Princess of the Sword (46 page)

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Authors: Lynn Kurland

BOOK: Princess of the Sword
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“He might.”
“Did you hear everything I discussed with Keir?”
“Aye.”
“And you memorized all your father’s spells that he gave me, didn’t you?”
“Unfortunately,” she said with a shiver. “Does it matter?”
“Sosar said something about having talked to Keir about things he wouldn’t elaborate on. Perhaps the particulars of Diminishing were amongst them. If nothing else, you’ll take his mind off his situation until we can find a remedy for him.”
She nodded, then reached up and put her hands on his face. “Be careful.”
He smiled. “Morgan, nothing will come upon me unawares. Not now.”
“No one is infallible,” she said pointedly, “but you know that already.” She sighed deeply. “You can’t leave your people in danger.”
“Our people,” he corrected softly, “and nay, I cannot. Most of those monsters were drawn to the well anyway. It won’t be hard to put them out of their misery.”
“I don’t like this, but I suppose there are times when you’ll need to be off and doing without me. When will you go?”
“Sometime before dawn,” he said. “I’d like to sleep for a couple of hours first, if possible. I suppose camping in front of your fire is out.”
“As is a night in your hayloft, unless you want to find yourself skewered on the end of my grandfather’s sword.”
“I’ve already almost had that pleasure, so perhaps we should forbear for the moment. I’ll at least walk you to your door.”
She nodded, then slipped her hand into his. He walked with her across the hall, thanked the musicians for their fine playing, then continued down the passageways to where he knew Morgan’s chamber lay.
He hadn’t, not in his heart of hearts where he might have cherished dreams he would have told only his mother who wouldn’t have laughed at him, imagined that he might be walking the halls of Tor Neroche with a woman he loved holding his hand. He certainly wouldn’t have imagined it with what faced him being his own crowning.
He continued on with Morgan until they stood in front of her door. He reached for the latch only to have the door open before he could touch it. Sìle scowled at him.
“Wondered when you’d bring her back.”
“Did you know I had her?” Miach asked in surprise.
“I peered into the great hall,” Sìle said gruffly. “Couldn’t bring myself to interrupt such fine dancing. At least you paid attention in your lessons and you won’t shame her. I worry about you in other areas, but at least in this, you’ll suffice.”
“Grandfather,” Morgan said weakly.
Miach only smiled and made Sìle a low bow. “That’s very kind of you, Your Majesty.”
“Here’s kindness,” Sìle said, opening the door fully. “We prepared a place for you by the fire. You can sleep safely tonight, at least.”
“
Very
kind,” Miach said with a smile.
Sìle grunted at him, then nodded toward the fire. Miach walked with Morgan over to the hearth to find two empty seats there side by side. Miach waited until Morgan had sat before he collapsed in the chair next to her. He smiled at Morgan’s mercenary companions, who were already enjoying hefty tankards of ale.
“Your Highness,” Paien said, raising his mug in salute.
Miach accepted a cup of ale from Camid and passed it to Morgan. He settled himself with his own, then relaxed for the first time in days.
He sipped for a bit, then set his mug aside and held out his hand. Morgan put hers into his, smiling at him. He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed it, then leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. The conversation washed over him, leaving him feeling as if he merely sat about a campfire with well-known traveling companions. In time, he heard others join the group, Cathar, Turah, and even Sosar, but he didn’t do anything past acknowledging them with a look and a smile. He was enormously grateful to be where he was, away from prying eyes, away from fathers who seemed to lie in wait for him around every corner, away from things he would have to slay on the morrow.
He was very grateful for the simple pleasure of the company of trusted companions.
He asked Cathar to wake him in a pair of hours, then closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep.
 
