by Lynn Kurland
They seemed to be less troubled by it during the days. Perhaps they were distracted by their determination to shadow her at all costs. She would have insisted that they leave her alone, but she couldn’t deny that she was more unsettled than she should have been. She would be long in forgetting the terror she’d felt as she’d watched Searbhe fling Miach off those dreadful mountainside steps. It had taken a great deal out of her, both emotionally and physically.
And so she had acquired two sword-bearing nursemaids. She slept in the courtyard during the daytime whilst Miach and Weger trained and guarded Miach with Weger during the evenings whilst he was at his spells. After another pair of pleasant hours spent in the hall, she forced Miach to sleep a few hours in her bed whilst she and Weger sat outside the door.
She suspected that Weger never slept.
He didn’t complain about it, though. Miach complained loudly, but only about her guarding him at night. He didn’t want her to watch over him whilst he snoozed comfortably in her bed—his words, not hers—and after the first night, he had flatly refused to do so. She’d finally resorted to tendering a forgiveness for each night that he conceded the battle.
It was a terrible bargain, to be sure.
Especially since she realized that somewhere over the past se’nnight, she had forgiven him all.
It had been impossible not to. Whatever else his faults might have been, he was relentless when he was determined. She still wasn’t completely sure why her forgiveness had been so important to him, or what he wanted now that he had it, or why he hadn’t left through the front gates. Perhaps he merely remained to see if he could earn Weger’s mark.
She couldn’t bring herself to even begin to entertain any of the more ridiculous thoughts she’d had in the fall—thoughts of him perhaps having less comradely and more romantic feelings for her.
She turned away from those thoughts with a ruthlessness that made her feel a bit like her old self. Cheered by that, she contented herself with watching Miach execute a very vicious attack. Obviously he had not learned swordplay from Adhémar. Had he been this proficient when he’d come inside Weger’s gates, or had he actually increased his skill? If that was the case, then he was formidable indeed. She couldn’t think of another soul, save herself of course, who had been taken under Weger’s wing so quickly.
She watched them for quite some time before she realized she wasn’t the only soul taking an interest in their swordplay. Searbhe was standing in the shadows of the wall, watching Weger and Miach coldly. She studied him dispassionately, trying to reconcile his features with Lothar’s. In all honesty, she couldn’t say they were similar. Then again, when she’d encountered Lothar, she hadn’t been at her best, so perhaps she wasn’t in a position to judge.
All she knew was that he had no idea they had discussed him in such detail and that he continually hovered at the edge of her field of vision, apparently waiting for a chance to do damage to Miach. That wouldn’t happen that day, not with Weger right there. Morgan found that thought somewhat comforting.
She watched Miach for quite a while before she couldn’t help but close her eyes. The last thing she remembered was hearing Weger insult Miach in a particularly vile way. Miach’s laughter was like sunlight.
She fell asleep smiling.
She woke, stiff and cold. The sun had disappeared behind clouds and it was starting to rain. She would have considered suggesting a retreat, but she saw that was unnecessary. Miach and Weger had put up their swords.
She would have tried to get to her feet on her own, but Miach was there first, holding down his hands to her. Morgan let him pull her up, but she refused to take his hand.
“I’m not an invalid,” she said tartly, clutching her blankets to her chest. “My former state aside.”
He smiled. “I know you can walk on your own. I was just looking for an excuse to hold your hand.”
“Inside,” Weger announced loudly, “before Morgan catches her death from the downpour.”
Miach winked at her. “We’d best go before I irritate him so much that he locks us out in the rain.”
Weger pursed his lips. “I would let Morgan in. You, however, I would gladly ban from the upper hall if I could. A pity your swordplay is so much improved.”
“What you really value me for is my ability to gossip like a lady’s maid,” Miach remarked, “which needed no improving.”
“Aye, well, that too,” Weger agreed.
Morgan snorted and walked away from them both. She was concentrating so hard on escaping them and not limping whilst she did so that she didn’t realize that she’d run into someone until she looked up and saw Searbhe blocking her way. She stared at him dispassionately.
“You’re in my way,” she said.
“You’re in mine,” he returned. “Move.”
She started to, then gave him a hearty shove. She had flung off her cloak and reached for her sword only to realize it wasn’t there. She would have dodged his descending blade but Miach’s was suddenly there in front of her. Searbhe’s blade screeched along the length of it, coming to rest at the hilt, uncomfortably close to Miach’s face. Miach only shoved Searbhe back and elbowed Morgan out of the way.
“Move,” he insisted. He faced Searbhe. “I believe your quarrel is with me.”
“So it is,” Searbhe said.
“But…” Morgan began, but the men ignored her. She found herself hauled backward by Weger. She glared up at him, but he only shook his head sharply.
“Leave it,” he commanded.
“He challenged me.”
“You were in his way,” Weger said, then he dropped his voice. “I suspect that what he truly wants is to slay the archmage of Neroche. Let us see if the archmage has learned enough in the past few se’nnights to avoid it.”
Morgan knew there was no point in arguing. Besides, Miach wasn’t doing poorly. Indeed, she could admit that not only was he holding his own against Searbhe, he was the far superior swordsman. She was unsurprised to watch him pretend otherwise.
