by Lynn Kurland
And she supposed Miach might just catch her before she gained the hall doors. He was rather fast, all things considered.
She watched Sìle as he came to stand next to Miach, his face full of astonishment and disbelief. She kept her back straight, her chin raised, and let him look his fill.
She supposed that while he was about it, she might as well have her own look. He was no less handsome than any other elf she’d ever seen, though his face was lined slightly and his hair was white as snow. His eyes were green, the color of hers actually, and currently wide with shock. He gaped at her and fumbled for something to lean on. Miach put his shoulder conveniently within reach and Sìle clamped a hand on it.
“It can’t be…it isn’t…” Sìle looked at Miach, apparently at a loss for words.
“It’s not Sarait,” Miach said quietly.
Sìle took a ragged breath. “Then who?”
“’Tis Mhorghain, Your Majesty,” Miach said quietly.
“Mhorghain,” Sìle repeated, almost soundlessly. “Little Mhorghain.” He looked at Miach. “But how is that possible? Keir had said no one survived.”
Miach shrugged just the slightest bit. “Either Keir didn’t see her, or he didn’t want anyone to know she had escaped. But this is Mhorghain, Your Majesty. Beyond all doubt.”
Morgan listened to them call her a name that she’d never had used on her and found that somehow, she didn’t mind it. Especially the way Miach said it—as if her name was a treasure he only shared with those who might appreciate it. She looked at Sìle and saw, to her complete surprise, that his eyes were welling up with tears.
“You look so much like Sarait,” he said in disbelief. “For a moment there, I thought you were Sarait.”
She cleared her throat. “Is that so, my liege?”
Sìle took a hesitant step toward her. He wasn’t quite as tall as Miach so she wasn’t forced to look up as far. He stopped a handsbreadth away and stared at her in amazement. Then he hesitantly reached out and touched her face.
“Mhorghain,” he whispered in awe.
Morgan couldn’t find anything useful to say, so she remained silent.
“Dionadair,” Sìle said, not taking his eyes from her, “go fetch the queen. Make haste, lad!”
Morgan looked at Miach, but he only shook his head just the slightest bit and took several steps backward. She had just begun to consider how she might protest that when she was distracted by the arrival of several more elves inside the hall. She was accustomed to immediately assessing the number and kind of potential enemies, but her skills were seemingly out of reach at present. She supposed there might have been fifteen elves; there might have been more. All she knew was that the sight of so many of them was almost too much for her.
Sìle reached for a woman whose hair was as dark as his was white and pulled her close to him. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Brèagha?” he asked.
The woman looked at Morgan and her eyes filled with tears. “I am, husband.”
Morgan would have smiled or attempted to dredge up her very rusty manners and use them, but she wasn’t feeling precisely herself at the moment. She would have given anything to have clapped Sìle on the back in a friendly gesture of camaraderie, nodded briskly to the rest, and bolted for the door.
And damn that Miach of Neroche if he wasn’t standing well away from the press, looking perfectly at ease.
She glared at him, then turned back to the dozen—she found the wit to manage that tally after all—souls who seemed determined to greet her as if she were long-lost kin they had despaired of ever seeing again.
Which she now supposed she might well be.
They were touchy, these elves. They seemed determined to embrace her and pat her and press her hand. She did her best to be polite, but after the journey she’d had and all the worry she’d endured, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep a pleasant expression on her face.
“Come,” Sìle boomed suddenly, “you’ll sit next to me and eat. You’re terribly thin. You’ll tell me where you’ve been hiding—who hid you, by the way?”
“Nicholas of…Diarmailt,” she managed. Even saying it sounded strange. She wanted him to be just Nicholas of Lismòr. She wanted Miach to be just that handsome lad with the mark on his brow and the unwholesome habit of muttering spells at the odd moment. She didn’t want anyone to be who they weren’t supposed to be.
She didn’t want to be Mhorghain.
She was beginning to suspect she’d made a terrible mistake.
