by Lynn Kurland
“Oh, vastly,” Miach managed. He shook his head in disbelief. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Of all places, why there?”
“Why do you think?”
Miach sighed. “Because she wants nothing to do with magic in general and mages in particular.” He paused. “Or is it that she wants nothing to do with a particular mage?”
“I imagine that was part of it,” Nicholas said. “I suspect she’s also running from her dreams.”
“Poor gel,” Miach said quietly. He sat for quite a while, looking at a tapestry of a battle scene on the wall across from him, then made his decision. He would find Morgan, apologize, then change them both into evening mist and waft over the walls before Weger could kill him. He looked at Nicholas. “My thanks for the tidings, my lord. I’ll go now.”
“Go?” Nicholas echoed. “Go where?”
“To Gobhann.”
Nicholas looked at him with a smile. “You’ll need a sword, my lad. Do you have one?”
Miach patted himself, then shrugged. “Apparently not. I’ll just conjure one up when I get inside the gates. Besides, I’ll only be inside long enough to find Morgan and convince her to leave with me. If worse comes to worst, I’ll bind Weger with a few spells so we might walk out the front gate.”
“Do you think so?”
Miach looked at him sharply. “I think, Your Grace, that I can manage to control Scrymgeour Weger for as long as necessary, no matter his reputation for fierceness. Don’t you?”
“Well, you certainly could,” Nicholas said slowly, “if Gobhann weren’t a magic sink.”
Miach heard the words, but it took a moment for the meaning of them to register. He blinked in surprise. “Gobhann is a what?”
“’Tis a magic sink,” Nicholas said.
Miach found that his mouth was hanging open. Worse still, he wasn’t sure when it had fallen open. “That’s impossible,” he began.
“It isn’t, which you well know. There are places enough in this world where magic is nothing but a fond memory. It shouldn’t surprise you, actually, that Weger would choose such a place for his home. He’s not overly fond of mages, is he?”
“So rumor has it,” Miach said faintly. A magic sink? Of all the things he had expected to hear in Nicholas’s solar, that was the last. Just what in the hell was he supposed to do now?
He was so tired, so damned relieved to find that Morgan was still alive, and so floored by what he’d just learned, he was tempted to laugh. He rubbed his hands over his face and settled for a handful of rather vile curses instead, lest Nicholas think him mad.
And perhaps he was, given that he was actually considering going inside the place.
“That is why you couldn’t feel Morgan any longer,” Nicholas continued, as if they spoke of nothing more remarkable than the ten months of rain Chagailt saw each year. “She has entered Weger’s gates and no magic in the Nine Kingdoms, nor all of it combined, will reach inside there and gain a sense of her. Nor will it bring her out. If you go to fetch her, you’ll go as a mere man. And if I were you, I would be more worried about how I was going to get myself back out Weger’s gates than how I was going to convince Morgan to leave with me.”
Words suddenly failed him. That wasn’t a common occurrence, and he found it almost as unsettling as the tidings he’d just learned. And just how was he supposed to maintain the defenses of the kingdom of Neroche when he would be required to check his magic at the door?
“You could just leave her there, I suppose,” Nicholas mused.
“I can’t,” Miach said without hesitation. “And it has nothing to do with her destiny, or her magic she refuses to acknowledge, or that I want to keep her safe at Tor Neroche. Even if it isn’t with me, she deserves a life in the sunshine.” He paused. “Don’t you think?”
“I do, but I imagine she won’t.” He smiled. “But you don’t expect anything else.”
Miach shook his head. “I’m not under any illusions.”
“And you aren’t going after her from a misguided sense of guilt, are you?” Nicholas asked.
Miach managed a wry smile. “It is love, Your Grace, that motivates me, not guilt.”
“I thought as much,” Nicholas said, sounding satisfied. “Now, let’s consider the realities of your visit. How is your swordplay?”
“Not as bad as you might think,” Miach said.
