Princess of the Sword (32 page)

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Authors: Lynn Kurland

BOOK: Princess of the Sword
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“Aye,” he conceded reluctantly. “If we were to do a proper job of it, it might.”
She looked down and watched the floor for quite a bit longer before she spoke. “Would Mehar and Gilraehen be willing to help, do you think?”
“That is the reason they came. They just didn’t want to intrude on something you might have wanted to do alone.”
“Would anyone else be handy?”
He smiled in spite of himself. “You can only pour so much magic into steel, love, before it bursts of its own accord, but we might manage a bit of power from Harold and Catrìona as well. I daresay they would come gladly, if you wanted them to.”
She looked up at him. “You know I don’t like asking for aid.”
“I know. But considering what lies along the road ahead, help isn’t anything to be refused at this point. Why don’t I send a messenger for them when we reach the fire?”
She nodded and said no more, but simply held his hand and walked with him down passageways that weren’t meant for men of any height at all. Miach ignored the necessity to duck continually, and continued on.
Fortunately, the smithy was spacious and the ceilings stretched up into darkness his eye couldn’t pierce. It was cold, in spite of the furnaces. That was no doubt pleasing to the lads there, but he was sure it wasn’t to Morgan. Her hand was already cold as death.
He drew aside a likely lad and sent him on with messages for the appropriate personages, then sat on a stool next to Morgan and discussed with the master, Ceardach, what would need to be done to weave spells into the folding of the blade. He listened, but in the back of his mind he wondered just how much of their own power Mehar and Gil had poured into the original blade and what it had cost them in trade. The current refashioning of the blade needed to imbue it with power as well, but he couldn’t spare all his reserves or he would have nothing to offer Morgan at the well. He looked up and was, he had to admit, very glad to see Gilraehen, Mehar, Harold, and Catrìona all coming into the smithy looking quite fresh and spry.
They would need to be.
 
 
It turned into a very long morning. It wasn’t so much the actual forging of the blade that was difficult, though Master Ceardach was exceptionally particular about its crafting. It was the layering it with spells and pouring power into it that took time and effort. Miach didn’t say anything, but he was very aware that the others were sparing him and Morgan the bulk of the work. Catrìona spent a goodly bit of time discussing with Morgan just how the blade should be balanced and how she preferred to feel it in her hand whilst Mehar visibly drained herself of power that went into the blade. Miach shot Harold a dry look when his grandfather several generations removed attempted the same thing with him.
“Your battle will come later, Miach,” was all Harold would say.
Even with the lightened burden, Miach was more than happy when the work was done and he was able to go sit on a stool with his back up against a chilly stone wall and rest. Gilraehen sat down next to him.
“You know, Miach,” he said slowly, “I don’t think it would be a poor idea to keep that blade hidden.”
“Do you mean send it back to Tor Neroche?” Miach asked in surprise.
Gilraehen shook his head. “Nay, lad, not that. As much as I would like to think you and Morgan will merely skip along a lovely path and find yourselves alone at the well with time on your hands to do a leisurely job of shutting the bloody thing, I . . . well, I—” He thrust his chin out and seemed to be looking for the right words.
“You imagine Lothar will be there.”
“Don’t you?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Miach said with a sigh. “I know he’s been there recently because he repaired a spell I had destroyed. Worse still, there are signs that someone else is trying to open the well.” He looked at his grandfather. “If we manage to gain the glade unmolested, I will be surprised. I’ll be even more astonished if we have any peace to shut it.”
“All the more reason to be prepared.” Gilraehen looked at him seriously. “If I were you, I would go expecting the worst, with as many weapons as possible. Lothar’s had a taste of Mehar’s sword before and he fears it. It might be a handy thing for your lady to have hidden, don’t you think?”
“What are you suggesting?” Miach asked, already knowing the answer. “A spell of concealment, perhaps wrought from Olc?”
“As repulsive a thought as that is, aye, that’s what I’m suggesting.”
“I could weave the spell so a single thread pulled would unravel it completely—and instantly,” Miach said unwillingly.
“You’re a clever lad, aren’t you?”
Miach shot him a disgruntled look. “Why do I always feel as if I haven’t quite graduated to long trousers when I’m around you?”
Gilraehen elbowed him companionably. “Because ’tis my duty as your grandfather just a step or two away from my dotage to keep you in your place. You
are
barely out of short pants from my point of view.”
Miach smiled in spite of himself. Gilraehen of Neroche might have had a bit of silver glinting at his temples, but in all other aspects, he looked not a day over a score and ten. Dotage, indeed.
“I should live to see your length of days,” Miach said quietly.
“Make sure that you do,” Gilraehen said, suddenly serious. “For your lady and for the realm. I don’t need to tell you to be careful, nor not to underestimate Lothar, but I’ll tell you as much just the same. I’m quite certain he does little besides sit in his wreck of a hall and think on ways to vex his enemies. You in particular, these days. Be wary.”
“I will,” Miach promised. He glanced at Morgan, Mehar, and Catrìona, who were standing over the sword, apparently teaching it to sing, then turned to Gilraehen and his son Harold, who had sat down next to his father. “Thank you. I know what you both did this morning.”
Harold shrugged. “Father and I have no pressing appointments for the next few days. We can sleep; you cannot.”
“Not that that wife of yours will let you sleep,” Gilraehen said with a snort. “You would think her years would have taken a toll on her somehow.”
“Never,” Harold said with a smile. “The woman will drive me into the ground someday. She is absolutely exhausting.”
Miach didn’t think Harold sounded particularly displeased by that. He leaned back against the wall and watched the three women gathered together, discussing spells and steel. He admired them all in turn.
Mehar was, he would readily admit, one of his favorite people. She was just as likely to sit down and tell a tale to a small child as she was to leap onto the back of some Angesand steed she’d talked the current lord of Angesand out of and ride like the wind. She was a weaver of cloth, spells, and love that had been felt in his family for generations.
Catrìona was, much as Harry had said, an effervescent spring that bubbled up continually into a fountain of merriment. Though she had certainly seen her share of sorrow, somehow when she entered a hall, the fire sparkled brighter and the music shimmered more sweetly, seemingly just to please her. She and Mehar were lovely, courageous, and full of magic that they had honed over centuries.
And then there was the third lass standing there. Miach looked at Morgan and felt something in his heart give way as it always did when he looked at her. She was terribly beautiful, true, but that wasn’t what he saw now. He watched her moving in a world that was uncomfortable for her, yet she pressed on. He watched her take spells from Catrìona and Mehar and use them, though he knew she wasn’t happy with how easily they came to her hands.
But she didn’t flinch or shy away.
“Besotted, isn’t he?” Harold remarked in a loud whisper.
“Very,” his father agreed.
Miach looked at them both. “Can you fault me for it?”
They both shook their heads, smiling as if they understood perfectly.
“Your Morgan doesn’t need you to,” Gilraehen remarked, “but guard her well just the same. And tell her daily that you realize how fortunate you are she looked at you twice.”
“I agree, Father,” Harold said with a smile. “It works wonders.”
Miach looked at them both wryly. “Any other words of advice?”
“Have you wooed her well?” Gilraehen asked.
“Ah—”
“Go have a nap,” Harold suggested. “We’ll have a list of appropriate ideas waiting for you when you wake. Really, Miach, you would think you could manage this on your own.”
Miach favored his progenitors with a choice curse or two and had laughter as his reward. A nap, however, sounded like the best idea he’d heard all morning. Morgan needed it far worse than he did and he was completely spent. He pushed himself to his feet and went to stand next to his lady.
“Have I told you today how fortunate I am you looked at me twice?” he asked politely.
Predictably, she looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
He shot his grandfathers a pointed look, then made Mehar and Catrìona bows before he took Morgan’s hand. “I think there might be a free spot in front of a hearth somewhere. Let’s go make use of it whilst we’re able to.”
Morgan nodded wearily, thanked Mehar and Catrìona for their aid, then walked with him from the smithy. She was silent until they’d reached the ground level of the palace, then she looked up at him.
“They spared us, didn’t they?”
“They did,” he agreed, “though they tried to be subtle.”
“It was very kind.”
“They’re under no illusions about what you face, Morgan. I daresay you would have done the same in their place. For all you know, you will someday for someone else.”
She shivered. “I can’t bring myself to think about that.” She paused for several minutes before she spoke again. “When do you want to leave? Tonight?”
“I think it best, don’t you?”
She nodded, then put her shoulders back. “I’ll look at the spells again whilst you work. I might see something new.”
“Of course,” he said, because he knew he wouldn’t convince her to do anything else. He had the feeling, and it wasn’t a pleasant one, that no matter how long or hard they looked at what they already had, they wouldn’t find the last part of the spell until they reached the well itself.
He only hoped they would have the time to look for it there before all hell broke loose.
 
