Read Princess of the Sword Online
Authors: Lynn Kurland
Princess of the Sword (6 page)
Morgan slowed enough to allow them to walk on in front of her. Miach didn’t look at her again, but he gave her a brief wave from behind his back. She sighed, bowed her head, and gave herself over to the contemplation of his freshly shined black boots. He might not have been nervous, but she most certainly was. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d gone back inside a keep she’d recently escaped from, but it was certainly the first time magic had been involved.
She slipped her hands into her sleeves and fingered the reassuring chill of steel.
Her second entry into Buidseachd was, unsurprisingly, no less unpleasant than her first. Though her magic was dulled and her senses should have been as well, she still felt suffocated the moment she walked under the barbican gate. She clasped her hands together and concentrated on breathing as she walked into the main courtyard.
From the look of things, this wasn’t going to be a discreet, unobtrusive visit. There was an entire gaggle of wizards there to greet them, all dressed in their finest robes, all wearing very tall, pointed hats and attempting to look very important. A few of them were gaping at Sìle, but perhaps that couldn’t be helped.
Her grandfather was in a courtyard with men who were by no means unimpressive, yet he somehow managed to look as if he was so far above and beyond anything the others might hope to achieve that they shouldn’t bother. It was no wonder the wizards looked a bit small by comparison.
One of the masters stepped forward, made Sìle a flatteringly low bow, then began spouting titles, compliments, and other pleasantries that were apparently required for a visit of such unheralded magnitude and importance. Morgan listened for a few minutes, then fought the urge to look for somewhere to sit down. It was no wonder Miach preferred to tromp about in muddy boots and a patched cloak if this were the alternative. She wished heartily that she hadn’t promised to remain silent. She might have managed to hurry them all along otherwise.
“And Prince Mochriadhemiach,” said the wizard who was apparently the headmaster, making Miach a bow that wasn’t quite as low as the one he’d made to Sìle. “An honor, as always. What brings you so far east in such august company?”
“A goodwill visit to Tòrr Dòrainn, Master Ceannard,” Miach said easily. “When I indicated that it had been too long since I’d made a visit here, His Majesty was gracious enough to favor me with his company for a bit longer.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “The king of Tòrr Dòrainn is in an accommodating mood, I daresay. Fortuitous for relations between Buidseachd and Seanagarra, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Indeed,” Master Ceannard agreed, smoothing his hands nervously down the front of his velvet robes. “Perhaps we should discuss those relations in more detail inside. I believe luncheon has been prepared for your pleasure.”
Sìle looked skeptical, but followed just the same. Morgan walked along behind the company, but not too far. The last thing she wanted was to become lost and be forced to cut her way through spells to find the front door.
The longer she walked, the less sure she became about whether she were dreaming or awake. She had become relatively accustomed to the magic that shimmered in the air in Tòrr Dòrainn and the fact that she was related to the souls living there, but now she was again in deep waters, drowning in a tangle of spells and magic and things that swirled around her, unseen but powerful.
She continued to watch Miach’s boots and hope she wouldn’t draw attention to herself by suddenly blurting out a plea for someone to carry her outside the walls so she could breathe.
She forced herself to walk into a dining hall paneled in dark wood and full of candles and torches that cast the shadows back into the corners. She looked for somewhere unobtrusive to sequester herself and saw a spot between sideboards already laden with bottles, glasses, and platters. Morgan found a stool there and sat, trying to blend into the woodwork. The hall was large enough to accommodate Sìle’s entourage and no doubt all ten masters without the least trouble. Morgan filched a piece of bread when she thought no one was looking, but realized immediately that she wasn’t going to be able to eat it. Obviously, she shouldn’t have slept through breakfast. She set her bread on her lap, then pressed herself back against the wall and looked at the wizards in front of her, trying to guess who each was and what they did.
Miach had told her on their journey from Tòrr Dòrainn who the masters were and what they taught. Each of the seven levels of mastery were watched over by a particular wizard, leaving the headmaster, a wizard of no small amount of power himself, to see to the business of bringing students in and out of the gates.
Well, and dealing with miscreants who hopped over the walls.
The last two masters were ones that had no responsibility for doling out any of the rings aspirants came to try to win. Master Droch was one. The other was Soilléir of Cothromaiche, the man who had taught Miach the spells of essence changing. Miach had only said complimentary things about him, so Morgan supposed she would survive a meeting with him, though she suspected the fewer mages she encountered inside Buidseachd, the happier she would be.
Unfortunately, there she was in a chamber with a mob of them and she suspected lunch was going to drag on for most of the afternoon.
She leaned her head back against the wall and looked at the wizards sitting around the long, elegantly laid table. Some of them looked ancient, others surprisingly young, but all had that strange, otherworldly sort of radiance about them, as if they were definitely not just ordinary men. The glamour wasn’t close to what radiated from her uncle and grandfather, but it wasn’t insignificant either.
She would have been very happy to have been free of it, and the sooner the better, to her mind.
She wondered when they would begin to eat, then she realized what the delay was. There were two empty chairs, both across from where Miach had taken his seat. It occurred to her, with a sickening feeling, that she just might know who should have been filling at least one of those chairs. She looked at Miach, but unfortunately he had his back to her so she couldn’t tell what his expression was. He was tapping his foot occasionally in a manner that didn’t seem particularly frantic, so perhaps he was less troubled by the empty seats than she was.
The sound of a light footfall startled her. She looked up as a blond man walked into the chamber. At first glance, she thought him no more than a student. Then she realized that the magic surrounding him was too significant to have been tamed by a man who had no mastery of his art. His wasn’t so much a tidal wave of power as it was a crystal shaft of sunlight that seemed to fall down over him and radiate out from him.
It was beautiful.
Miach stood immediately and walked over to embrace the other man briefly.
