Princess of the Sword (39 page)
Read Princess of the Sword Online
Authors: Lynn Kurland
She couldn’t find any words to use to express her astonishment at what she’d just seen, much less anything handy to use as an intelligent question, so instead, she did what she she’d been trained to do: she fought and saved the thinking for when she had a cup of ale in her hand and a fire near her feet. There was a stricture for that, though she couldn’t bring the exact wording of it to mind at present.
And so she fought with Miach’s back to hers, fought alongside him, found herself pulled behind him a time or two when faced with a particularly burly opponent—though she would have been the first to point out that she did that for him just as often.
It might have been an hour, it could have been three, when the battle in the area around them was finished and their enemies slain. Lothar had been dragged over to one side and was currently under the tender care of a pair of Miach’s progenitors. Morgan supposed they would be able to keep him in line now he was not only immobilized, but mute. She turned back to look at the keep in front of her, sitting on the edge of the shore. The ocean was lovely; the keep was not.
“Riamh?” she asked Miach, who was standing next to her.
He nodded wearily. “It was once, I understand, quite a lovely place. It is that no longer, I fear.” He took a deep breath. “I need to go inside and find Turah. And Adhémar as well, I imagine.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Miach, don’t. Don’t go in that dungeon. Let me go in your stead.”
He jammed the Sword of Neroche into the ground, then took the Sword of Angesand from her and did the same with it. The magelight faded from both swords immediately. Morgan looked at them in surprise, then found herself pulled into Miach’s arms. That was handy, actually, for the sight of those swords without their light left her somewhat bereft. She put her arms around him and didn’t bother to fight her trembles. He would think they were from weariness anyway. And given that he was trembling in the same manner, perhaps it didn’t matter what weakness he might credit her with.
“Don’t go in there,” she repeated, when she thought she could get the words out without her voice breaking. “Give me a minute to catch my breath, then I’ll go.”
“Morgan,” Miach said quietly, “I wouldn’t let you near that place if my life hung in the balance. It has nothing to do with courage or strength or what you are able to bear. It just has to do with me, wanting to protect you from horrors you would regret having seen.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. “And who will protect you?”
“I’ll fall apart in your arms in some deserted corner of the palace tonight,” he said, with a very faint smile. He lifted his hand and smoothed it over her hair. “I’ve already been inside the keep, Morgan, and seen the worst it has to offer. After today, I don’t think it will trouble me.”
“Then take someone else with you,” she insisted. “A handful of someones with very sharp swords.”
“I will if it pleases you,” he acquiesced, “though I don’t think there’s much to worry about. Lothar’s kin behind us are happily trapped under my spell and I don’t think Lothar himself will be doing anything else untoward today. I’ll be safe enough.”
She hesitated, then put her arms around his neck and held on to him very tightly for a moment or two. She wished with a desperation that surprised her that they were at Lismòr, lingering over wine in Nicholas’s solar; or even at Gobhann, listening to the roar of the wind and attempting to choke down very bitter ale. She wished they were anywhere but where they were, standing on accursed soil and surrounded by events she wasn’t sure she wanted to examine too closely.
She decided then that she didn’t care for change.
Miach held her tightly for another moment or two, then pulled away. “Wait for me?”
She nodded. “I’ll watch over the swords.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. He reached out and touched her cheek, then turned and walked away toward the keep. By the time he reached the main door of the hall, he had been joined by Yngerame of Wychweald, Harold of Neroche, and his brothers Cathar, Mansourah, and Rigaud. She took up a post next to the swords and waited.
She soon found herself accompanied in that labor by her mercenary companions and Miach’s brother, Nemed. He smiled at her and held out his hand.
“We haven’t actually had a proper introduction yet,” he said politely. “I’m Nemed.”
“I’m Morgan,” she said, taking his hand briefly. “Or Mhorghain, I suppose, if you’d rather. I am Miach’s . . . um—”
“Betrothed,” Nemed supplied. “Aye, I know. I’m happy he found you when he did.”
She blinked. “Are you? Why?”