“Without your magic?”
Miach pursed his lips. “Aye, startlingly enough.”
“Then perhaps you should have a decent meal, a good night’s sleep, and be on your way first thing. Perhaps your task is to meet her as just a man, not a mage. But do it quickly, for you cannot leave the realm untended. And you cannot ask another to do it in your stead.”
“Trust me,” Miach said with a deep sigh, “I never forget that.” He reached down and pulled the ring out of his boot and the knife that matched the Sword of Angesand from his belt. He handed them both to the lord of Lismòr.
“Keep those for me, Your Grace, if you will. I’ll return for them after I’ve convinced Morgan to come back with me.”
“You’re optimistic.”
“Always,” Miach said gamely.
“You’ll need to be. Now, go find a meal,” Nicholas said. “It may be the last decent one you have for some time to come.”
Miach suspected he might be right.
Several hours later, he lay in Morgan’s bed, trying to sleep and finding it impossible. First, there was the difficulty of being in a place where Morgan had been but a handful of days earlier. Then there was the problem of wondering if Morgan would even speak to him. And if she did, what good would it do him if he wouldn’t get back out Weger’s gates?
And finally, how was he to leave the realm’s spells of defense unattended while he went about satisfying his own desires?
He supposed he might manage to shore things up with an uncommon amount of magic and hope it would last until he could see to it again.
He sighed deeply. He had already put his foot to the path before him and he would not turn back. A few days of his being inside Gobhann would not leave Neroche in ruins. Perhaps most men didn’t leave Gobhann easily once they’d entered it, but he wasn’t most men.
Aye, he would, for once, lay aside his duty for a few days and see to the matters of his heart.
Surely no ill would come of it.
Two
Morgan of Melksham stood in the long, high-ceilinged gathering hall that stretched along the seaward side of Weger’s tower and stared down at the water below. The sea was never calm here, on the northwest side of the island, though she had wondered over the years if it churned with an especial fierceness near Weger’s keep simply to terrify the novices.
It was a well-known fact that the only way to leave Weger’s tower alive was through the front gates, the only ones who left through the front gates were those who bore his mark, and the only way to earn his mark was to complete his training. Where the others went was a matter of conjecture. Rumor had it that the failures were tossed off Gobhann’s parapet into the water below. Morgan had never paid all that much attention to how those who hadn’t survived their initiation year had been dispatched except to be glad she hadn’t needed to put up with their poor swordplay any longer.
Unfortunately, considering the abysmal condition of her own sword skill at present, it was not inconceivable that she would meet her own end in some uncomfortable way very soon.
She pulled her cloak closer around her and shivered. She was cold, and it had nothing to do with the chill in Weger’s gathering chamber or the bitter draft that seemed to find its way through the cracks in the mortar surrounding the windows. She felt tired and weak and very ill. It was a wonder Weger had overlooked those flaws and let her inside the keep.
Then again, Weger let quite a few people in. Whether or not they remained was another thing entirely. The first test alone spelled doom for most. Either one of Weger’s fiercer students or Odo the gatekeeper assaulted the hopeful swor
dsman just as he was relaxing and thinking himself quite clever to have made it inside the front gate. Morgan remembered vividly her own initiation successfully overcome so many years ago.
Yesterday, though, had been something entirely different. She’d managed to shuffle inside the gates, just after dawn and just barely. It had taken all her strength to merely stand there and draw in breath. Master Odo had raised his sword, but lowered it immediately in surprise. Morgan had felt for the sword she’d borrowed from Nicholas only to realize she’d left it in the wagon. She’d looked at Odo in consternation, received the same sort of look in return, then watched him resheath his sword. He had barked at her to follow him.
She’d tried not to notice that he’d taken the pace of a man escorting his aging and infirm granny to her last meal.
In time, and after scores of appalling pauses to catch her breath and at least a dozen other skirmishes waved off by Odo, she had gained the upper levels of the keep. She’d come out into the topmost courtyard—at sunset no less—by sheer willpower alone.
