Princess of the Sword (42 page)

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Authors: Lynn Kurland

BOOK: Princess of the Sword
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Miach didn’t even have the energy to grunt. “Did he know about all this? Before it happened?”
“He knows everything, lad. He and Gil spend long winter evenings speculating about the fate of Neroche and its rulers. It isn’t your time to join them on those evenings, though you will eventually.” He started to walk away, then turned back and looked at Miach gravely. “Son, you did well today.”
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Miach said quietly.
“Your parents would be proud and your people will continue to be grateful.” He stepped back. “Your work isn’t completely finished though, children. Be careful whilst you’re about it.”
Miach watched him walk away, then turned and looked at Morgan and Glines.
“Well,” he managed.
Glines smiled. “Aye, well, indeed. Let’s go see if we can be of use, shall we?”
Miach nodded. He watched Morgan sheath the Sword of Angesand, then pull the Sword of Neroche out of the ground and hand it to him hilt-first.
“This is yours, I think,” she said quietly.
He had to take a deep breath. “I don’t think so.”
“But I left your other sword behind,” she said. “I think near where Lothar is.”
Miach could see exactly where it lay, and Morgan had the location aright, but he wasn’t going to go fetch it, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask her to do it for him. The only problem facing him was that he had no sheath for the Sword of Neroche—it lay near his sword—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to touch it again.
That would have been a bit like putting the last nail in his coffin.
But Morgan only continued to hold out the king’s sword to him. He looked at her for several minutes in silence, then stretched forth his hand and took hold of it.
It blazed forth with a bloodred magelight that blinded him for a moment, then the light subsided into a glimmery sort of illumination that had struck fear into countless enemies over the centuries.
He sighed.
Morgan said nothing. She only nodded, then turned and walked away.
Miach looked at Glines, had a very low bow as his reward, then sighed and followed Morgan back toward the border.
 
 
Three hours later he was wandering restlessly about the camp. The battle was won with very few casualties, he’d found the sheath for the king’s sword and put it up where it couldn’t cause any more trouble, and he could easily sense that Lothar was on his way south in the tender care of a trio of former kings of Neroche who were amusing themselves by flying along the coast where the breezes made for a very bumpy ride indeed.
More important still, Gair’s well had been shut, and he now had nothing but the future he’d looked forward to for several months stretching out in front of him, his to enjoy.
Only his future had completely changed.
He clasped his hands behind his back and suppressed the urge to run. Though the work was difficult, he enjoyed being the archmage of Neroche. True, he hadn’t had a reason to think he would ever be anything else, but he had never been unhappy with his lot. He’d had privacy, he’d had freedom, and he’d had an excuse to duck out of unbearably tedious meetings with foreign dignitaries. He’d also had the license to distance himself from the insufferable ego that Adhémar had worn along with his crown and mock the king at will.
Now he would be in the thick of all that, the politics, the petty grievances between neighboring kingdoms, the painfully dull meetings with ambassadors he knew couldn’t be trusted, and the even longer, even more painful attendance at the council of kings.
State dinners. Was there anything worse?
It occurred to him, accompanied by a sinking feeling that left him rather nauseated, that he was going to have to do a bit more growing up.
He looked for an avenue of escape. He was accustomed to outrunning his demons and his nightmares. He had never thought he would be outrunning a crown.
But since he had the feeling he might have company in that endeavor if he looked hard enough, he stopped wandering aimlessly and started looking for a particular gel. He strode through the camp, hurrying past souls before they could genuflect to him, and finally found the lass he was looking for.
She was standing near Cathar’s tent, wrapped in a cloak yet still looking very chilled. Mehar was laughing at something Catrìona had said, but Morgan didn’t join them. She merely stood next to them as if they were a cheery fire that she hoped to warm herself by. She didn’t look as if it were working very well. Indeed, all she seemed to be succeeding at was looking thoroughly ill at ease.
He understood, completely.
He walked over to the little group, then came to a stop at Catrìona’s elbow and made the three of them a low bow.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said politely.
“Practicing your courtly manners, love?” Mehar asked with a smile.
“He’s just naturally polite,” Catrìona said, elbowing Miach companionably in the ribs. “I think he’s trying to dazzle us with his lovely smile so we’ll release his lady to him. Am I right, Miach?”
“You are,” he agreed. “Might I borrow my betrothed for a bit? I’m in need of a bit of a run.”
Mehar smiled in understanding. “Of course. I think whilst you’re about your run, Catrìona and I will turn for the palace. Catch up as you can, children.”
Miach nodded, made them a very low bow, then straightened and held out his hand to Morgan. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Away.”
She looked as haunted as he felt. She put her hand into his. “Gladly.”
He walked away with her, but couldn’t bring himself to speak. There was too much to say and most of it was about things he couldn’t bear to think about yet.
It had been an overwhelming day, to say the least.
He waited until they were out in the open, out from under the poor trees Lothar had allowed to grow, then looked at her. “I suppose we should talk about today—”
“Later,” she said. She took his hand and tugged on him. “Later, Miach, after you’ve outrun it for a bit.”
He nodded gratefully. He ran until he needed to fly and she kept pace with him. He was reminded sharply of another afternoon, the first afternoon she’d changed her shape, when she was the one outrunning who she was. He’d never expected the tables to be turned so thoroughly.
Don’t think
.
Just fly
.
Her voice whispered across his mind. He took hold of her words and clutched them. They were, he had to admit, the most sensible bits of advice he’d been offered in the past pair of fortnights. He could just imagine all the pieces of advice he would be offered in the next few fortnights, advice about everything from what to say at supper so as not to offend all the way to how to match his silk tunics to his curly-toed court shoes. He supposed Rigaud would be offering that last one.
He pulled his wing back suddenly, wondering what he’d run into that had hurt so badly, only to find Morgan had singed him a bit.
Stop. It will be waiting for you when you get back.
He supposed she had that aright. She gave him a particularly dragonish look of challenge, then swept out toward the sea. He followed, gladly leaving behind things he would have to return to eventually.
But not yet.
 