“Those damned mages,” Sìle grumbled, drawing her hand through his arm and pulling her toward the open doors to the right of his throne. “He should have sent word.”
“He was trying to keep me safe,” Morgan protested. “As was my lord Mochriadhemiach, whom we’re leaving behind.”
“Eh?” Sìle said, pausing. “Oh, the mage. He can eat with the garrison.”
Morgan dug her heels in. “But you can’t—”
“Husband,” Brèagha said, stopping Sìle at the door, “offer the young prince of Neroche your hospitality.”
Sìle scowled. “I don’t like him.”
“You would like it even less if he were to seek refuge with Ehrne because you were rude to him.”
Morgan watched Sìle consider that, then nod to his wife. “He may stay the night. But he’ll still eat with the garrison.”
Morgan looked frantically for Miach, but he was only leaning negligently against Sìle’s throne, watching her with a grave smile. She shot him a look that bespoke significant retribution, then found herself suddenly besieged on all sides by elves wanting to see to her comfort. Before she could send them all off to do something more constructive, she was taken over by her grandmother and a pair of aunts. She was led into what she supposed was the dining hall and a place was made for her on Sìle’s right, a place liberated because a tall, very handsome elf was displaced.
Morgan looked up at him as he pulled out her chair. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Làidir,” he said with a low bow. “I’m Sìle’s eldest.”
“I didn’t know Sìle had sons,” she managed.
He smiled. “No one ever talks about us. We’re not nearly as pretty as the girls.”
“But you’re beautiful,” Morgan blurted out.
He put his hand briefly on her shoulder. “You’ve a discriminating eye, obviously.” He looked at her for a minute, then smiled. “You look so much like your mother, ’tis almost a little unsettling. But it eases my heart. Now, sit, niece, and enjoy your meal. I’ll go see to your escort.”
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. She sat down next to the king of Tòrr Dòrainn and felt more uncomfortable and conspicuous than she ever had before in her life. She wondered if she should kill Miach sooner rather than later for having handed her over without protest.
She realized that the queen had come to sit on her right hand. She put her hand over Morgan’s.
“Eat, darling,” she said with a smile. “I’ll show you to your chamber soon. I imagine a good night’s rest will make things easier to bear in the morning.”
Morgan nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Brèagha only smiled and motioned for a page to pour Morgan wine.
“Now,” Sìle said, turning and fixing her with a purposeful stare, “I’m ready to hear your tale. Begin at the beginning, won’t you?”
Morgan had a long drink of wine, pushed aside thoughts of murdering a certain archmage, then began where she thought she should.
She had the feeling it was going to be a very long evening.
Nineteen
Miach sat on the steps leading up to Sìle’s throne and sighed deeply. He would have given much for someplace to put his head down. He didn’t expect to wind up in the dungeon, but he would have settled happily for it at the moment. Then again, considering the look on Sìle’s face when he’d seen Morgan, he might just find himself sleeping—albeit briefly—in a decent chamber.
&nbs
p; He rubbed his hands over his face then jumped in surprise. Sìle’s heir, Làidir, stood there in front of him, staring down at him with an expression that was somehow less than welcoming.
Miach sighed lightly. Perhaps he’d pilfered one too many spells on his last visit.
He rose and made Làidir a bow. “Your Highness,” he said deferentially. “A pleasure, as always.”
“I have a question or two for you, Prince Mochriadhemiach,” Làidir said without preamble. “Over supper, in the kitchens.”
“It would be an honor.”
Làidir didn’t move. “Some might consider that location to be an insult.”
“Are you trying to insult me?” Miach asked mildly.
Làidir studied him for a minute. “Perhaps.”
Miach smiled. “Food is food, Your Highness. The closer it is to the fire, the hotter. Besides, I’ve never been in Seanagarra’s kitchen.”
“But you’ve been in several other chambers here, haven’t you?”