 
Four days later, he walked through the passageways of Tor Neroche, tired, hungry, and thoroughly sick of the work of death.
It had taken him far longer to finish his business than he’d expected, but he’d had no choice but to see it through to the end. It had been unpleasant and unrelenting, and he’d been very grateful Morgan hadn’t been forced to be a part of it. She had enough of evil and darkness in her past; if he could spare her any more, he would do so without hesitation.
He ran bodily into his eldest brother before he realized that brother was standing in front of the chapel doors. Cathar turned around, then blew his hair out of his eyes.
“Finally.”
“Finally, what?” Miach asked in surprise. “I hurried.”
“You’d best continue to hurry. By my last count, there are eight kings and queens inside, waiting to watch you become the ninth. I’ve distracted them for four solid days with food, dancing, and the entire reserves of sour wine from Penrhyn, and that doesn’t begin to address the number and kind of all the rest of the guests who’ve needed to be fed and distracted. I asked Morgan this morning when she thought you would be back and she said she was sure today. I think her exact words were, ‘if he doesn’t return today, I’m going to go find him and kill him.’ ” He smiled. “You must have sensed that.”
“I daresay,” Miach said with a weary smile. “Thank you for keeping watch over her.”
“Not that she needed it, but you’re welcome just the same.” He smiled. “The woman is, well, you know what she is. She’s already run through the garrison daily since you left; half the lads are in love with her, the other half terrified of her. That has occupied her mornings quite well. She’s spent the evenings closeted with Sosar of Tòrr Dòrainn in the library, looking for heaven knows what.”
“And the afternoons?”
“Arguing with Mistress Wardrobe.” Cathar paused. “I thought it wise to demand all her blades before each of those encounters, lest something go awry. I didn’t manage it today, though, so don’t blame me if there’s been bloodshed. I was too busy trying to entertain your guests to render your lady weaponless.”
Miach nodded, then realized he wasn’t altogether sure what he was nodding about. “Guests?”
“Inside the chapel, Miach,” Cathar said, frowning at him. “Weren’t you listening?”
“I was too busy thinking about food and a bath.”
“Well, you’d best hurry with both. You’re being crowned, oh, an hour ago, which means you’re very late. But then again, so is your lady coming down the passageway toward us. There might not have been bloodshed, but I imagine there has been a fair amount of arguing.”
Miach smiled, then glanced down the passageway. He had to find a handy wall to lean against just to keep himself upright. He looked at her for a moment or two, then turned to his brother. “What did you tell me about bloodshed?”
Cathar frowned, then shrugged. “I can’t remember. Morgan has that effect, I think. As if she’d just walked out of a dream.” He took a deep breath. “And before I start singing praises about
your
future wife, I think I’ll take myself off to find the rest of the lads. We’ll be waiting for you. Don’t dawdle.”
“I won’t,” Miach said absently. He continued to watch Morgan walking down the passageway toward him and felt a little winded at the sight. He didn’t suppose he was equal to identifying what she was wearing. It reached to the floor, it was white, and the sleeves were long enough to cover the blades she no doubt had strapped to her forearms. She had on a crown, he suspected her hair was piled atop her head helping the crown stay there, and she must have been wearing some species of fancy shoe because those shoes tapped against the floor as she walked.
They almost drowned out her curses.
She finally stopped, hiked up her skirts, and took off her shoes with yet another curse. She continued on with a shoe in each hand, muttering under her breath what he was sure were dire warnings to a particular woman in charge of her clothing.
Until she saw him.
The look of relief on her face stole what of his breath she hadn’t taken a moment ago.
He strode forward and caught her as she threw herself into his arms. He closed his eyes and held her tightly, unsure if she were trembling, or he was.
“You’re home.”
He managed an unsteady breath. “I told you I would be.”
“You’re late.”
“So I keep hearing. It was worth it, though, to see you in your finery. Actually, it would have been worth it to see you in mercenary garb,” he admitted. He put his hand very carefully against the back of her head and bent his head to kiss her. “I missed you.”
She tightened her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to talk about it. I didn’t think you were in much danger, but I still want Master Soilléir’s sight. That, or the gift of seeing your mantle has given you. I want to know how you’re faring when you’re not within reach of my sword.”
“I think you might be entitled to both,” he said.
She sank back onto her heels and looked up at him. “Is it finished?”
He nodded. “Finally.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “It was difficult, wasn’t it?”
“Did you see that much?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nay, but I can see it in your eyes. Miach, I vow I’m serious about sleep. You can teach me to attend to your spells for a day or two so you can rest. Unfortunately, I don’t think a nap is in your future today. The chapel is full of dignitaries. You’re not going to be able to sneak in late and hide in the back. Unfortunately,” she muttered, “neither am I.”
“Nay,” he said, reaching up to adjust her crown slightly, “you’ll have to sit with the elves, I suppose. You’ll fit in, I daresay.”
“Save for the shoes.”
He smiled. “You might have to put them back on.”
“They are too high and they make a horrendous noise when I walk,” she said shortly. “I prefer boots.”
“Shall I lower the heels for you?” he asked politely.
She pursed her lips. “You can’t. The gown has been hemmed at the precise length to drape over the shoes at their precise height so that I look graceful and slightly mysterious. Mistress Wardrobe told me so.”
He realized his mouth was hanging open. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” she said grimly. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through over the past four days. And nay, there is no stricture for it.”
He would have laughed, but he stifled it at her warning look. He pulled her instead back into his arms.
“I vow we’ll escape tonight,” he promised. “One way or another.”
“Please,” she said with feeling. “My grandmothers have been here to keep me company, Mehar has flown with me, Catrìona has trained with me, but I wanted you. I don’t wish another adventure on us quite yet, but at least we were together most of the time that way.”
“I have a strategy,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Short meetings, short dinners, and long evenings of dancing.”
“Can you do that?”
“Not yet, but ask me again in a handful of hours.” He kissed her very softly, then took her shoes out of her hands. He knelt, put them back onto her feet, then spelled them into silence. He pushed himself back to his feet. “Better?”
“They feel like boots, if such a thing is possible,” she said in surprise.
“What is the use of being betrothed to a mage, if he cannot make your court shoes comfortable now and again?”
She held him very tightly for a moment or two, then pushed out of his arms. “Let’s be about this,” she said briskly. “I have plans for you later in your mother’s solar.”
“I’ll walk you to the chapel doors—”
She shook her head with a smile. “Sosar is waiting for me. And we’ll be waiting for you.”
He hesitated, but she made shooing motions with her hand. He took a deep breath.
“I’ll be back.”
“I know.”
He smiled, made her a low bow, then walked down the passageway.
He looked back several times. Each time, he saw her standing just outside the chapel, watching him. He finally decided he should stop looking back, simply because he knew if he didn’t hurry, he would be soon rivaling Adhémar for keeping guests waiting.
But he couldn’t help one last look.
She was still standing there, watching.
He paused, then took a deep breath. The past was taken care of. All that was left was to walk, clear-eyed, into the future.
He turned, put his head down, and strode down the passageway.

 

Twenty-three
M
organ decided that there were perhaps worse things than facing a battle where she wasn’t sure of the outcome. Listening to her grandfather disparage ambassadors from other kingdoms who had tried to have audiences with him whilst he’d wanted to be off to breakfast was one. Having her hair worked on by maids who seemed determined to pile it all on top of her head and make it stay there instead of letting it drip down her back as it so desperately wanted to do was another. Walking through the passageways of Tor Neroche and finding herself glared at by nobility she was sure she hadn’t had a chance to offend was yet another to add to the list.

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