Read Princess of the Sword Online
Authors: Lynn Kurland
Princess of the Sword (3 page)
She touched Weger’s mark over her brow, the mark that had exacted an excruciating price in discipline to win, then forced herself to take a pair of deep, even breaths. She looked up at Miach. “None of this troubles you, does it?”
“I suppose that depends on where I find myself. There are places even here—” He took a deep breath, then shook his head. “Nay, it doesn’t, for the most part, but I’ve been here before. We’ll be swift.”
She nodded, pushed away from the wall, then put her head down and merely watched his feet as he walked without haste in front of her. She was almost grateful when she felt a chill blow across her face.
Until she realized where the chill was coming from.
Miach continued to walk, though, and she continued to follow him because she could do nothing else. If he was affected by what was rapidly turning into bone-numbing cold, he didn’t show it.
He finally stopped in front of a doorway that was so full of darkness, she could hardly make out where a doorknob might be located. It was enough to know that this was the source of the coldness. Miach was still for quite some time, as if he listened. Morgan wished he would hurry. The longer she stood there, the more she dreaded going inside. At one point, as he picked the lock with skill even her most crafty mercenary companions would have been impressed by, she almost suggested that they return back the way they’d come.
But he opened the door before she could open her mouth and whatever else she might have been, she was no coward. If Miach could go inside, then so could she.
Though it took far more of her strength of will to cross that threshold than it should have.
The chamber was less dark than she’d feared it might be. A fire burned in the fireplace that faced the door and a servant slept on its hearth. Morgan jumped a bit when she felt Miach’s hand on her arm, but he was only pointing toward a corner. She happily made her way there and stood in the absolute dark, grateful for its concealment. She could leap out at any moment and guard Miach’s back. And given where they found themselves, she wasn’t completely sure that wouldn’t be necessary.
She didn’t need anyone to tell her where she was, for she could feel the magic that lingered behind in the chamber like a vile odor.
Olc.
She could scarce believe this was where Miach intended to begin his search, but apparently he had a better idea of what sort of spell they needed than she did.
She forced herself to keep her focus part on Miach and part on the lad who lay snoring in front of the fire. The lad didn’t rouse, but Miach gave him no reason to. He was absolutely silent as he walked around the chamber, investigating nooks and crannies, running his finger over books on shelves.
She watched him stop in front of a desk layered with manuscripts. She wondered how he could even touch things that made her ill just by being in the same chamber with them. Olc was an evil magic. She’d seen it worked—and worked it herself a time or two, unfortunately—and that had been enough to convince her that she wanted nothing to do with it.
Mochriadhemiach of Neroche had, she had decided in the past month, a depth to him that she suspected she would never plumb. It was reassuring somehow to have an idea of what he could endure.
And how quickly he could move.
She realized he’d leapt across the chamber only because he was shoving her back into a wardrobe—and he was doing that because there were voices that had stopped outside the chamber door and a key was being fitted into the lock. The doorknob squeaked as it turned. Morgan found herself backed into a coat hook and had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp of pain. She didn’t dare move after that.
Actually, remaining still wasn’t all that difficult. She was so terrified—she who had fought countless battles and never once puked in fear—that all she could do was stand there, hunched over and frozen, and pray she would live to see the other side of the next half hour without giving herself away by some untoward noise. At least Miach had managed to pull the door almost completely to so they wouldn’t be easily seen. Unfortunately, she could still easily hear the voices on the other side of the heavy wood.
It would appear the master of the chamber had come back for the night. Morgan closed her eyes and wondered if she should have worked a bit harder to convince Miach this was a very bad idea indeed. She remembered vividly the conversation they’d had as they’d been leaving the safety of the inn.
And if they find you’ve slipped over the walls?
she’d asked.
she’d asked.
They won’t.
And if they do,
she’d insisted.
What then?
she’d insisted.
What then?
He’d been long in answering. He had finally sighed heavily and looked at her.
Death
.
Death
.
Even for you?
she’d asked in surprise.
she’d asked in surprise.
I can stand against many, Morgan, but not against all the masters of Buidseachd at once
.
.
He hadn’t offered any other details, but she hadn’t needed him to. If he was caught, he would be thrown to the masters of Buidseachd and they would fall upon him mercilessly. She had no doubt she would defend him as best she could, but in the end, she supposed she would be overpowered as well, then they would both be subjected to whatever wizardly punishment the masters thought fit.
Death, she suspected, might be the more pleasant alternative.
The hook poking into her shoulder was terribly painful, but she ignored it. Harder to ignore was the stiffening of her back and the cramping of the muscles of her legs. She didn’t move, though. She also didn’t dare hope that the master of Olc would suddenly lose interest in retiring to his very comfortable solar for the night. She imagined he would soon be finished arguing with whomever he’d brought with him, then settle onto his sofa with a glass of wine and consider in a leisurely fashion all the ways he could make the final moments of intruders as miserable as possible.
She wasn’t sure being trapped hunched over in a wardrobe shouldn’t have had a prominent place on that list, but she wasn’t about to suggest it to him. She closed her eyes and thought about Gobhann, about the bitter wind that blew there eleven months out of the year and the harsh summer sunshine that beat upon the rocks during the lone month of warmth. She thought about the strictures she’d learned from Weger and how he would have looked at her in disgust to learn she’d even given heed to any ache or pain she might have felt in her frail womanly frame. That helped, but not overmuch.
She and Miach were trapped.
And the only way out lay past a man who would never let them go willingly.
Two
M
iach suspected he might have indulged in a bit of plunder once too often.
iach suspected he might have indulged in a bit of plunder once too often.
