Authors: Lynn Kurland

Princess of the Sword (8 page)

BOOK: Princess of the Sword

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Morgan said nothing else, but he imagined she was silently calling him all kinds of fool. Perhaps she had it aright, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He had to have the spell Gair of Ceangail had used to open that well of evil and Droch’s solar was as good a place as any to look for it. Especially if he actually had the freedom to look without worrying that he might be caught whilst doing so.

He followed Droch with Morgan walking behind him and the rest of their kin trailing along behind her. The chill increased as they continued down a particular passageway not far from where Droch’s solar lay.

Without warning, he walked out suddenly into a garden that reminded him so much of a particular glade near Ceangail that he came to an abrupt halt. Morgan plowed into his back so hard, he stumbled. He reached behind him to steady her, then steeled himself for another look.

The garden was open to the sky, for what that was worth. The sunlight that fell down through the bare trees wasn’t what shone on other parts of the world, of that Miach was certain. It was viewed through a filter of Droch’s magic, a filter that rendered it unpleasant, garish, and somehow completely without warmth.

“Vile,” Sosar breathed.

Miach agreed, but he didn’t say as much. He squeezed Morgan’s arm briefly, then stepped out into the garden. There was a life-sized chessboard there to one side, built from alternating slabs of black and gray marble. Miach looked at Droch.

“Chess?”

“If you dare,” Droch snarled.

Miach shrugged with a casualness he didn’t feel. “Whatever suits you. Are there pieces, or are we to man the board ourselves?”

“You could use your servant as one,” Droch suggested. “Or your brother.”

“No, thank you,” Miach said without hesitation. “I value the first’s ability to shine my boots and the latter’s to sharpen my sword.”

“Then I’ll provide the players,” Droch said. He gestured and his servant ran across the chessboard and over to doors set into a rock wall. The lad opened those heavy wooden doors, then stepped back.

Miach could scarce believe his eyes.

Chess pieces, pieces that were not only life-sized but terribly life
like
, shuffled out of the closet. He watched, openmouthed, as creatures who seemed human enough continued their slow, weary march onto the board. First came pieces dressed in black, then another contingent of players dressed in what might have been white at one time but was now a dingy gray that seemed a too-accurate reflection of the absolute bleakness of their souls.

Miach waited until they’d taken their places, then he walked out onto the chessboard, feeling slightly dazed.

He looked at the black players, but he could see instantly that if they had been alive before, they were that no longer. Their eyes were empty, their souls long since drained of anything that might have made them mortal.

It was so shockingly reminiscent of what Lothar did with his captives that Miach thought he might be ill.

He turned away and looked at his own warriors. He saw, to his horror, that they were most certainly not dead. They were encased in some sort of resin. They looked at him with a desperate hope that was difficult to behold. He rubbed his hands over his face, then went to examine each of the pieces in turn.

The pawns, he realized immediately, were faeries from Siabhreach, trapped helplessly like butterflies inside a gray, granitelike prison. He took a deep breath, then approached each of them, looking into their eyes and willing them to trust him, hoping to gain their loyalty.

When he had finished, he went in turn to each of the rooks, stewards of mighty keeps: the knights with their long, sharp swords: then the mages with their tall, pointed hats frozen along with them. Last, he paused before the king and queen and searched back through his own memory of tales and lore for who they might be.

Uallach and Murdina of Faoin.

The names came to him as if they’d been spoken aloud. A power-hungry and foolish pair who had traded what magic they had for spells that had seemed more . . . but hadn’t been.

Olc was a seductive magic indeed.

The king struggled to put his hand on his sword, but failed. He looked at Miach, his expression one of utter defeat.

Miach reached up and put his hand on the king’s ice-cold shoulder. “Your Grace,” he began helplessly. He cast about for something to say, but found nothing of substance. He finally merely inclined his head, then turned and looked for Droch.

Droch was standing next to his own king, smiling coldly. “Have you sufficient courage gathered, young one?”

“Almost.” Miach gestured to his pieces. “What happens to them if I lose?”

“I take more of their souls and they continue on their relentless journey toward black,” Droch said. “And I’ll see that you join their ranks—after I’ve had your confession.” He smiled. “I think an archmage would make a particularly fine acquisition, don’t you? Instead of your death for trespassing, I’ll have you forever tucked away in my closet, where I might pull you forth now and again and admire you.”

Miach suppressed the urge to close his eyes. He had no doubt Droch would do just that. He wasn’t afraid of death—indeed, he’d come within a breath of it not a fortnight before—but he was very afraid of leaving Morgan alone. She was skilled and courageous, but there were things that hunted her, things that might catch her unawares and carry her where she didn’t want to go. Given that he knew where that place was and what she would face, he was particularly interested in making sure she didn’t find herself there.

And he had to admit that he wanted to believe that in some small way she might miss him.

He was so tempted to turn, reach for her hand, and pull her up into the sky with him, he could hardly stop himself from doing just that. But if he looked at her, Droch might suspect she meant something to him and then who knew what mischief he would combine against her. As much as Miach wanted to tell her once more that he loved her, he knew he couldn’t. He simply took a deep breath and looked at Droch.

“What now?”

“Your move.”

Miach nodded, walked over to one of those beautiful faeries from Siabhreach, and asked her politely to step forward. He could almost see the imperceptible flutter of her wings as she attempted it. In the end, he had to help her step across the boundary from gray to black and back to gray again.

The moment she did, all hell broke loose.

