Read Princess of the Sword Online
Authors: Lynn Kurland
Princess of the Sword (38 page)
He realized at one point, and mostly because Lothar told him as much, that Lothar was merely toying with him.
You haven’t begun to see what I can do
.
.
Miach resumed his own form, weary beyond belief and growing angrier by the minute. “Then show me, if you’ve the spine to do so.”
Lothar smiled.
Then he became all the worst things Miach had seen in places where he wished he hadn’t gone.
He was darkness that crawled with vile, venomous creatures, darkness that hid shapes of things Miach would have preferred not to see, doorways where creatures from unnamed places appeared suddenly and terrifyingly. Miach fought each in turn, countered where he could, simply ignored where he couldn’t.
And then Lothar became Desdhemar of Neroche as she lay dying just outside the hall door, yet at the same time Lothar stood there in his own form, laughing down at her.
You couldn’t save your mother then; you won’t save the little wench standing behind you now
.
.
Miach felt despair slam into him like a wave, a crushing wave that flattened him as none of Lothar’s evil had done so far that day. He staggered backward and almost fell. He knew it was yet another gift from Lothar, but that didn’t make it any easier to fight off. And why would any of the man’s spells be cast aside so easily? He’d been perfecting his art for centuries, inventing new and terrible ways to make everyone around him as miserable as he was. Miach had seen that art firsthand and knew what those who died at Lothar’s hand suffered before they were released.
Thought of Morgan suffering anything like it, suffering the same fate as his mother—and the thought of what his mother had suffered for his sake . . .
With a mighty heave, he threw off what Lothar had cast on him. He found his feet again, then straightened and looked his enemy in the eye. He gathered all his power, all the power that he had paid dearly to acquire, all the power he had a right to because of his mantle, all the power he desperately needed because of his love for Morgan; he gathered it all to himself and flung himself forward.
He wasn’t sure if he’d moved as himself, or a single thought, or a shape he didn’t want to identify. All he knew was he found himself standing with his hands around Lothar’s throat, weaving spells of binding around Lothar to keep him in his proper form, and a fury rushing through him like a mighty wind.
“Before I kill you,” Miach snarled, “give Sosar of Tòrr Dòrainn back his power.”
“Never,” Lothar gurgled.
Miach wove yet more spells of binding about him. Lothar struggled, but it was futile. He had overextended himself with that last bit of vile shapechanging and found himself caught between illusion and spite. Miach didn’t care what the particulars were. Lothar was immobile and he had a score of other ways to further incapacitate him. He took his time wrapping around his great-uncle dozens of generations removed other things that were highly unpleasant.
He saw out of the corner of his eye that a collection of Lothar’s sons and grandsons had gathered and were running toward him. They came to a very sudden halt, most of them having gone sprawling, thanks to his spells. He made certain they wouldn’t be vexing him for at least another handful of hours, then turned back to Lothar himself.
“Reverse the spell you used on Prince Sosar,” he demanded, stepping back and leaving Lothar standing there, immobile. “Reverse it and I’ll let you live.”
Lothar merely looked at him, his eyes hot with hate.
“Reverse it, damn you!” Miach shouted.
Lothar tried to spit on him.
Miach found the spell of Diminishing Keir had given him halfway out of his mouth before he realized what he was doing.
And once it was there, he saw no reason not to continue on with it.
He would drain the bastard once and for all of all that made him a mage, then leave him to wander the wastes east of Beinn òrain for the rest of his days. And after that was done, he would do the same to all Lothar’s progeny. He would rid the whole bloody Nine Kingdoms of their blight. He had the means; there was no reason not to—
“Miach.”
Miach ignored the voice, then smiled at Lothar coldly before he deliberately began the spell again. Lothar’s eyes widened with what another might have called fear. If Lothar was terrified by the words, he could hear them at least another time or two. Perhaps the spell could be wrought very slowly so Lothar would have time to contemplate between each word just what he was about to lose. Miach didn’t need the added power, but he would take it just the same—
“Miach.”