He started to speak, then looked briefly over his shoulder as someone called his name. “Forgive me,” he said with a faint smile. “Duty calls.”
Morgan watched him go, then turned to Paien. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“Timing is everything,” Paien said wisely.
Morgan looked to Camid for his opinion, but he was only rubbing his long nose and looking with undisguised enthusiasm at the water to the north of the keep. Well, anything he might want to discuss would have to do with boats and since she had as little to do with boats as possible, conversing with him would be pointless. She turned to Glines. He was merely watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite identify at first. It wasn’t amusement, and it wasn’t pity. She suspected it might have been an unhappy mixture of both.
“What?” she demanded.
He shook his head slowly. “Not a thing, Morgan. Not a thing.”
She nudged her other companions out of the way and moved to stand next to him. She had to take several goodly breaths before she trusted herself to look up at him. “I’m not sure I know what happened there,” she admitted. “I’m not sure I
want
to know what just happened there.”
want
to know what just happened there.”
Glines looked at her gravely. “Adhémar is dead, Morgan.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then looked at him again. “I don’t suppose you’d know much about Nerochian succession, would you?”
“I might.”
“Noble blood will land you in trouble every time, Glines.”
He laughed. “Morgan, you are hardly one to talk there, are you? But since I can see you want answers to questions you can’t bring yourself to ask, let me tell you of it.”
“Is this going to take very long?”
“Longer than you’d like, but you’re too restless to sit, so just be quiet and listen.” He clasped his hands behind his back and assumed the same sort of expression Miach did when he was about to relate some important bit of lore. “In the olden times, in the days of Gilraehen the Fey and his son, Harold the Bold—”
Harold the Bold and Exhausted,
she corrected silently. She would have said as much to Glines, but then he would have wanted to know how she knew and then she would be giving him all the gossip Miach had given her and that would require ale and comfortable chairs. She had no time for that; she wanted answers to her questions. Perhaps she would give him details later, when she’d survived what she was sure were tidings she wasn’t going to be happy about.
she corrected silently. She would have said as much to Glines, but then he would have wanted to know how she knew and then she would be giving him all the gossip Miach had given her and that would require ale and comfortable chairs. She had no time for that; she wanted answers to her questions. Perhaps she would give him details later, when she’d survived what she was sure were tidings she wasn’t going to be happy about.
“The king of Neroche was, as I was saying before you dozed off there, in the olden days king and archmage both,” Glines continued. “As time went on and the line became diluted, the offices of king and archmage were separated. There have been kings throughout the years who could have borne both burdens, of course, and archmages who could have done the same, but that hasn’t happened for centuries. There was a prophecy—”
“Oh, nay, not one of those,” she protested.
Glines smiled. “Uisdean the Wise said:
‘The king will sit upon his throne with his sword sheathed and laid across his knees before the tide of darkness will be stemmed.’
Some have speculated that the prophecy meant the king would have to be powerful enough not to need the Sword of Neroche to win his battles. Others have thought that the king would need to give power
to
the Sword of Neroche, not take from it, for Neroche to prevail. In either case, the only way truly for the king to have that much power would be if he were king and archmage both. And only then would Lothar be bested.”
‘The king will sit upon his throne with his sword sheathed and laid across his knees before the tide of darkness will be stemmed.’
Some have speculated that the prophecy meant the king would have to be powerful enough not to need the Sword of Neroche to win his battles. Others have thought that the king would need to give power
to
the Sword of Neroche, not take from it, for Neroche to prevail. In either case, the only way truly for the king to have that much power would be if he were king and archmage both. And only then would Lothar be bested.”
“And what does that have to do with Adhémar possibly being dead?” she asked reluctantly.
Glines looked at her pointedly. “There is no possibility of Adhémar’s being alive, Morgan.”
“Why not?” she asked, finding that her mouth was very dry all of the sudden.
“Because when a king or an archmage dies, his mantle falls on his successor immediately. I suppose Miach could tell you quite a few tales about unsuspecting mages—and a farmer or two—fainting suddenly only to wake and find they were the next archmage of the realm.” Glines smiled gently. “Adhémar’s mantle fell on Miach, Morgan, but I daresay you saw that.”