It was as if someone had taken an ordinary game of chess, tossed it into a whirlwind, and bombarded it with spells of all varieties coming from all sides at once. It was pieces and spells and strategy; it was war, only compressed, bloody, unrelenting, exhausting.

And Droch was very good at it.

Miach lost half his pieces before he understood the threat he faced and managed to get his feet underneath him. He almost cost himself the game at first by his reticence. He realized all too quickly that it was either fight to win, fight to the death and disregard the pieces of Droch’s he’d captured that were now lying lifeless on the side of the board, or lose the game and find himself as one of them.

He sought to out-finesse Droch, but the man was like a sledgehammer, ruthlessly smashing through defenses, obliterating pieces in his way as if he had no interest in how or where they were won or lost. Miach dug deep for every strategy his father had taught him over countless games of chess in the family’s private gathering chamber at Tor Neroche, considered the things he’d learned in his own life, even searched through his memories of that year spent in Lothar’s dungeon for something underhanded and foul to use as an honorless gambit.

All it won him was finding himself with two bloodied, exhausted mages defending his king. He watched in desperation as the trap Droch had laid for him began to close.

And then he realized that it wasn’t the attack from Droch’s knight that he had to worry about.

It was from Droch himself.

Miach found himself being bound, just as the pieces had been. He stood there, already half frozen next to his king, and searched frantically for a spell of Olc to counter it. He knew more of that magic than he cared to think about, had walked in many very unpleasant places to learn it, had paid his own share of peace for the spells he knew.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that none of it served him now.

He wondered with a growing feeling of fury just what Droch was using on him. It wasn’t Olc, or Wexham, or half a dozen other things he could have easily identified. It was something he’d never encountered before, a slow but relentless piece of magic that surrounded him, leaving him more unable to draw breath each time he exhaled. Fighting it, even knowing
how
to fight it was almost impossible. In desperation, he continued to try spell after spell, all with the same result. He turned his head to look at his king.

There was pity in the old man’s eyes. Pity and fear.

Miach heard himself crackle as he turned back to look at Droch. He could hear Sosar shouting at Droch and Droch bellowing for Sosar to mind his own bloody business. Miach saw, out of the corner of his eye, spells go flying over his head from both sides of the board. Olc and Fadaire mingled in the putrid air, becoming something ugly and rancid. For himself, Miach found that he couldn’t shout at all. He could scarcely breathe.

And still the spell hardened around him.

He realized that time was indeed running out for him. And all for a bloody ridiculous game of chess where he’d been too stupid to recognize where the true danger lay. He would have shaken his head, but that was now quite impossible, so instead, he did what he’d done countless times in places where he’d been out of his depth: he took the best breath he could and stilled his mind. He calmly and very deliberately gave thought to the tangle and how he might best unravel it.

Almost without thinking, he put his hand on the simplest spell of binding he could, something a village sorcerer would have taught an apprentice on the first day.

And then he reversed it.

Nothing happened. He started to repeat the words, then he noticed a tiny crack appearing in Droch’s spell. It took rather longer than he would have liked for that crack to deepen, but once it had, there was no stopping the damage. Fractures in Droch’s spell raced from Miach’s initial break outward so quickly, Miach couldn’t follow them. He caught sight of Droch’s expression of shock as his spell shattered right there in front of him—in spite of his efforts to stop it.

And whilst Droch was otherwise occupied, Miach leapt forward and shoved one of his mages, sending him skidding to a halt just out of reach of the black king. The black king crackled loudly as he turned his head to look back over his shoulder along the same gray diagonal the white mage now threatened. His steward stood behind him, frozen in place, wearing a look of horror on his face. There was now no escape for either of them.

Miach leaned over with his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. He lifted his head and saw Droch gaping in surprise at his king who was now in check. The game was now over except for final formalities.

Droch reached out suddenly and tore the sword from his knight’s scabbard. He thrust it through his own king’s heart with a vicious curse.

The black king fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Then he looked up at Miach.

His soulless eyes were full of tears.

Miach suspected those were tears of relief. He watched as Droch’s king fell over onto the board. Droch jerked the sword free, then glared at Miach. Miach straightened.

“An hour,” he said, drawing in a great lungful of air and not feeling the least bit inclined to complain about the sour taste of it.

Droch crossed the board, kicking one of his dead pawns out of the way, and stopped just in front of Miach.

“Someday,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Someday, Mochriadhemiach, you will find yourself alone, perhaps unwell, perhaps careless. You will find things do not go so well for you then.”

Miach inclined his head just the slightest bit. “I’m certain you would be grieved at such a day.”

Droch looked around Miach and glared at a lad standing nervously nearby. “One hour. You mark the time and mark it well, else you’ll answer to me.” He turned back to Miach. “I won’t forget this.”

Miach imagined he wouldn’t. He watched Droch spin on his heel and stalk off, then looked at the carnage around him. He walked over to the black king. He was no longer frozen, but he was most certainly dead. The rest of the black pieces lay on the ground, lifeless. Perhaps there had never been any hope for them. Miach turned to look at his own king. The man looked about himself, as if he’d just woken from a terrible nightmare. He flexed his fingers, then swung his arms a bit. His gaze came to rest on Miach and he frowned.

“Who are you, lad?”

Miach walked over to him and made him a low bow. “Mochriadhemiach of Neroche, Your Majesty.”

“I have you to thank for my life, apparently.”

Miach managed a weary smile. “Nay, King Uallach, you fought well, as did your men. And your queen.”

BOOK: Princess of the Sword

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