Miach clasped his hands behind his back. “Prince Làidir, if there’s something you wish to say to me, please be blunt. I’m in need of food and sleep, not games.”
Làidir stared at him for a minute or two in silence, then nodded abruptly toward a door at the other end of the hallway. “I’ll be frank with you over supper.”
Miach followed him willingly. At least he was being fed. He supposed he couldn’t ask for much more than that.
Elves were, as Adhémar would have said, impossible creatures. They were intensely private, fiercely loyal to those of their ilk, and generally antagonistic to anyone who wasn’t an elf. The elves of Tòrr Dòrainn were substantially more aloof than the elves of Ainneamh. Sìle had a particular aversion to mages, which Miach supposed he could understand, considering how many of his descendants he’d lost to them.
It didn’t bode well for him, actually.
He followed Làidir along corridors and down stairs until they reached the kitchens. Miach sat down within sight of the fire and soon was applying himself to a marvelous meal. He heaped lavish praise on the head cook’s head and was rewarded with almost more than he could eat.
And all through the meal, Làidir merely sat across from him at the table and watched him. Miach thought about reminding Làidir that they were kin—Màire of Meith, Làidir’s sister Alainne’s youngest daughter, was his grandmother several generations removed—but he supposed that wouldn’t improve things any, so he kept that to himself.
He finally put his knife and fork on his plate and pushed it aside. He had a final drink of a very fine, dark ale, then looked at Làidir.
“Thank you. That was most welcome.”
Làidir nodded, but didn’t smile. “How is it you came to be Princess Mhorghain’s escort here?”
Miach gave a serving girl a smile as she refilled his cup, then he turned back to Làidir. “I was very fortunate to be in the right place at the right time—”
“That isn’t an answer,” Làidir interrupted severely.
“It would be,” Miach said evenly, “if you’d let me finish.”
Làidir’s mouth tightened briefly, then he nodded curtly. “Very well. Go on.”
Miach supposed he must be curious indeed if he was willing to submit to that sort of rudeness. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I had been off looking for my brother in the fall and found Mhorghain traveling in a company with him.”
“I heard a rumor that Adhémar lost his power,” Làidir said, “and that you sent him on a quest to look for a wielder for that sword of Queen Mehar’s you have hanging in your hall. I also heard that the sword was destroyed.”
Miach blinked at that. “How did you hear that?”
“I travel a fair amount,” Làidir said with a faint pursing of his lips. “One does what one must to keep busy, and inns are the best place for reliable gossip.” He sipped his ale. “Who broke the sword? I heard it was a wench. Some witless girl you picked up in your travels?”
Tidings traveled swiftly, apparently. Miach didn’t particularly want to tell Làidir anything, but perhaps it was best he knew before he insulted Morgan and found himself skewered because of it. He wrapped his hands around his cup. “It was Mhorghain.”
Làidir choked. Miach couldn’t take any enjoyment in it, though Morgan likely would have. It took quite a while for Sìle’s heir to recover.
“Impossible,” he gasped.
“I watched her do it,” Miach said calmly. “’Tis my fault, of course. I neglected to tell her who I was as we traveled together, and she was justifiably angry with me when she learned the truth.” He smiled deprecatingly. “She has a particular aversion to mages.”
“A girl with sense,” Làidir said grimly. He nursed his own ale for a few minutes, then shook his head. “I don’t understand why she didn’t come home sooner.” He shot Miach a look. “Was she being held against her will?”
“Nothing so dire,” Miach said. “She simply didn’t know who she was. Nicholas of Diarmailt had watched over her for years—”
“Why didn’t King Nicholas tell her who she was? She could have been living her life in peace and safety here!”
Peace and safety. Miach grimaced. Would those words never cease to torment him? It was best Làidir never know the import of them. Miach wouldn’t have put it past him to use them himself.
“And where is the former king of Diarmailt?” Làidir continued angrily.
“Your brother-in-law,” Miach said pointedly, “is safely and anonymously running the university at Lismòr.”