 
They left at twilight. He would have preferred to have gone with Morgan alone, but he’d never thought he would manage that. Sìle had flatly refused to be left behind and Miach didn’t bother to ask Sosar or Keir what their wishes were. The only thing that surprised him was how adamant Morgan’s companions were about insisting they would come as well.
“A sword is as sharp as a spell in the right hands,” Fletcher had said wisely.
Miach suspected Morgan had already begun to introduce Fletcher to a few of Weger’s simpler strictures, or perhaps it was one that she’d muttered so often under her breath that her mates had simply learned it perforce.
He didn’t waste breath arguing with any of them. He wasn’t sure they wouldn’t need all the aid they could gather. He bid farewell to various and sundry progenitors, thanked King Uachdaran profusely for his hospitality and the loan of his smithy, then turned to the business of convincing the horses they wanted to fly again.
Hearn’s horses were, surprisingly, chomping at the bit to once again wear dragonshape. Even the elvish horses were looking fairly enthusiastic. Miach turned them all into powerful dragons, glittering and fierce-looking. He looked over his shoulder to see how Morgan’s companions were reacting. They were maintaining expressions of absolute stoicism. Well, save Fletcher who gaped, then turned and lost his supper in the weeds.
“Told you he’d be trouble,” Paien muttered under his breath. He looked at Miach. “I said as much to Morgan outside Istaur last fall, but she insisted that we bring him along. Not to worry, though. I’ll go slap some spine into him. I’ll make him ride with me after I’ve done so. He’d likely fall off, otherwise.”
Miach left him to it, made sure Glines and Camid were comfortable with reins and no stirrups, then left Sosar, Sìle, and Keir to sort out who was riding with whom on the elvish horses-turned-dragons. Once the company was mounted, he cast a spell over all their essences, then turned to Morgan.
“You don’t mind flying?”
“I prefer it,” she said grimly. “I need something to do.”
He nodded, then began his own spell of shapechanging, watching Morgan as she did the same. Within the space of a pair of heartbeats, they were rising in the air and turning toward the west.
 
 
Two days later, Miach paced around the outer edge of their camp, wishing they had dared make a fire. Sìle had covered the place with his glamour and Miach had covered that with a Lughamian spell of aversion, but that hadn’t guaranteed them anything besides a bit of peace. It hadn’t provided any warmth, nor light past what the moon was willing to give. It was just as well; he couldn’t look at Rùnach’s notes any longer. He had all the spells memorized anyway. He suspected Morgan did as well.

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