She had waited for the final challenge to come from whomever the honor belonged to that day and wondered what in the hell she was going to do without a sword. She had supposed she might manage to remove one from someone else and use it to save her own neck, but before she could identify a likely victim to burglarize, Weger himself had come to stand in front of her. She had opened her mouth to speak, then felt herself pitch forward.
She’d woken in her accustomed chamber, the one she’d enjoyed after she’d earned a place in Weger’s closest circle, to find a roaring fire burning in the hearth and a luxurious pile of blankets laid atop her—things she had certainly never enjoyed before. She couldn’t credit Weger for wanting to coddle her. Pity was not a part of him, nor was compassion. Perhaps he wanted her fully conscious so she would remember the humiliation of being booted from Gobhann like a particularly vile bit of refuse.
The booting hadn’t happened yet that morning. The only soul she’d seen had been Weger’s page, a fearless lad named Stephen. Stephen had brought her breakfast, then frowned fiercely at her a pair of hours later when she’d insisted that she would at least leave her bed and seek out the gathering chamber. He’d followed her there, muttering dire warnings under his breath. She’d finally sent him away with a curse, but she hadn’t been so distracted that she hadn’t seen the look of concern he’d worn as he’d run off.
Perhaps she looked as bad as she felt.
The door behind her opened. She looked over her shoulder and found that Stephen had brought her yet more to eat. He shot her an arch look, then headed purposefully for the far end of the chamber. She gathered up the tattered remnants of her strength and shuffled toward the hearth. She passed bookshelves full of treatises on war and benches and chairs empty of soldiers. Any soul deserving of a place on any of those seats was outside working.
She refused to think about the fact that it was exhausting just to think about joining them.
She noticed, once she felt like she could stop watching her feet so she didn’t fall, that Stephen had placed a cushion on one of the chairs nearest the fire and was busily plumping it.
“Sit here,” he commanded.
“Absolutely not,” she said, drawing herself up.
“Weger ordered it be brought—”
“Then let him place his delicate arse upon it,” Morgan snapped, panting as she finally managed to reach the chair opposite the one Stephen was hovering over. She collapsed onto it with a groan. “I need no such pampering.”
“But—”
“Cushions,” Morgan said in disgust. “What next? Lace at my wrists?”
A pointed clearing of a manly throat made her realize that she and Stephen were not alone. She watched as Weger made himself comfortable on that recently fluffed cushion.
“Quite lovely, Stephen,” he said. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
Morgan tried not to flush as Scrymgeour Weger folded his arms over his chest and looked at her. Perhaps at another time she could have dared an insult, then drawn her sword to defend herself against his ire. Now, it was all she could do to draw breath and hope he’d forgotten what she’d just said.
He nodded toward the substantial meal sitting on the table in front of her. “Eat that.”
She thought it best to distract him with a little obedience. The food was nothing compared to what she’d eaten at Lismòr, but at least it was hot. It took her an inordinate amount of time to work her way through even a small portion of what was set before her, but given that such was the condition of all the things she did, she supposed it didn’t merit any special notice.
When she had eaten all she could, she sat back. She didn’t dare even hold a cup of wine. She’d had too many slip through her fingers and land on the floor at Lismòr to trust herself.
Finally, when she knew she could put it off no longer, she looked at Weger. He didn’t appear to be preparing to rid himself of her, but then again, with him, one never knew.
There were quite a few things one didn’t know about him, beginning with his age. He might have seen thirty-five, perhaps forty winters, though there was no frost in his dark hair. He had the look of a professional soldier about him, muscled but lithe, hardened by years of swordplay, spare in his movements and economical in his speech. His face was too craggy to have been called handsome—not that she supposed anyone would have applied such a term to him. He was formidable and for that she had admired him from the start. But young? She didn’t think she could say that. His eyes showed that he had seen more than a young man would have.