“I was delirious.”
He put his hand on her shoulder briefly. “Cling to that if it makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, wishing desperately for a drink of something strong. She looked at Glines. “I can’t believe it. Well, I can believe it because ’tis Miach and I always thought he would make a better king than Adhémar, but that was before . . . before—”
“Before you agreed to wed him?”
She took a deep breath. “I think I’m finished talking to you.”
“But—”
She walked away from him before she was tempted to silence him by means of a dagger to his belly. She only managed a few paces before she had to stop.
Miach, king of Neroche?
She looked about her for the distraction of her grandfather or Sosar, but they were heading toward the hall door. She didn’t want to go inside the hall and there was nowhere else to run. She settled for turning her back on Glines and taking up her vigil again near the swords driven into the ground. At least they were refraining from any further magical displays. She focused on them and their beauty until she saw things begin to happen near the keep.
Rigaud appeared in the doorway of the hall, carrying Adaira in his arms. Morgan didn’t have to be any closer than she was to tell the queen was dead. Rigaud laid her gently on the ground, then closed her eyes. Morgan winced, then watched as Cathar and Mansourah carried Adhémar out and laid him next to his bride. There was no mistaking his condition either.
Morgan looked up and saw Miach and Turah standing at the doorway. Turah looked terrible, but at least he was alive. She hastened over to him, then drew his arm over her shoulders, taking some of his weight from Miach. She met Miach’s eyes.
“Bad?”
He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Very.”
Morgan looked at Turah. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing what was in front of him. “What can we do for him?”
“There isn’t anything
to
be done,” Miach said grimly. “There are no signs of bodily harm on him, which is fortunate. The rest can only be cured by time.” He paused. “I suppose you could try your grandfather’s spell of healing on him, if you wanted to.”
to
be done,” Miach said grimly. “There are no signs of bodily harm on him, which is fortunate. The rest can only be cured by time.” He paused. “I suppose you could try your grandfather’s spell of healing on him, if you wanted to.”
“Not with you,” she said with a snort, then she shut her mouth and winced. “Forgive me. Levity is misplaced.”
He shook his head slowly. “I think, my love, that a bit of laughter may be all that salvages this day. Why don’t we try that same spell again, only this time I’ll begin and you’ll be the one to repeat the last word with me. Then you can put me to bed when I faint.”
She almost smiled. “If you like. But perhaps not here.”
“Nay, not here. Let me sort things for a bit longer, then we’ll return home and give it a go.” He looked over his shoulder. “Glines, would you come take my place here with Turah?”
“Of course, Your Most Royal and Splendid Highness,” Glines said deferentially.
Miach stepped aside far enough to let Glines ease under his brother’s shoulder, then slapped Glines on the back of his head. Glines only laughed and shot him a knowing look. Morgan watched Miach walk over to talk to the men standing near the king and queen. He wasn’t all that steady on his feet, which made her wonder just what he’d seen inside the keep.
Nothing good.
He did look over his shoulder, though, and smiled gravely at her before he turned back to his business.
“He’s besotted,” Glines murmured. “He’ll drive his advisors mad when he spends all his time mooning over you instead of attending to matters of the realm.”
“Shut up,” Morgan said miserably. “This isn’t fodder for jest, Glines.” She cursed heartily, but it didn’t ease her any. “The bloody king of Neroche—”
“And he was the bloody archmage of Neroche this morning. What’s the difference?”
She glared at him. “If you can’t see it, I won’t explain it to you.”
Glines only lifted his eyebrows briefly. “I see very well, thank you, but I think
you
might be looking at the wrong things.” He nodded to his right. “There’s a stone bench over there. Well, what’s left of one. Let’s see if we can walk Prince Turah over there, shall we? We’ll discuss what those wrong things are whilst you’re sitting down.”
you
might be looking at the wrong things.” He nodded to his right. “There’s a stone bench over there. Well, what’s left of one. Let’s see if we can walk Prince Turah over there, shall we? We’ll discuss what those wrong things are whilst you’re sitting down.”
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