Read Princess of the Sword Online
Authors: Lynn Kurland
Princess of the Sword (5 page)
Morgan wrinkled her nose as well. “We stink.”
“And thankfully we’re alive to do so,” he said, with feeling.
She smiled, apparently in spite of herself, then looked around her. “Do we dare have a dip in the river?”
“The Oan is filthier than we are,” he said with a shudder. “Perhaps we should just wait until we’re back at the inn. I imagine there’s water in the garden.”
“I don’t think they’ll let us in the garden.”
“I’ll bribe them. ’Tis a certainty your grandfather won’t let us in that luxurious chamber I provided for him if we don’t clean up first.” He took a ginger breath, then looked at her. “How are you?”
“I’m not sure what was more unpleasant, hiding in that wardrobe and wondering when that horrible wizard would find us, or hiding in that horrible little chamber and wondering when guards would burst back in and leave us fighting our way out.”
He couldn’t have agreed more. It had been a thoroughly unpleasant night.
“What now?” she asked.
Back inside Droch’s solar for another go
was the first thing that came to mind, but he didn’t suppose it would serve either of them for him to voice that thought given that he had no intention of taking Morgan with him. He merely picked a particularly rotten piece of spring salad off her shoulder and smiled. “Let’s think about it later, when we can breathe again.”
was the first thing that came to mind, but he didn’t suppose it would serve either of them for him to voice that thought given that he had no intention of taking Morgan with him. He merely picked a particularly rotten piece of spring salad off her shoulder and smiled. “Let’s think about it later, when we can breathe again.”
“I’m for that, at least. And quickly, if you don’t mind.”
He didn’t mind at all. Half an hour and a substantial bag of gold in the cook’s hand later, he was slightly cleaner and walking up the back stairs to the upper floor of the Uneasy Dragon. He ran into Morgan’s uncle at the top of the stairs before he realized Sosar was waiting for them.
“You smell,” Sosar said pleasantly.
“Thank you,” Miach said with a grunt. “It was worse before, believe me.” He steadied himself with a hand against the wall. “Any trouble?”
“Outside of my father raging half the night that he had changed his mind and planned to slay you?” Sosar asked with a smile. “Nay, it was very quiet. I heard a bell or two ringing inside the walls, though.”
“I imagine you did,” Miach agreed. “They’re a busy lot, those wizards.”
“No doubt.” Sosar nodded down the passageway. “I’ve food waiting, which you can thank me for later. You’d best eat it. I imagine you won’t have much appetite when you learn where we’re lunching.”
Miach blinked in surprise. “Where?”
“At Buidseachd. It would seem that Father was caught down at the stables very early this morning with your brother. Turah blurted out some ridiculous tale about having come to see a man about a sword, which my father says was completely unbelievable.”
“Who saw them?” Miach asked, dragging his free hand through his hair. “One of Master Ceannard’s lads?”
“Nay, the one who sent you this message a quarter hour ago.” Sosar held out a note, pinched between as little of his thumb and forefinger as possible. “I couldn’t bring myself to read it for you.”
Miach opened the missive. Words of Olc slithered down the page to wind themselves around his fingers.
Next time alert me to your arrival, and I’ll make certain to leave my door unlocked.
Next time alert me to your arrival, and I’ll make certain to leave my door unlocked.
The note burst into flames and Miach dropped it with a curse. He ground the smoking rubbish under his boot, then stared down at the ashes. Well, whatever else his faults might have been, Droch was no fool—and he had a knack for being able to tell who was behind him without looking over his shoulder. Perhaps there had been spells laid across the doorway or over the books that he hadn’t seen. He looked at Sosar. “I suppose we’d best have a decent breakfast.”
“As I advised,” Sosar agreed. “I’ll go now and see to clothes for this historic visit. You can find your own baths, though. I’m sure my father will aid you when he catches a whiff of your fragrant selves.”
Miach cursed Sosar briefly as he slipped past them, then he took as deep a breath as he dared. “This is a boon,” he said to Morgan with forced cheerfulness. “Perhaps I might even be invited into a few interesting chambers this time.”
“Who was the missive from?”