“What is the fool doing?” Weger complained. “Hasn’t he paid any attention to what I’ve taught him?”
“He’s allowing himself to be underestimated,” Morgan said quietly. “He does it constantly.”
Weger rolled his eyes. “Ridiculous.”
Morgan stood in the rain and watched the very brutal swordfight going on in front of her and found it less ridiculous than terrifying. She realized, with a start, that she cared quite a bit about the outcome. She had no sword and doubted Weger would allow her to borrow his, which left her able to do nothing but hope Miach was in truth holding himself back.
The fight seemed to go on for hours, though she supposed that was only because she marked every meeting of their blades. She decided at that moment that having Miach of Neroche as an enemy would be a very bad thing. She was unwholesomely grateful he was fighting for her. And she was equally as unsettled to find that she was willing to allow him to do the like.
She looked up at Weger. “I think that poison ruined my wits.”
He grunted. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Morgan turned back in time to watch Miach catch Searbhe’s sword by the hilt and send it flying up in the air. He caught it casually, then pointed both swords at his opponent.
“Are you finished, or would you like a bit more?” Miach asked politely.
“Give me my sword,” Searbhe spat.
“You’re dangerous with it,” Miach remarked. “Mostly to yourself, unfortunately.”
Searbhe glared at him, his eyes hot with hate. “I’ll see you dead.”
Miach shrugged. “I imagine not, but I suppose you’ll continue to try.” He tossed Searbhe his sword. “There you go, lad. Don’t cut yourself.”
Searbhe cursed him viciously, then turned and stalked off. Miach stood there with his sword bare in his hand and waited until Searbhe had disappeared up the stairs. Then he turned and came across the courtyard, resheathing his sword as he did so. He pushed his hair back from hi
s face and smiled at Morgan.
“Lunch?”
“You’re mad,” she said without hesitation. “You provoked him dreadfully.”
He only smiled. “I’m pushing him to do something stupid. We’ll see, I suppose, if it serves me.” He looked at Weger. “My lord?”
“Your swordplay was passable,” Weger conceded, “but your taunts only marginally irritating. I expected better from a lad with six brothers.”
“I’m tired,” Miach conceded.
“It shows. I also think you could have finished him more quickly. Showing off, were you?”
Miach smiled wearily. “Not nearly enough, apparently. I’ll work on that as well.” He took Morgan’s blankets from her. “Let’s get out of the rain, woman.”
Morgan nodded and followed them up stairways and through passageways to Weger’s gathering hall. She set her blankets on a chair by the hall door and walked over to sit down yet again on the chair with the cushion. Neither Miach nor Weger paid her any heed when she complained about it, so she’d given up trying to convince them it was unnecessary.
She sat by the fire, but found she couldn’t stay awake. Weger shook her when a late lunch came, but she couldn’t manage any enthusiasm for that either. Fighting Searbhe the week before had been more difficult than she wanted to admit.
She sincerely hoped it didn’t mean she would never again be herself.
With that unhappy thought to keep her company, she had some wine, then put her head back and succumbed again to slumber.
She woke suddenly, sitting up with a start. The hall was lit only by the fireplace and the chairs near her where Miach and Weger usually sat were empty. At first, she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or awake. Then she looked up and saw Searbhe standing in front of her.
She had the feeling he was all too real.
He drew a knife and leaned closer.
“I see you’re alone,” he said with a cold smile.
“So I am,” she managed.
He opened his mouth, then frowned. “You look like someone I used to know.”
“Do I?”
“’Tis impossible, of course, but you look a damn sight like Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn,” he said.
“Interesting,” she said faintly. She looked him in the eye, but she was trying to remember if she had any blade loitering within reach. She saw one stuck in Searbhe’s belt and decided that would do, if necessary.
“I tried to steal Sarait once.” He pointed to a large, ugly scar down the side of his neck. “She gave me this and left me for dead. I can’t repay her for the slight, but I can repay you in her stead. I think I’ll enjoy it quite a bit.”
“Will you indeed,” she said, shifting so she would be able to seize his knife if he struck out at her. She looked up at him. “I’m not surprised she bested you. You’re one of Lothar’s much lesser sons, aren’t you?”
He was momentarily startled and it was that small hesitation that saved her. She jerked the blade from his belt and ducked underneath him, sending chairs crashing as she crawled out of his way. She heaved herself to her feet and spun around to face him.
He drew his sword with a flourish and threw himself at her.
She fought him without any of her usual refinement. It would have been different if she’d had a sword, but she didn’t and her body still didn’t respond as it once had. She dodged his flashing blade, leapt aside to avoid being stabbed, and did her best to rid him of his sword. She supposed she was fortunate just to avoid being killed.
He flinched suddenly. Morgan saw a knife buried into his shoulder. She guessed it was either Weger’s or Miach’s, but she didn’t take the time to look behind her to see who had thrown it. She jerked it out of Searbhe’s flesh and backed up—and into someone.
“Morgan, move,” Miach said, snatching what was apparently his knife out of her hand.