He looked down and saw a hand on his arm. His first reaction was anger that he was being interrupted as he strove to lay out the best thing for all those around him, then he realized it was Morgan’s hand. Her nails were chipped, her hand covered with blood and dirt. She squeezed his arm.
“Miach, not this way.” She looked up at him, her green eyes very bloodshot. “Not this way, my love.”
The anger he felt burning furiously inside him was so strong, he had a hard time pulling back from it. He felt someone else’s hand on his other arm. He turned his scowl on that soul only to find Sosar standing there next to him.
“Don’t turn into him to spare me,” he said seriously. “Think about that spell you’re weaving, Miach. It isn’t Lothar’s spell of Taking, it’s Gair’s spell of Diminishing.
Think
.”
Think
.”
Miach looked back at Morgan. Her eyes were full of understanding.
“ ’Tis tempting, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Keir said it would be. But think on the price you would pay, Miach.”
He glanced back at Lothar. He stood there, bound completely, but there was no longer any fear in his eye. There was satisfaction there instead, as if he might actually have been happy to trade his power for Miach’s destruction.
Miach looked back down at Morgan’s hand on his arm. He saw the faint sparkle of elvish runes about her wrist, runes that promised things he would never be able to claim if he took even a single step farther down the path he’d started.
He looked up and stared at Lothar for another moment in silence.
Then he took a deep breath and very deliberately stepped backward.
“I will not become you,” he said quietly.
“How noble of you,” Lothar said scornfully. “Noble and weak. You’ll leave the elven prince without what he treasures most because you haven’t the nerve to destroy me.”
Miach watched the spell of Diminishing blow away on the faint breeze that came in from the ocean to his left. That breeze was full of the smell of the sea, clean and crisp. He breathed it in a time or two, then looked at Sosar.
“I don’t think I have to kill him to have your power back.”
“It wouldn’t matter if that were the only way,” Sosar said with a faint smile. “I don’t want it at the cost of your soul. We’ll discuss it later, when we’re slipping into our cups in front of a hot fire. Now, though, I think you have to decide what you’re going to do with him.”
Miach looked around him. Besides Morgan and Sosar, he was being watched by his brothers Cathar, Rigaud, Nemed, and Mansourah; Morgan’s grandfather; her mercenary companions; and a complement of his own grandsires he hadn’t realized were there. Yngerame of Wychweald stood to one side with Gilraehen, Harold, and Yngerame’s son, Symon, the first king of Neroche. They were dressed in unremarkable soldier’s gear, but their swords had obviously been well used. Miach turned to Yngerame, who happened to be, as fate would have it, Lothar’s father.
Yngerame only shook his head. “ ’Tis your choice, Mochriadhemiach,” he said. “I won’t make it for you.”
“Shut up, Father,” Lothar snarled. “This is none of your affair. Or Symon’s. This is between me and the
least
of your line. And he’s a fool if he thinks his pitiful bindings will hold me.”
least
of your line. And he’s a fool if he thinks his pitiful bindings will hold me.”
Symon rested his hands on his sword. “I don’t see you moving overmuch, brother. I seem to remember you in this same position several centuries ago, only it took me and Father both to do so. You’ll notice that young Miach didn’t need any help.”
“He’ll need help enough when I’m free and I come to kill
him
,” Lothar spat. “I should have done so when he was weeping in my dungeon and saved myself this trouble.”
him
,” Lothar spat. “I should have done so when he was weeping in my dungeon and saved myself this trouble.”
“I never wept,” Miach said quietly. He pushed aside the renewed desire to strip Lothar of everything he valued, then looked at his great-uncle. “Now, if you have anything to say, be about it before I put you where I won’t have to listen to you any longer.”
Lothar looked at him, then slowly smiled. “I do have one more thing to say.” He took a deep breath, then made a strange, shrill call.