He thought about attempting to dodge the question, but discarded the idea. If Morgan was going back inside Buidseachd with him, she had best know what they stood to face. “It was from Droch.”
“He knows we were there, doesn’t he?”
Miach managed a weary smile. “He believes that I was there, at least.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t go back inside his solar, Miach.”
“Morgan, this is but a bit of light work before the true labor begins,” he said. “I cannot aid you when it comes time to use the spell we seek. At least allow me to aid you now by finding what you’ll need to use.”
“I don’t like it.”
He wouldn’t have either, in her place, but there was nothing to be done about it. He held her close for a moment or two, then stepped back and reached for her hand. He ran his thumb over the back of that hand as they walked, feeling the scars there. Those were scars she had earned during years of swordplay in a place that was, in its own way, as terrifying as anything Master Droch could conjure up. Her hands had very recently learned to weave spells, something he knew she had come to accept at enormous cost to her soul. He also had a fair idea of the sort of spell she would have to weave to right the wrong her father’s arrogance had caused. If there was something he could do to make that easier for her, he would.
Besides, who knew what sorts of things he might find whilst roaming about the keep on the pretext of stretching his legs?
He was willing to risk quite a bit to find out.
Three
M
organ walked up the road that led to the castle, squinted briefly at the early afternoon sun, and wished desperately that she were walking anywhere else.
organ walked up the road that led to the castle, squinted briefly at the early afternoon sun, and wished desperately that she were walking anywhere else.
She had a decent selection of blades secreted on her person, but that was the only improvement over the night before. Her magic was hidden and her sword propped up in a corner at the inn, because apparently servants of archmages didn’t have magic or carry swords. She had been selected to act as Miach’s servant because their relatives had obviously had too much time on their hands whilst she and Miach had napped.
Or whilst she had napped, rather. Miach hadn’t, but that wasn’t anything new. There were times she suspected he never slept at all. She would have chided him for not resting—and for being a no-doubt willing party to the decision about her assumed identity—but he’d looked so weary, she hadn’t had the heart to. She wasn’t sure how he was still on his feet, but there he was, walking in front of her with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed.
She patted herself absently for weapons, just to lessen her unease. She had insisted that if she was going to go as Miach’s servant, she should at least have first choice of all available gear lest she be called upon to protect him by more pedestrian means than a spell—and given the contents of Droch’s missive to him, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t find that to be necessary.
Her grandfather had drawn himself up and told her with a bit of a huff that he wasn’t in the habit of stuffing blades up his sleeves, so he had nothing to offer her save a bit of advice on what might be considered appropriate
accoutrements
for elven princesses. She had a difficult time thinking of herself as such, so she had ignored his list and turned to her uncle. Sosar had justified his lack of steel by pleading an overwhelming desire to leave his flesh unnicked. Having seen him with a sword in his hands, she couldn’t help but agree that was wise.
accoutrements
for elven princesses. She had a difficult time thinking of herself as such, so she had ignored his list and turned to her uncle. Sosar had justified his lack of steel by pleading an overwhelming desire to leave his flesh unnicked. Having seen him with a sword in his hands, she couldn’t help but agree that was wise.
Turah, however, had surprised her with the number and quality of blades he’d pulled forth. She’d expressed her approval, then poached a pair of the best.
She’d then turned to see what Miach had to offer only to watch him hold out a pair of lovely, slim daggers, seemingly freshly forged, with hilts of bright gold.
“Did you buy these?” she’d asked in surprise.
He’d shaken his head with a small smile. “I made them for you, just now.”
She had drawn each forth and blinked at the sight of what she’d already learned to recognize as runes of Tòrr Dòrainn and Neroche intertwined there. She
was
one to get a bit misty over the sight of a goodly blade, so she’d eyed the finely wrought steel with unabashed emotion, then embraced him and called him by a particularly heartfelt term of endearment.
was
one to get a bit misty over the sight of a goodly blade, so she’d eyed the finely wrought steel with unabashed emotion, then embraced him and called him by a particularly heartfelt term of endearment.
