by Lynn Kurland
“I haven’t been here all that long. I will say, though, that you were rather involved in your texts. For a mere soldier,” she added.
“I appreciate the discretion.”
“I imagine you do.” She studied him for a moment or two, then shook her head. “Why I ever believed that you were a simple farmer is beyond me.”
“You were distracted by my scruffy boots, no doubt,” he said with a half smile.
“Well, it isn’t as if you’re dressed in purple silks,” she agreed, “or long velvet robes and a pointy hat.”
He laughed in spite of himself. “Nay, I’m not—thankfully. I’ll happily limit myself to soldier’s gear.” He looked at her and deduced by the faint circles under her eyes that she had not had a particularly good night. He pushed aside his book so he could rest his elbows on the table. “So, how may I serve you today? More werelight? Swords? Tales that show the king of Neroche in his least flattering lights?”
She smiled, seemingly in spite of herself. “The latter, assuredly. Start with his most recent humiliation, then work your way backward. You can tell me about your other brothers as well, after you run out of Adhémar’s follies.”
“I don’t know that either of us has the patience for all of them, but I’ll give you at least one.” He motioned for Morgan to lean forward. “This particular tale begins in the chapel during the beginning of what had promised to be the longest wedding ceremony in the history of the Nine Kingdoms.”
“I can only imagine,” she muttered.
“No doubt you can. Now, as it happened, Adhémar and his bride-to-be had just taken their places at the front of the chapel and settled in for a glorious recounting of dowries and honors and exploits. I was, as you might imagine, looking for any way possible to keep myself awake, so I let my mind wander south just to see how you fared—”
“Did you?” she interrupted in surprise. “Could you?”
He nodded. “It was something I learned I could do over that first month of your convalescence. I could sense your presence, much like a man might see a candle shining in the dark. Or at least I could, until you went inside Gobhann’s gates.”
“Which must have been that same morning,” she said thoughtfully.
“Aye, it was,” he agreed. “When I lost my sense of you, I left Adhémar’s wedding at a dead run, and bolted to the parapet where I could throw myself off—”
“Miach!”
“Momentum, Morgan,” he said dryly, “not a death wish. I was a dragon within a heartbeat and pulling myself back upward within half a dozen more. Adhémar, as you might imagine, was highly displeased with the interruption I caused and had followed me to tell me so. He was standing on the walls, waving his sword about and demanding that I come closer so he could inflict all manner of bodily harm. Of course, being the dutiful younger brother I am, I obliged him.”
“What did you do?” she asked, a smile playing about her mouth.
“I flew up to him, snorted out a bit of fire, and singed off his wedding hat—and a bit more of him, I fear. He was trying madly to put out the flames as I flew over him.”
“You’ll pay a steep price on your return, I fear,” she said with half a laugh.
Miach shrugged. “There isn’t much he can do to me, save shout himself hoarse. The thought isn’t keeping me awake at night.”
She snorted. “I daresay. Now, tell me instead about these other lads of yours. I think I know more than I want to about your eldest brother.”
He imagined she did. He settled himself more comfortably, then began his list. “After Adhémar comes Cathar, then Rigaud, Nemed, the twins Mansourah and Turah, then me—”
“The wee babe.”
“Aye, if you can believe it.”
“I have a hard time,” she admitted. “You have old eyes. So, what of these brothers? Which one do you love the most? Which one do you trust the least? Who would you die for without hesitation?”
He smiled, pained. “Those are terrible questions, but I’ll answer one or two of them just the same. I would trust Cathar with my life, Turah with my back, and Nemed with a few of my secrets. I would trust Mansourah to take a message for me to another kingdom. I would only trust Rigaud to tell me how to dress for a court function.”
“I think I remember him,” she mused. “He was wearing quite fancy clothes in the great hall. I thought he was the king.”
“He would be enormously gratified to hear it. As far as the other question goes—” He shrugged. “I’d give my life for any of them.”
“Even Adhémar?”
“Almost without hesitation.”
“But you don’t trust him.”
“Do you truly want the answer to that?” he asked mildly.
“I don’t think I need it. That puts you in a difficult position, doesn’t it?”
“Very.”
She rubbed her arms suddenly. “Oddly enough, I am somehow comforted to think you might be running about behind Adhémar, repairing all the damage he does, rather than him controlling everything on his own.”
He smiled. “Thank you. I think.”
“It was a compliment.” She smiled slightly. “You’re fortunate to have all those brothers. You must love them.”
“Most of them,” Miach said. “I have, of course, mixed feelings about Adhémar. I daresay Cathar would have made a better ruler, but fate did not decree it thus. And if I don’t find what I’m searching for soon, there will be no kingdom for Adhémar to ruin.”
“How long have you been doing all this?” she asked.
“Reading in the library?”
“Nay,” she said, “what you do. You know.” She waggled her fingers at him. “That.”
“Fourteen years now. Since my mother died.”
She blinked. “But you can’t be more than a score and ten.”
“A score and eight, actually,” he said. “Almost a score and nine.”
Her jaw went slack. “You’ve been the archmage of Neroche since you were fourteen? How did that come about?”
