by Lynn Kurland
“Anything.”
“Would you go make certain Miach’s all right? Just in case I can’t escape?” She paused. “I would just go, but I think I will try to be…well mannered.”
Sosar lifted one eyebrow. “Ah, so it’s Miach, is it? Awfully familiar for his being just your escort.”
“He’s not just my escort,” Morgan said in a low voice, “but you could certainly keep that to yourself, couldn’t you?”
“I daresay I should,” he agreed. “And aye, I will go see to Prince Mochriadhemiach in a bit. I’ll make certain he’s been fed and that he wasn’t required to sleep in the stables. And speaking of stables, I heard that you had a nap in Hearn of Angesand’s hayloft.”
“Who told you that?” she asked in surprise.
“The horses. They were very impressed.”
“You speak their tongue?”
“A little,” he conceded. “My father once sent me to buy a breeding pair from Corbair of Angesand.” He paused. “He was Hearn’s great-great-grandfather, I believe. I asked him if knowing a few words might make the steeds more comfortable.”
“Just what a lord of Angesand wants to hear,” she said with a smile.
“Aye,” Sosar agreed. “He taught me quite a bit, actually, which, as I’m sure you know, is rather unusual. I think he was very pleased indeed that I wanted to learn.” He offered her his arm. “Let me see you to the hall and I’ll tell you more about it on the way. You know, the horses said you were being hunted.”
Morgan stumbled. “Damned dress,” she said, stalling for time. She looked up at Sosar, but he was only watching her closely.
“I don’t suppose they’re lying,” he added.
She sighed. “Can you be trusted?”
“I am,” he said solemnly, “a vault.”
She looked at him seriously. “I’ll stick you if you blather these tidings to anyone.”
“Hmmm,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “I imagine you will. So I will reassure you again that you can trust me. And I’ll tell you more. The horses said both you and Prince Mochriadhemiach bear Scrymgeour Weger’s mark. And that the prince didn’t kiss you as often during the journey as he would have liked to.”
“Those gossiping nags,” Morgan spluttered.
Sosar patted her hand resting on his arm. “Go on and tell Uncle Sosar your sorry tale, gel. It will make you feel better.”
She shot him another warning look. “Very well, the horses have it aright. We are being hunted. Miach’s trying to find out why, or by whom, or by what.” She paused. “He thinks our magic draws them, so we’ve been traveling without.”
“Poor lad.”
She looked at him gravely. “He spent a month in Gobhann, so he’s accustomed to it.”
Sosar whistled softly. “Why in the world would he do such a stupid thing?”
“He went inside to fetch me.”
“Oops,” Sosar said easily. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” she said. “I thought it was rather stupid at the time as well, though I suppose the training has served him. The entire tale is long, but suffice it to say I fled there because it was the one place I thought he wouldn’t follow me. Then when he risked everything to come and get me…” She shrugged. “What isn’t to love about that sort of man?”
“What indeed,” Sosar said kindly. “And the kissing?”
“None of your damned business.”
He laughed out loud, then continued on with her until they reached a particular doorway. “I deserved that, of course. Now, here you are, delivered safely to lunch. I’ll be about my business quickly, then go see to your lad for you.”
“I’m very grateful.”
He made her another bow, hesitated, then reached out and tugged on one of her curls. He dropped his hand and smiled. “I used to do just that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Pull on your hair. And you scowled at me when you were six exactly the same way you’re scowling now.” He smiled, then turned and walked off, humming pleasantly.
Morgan thought she might regain her breath at some point, but she wasn’t sure it would be soon. She supposed that perhaps it would be easier if she had somewhere to sit. She put her hand on the door and started to open it.
Brèagha opened the door from the other side, then welcomed her into the dining hall. “Did you sleep well, darling?”
“Very,” Morgan said, because it was polite. Actually, she’d had a terrible night. She’d spent most of it reaching for Miach in her sleep and finding that she was very much alone. She would have to tell him as much. It would please him.