“On Melksham?” Làidir asked, stunned. He sat back in surprise. “I hadn’t considered that, though I should have. He had said he planned to leave his crown to his nephew, but I never thought he would lower himself to dwelling in such a rustic place.” He cursed briefly. “Why didn’t he send word when he found Mhorghain? How old was she when he took her in? What has she been doing until now?”
“You know,” Miach said, “these really are questions you should be putting to your niece. I will warn you, however, that she considers Nicholas something of a father. You would do well not to disparage him.”
“I wouldn’t,” Làidir grumbled. “Mage though he was, he at least treated Lismòrian as he should have.”
That was an understatement, or so the tales went, for Nicholas’s adoration of his lady wife had been legendary.
“As for why King Nicholas didn’t send word,” Miach continued, “I think he wanted to shield Mhorghain from her memories—at least at first. Then I think he thought it best to keep her ignorant so she would be safely hidden from those who might want her dead.” He looked at Làidir. “Wise, don’t you agree?”
“I think he took a great deal on himself,” Làidir said stiffly.
Mentioning that Sarait had asked for Nicholas to watch over Morgan was probably something else better kept to himself. Miach only inclined his head. “Argue with him over that when next you meet. And as you well know, there’s nothing you can do to change what’s gone before. All you can do is be grateful for what you have now.”
“Of course,” Làidir said. “And since she’ll now be fine with us, you may be on your way tomorrow.”
“I’ll go when Mhorghain asks me to.”
Làidir frowned fiercely. “The only reason you want to stay is so you can make clandestine forays into places you shouldn’t go.”
“I would like a peep into your father’s library, if possible,” Miach admitted. “I’m looking for something I think I might find there.”
“Is that all you’re here for? Books?”
Miach considered. It wasn’t that Làidir wasn’t trustworthy, it was just that his duty was to be where Sìle could not and bring back details the king never could have gleaned on his own. Whatever he told Làidir would go straight to Sìle’s ear. He would have to choose his words carefully.
“I would like,” he began slowly, “to reassure your father that I only have Mhorghain’s best interests at heart.”
“To what end?” Làidir asked.
Miach looked at him evenly. “I imagine you’ll divine that on your own if you think about it long enough.”
Làidir looked at him blankly for a moment, then his mouth fell open. “You cannot be serious.”
Miach only watched him. Perhaps that training at Weger’s had actually been of more use than he’d hoped. He was able to watch Làidir spluttering like a teakettle without feeling the need to respond. He simply sat and waited for the other man to wear himself out.
“You cannot be serious,” Làidir repeated. He stood and looked down his nose at Miach. “My father will never give her to such a one as you.”
Miach lifted one shoulder negligently. “I am a prince, just as you are.”
“As if you could begin to compare Neroche to Tòrr Dòrainn!”
“Perhaps not, but you forget that elvish blood runs through my veins, just as it does yours,” Miach said, “and not just from Ainneamh. I claim kinship with Màire of Meith, whose mother, if memory serves, is your sister. So perhaps I am not so unworthy as you might think.”
Làidir leaned his hands on the table and glared. “If you think,” he began in a low, dangerous voice, “that my father will give another of his children to a mage, no matter what parentage you would like to claim, then you are as foolish as you are brash. We will not lose another of our family to your ilk.”
Miach wondered why in the hell he’d expected this to turn out any other way. He’d anticipated resistance to the idea of his wedding Morgan, of course, but in the back of his mind, he’d held out the hope that the resistance would be bested eventually. Obviously he’d been too long in Weger’s tower and his wits had rotted.
“I loved Sarait,” Làidir said, “but she was blinded by her heart.”
Miach blinked at the non sequitur. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sarait loved Gair, at first,” Làidir said with a fair amount of distaste. “Gair courted her and flattered her and convinced her he was other than he was. More’s the pity that my father didn’t destroy the bastard when he first set foot in Seanagarra. Believe me when I tell you that he won’t make that mistake again.”