He opened his mouth to give his usual response that he was just precocious, but realized immediately that he couldn’t hand Morgan such a flippant answer. She would have to know eventually, so there was no reason not to tell her the truth. Perhaps it would, in some small way, make the past that she had yet to face seem a little easier to bear.
He rested his clasped hands on the table and put on the best smile he could manage. “Well, it all began when I was out riding the borders alone when I was ten-and-three—an arrogant whelp with not enough wit to realize my peril. I was captured by our unpleasant neighbor to the north.”
She caught her breath. “Lothar?”
“The very same.”
She leaned back against her chair and held up her hands. “Don’t tell me any more. I beg you.”
“You asked,” he pointed out.
“Aye, and if I’d had any idea this was what you were going to say, I wouldn’t have.” She considered him for quite some time in silence, then sighed. “I suppose that now you’ve begun, you had best finish, hadn’t you?”
“I had planned to tell you anyway, at some point, so there isn’t any reason not to tell you now.” He took a deep breath. “I was taken by Lothar because I was too stupid to have taken a guard as I should have. Lothar carried me back to his keep, then threw me into his dungeon where I rotted for an entire year before my parents managed to get me out. My mother died during the attempt. My sire succumbed to his wounds a se’nnight later.”
“You were in his dungeon a year,” she whispered incredulously.
“Aye.”
She reached out and put her hands over his. “How on earth did you bear it?”
“While I was there, or after?”
“Either. Both.”
“Hmmm,” he said, “well, while I was there is something I don’t like to think on overmuch. It was very dark. I think the only reason I didn’t go mad was that I’m such a cheerful soul.”
She laced her fingers with
his. “Miach…”
“I continually recited spells, just to pass the time,” he continued, looking down at her fingers intertwined with his own. “But the first time I saw light after that year…” He took another deep breath. “I thought my eyes would catch fire. And afterward I did my damndest to outrun my demons.” He looked at her. “You understand that.”
“Aye,” she agreed.
“I flew in various shapes when I could, ran in my own shape when I couldn’t. And I stretched myself and my power every chance I had so that the next time I met him, I would best him. Only, I didn’t fare so well recently. I should have killed him when I saw what he’d done to you.” He paused. “I was not thinking clearly.”
“It had been a difficult day,” she said quietly.
“Aye,” he said. He squeezed her hands, then pulled away. “Give me five minutes to read, then we’ll go. I am suddenly quite desperate for a bit of air.”
“Of course.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Miach. About the other. And I’m sorry about your parents.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“I imagine it doesn’t make it any easier,” she said. “Now, shall I take the rest of your books back to Master Dominicus and purchase you a bit of peace?”
“Thank you,” he said gratefully. He was more than willing to turn his mind to other matters—not that they would be any less grim than what he’d just discussed. At least they wouldn’t be quite so personal.
He waited until Morgan had gathered up his books and started toward the librarian before he opened the book Nicholas had given him earlier that morning when he’d knocked on the man’s door and asked him for something interesting to read.
He had spent a goodly part of the night before considering the black mages who had the power to affect his spells. Lothar of Wychweald was alive, but Miach was convinced he was not the author of the magic. Wehr of Wrekin was rumored to be dead and even if he wasn’t, his power had been so weakened by his last battle decades earlier with Neroche, Miach was positive he was not the man behind the assault. Gair of Ceangail was verifiably dead, so that made him a very unlikely suspect.
There had been other, less powerful men, but he had dismissed them immediately. The magic vexing him was subtle, but substantial. Perhaps he had reason enough to make the journey to Beinn òrain. What good were those seven rings languishing under his old, ratty training clothes if he couldn’t have a peep at a few perilous texts now and again?
He looked up and found Morgan arguing in hushed tones with Master Dominicus. She seemed to be enjoying herself, so he took the opportunity to glance briefly at what Nicholas had given him. He was somehow unsurprised to find that the first name that his glance fell upon was Gair of Ceangail.
Gair, the black mage of Ceangail, lived a thousand years before he wooed and wed Sarait, the youngest daughter of Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn. Her father forbade the match, but Sarait did not heed his warning.
Six sons and a daughter were born to the pair, which softened the king’s heart, though Gair never again entered Seanagarra. Sarait visited her father frequently, after she realized Gair’s true nature.
Miach let out his breath slowly. Poor Sarait. What a terrible position she had found herself in. He wasn’t surprised to learn her father had opposed the marriage. To say Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn didn’t care for mages didn’t begin to address his disdain. Weger would have found a friend in that one.
He refused to think about what that might potentially mean for him.
He continued to read, though he already knew what had happened next.
Sarait goaded Gair into showing the extent of his power, and he obliged by taking her to a well of evil and vowing to open it, then contain it. Gair demanded that all the children be brought and Sarait, knowing his true nature, feared to leave them behind lest they be without her protection. She sent all her children, save the three eldest, into hiding the moment Gair began his spell.
The evil geisered forth and swept over everyone there, though Sarait managed to cover her eldest son from its effects. He told the tale to Gair’s kin before he disappeared.