“Would you like something to eat?” Brèagha asked with a smile.
“Please,” Morgan said.
Brèagha paused. “I think Sìle would like to show you a few things this afternoon. Sarait’s things, if you can bear it.”
Morgan did her best to swallow, but it wasn’t done easily. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
She wondered what in the world she would do when they showed her a picture of Sarait and she found that she didn’t resemble her in the least.
Two hours later, she realized that such a thing wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. She was standing in Sarait’s room, looking at Sarait’s portrait. She stared at it for quite some time in silence, then took a deep breath and forced herself to look into the mirror next to the painting.
She and Sarait might well have been twins.
“And here are the rest of the children,” Brèagha said, taking Morgan’s arm and turning her to look at yet another portrait.
There was Brèagha, sitting on a bench in the garden where Miach had been walking the night before. Held securely on Brèagha’s lap was a young girl of about six. Surrounding the pair were six lads ranging from about ten up to perhaps a score and ten.
Morgan sank down on the bed and stared at the painting. She could hardly believe it, but she knew those lads. She knew the eldest, Keir, because he had pushed her relentlessly to learn more and more spells.
To protect her against their father.
She knew the next eldest, Rùnach, who had shadowed their mother constantly, ever reading ancient, crumbling books full of magic so he might be prepared to aid their mother when necessary. Then had come Brogach, Gille, and Eglach, brothers who had watched grimly as their father’s true nature had been revealed, lads who had also been fiercely loyal to their mother.
Last was Ruithneadh, who had burned like a live flame, fierce in his defense of her, guarding her when Keir could not.
Brothers who had loved her.
She had no idea how long she sat looking at that painting with tears streaming down her cheeks and ruining her dress. She supposed she should have said something, but all she could do was look at the lads there and weep for the loss of souls who had loved and cherished her.
“Mhorghain?” Morgan felt her grandmother take her hand. “Darling?”
“I’m fine,” Morgan croaked. She looked again at the portrait of Sarait, then looked in the mirror at her own tear-streaked face. Any hope she’d had of denying it was gone.
She was Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn’s daughter.
And Gair’s.
“My love, what can I do to help you?”
Morgan looked first at Brèagha, then turned to see who else had seen her come undone. The chamber was empty save they two. Sìle had been the one to insist she come see it, but apparently he’d decided at some point that it was safer to depart unnoticed for higher ground. She would have done the same, but she supposed there was no point. It was difficult to outrun herself.
“Mhorghain?”
Morgan focused on Brèagha with an effort. “Your Majesty?”
“Would you like to lie down?” Brèagha asked, her eyes clouded with worry. “Perhaps I should stay with you whilst you do.”
“I’m fine,” Morgan said automatically. “I’m a little overwhelmed, but I’ll be fine.”
“Of course, darling,” Brèagha said with a gen
tle smile. “I never doubted that. I know this all must come as something of a shock.”
Morgan shook her head. “Not entirely. Nicholas—Nicholas of Diarmailt—told me many things. Well, things that Miach hadn’t already.” She took a deep breath. “I fell apart in his solar a fortnight ago. But Miach was there then…”
“Shall I fetch the youngest prince of Neroche?” Brèagha asked softly. “Would that ease you?”
A longing for him rose up so sharply, Morgan caught her breath.
But she pushed the thought aside ruthlessly. He was seeing to the realm. Surely she could see to her own affairs for the day.
“I’m fine,” she repeated firmly. “Besides, I’ve lived all my life I can remember on my own. I can manage this on my own as well.”
“Why is it I imagine that wouldn’t be what Prince Mochriadhemiach would suggest?”
“Because he’s overprotective.”
“He’s delightful,” Brèagha said, with a smile. “I’ve always thought him to be so.”
Morgan turned to look at her. “Have you indeed?”
“Yes,” Brèagha said. “He has managed his responsibilities without allowing them to crush him or embitter him as other young men might have.”