She wanted to argue that this was becoming an annoying habit, but she was just too tired. She backed up until she felt a bench hit the back of her knees, then found herself pulled down to sit next to Weger. He looked her over.
“You’re better,” he noted.
“Aye,” she agreed. “But still not whole.”
“Nay, Morgan, not that, yet. But you will be. Give it time.”
She nodded, then turned back to the fight in front of her. Perhaps Miach had decided that pretending to be less than he was didn’t serve him. He was, she had to admit quite objectively, absolutely terrifying. If she’d been crossing swords with him in that mood, she might actually have paused to consider the advisability of engaging him.
Searbhe obviously had no such fears. She would have pointed out his mistake, but she didn’t have time. Miach seemed to dredge up another measure of ferocity that left Searbhe stumbling backward in surprise. Miach beat on him until Searbhe had no choice but to merely hold up his sword as a shield. Morgan was almost sure she’d heard him blurt out a prayer of some sort.
Miach knocked the sword out of Searbhe’s hands, then caught him under the chin with his fist.
Searbhe’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground with a loud crash.
Miach stood over him with his sword in his hand and waited for a moment or two. He nudged Searbhe with his foot, but there was no response. He waited a bit more, then resheathed his sword and turned to stride over to her.
He took her by the hands and hauled her up to her feet. “Are you all right?” he demanded.
“Fine,” she said, trying to sound more positive than she felt. “Thank you. Debt repaid.”
“I stepped outside for just a moment,” he said grimly.
“It’s hardly your fault,” she said.
He shook his head, his mouth tightening. “I shouldn’t have left you. Let me walk you back over to the fire.” He nodded to Weger. “Excuse us, my lord.”
Morgan walked with him, shivering in spite of herself.
“Did he say anything to you?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing interesting,” Morgan said. After all, Searbhe had only said that she looked like Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn; he hadn’t said that she looked a good deal like her. His words meant nothing. He’d been looking for an excuse to fight her and latched on to the first one he could find.
Surely.
“Someone left a pile of refuse on my floor,” Weger said pointedly from the far end of the hall.
Miach sighed. “I’ll be back.”
She didn’t have a chance to say anything to him before he had walked back to join Weger near Searbhe’s unconscious form. They discussed something with low voices and sharp gestures. She sat and watched as eventually men came in, bound Searbhe, and took him away. Weger then crossed the chamber and looked down at her.
“You should go lie down,” he said mildly.
She shook her head. “Please, nay.”
“Why not?” Weger asked. “You’re safe now. I’m having Searbhe thrown out the front gates. He won’t return inside them. You’re safe,” he repeated, throwing Miach a look.
Miach stood behind his usual chair with his hands on its back. He shot Weger a warning look, but said nothing.
“Nothing will come inside these gates to harm you,” Weger said, apparently preparing to wax rhapsodic about the virtues of his hall. “Truly, you could remain inside these gates and be safe for the rest of your life and enjoy nothing but peace, safety, and absolutely no magic—”
“Oh, enough,” Miach said with a curse. He glared furiously at Weger, then took a deep breath. He turned to Morgan with a substantially softer expression. “I’ll go see what becomes of Searbhe when he’s outside the gates. I’ll return.”
She would have stopped him, but he turned and left before she could. She watched him leave the chamber, then looked at Weger.
“What was that was all about?” she asked blankly. “I’ve never seen him so angry.”
Weger shrugged. “Mages are unpredictable. You never know what will set them off. Supper?”
Morgan nodded absently. Why
not?
An hour later, she was sitting on the bottom step of that perilous staircase, waiting for Miach. Weger had not come with her. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. The wind was blowing a gale and the rain was lashing her unmercifully. If she’d had any sense, she would have gone to bed.
But, as she’d already noted, she had no sense left, so there she sat, huddled in her cloak, guarding a man who needed no guarding. He’d begged her to come inside the tower chamber with him, but she’d refused. She didn’t think she could bear the feel of her magic. For that night, at least, she wanted the comforting hush of the magic sink.
To keep herself awake, she considered the benefits of it—and there were many. No magic, no dreams, no wrenching of her heart each time she looked at Miach—
“Morgan?”
She looked up and realized that Miach was standing in front of her. Her heart, as usual, broke a little at the sight of him. She took a deep breath and cursed silently. He’d been too quick about his business. She’d hardly had the time to truly consider all the reasons she would be happier inside Gobhann than out of it.
She put her hands into his and let him pull her to her feet. She looked down at their hands together and found she couldn’t pull away. When had it happened, that a man had found the stomach to want to take her hands?
When had she become so soft and pliable that she would want him to?
He put his arm around her. “It’s cold, Morgan,” he said. “Let me walk you back.”
She nodded. She knew she should have pulled away from him, but she couldn’t bear to. She had the feeling that he wasn’t going to be at Gobhann much longer. How could he? He’d been there over two fortnights already. Surely the realm could not do without him any longer.
Besides, what else did Weger have to teach him? There was only one other person who’d mastered Weger’s lessons so quickly—at least in the current century—and that had been she herself. She knew what an aspirant looked like when he was on the verge of being released—
She realized, with a start, that she was standing in front of her chamber. She looked at Miach.
“I don’t think I can stay here,” she said.