He had slipped in and out of Buidseachd quite successfully before, but never with anyone else. It was also one thing to intend to have just a peek in the library downstairs. Assaulting the chamber of Droch of Saothair, the master of Olc, was another thing entirely. He should have insisted that Morgan remain behind.
Unfortunately, it was too late at present for regrets. All he could do now was decide what he might attempt if they were discovered. As he had told Morgan earlier, he could stand easily against one of the masters of Buidseachd, less easily against two or three, but not against all of them together.
At last count, there were ten wizards at the school, each the acknowledged master of his craft. Miach wasn’t in the habit of doubting his own abilities, but there came a point where a man had to admit what his limitations were.
Even if he released his power, fought his way out of Droch’s solar, and escaped the keep, he would be forced to slink back to Tor Neroche, shamed, ostracized, spoken of with disgust for centuries to come.
Which he would do without hesitation, if it came to a choice between that and Morgan’s life. At least she might still care for him if he were disgraced. Better disgraced than dead.
But better undetected than disgraced. He would get them out without incident if he could manage it.
He fought to quiet his breath and his mind. He didn’t dare reach behind him for Morgan’s hand lest he brush something and give away their presence. Morgan was absolutely still, though her fingers were digging into his back, which told him she hadn’t fainted from fright. He would have to tell her that the last thought had crossed his mind—later, when she could invite him outside and repay him for the slight with her sword.
“Give me tidings,” Droch commanded, “and pray make them something useful.”
“Aye, my lord,” another voice said quickly. “Of course, my lord, there are the usual tales about those creatures that are wandering all over Neroche—”
“I know that already!”
Miach didn’t doubt it. Droch wasn’t one to leave his comfortable lodgings at Buidseachd very often, but he more than made up for it with the quantity and quality of his spies. Miach had encountered them on more than one occasion in places he wouldn’t have thought to find them.
“But those monsters have been seen east of the Sgùrrachs,” the man added gingerly. “There is no definite word on who sends them, but the rumor is that Lothar—”
“Lothar of Wychweald?” Droch said with a derisive snort. “He isn’t capable of creating what roams through the Nine Kingdoms at present.”
“But his art—”
“Art,” Droch sneered. “I have art. He has a cobbled-together, inelegant patchwork of rubbish that works only because he’s stumbled upon spells a child could master and puts a bit of flair behind them.”
Miach might have smiled had the situation not been so dire. It was a well-known fact that there was no love lost between Droch and the black mage of Wychweald. He himself had perhaps a different opinion of the latter’s power, though he certainly had to agree with Droch’s assessment of Lothar’s technique.
“What else do you have?” Droch demanded. “It had best be worth the gold I’ve given you, for what you’ve told me so far certainly isn’t.”
“There was a battle, Master,” the man offered hastily, “less than a se’nnight ago, on the plains of Ailean. Many of those strange creatures were slain and ’tis said that the archmage of Neroche was slain with them. His runes were written in fire—”
“I saw his sign myself,” Droch said coldly. “And if you think he allowed himself to be killed, you are a fool. He may be young, but he’s neither stupid nor powerless. He hasn’t skill to match mine, of course, but he shouldn’t be underestimated.” He made a noise of impatience. “These are not new tidings—”
“Then hear these,” the man blurted out with the desperation of one truly terrified of whom he served. “There is a report that the king of Tòrr Dòrainn is staying at the Uneasy Dragon with his youngest son.”
Miach closed his eyes briefly. Damn it. He’d known something like this would happen from the moment he’d taken the elven king to be fitted with discreet traveler’s gear and Sìle had instructed the poor tailor to look a bit harder for silk instead of homespun. At the very least, he should have locked Sìle in the chamber at the inn, or insisted he conceal who he was beyond merely dressing plainly. Perhaps he should have demanded that Morgan’s grandfather go back home to Seanagarra instead of coming with them to Beinn òrain.
But then Miach wouldn’t have had the pleasure of Morgan’s company for the past se’nnight, and he wouldn’t have found himself betrothed to the woman who was as still as death behind him.
He hoped they didn’t pay a steep price for the concession.
“His younger son, you imbecile,” Droch said. “He only has a pair of them. And what would Sìle of Seanagarra be doing here? We rid ourselves of his prying self centuries ago.”
“He was trying to pass himself off as a mere traveler, but that isn’t the interesting bit,” the other man said, beginning to warm to his topic. “One of my local lads says he saw three others with them, one of whom he thought might have resembled the archmage of Neroche—”
The crack of a hand across a face echoed in the chamber. “Now you waste my time,” Droch snarled. “The day the king of Tòrr Dòrainn endures the company of that brat from Neroche will be the day I sit down for tea with Eulasaid of Camanaë.”
“I could continue to look—”
There was a bit of gurgling, then the unmistakable sound of a man being dragged across the room and thrown out the door. “Bring me proof of the elven king’s presence here and I’ll think about letting you live.”
“Aye, my lo—”
The slamming of that door made the door of the wardrobe creak thanks to its breeze. Miach would have pushed himself back harder against Morgan, but he didn’t dare do even that. He merely remained motionless and listened to Droch rage for a moment or two about gold wasted and the stupidity of local ne’er-do-wells. Miach closed his eyes and cursed. Even if Droch didn’t believe the tidings at present, he would consider them when he’d calmed down a bit, and then he would begin to think things he shouldn’t. Miach listened as Droch strode angrily around his chamber, then slowed to a halt in front of his desk.
He suddenly became very still.
Miach knew this because he could see a sliver of a reflection of the man in the enormous mirror hanging over the hearth. Droch ran his hand over his books, stopped, then turned and looked in the mirror.
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