Miach blinked. Disappeared? He’d always heard that the eldest lad, Keir, had died. And what was that about Gair’s kin? He was the son of Eulasaid of Camanaë and Sgath of Ainneamh, though neither the mages of Camanaë nor the elves of Ainneamh would claim him. How had Gair become part of Ceangail?
He sighed and turned pages on either side of the tale, wondering if he might find anything useful. His gaze fell upon a passage that made him frown in surprise.
It was during the 950th year of his reign that Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn surrendered his throne for a year to his son, Làidir, in consequence of his labors…
Surrendered his throne? Miach stared down at the words for a handful of moments, trying to come to terms with them. He could not imagine Sìle, for any reason, giving up his throne. He imagined that Làidir would only have the crown if he pried it from his father’s dead fingers.
He flipped through the pages surrounding that brief mention, but saw nothing more about it. He considered the dates. Sìle was now in the 976th year of his reign…
And twenty-six years earlier, Sarait had given birth to her only daughter, Mhorghain.
Had the birth of that wee granddaughter put him in such a state that he would make a piece of magic that taxing? He wondered if he might be looking at it awrong, but the dates couldn’t be coincidence. Mhorghain had been born and Sìle had set to work. But what would a grandfather make for his grandchild that would cost him so much? And why would his granddaughter require anything so formidable?
Unless that granddaughter had needed protecting.
Miach felt a chill run down his spine. Of course that small gel would have needed protecting. Her sire was Gair of Ceangail.
But fashioning something to protect a small girl when her six brothers were equally in danger from their father’s arrogance made no sense. Perhaps the magic had been wrought to guard one of Sìle’s own children.
Miach considered them in turn. Sìle’s sons, Làidir and Sosar, needed no aid, for they were very powerful and very shrewd. By then, Lismòrian had been dead for almost two centuries. That left Sìle’s other four daughters, but Miach dismissed them in turn. Ciatach was wed to Sgur of Ainneamh, Sona was wed to her distant cousin Dileabach, and Alainne had been wed for a thousand years to Murdoch of Meith. That left only Sarait.
Had Sìle made something for Sarait that had put him in bed for a year?
“Finished yet?”
Miach shut the book with a snap and looked at Morgan. “Aye. Just now.”
She was watching him with a frown. “You look a little green, my lord.”
“I need air,” he said, rising. He threw his cloak over his shoulder, picked up Nicholas’s book, then pulled Morgan out of the library behind him. He shut the door, took a deep breath, then started up the stairs.
He had to know more about what Sìle had been doing and exactly what it was the elven king had made. The dates simply couldn’t be coincidence.
“Miach?”
He paused and turned to look at Morgan as she stood on the step below him. “Aye?”
“Where are you going?”
“To Nicholas’s solar,” he said in surprise. “Does that not suit?”
“Nay,” she said, “I meant when you leave Lismòr. Where are you going then?”
“Oh,” he said, “that. Buidseachd, I think.” He smiled. “The schools of wizardry at Beinn òrain.” He was also beginning to think he should stop in Tòrr Dòrainn, but perhaps he would keep that to himself a bit longer.
“They’ll know who you are there, won’t they?”
“Of course.” He paused. “Will that bother you?”
“Will I be going with you?” she asked in surprise.
He wasn’t sure if she looked pleased or a bit ill. Well, there was no sense in not knowing what she was thinking. “I had hoped you would,” he said slowly.
She looked terribly uncomfortable. “People will wonder what you are doing with an ill-mannered shieldmaiden.”
“You aren’t ill-mannered,” he said, “and even if you were, I wouldn’t care.”
“I don’t know why I care,” she said, putting her shoulders back. “After all, it isn’t as if there is anything formal or stated or discussed even…um…between…”
He looked at her in surprise. “Do you want there to be anything formal, or stated, or discussed—”
She glared at him and brushed past him to hasten up the stairs. She didn’t get far, though, before she had to slow down and merely trudge up them.
Miach watched her go, surprised beyond measure. It was true that he’d come south with the hope that he might somehow begin to convince her that she might, at some point, want to join her life to his, but in all honesty, he hadn’t held out much hope for it.
He looked up after her and considered. Did she actually want to engage in something more discussed with him, or would she draw her sword and skewer him if he dared? He suspected that to avoid that skewering, he would have to tread very carefully.
That he might even venture such a thing was more than he’d hoped for.
Perhaps he would see how much of his attentions she would tolerate, venture a bit of romance, then hope he still had his belly free of any artistically arranged daggers. It might be pleasant for once to attempt to woo a woman who didn’t run screaming the other way once she realized exactly who and what he was.
He paused.
He supposed Morgan had already done that.
But she’d come back, in a sense, so perhaps he could indeed venture a few things he might not have dared in the fall. He took the stairs three at a time until he’d caught up with her, then climbed the rest of the stairs at her pace. Perhaps he would talk to her later, when she wasn’t ignoring him so thoroughly.
He followed her all the way to Nicholas’s solar. She threw him another glare, then opened the door. Miach peered over her shoulder and saw that the lads were gathered for their evening tale. He hardly had a chance to determine what it was before Morgan had shut the door and turned around.