An answering call came from the keep in the distance.
Miach slapped a spell over Lothar’s mouth, but that horrifying cry continued in spite of it, echoing in the keep. Miach looked for his sword, but before he could ask Morgan for it, Cathar chucked another at him. He caught it without thinking.
It blazed suddenly with bloodred magelight.
Miach gaped at the sword in his hand. It took him a moment or two, but then he realized what had just happened.
And judging by the gasps, so did several others.
Nineteen
M
organ wondered if she were seeing things.
organ wondered if she were seeing things.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen enough in the past handful of months to make her rub her eyes more than once to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She’d seen knives tinged blue with magic. She’d seen swords shimmer with otherworldly light and sing songs apparently only she could hear. She’d watched duels with spells, gazed on the painful, glittering beauty of elves, and admired the twisting and turnings of the hidden palace of the dwarf king. She’d seen more Olc than she ever wanted to and watched the beauty that was Fadaire sparkle on the top of a torch in a particular tower chamber at Gobhann where magic was possible.
She’d also seen the sword Miach was holding blaze with light as it was doing now, only she’d been holding it at the time and protecting someone she hadn’t known was the king of Neroche from finding himself impaled by a particularly gruesome monster.
Why was that sword now glowing for Miach?
She would have asked his brothers who had stopped gasping as if they’d been kicked in their guts and instead were gaping at him stupidly, but she was distracted by other things.
Miach had turned away from Lothar to face their company. The sword was still in his hand, still ablaze with that unearthly dark red light. He was wearing an expression of absolute astonishment. Morgan didn’t take the time to ask him why. She was too busy watching a crown—and a rather robust one, at that—appear suddenly, shimmering in the air above him. It was a lovely thing as far as crowns went, magnificently cast and adorned with all manner of impressive gems. Considering how many crowns she’d tried to get out of wearing over the past month, she thought she might be a decent judge of their quality.
It wasn’t a particularly solid crown, however. It seemed instead to be fashioned out of stuff that wasn’t entirely of this world.
It was also settling itself on Miach’s head.
A very impressive velvet robe, trimmed in ermine and embroidered with all manner of kingly insignia appeared as well, falling around Miach’s shoulders like some sort of mantle.
She felt her mouth fall open.
Miach’s brothers sank to their knees.
Miach fell to his hands and knees far less gracefully, as if he’d been crushed under some impossibly heavy weight and simply didn’t have the strength to bear it.
Morgan looked around her again and saw that every soldier who had come to witness the spectacle there had also dropped to his knees. Her grandfather was staring at Miach as if he’d never seen him before. Miach’s ancestors weren’t kneeling, but they were watching him with very grave expressions. Only Sosar was smiling from where he’d gone to lean on his father, as if he didn’t have the strength to stand through anything else on his own. He looked at her and winked.
“Interesting,” he mouthed.
Morgan turned back to look at Miach wearing that bloody enormous crown and that regal robe and thought that perhaps she should bow as well, for that wasn’t the crown of a prince.
It was the crown of a king.
She started to kneel, but found her hand taken suddenly. Miach had reached up and was clutching her fingers so tightly in his that it hurt. He shook his head sharply.
“Don’t,” he rasped.
She started to protest, but she made the mistake of blinking first.
The crown and the robe were gone. All other otherworldly manifestations were gone. It was just Miach, hunched over on the blood-soaked ground, gasping for breath and looking particularly green.
Damn it, when were those unsettling visions going to stop?
“Get up, you fools!” Sìle bellowed suddenly. “We’re not finished here.”
Morgan hauled Miach to his feet and spun him around so he was standing behind her with his back to hers. She killed three lads apparently bent on doing damage to the man behind her before she took another breath. She suddenly found herself in the middle of Nerochian soldiers she hadn’t seen before, soldiers who seemed particularly concerned with keeping Miach safe.
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