“Master Soilléir,” Miach said deferentially.
Soilléir laughed and more perfect sunlight seemed to filter down into the chamber. “Prince Mochriadhemiach. What a pleasure.” He stepped away and turned to make Sìle a very low bow. “And Your Majesty. An unprecedented and most undeserved honor.”
Sìle acknowledged the compliment with a regal sort of nod, though he did deign to reach out and shake Master Soilléir’s hand.
Morgan stared at the man in astonishment. It didn’t seem possible that he could be the one who held spells of such import, but she supposed he could have been no one else. She looked around at the other wizards and found them watching Soilléir with expressions that ranged from disinterest to outright antagonism—along with a very substantial bit of envy.
Somehow that was rather reassuring. Power ofttimes begat a lust for more and Soilléir was certainly in a place where power was prized. That the masters should be so open about their feelings was something that made them seem slightly more like the lads she usually encountered. At least chewing on that thought for a bit would provide a pleasant respite from reality.
Unfortunately, her reprieve was interrupted sooner than she would have liked by a silent thunderclap. She looked to her left and saw a man standing just inside the door, a cold smile on his face.
It was Droch. It could be no one else. Master Soilléir might have been clear, beautiful light; Master Droch was darkness embodied.
Miach remained in his chair this time.
Morgan had to viciously suppress the urge to flee.
Droch sauntered into the chamber. “You waited for me,” he drawled as he made his way around the far side of the table. “How pleasant.” He stopped behind the last empty chair and nodded at Sìle. “Your Majesty. A pleasure—again. And your son. And a prince of Neroche.” He paused and looked at Miach. “And the young archmage of that same rustic realm.”
Morgan had to force herself not to stiffen at the tone of his voice, which wasn’t so much contemptuous as it was dismissive—as if Miach wasn’t worth his notice. Morgan couldn’t see Miach’s face, but she imagined his expression would give nothing away. She also imagined this wasn’t the first time Droch had insulted him.
“Master Droch,” was all Miach said.
Droch sat down and snapped his fingers at his servant. Wine was immediately provided. That seemed to be some sort of signal, for the rest of the wizards set to their meals with the sort of swiftness men use when they fear their supper might be interrupted and they’d best get it down whilst they can.
“I haven’t seen anyone from Seanagarra since . . . well, since I saw your youngest daughter, Sarait, Your Majesty,” Droch said with a cold smile thrown Sìle’s way. “She was here, climbing over the walls during the middle of the night to ransack my solar.”
Morgan credited all her years in Gobhann for allowing her to keep her gasp inside her where it should have been and not out in the air for all to mark. No wonder the wizards had made quick work of starting their meals. Morgan supposed they would be fortunate indeed to finish their soup.
“I didn’t catch her in the act, unfortunately,” Droch continued. “I saw her the next day, visiting with one who indulges in a less serious form of magic.”
Morgan watched Droch glance disdainfully at Soilléir. Master Soilléir only smiled blandly in return.
“I can’t imagine what Princess Sarait wanted with me,” Droch continued, turning back to Sìle. “Then again, considering she was wed to Gair of Ceangail, perhaps she was looking for some sort of spell to protect herself against him. Think you?”
Morgan caught the look her grandfather sent Droch. It should have had him shutting his mouth, but apparently Droch was impervious to intimidation—or the dictates of good taste. Morgan didn’t consider her manners to be particularly fine, but even she knew when to keep her thoughts to herself.
“Perhaps she was looking for something else,” Droch continued, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I seem to remember that Gair had planned to open a well of evil, then contain it straightway, just to prove his power. And beautiful Sarait went along with him—presumably so she could be impressed by Gair’s skill. She took all her children with her to enjoy the spectacle as well, didn’t she? Seven sons, wasn’t it?”
“Six,” Sìle said flatly. “Six sons and a daughter.”
“Ah, of course,” Droch said, nodding expansively. “Six sons and a wee gel. I seem to remember that all the children were killed when Gair found his magic wasn’t quite up to the task of containing what he’d loosed. Taking them along was certainly poorly done on Sarait’s part, wasn’t it?”
Morgan watched Sìle’s hand shoot out and clamp down on Sosar’s arm. Sìle only looked at Droch, his face completely devoid of all expression.
“I think, Master Droch,” he said in a low voice, “that you speak of what you do not understand.”
Droch smiled pleasantly, as if he knew he’d scored a particularly difficult point on a worthy opponent. “I’m perfectly happy to be corrected on the finer points of your late daughter’s nature. Perhaps she had her reasons for putting the lives of her children at risk, though I can’t imagine what they might be—”
“Let’s move on to more pleasant memories,” Master Ceannard said brightly, leaping to his feet. “A toast, all, to our esteemed guests. Let this be a day long remembered as the start of renewed correspondence between Buidseachd and Seanagarra, something we have longed for with particular fervor!”
Morgan couldn’t help but feel for the man. He was doing his best to distract the others, but it didn’t ease the tension. Master Ceannard continued with his efforts, the other wizards continued to squirm, and Sìle continued to look at Droch as if he was imagining up a score of different ways to put him to death, each more painful than the last.
Droch threw back an entire glass of wine, then tapped his glass impatiently for more. Once that was poured and drunk, he rose and began to wander around the chamber.
Morgan bowed her head and tried to be invisible. Footsteps came her way, but she didn’t dare look up and see whom they belonged to.
Unfortunately, she didn’t need to. She could tell by the sheer darkness of his presence that Droch was standing right in front of her, no doubt willing her to look up at him so he could see the guilt in her eyes.
She realized, with a start, that he was casting some sort of spell over her, something that tried to suffocate her. It was all she could do to keep her hands down in her lap and not claw at the catch on her cloak so she might draw in the breath she so desperately needed.
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