Morgan thought that learning Brèagha’s opinion about a few things other than her own resemblance to Sarait might be a very good distraction. She looked at her mother’s mother and could hardly believe that she wasn’t looking at a woman her own age. Brèagha’s face was unlined, her hair dark, her fingers slender and smooth. The only thing that betrayed her was her eyes. She had seen much, and it showed.
“Mhorghain?”
Morgan focused on her. “Aye, Your Majesty?”
“Grandmother,” Brèagha suggested. “I am your grandmother, darling, and we were talking about Prince Mochriadhemiach. I was telling you that I liked him very much. Not, perhaps, that it matters to you.”
Morgan smiled. “It matters, but I suspect you know that already.”
Brèagha tucked Morgan’s hair behind her ear. “Then, since we both seem to find him to our liking and I think you could stand to speak on something perhaps a bit more pleasant than what you’ve faced so far this morning, I will tell you more. I have known the youngest prince of Neroche, as it happens, since shortly after he was born. His mother, whom I knew very well, would often bring him with her when she came to visit. He has grown into a man who is discreet and responsible, but isn’t above a bit of subterfuge—”
“When it comes to spells he shouldn’t know?” Morgan interrupted with a smile.
Brèagha laughed softly. “Aye. Sìle has never caught him with his fingers in the pie, as it were, but he roars about it every time he sees him within our borders. Then again, your Miach is only following in his mother’s footsteps. She was famous for knowing spells she shouldn’t have, but she was more inclined to charm them from her victims than sneak about in their private books.” She smiled wistfully. “You would have liked Desdhemar, I think. She was very powerful, of course, and very lovely. And she loved her boys to distraction, especially her youngest. After all, she gave her life for him, didn’t she?”
Morgan managed a nod. “I understand she perished fetching him out of Riamh.”
Brèagha nodded. “’Tis a pity she didn’t survive. She could have eventually left Tor Neroche behind and found some small corner of the Nine Kingdoms to call her own with her beloved Anghmar. But she was older when they wed and had already had enough adventures to fill several lifetimes. I’ll tell you of them someday when Miach isn’t buried in Sìle’s library and can listen too. And,” she said, rubbing her hand over Morgan’s back, “tales of your love’s mother aren’t what you need to face today, I fear.”
Morgan nodded. “They were a good diversion, though.” Then she paused. “My love’s mother?”
“Isn’t that what he is to you?”
Morgan took a deep breath and looked her grandmother in the face. “Aye, he is. And I’ll not allow Sìle to tell me differently.”
“Of course you won’t,” Brèagha said with a small smile, “though he’ll try.”
“So Miach said,” Morgan admitted. “And just so you know, that is one of the reasons we came. So Miach could ask for Sìle’s permission.”
Brèagha put her arms around Morgan and hugged her briefly. “The youngest prince of Neroche honors you, as he should. Sìle will say him nay, of course, then you’ll do what you must. I will tell you, however, that Desdhemar would have been very pleased with her son’s choice. I know I am. And now, before I wax rhapsodic about the charms of your young man, I will go and let you rest. Stay here as long as you like.”
“You don’t mind?”
Brèagha looked at her in surprise for a moment, then took Morgan’s hands in both her own. “I didn’t keep this chamber untouched as a shrine, darling; I kept it for you. I always held out hope that you had somehow survived. These things are now yours.”
Morgan closed her eyes briefly, then looked at Brèagha. “Thank you.”
Brèagha kissed her on both cheeks, then rose. “Of course, darling. And if you want Prince Mochriadhemiach fetched, that can be done.”
Morgan nodded and watched her grandmother walk out of the chamber. Then she turned and stared at herself in Sarait’s mirror. She almost didn’t recognize herself. She looked so much like Sarait, it was almost difficult to decide whom she was looking at. There was a woman in that mirror, dressed in a gown that shimmered white and silver, with bright green eyes and dark hair that had been somehow convinced to hang almost to her waist in sweeping, lovely curls.