“What befell you?” he asked.
She had known that question would come, but she found she was unprepared for it just the same. What to tell him that wouldn’t result in him hurrying off to find a sharp sword to use on her? Weger shunned all things magical and disparaged thoroughly anyone who had dealings with it. What would he say when he learned that not only had she carried a magical knife with her all the way through Neroche, she had destroyed a legendary blade that had hung on the wall in the palace of Tor Neroche for centuries and fallen in love with the archmage of the realm?
Well, the last she might be forgiven for not admitting, for she wasn’t sure she loved him at all. In fact, given the way he’d betrayed her with lies and subterfuge, she thought she just might hate him.
“Well?”
She wrenched her thoughts back to the question at hand. “I was poisoned,” she croaked.
“By whom?”
She cleared her throat. “Lothar of Wychweald.”
One of his eyebrows went up in surprise. “Indeed. Where did you encounter him?”
“Tor Neroche.”
The other eyebrow joined the first. “Why were you all the way up there?”
He would wonder that. She had a deathly fear of boats that he had taunted her about more than once. “I was delivering something to the king of Neroche on behalf of Nicholas of Lismòr.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding wisely. “You couldn’t refuse that quest, given who’d asked you to take it on.”
“I owe Lord Nicholas much,” she agreed.
“So you do.” He considered her for quite some time. “I’m surprised any of the Neroche lads allowed Lothar inside their gates.”
“I don’t think they knew he was there,” she said. “I certainly had no idea who he was until after I’d drunk what he’d offered me.” She paused. “I was in haste.”
She didn’t think she could be blamed for leaving out the fact that she’d been leaving the great hall in haste because she’d just taken the Sword of Angesand and slammed it against the king’s table, splintering it into innumerable pieces with more than just her strength of arm.
“That was a very stupid thing to do,” Weger remarked.
She blinked, then realized he’d been talking about drinking Lothar’s brew. “Aye,” she managed. “I know that now.”
“Why did he choose you to attack?”
“I think I was in
the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He grunted. “I daresay. Well, who healed you? He must have been powerful. Not many survive Lothar’s poisons.”
“I’m not sure who it was,” she admitted reluctantly. “It might have been Nicholas of Lismòr.”
It was also possible that it could have been another more magically inclined sort of man. The sort of man one might have found puttering about as archmage of some realm or another.
Possibly.
“But who brought you to Lismòr, if you were in Tor Neroche?”
“I’m not sure of that either,” she said, but in this at least she had her suspicions. Miach had no doubt changed himself into some dastardly creature straight from her nightmares, clutched her in his deadly talons, and carried her back to Lismòr to drop her off where he might be troubled with her no longer. Perhaps he had healed her as an afterthought.
She didn’t care to speculate.
Weger studied her for several more eternal moments. “Did you come here to hide?”
She patted herself for a weapon, but her borrowed sword was in Nicholas’s wagon and the rest of her gear was keeping her own sword company somewhere at Tor Neroche. The best she could manage was a butter knife. She fingered it purposefully.
“I don’t hide,” she said.
And that was true. She’d never hidden before and she wasn’t hiding presently. What she was doing could quite properly be termed a regrouping, not a scurrying inside a place where she could avoid the unpleasant dreams of magic that had plagued her since she’d first touched Nicholas of Lismòr’s blade—and her even more unpleasant associations with a certain mage.
“I came to regain my strength,” she said firmly. “I will pay you for the privilege, of course.”
He blinked in surprise. “Well, of course you won’t. And that wasn’t what I was after. I just want to be sure you aren’t running from something you should be facing.” He looked at her closely. “But I don’t imagine you run, do you?”
“Nay,” she lied.
He grunted at her. “I suspect there’s a great deal more to the tale than you’ve told me, but you can relate the rest after you’ve recovered. That will be repayment enough for all the coddling you’re having.”