 
It was very dark by the time they landed in the courtyard at Tor Neroche. Miach leaned over and gasped for breath, then fumbled for Morgan and threw his arm around her. He pulled her close and rested his head on her shoulder until he thought he could straighten with any success.
He heaved himself upright, then froze when he found himself suddenly surrounded by more than just torchlight. He was fairly certain Morgan had squeaked. He wasn’t all that sure he hadn’t as well.
All of Adhémar’s ministers were there, along with the former king’s steward, a handful of ambassadors from other countries, and Mistress of the Wardrobe, who was looking at him as if she were already sizing him up for what itchy, uncomfortable things she might force him to wear whether he liked it or not. He drew closer to Morgan.
“Let’s run again,” he murmured.
“I don’t think you can.”
Miach supposed he understood at that moment just how a tasty bit of vulture fodder felt. The king’s advisors—who he supposed were now
his
advisors—descended upon him
en masse
, crowding around him, pressing in upon him on all sides. How they knew what had happened, he couldn’t have said. Tidings traveled quickly, apparently.
He lost his grip on Morgan’s hand at one point. He looked frantically for her but couldn’t find her for the sea of robes, hats, and pieces of parchment being thrust in his face. He saw her finally through a break in the press. She was standing next to Glines, which he supposed he shouldn’t have been happy about, but there was nothing he could do about it at present.
“Morgan!” he shouted over the din.
She waved, not looking particularly unhappy to be at liberty to flee, then she turned and walked away.
Miach singled out a face in the sea of faces in front of him. It was Sir Doigheil, the man whose entire existence was dedicated to seeing elves appeased at all costs.
Miach reached out and dragged Sir Doigheil close to him. “There is a very large contingent of elves arriving from Tòrr Dòrainn—”
“They’re already here, Your Highness. Queen Brèagha arrived this morning with her daughters. I have, of course, seen them all situated in chambers befitting their exalted station.”
Miach smiled in spite of himself. Whoever had selected the man for his particular job had chosen wisely. “Thank you for your diligence in that. If I might ask you also to please see to something especially comfortable for King Sìle’s granddaughter, Princess Mhorghain—”
“Mhorghain?” Doigheil interrupted, looking stunned. “Mhorghain of Ceangail?” He gaped a bit more. “Is
that
who joined you on your accursed—er, I mean your
therapeutic
flying?”
“It was,” Miach agreed. “She won’t want anything fussy and she may want room for companions.” He paused. “Please,
please
see that she’s fed well.”
Doigheil nodded, wide-eyed, turned, and then struggled to make his way through bodies that didn’t want to move.
Miach took a deep breath, then looked at the remaining men clustered around him. They were all staring at him as if he alone held the answers to the universe and all its mysteries.
He was tempted to bolt.
He took a deep breath. Nay, he wouldn’t run. He didn’t run, not when it came to seeing to his responsibilities. If this was what Fate had decreed, then he would accept that decree and make the best of it. He’d spent all his adult life and a good part of his youth in the service of the realm and its people. King was, perhaps, no different from archmage, though it seemed bloody cheeky to think he might be wearing that crown, a crown he was certain would be three sizes too large and slip down over his eyes at an inopportune moment.
He wished, quite suddenly and quite desperately, that he’d even once asked his father how it had felt to have the mantle of the kingship fall upon him.
It had just never occurred to him that he would want to know. He took a deep breath and looked at the men surrounding him. “Who’s next?”
The response was deafening.
Miach suspected it was going to be a very, very long night.

 

Twenty-one
M
organ paced along the passageways of Tor Neroche because she couldn’t sit still. She’d slept like the dead the night before—nay, it had been the night before that. After she’d abandoned Miach to that gaggle of busybodies, she’d walked down the passageway with Glines only for as long as it took someone to catch up to her and offer her a chamber large enough to accommodate half the population of Weger’s tower. She had accepted, then invited everyone she knew to come join her there, just to keep the silence at bay.
She’d chatted for quite a while with her mercenary companions, then learned from one of Miach’s brothers—Mansourah, she supposed, for he’d looked exactly like Turah only much more serious—that Sosar was resting comfortably, Turah was resting less comfortably, and Miach was trying to stay awake whilst listening to things that had needed to have been solved a month ago. Mansourah had then departed, looking vastly relieved that he wasn’t the one doing the solving. Morgan had abandoned Miach to his fate, lain down, and slept until noon yesterday.
She’d spent the rest of the day before avoiding public meals and important people. She had passed a pleasant hour or two in the lists with a half dozen engaging lads who hadn’t a clue who she was or what she was capable of. Leaving the Sword of Angesand under her bed had apparently been a wise thing to do.
She had visited Luath and Fleòd in the stables, then greeted the two horses of Hearn’s she and Miach had ridden in the fall, Rèaltan and Reannag. The stables at Neroche were particularly luxurious, which she supposed would have pleased Hearn. She had the distinct feeling, however, that Luath and Fleòd were stirring up a fair bit of equine insurrection, for they seemed to think she was not only capable but willing to give them wings. When she’d politely informed them that she didn’t know how, she’d had disbelieving snorts in response.

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