There wasn’t a speck of mud in sight.
Morgan rose and started to explore before she had to look at herself any longer. She touched the crown that Sìle had left her and remembered that he’d asked her to wear it to dinner because there were new guests he wanted her to meet. She could only imagine and she hoped it wouldn’t include long lines of elves whose names she wouldn’t remember past the hearing of them.
She continued to pace around the room, touching things on dressers and tables, opening closet doors and dresser drawers. She found a trunk with treasures of a less-than-perfect nature, treasures obviously fashioned by children. There were rocks and pine cones and things carved from wood. She started to look further, but found that she couldn’t. She didn’t want to find something that she might have made.
Not today.
She closed the lid and rested her hands on its top until she thought she could manage a decent breath.
She could be Mhorghain. Indeed, she could see that she had no choice but to admit that she was Sarait’s daughter.
But she didn’t have to be Gair’s.
She could still be mostly Morgan, live her life mostly by her sword, still comport herself mostly as Weger’s apprentice. She could even marry Miach and pretend to be a princess of Tòrr Dòrainn if something at Tor Neroche demanded it. And when that courtly bit of misery was behind her, she could return to just being herself.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and focused on breathing in and out. In time, she thought she might like to lie down, so she did. She stared up at the ceiling of her mother’s chamber and let the tears leak out and wet the hair at her temples. She supposed the curl would come out now. She wasn’t all that sure she cared.
She closed her eyes. In a few minutes she would get up and look through some of her mother’s less private things.
And then she would find the archmage of Neroche and tell him they were leaving.
Twenty-one
Miach stood in Seanagarra’s library and wondered if the pounding headache he had came from too many days without sleep, or too many hours spent reading. Surely it hadn’t come from all the arguing he’d already done with the fool in front of him. He took a deep breath.
“You’ve given me several things already,” he said, quite reasonably to his mind. “Why not this? What harm can it do?”
The librarian looked down his nose. “I can’t imagi
ne His Majesty would be pleased to know I allowed a mage to poke about in the manuscripts kept for him privately.”
“Has His Majesty expressly forbidden it?”
“He didn’t have to,” the other said stiffly. “Your reputation, Prince Mochriadhemiach, is not one that persuades me to trust you with anything important.”
Miach didn’t often lose his patience. It was a testimony to how desperate he was to satisfy his curiosity that he found his hand on his sword without quite knowing how it had gotten there. He had barely begun to determine how he might explain that when someone leaned on the table to his right.
“Give him what he wants, Leabhrach.”
Miach looked to find Sosar, Sìle’s youngest, scowling at the librarian.
Leabhrach pulled himself up. “I think not—”
“You think too much,” Sosar said bluntly. “Give him exactly what he’s asked for and do it now, whilst I’m watching you.”
“King Sìle told me to be careful with him,” Leabhrach said haughtily, “and even if His Majesty hadn’t, I would—”
“Still be a fool,” Sosar finished for him. “Oblige our young friend here. Once you’ve done so, you can scamper straight to my father and snivel out the whole pitiful tale.”
Leabhrach looked at them both, then spun on his heel and went to search about in racks of books behind a silken rope. Miach turned to Sosar.
“A friendly face.”
Sosar smiled. “So said your lady when I saw her earlier.”
“I envy you the pleasure,” Miach said.
“No doubt you do,” Sosar agreed pleasantly. “She asked me to find you, make sure you were being treated well, and see if you’d eaten. If it eases your mind any, I’ll do the same for you.”
Miach sighed deeply. “It would ease me, actually. I don’t think she’s having an easy time of this. Thank you for seeing to what I dare not.”
Sosar shrugged. “She always has been my favorite niece. And Sarait was my favorite sister. I think I can’t, in good conscience, do anything less. So, to fulfill my promise, I’ll ask if you’ve had anything to eat.”