with no sight of anyone he might or might not have wanted to see. He had almost given up hope when a shadow detached itself from the row of houses adjacent to the keep and eased its way with a hitching step along the wall. Miach removed his spell of concealment, then waited.
The man who came to a stop next to him didn’t offer any details. There was no determining his expression either, thanks to the cowl that cast all his face in complete shadow. Or it did until the man turned Miach’s way and a shaft of sunlight revealed more than the man apparently cared to. He pulled back and rearranged the material to cover his visage.
Miach wasn’t surprised by what he’d seen, but he made no note of it. The ruin wasn’t limited to the other’s hands, unfortunately. Miach wondered how he’d come by the injuries, but he wasn’t going to ask.
Soilléir’s servant slid a roll of papers out from his sleeve and handed it over. Miach unrolled what he’d been given and glanced through the sheaves. He closed his eyes and suppressed the urge to fall to his knees in gratitude.
In his hands were page after page of fragments of Gair’s twisted spells along with their original sources.
It took him a handful of moments before he thought he could speak with any success. He opened his eyes and looked at the man standing next to him. “
Thank you
seems inadequate,” he managed.
Thank you
seems inadequate,” he managed.
The other only let out a long, slow breath, as if he’d been holding it for years. “You’re welcome just the same.”
Miach rolled up the parchment sheaves and shoved them down the side of his boot. “Where did you find these?”
“In the library,” the man answered in his ruined voice. “They were hidden in the margins of books.”
“But there must be thousands of books in that library,” Miach said, stunned.
“I’ve been looking for years.”
Miach imagined he had been and he imagined he knew just how many years the man beside him had been looking. He had wondered that first night when he’d been sitting at the man’s table in his work-chamber, watching him try to accomplish simple tasks with his ruined hands, if he might have an idea who had rescued them. He’d dismissed it as fanciful imaginings—until he’d watched their unforeseen rescuer’s reaction to Morgan’s true name.
And then he and Morgan had healed the man’s hand and he had known beyond all doubt.
“I hoped someone would come wanting these,” the other man continued slowly. “I’m somehow not at all surprised to find it is you. Use them well, my lord Archmage.”
“I will, Prince Rùnach.”
The other man froze, then bowed his head and let out his breath slowly. “How did you know?”
“Last night, when we healed your hand. Your essence is very powerful.”
“But my power is nonexistent.”
Miach blinked in surprise. “Why—”
Rùnach looked over his shoulder, then shook his head. “I must go. Be well, Your Highness.”
Miach watched him go and fought the urge to dash after him and ask a score of questions beginning with how long he had been at Buidseachd, why his body was destroyed, and why he hadn’t gone to Seanagarra?
And what had he meant about his power being nonexistent?
Miach watched Rùnach of Ceangail slip back into the kitchens and thought back to the night before. It was true enough that he hadn’t felt anything but Rùnach’s essence, but that had been all he’d managed before he realized he’d sent Morgan tumbling into oblivion. If Rùnach didn’t have any magic, perhaps it made sense to masquerade as Léir’s servant. Léir had the power and stomach to protect him from Droch—though Miach was certain Droch didn’t know who was lurking in Soilléir’s chambers. He would have tried to kill him, else.
He wondered, too, if Rùnach had come for the same reason Sarait had spent so much time in libraries: to find Gair’s spell.
Miach now had more questions than answers, but that seemed to be the way of things, so he wasn’t particularly surprised. He was, however, desperately curious about what was now stuffed down his boot. The sooner they were away from the city, the sooner he could have a look and see just how great a gift Rùnach had given them all.
He waited in the shadows for several minutes more, then pushed away from the wall and made his way quickly back to the inn. He saw no one save Turah, who was waiting for him under the sign of the Uneasy Dragon.
“What took you so long?” Turah asked crossly.
“I was having a rest,” Miach said with a sigh. “Where are the others?”
“At the stable,” Turah said, nodding down the way. “Let’s be off. And whilst we’re walking, tell me how it is you managed to pry not two, but four horses now from Hearn of Angesand’s stablish vault.”
“He likes Morgan.”
“I can see why,” Turah said. “What she sees in you, I don’t know.”
Miach smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you.”
“I think after we’re through with all this,” Turah said, smoothing his hands down the front of his tunic, “I will make a journey to Melksham and see what King Nicholas can do for me. Or perhaps I’ll venture inside Gobhann and see if there might be another shieldmaiden of Morgan’s ilk available. It can’t be that difficult to get in and out of Weger’s gates.”
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