Her fond feelings for him had departed abruptly when he’d informed her that in addition to her being his servant, he thought she should be a mute one—which had led her to suspect he’d had much more of a hand in choosing her disguise than he’d admitted. He’d promised he wouldn’t enjoy her silence. She’d promised him he would wish she were mute in truth when she had the chance to meet him in the lists and sharpen her tongue on him whilst she was about the happy labor of humiliating him with the sword. And damn him if he hadn’t looked particularly intimidated by either threat.
It was impossible not to admire him a bit for that.
Of course, that had been whilst they’d been safely in front of their fire in the inn. Now they were walking up to a place she most certainly didn’t want to visit again and she was having a hard time admiring much besides the way that led back down the hill.
She looked for a distraction. There were those aplenty, fortunately, and four of the most dazzling ones were walking in front of her.
Her grandfather had given up all pretense of being less than he was. Even if his terrible beauty and his kingly demeanor hadn’t announced who he was, his clothing would have. His trousers were dark velvet, his tunic heavily embroidered and encrusted with gems. Over it all, he wore a cloak of ermine, trimmed in some other sort of fur that sparkled and shimmered in a way that demanded attention. He’d forgone the crown, but Morgan supposed that had been an oversight.
Sosar was dressed just as elegantly, in white trousers and a golden tunic, with a cloak that was slightly less showy than his father’s, but no less luxurious. The sun shone down on his fair hair, turning it into pale, spun gold. She watched mere mortals stop to gape at him as he passed and understood why. He was nothing short of stunning.
Even Turah had been garbed in princely attire and wore a circlet of silver on his head. Perhaps the men he passed didn’t stare at him, but the women certainly did. Morgan caught sight of a handful of winks he threw to an equal number of handsome wenches and had to smile. He might have looked like Miach, but they were completely unalike in temperament—which was probably fortunate indeed for the state of her heart.
Miach walked along with his brother, dressed very simply in unremarkable black, his crownless head still bowed and his hands still clasped behind his back. Only a fool, though, would have mistaken him for a common man. Even she could sense his power.
“Something wrong?” he asked, dropping back suddenly to walk next to her.
She had assumed that there would come a time where she would look at him and no longer be surprised by the flawless perfection of his face, but perhaps that was a vain hope. It certainly wasn’t going to be possible today. “I’m not sure where to begin in answering that,” she managed.
“Were you thinking kind thoughts about me?” he asked politely.
“I might be, but since I’m to be a bit short on conversation today, you’ll never know.”
He smiled, then reached out and tugged her hood up closer around her face. “ ’Tis best you not tell me, I imagine, lest I blush. I will tell you, though, that you’re far too lovely for anyone to believe you’re a mere serving lad. You should keep your face covered, if you can.”
“I’ll try.” She took a deep breath. “Aren’t you anxious about this?”
He shrugged negligently. “For all they know, I’ve just come to town and am making a social call with my brother, my newly made allies the king of Tòrr Dòrainn and his son, and, of course, my obeisant servant.”
She looked at him narrowly. “I wouldn’t enjoy this overmuch, were I you.”
“Oh, I fully intend to,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I imagine it may be the only time in our lives that you’re this deferential.”
What she imagined wasn’t worth saying. She scowled at him and had a laugh for her trouble. “I think you shouldn’t accustom yourself to my deference. I also think we’re daft to go back inside these gates. Aren’t you worried about Droch?”
“He might think he knows quite a few things, but he’ll have a difficult time proving any of them. All will be well.”
“Are you trying to reassure me, my lord Archmage, or yourself?”
He smiled. “You know, you’re awfully cheeky for being the mute servant of a powerful mage.”
“As if you would know how such a servant should behave,” she said with a snort.
“I could learn, if you were that lass—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Miach,” Turah said with an exasperated laugh, “cease with that. You’re being watched from the battlements, which I’m sure you know.” He shot Morgan a brief look. “I apologize in advance, Morgan, for the way I’m going to treat you. And so does my brother. You can take him to task later. I’ll keep him from escaping the field in fear as you do so.” He dropped back and slung an arm around Miach’s shoulders. “Come, brother, and leave the wench to her meditation on that happy confrontation.”
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