by Lynn Kurland
“I’m not sure,” Miach admitted.
“Then I’ll remedy that first. But before I go, tell me what you’re looking for. I’m curious.”
Miach considered, then decided there was no reason to be anything but honest. Perhaps he might find aid where he hadn’t expected it.
“I want details about Gair’s well,” he said carefully. He didn’t imagine Gair’s name was spoken very easily inside Seanagarra’s walls, and he wasn’t going to be the first to break with tradition. “I’d also like to know about the spells involved in opening that well and perhaps even a bit more about the events of that day.” He paused. “And I’d like to know about the talisman your father made for Sarait.”
Sosar’s mouth fell open. He stared at Miach in astonishment for a moment or two, then shut his mouth and smiled. “My father underestimates you. How did you know about the amulet?”
Miach smiled, relieved to know he’d been right. “I read something at Lismòr about your father giving up his crown for a year in consequence of his labors on it. I assumed he had made something to protect Sarait.”
Sosar studied him silently for a moment or two, then smiled. “I’ll help you. What did you ask for?”
“The history of your father’s reign, volume nine hundred fifty.”
“You won’t want that,” Sosar said cheerfully. “I’ll go get you something far more interesting.”
Miach watched as Sosar hopped over the desk, then continued on back into forbidden territory. There was a loud squawk, a few minutes of loud arguing, then more squawking. Sosar walked out of the rows of shelves with two books in his hands. He vaulted back over the restraining rope, then handed his finds to Miach.
“Start with these.”
Miach accepted them gratefully. “You’ve saved me time.”
“I imagine I have. And I give you permission to threaten Leabhrach with your sword if he becomes feisty. I’ll come back with food so you don’t starve—and to make sure you haven’t been tossed in the dungeon.”
Miach smiled deprecatingly. “I suppose it’s a concern, isn’t it?” He started to walk away, then paused and looked at Morgan’s uncle. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me that I won’t read here?”
Sosar leaned back against the table and shrugged. “It is entirely possible that I might know where a few more interesting things are hiding. I suppose it would be impolite to point out that you’ve never asked for my aid before, wouldn’t it?”
“It would be nothing more than I deserve,” Miach agreed, “though you’ll have to concede that I haven’t been rummaging about in your private books, won’t you?”
Sosar laughed. “You’re shameless, lad. At least your mother paid me a compliment or two before she wrestled spells out of my numb fingers.”
“I don’t have her charm,” Miach admitted. “I just muddle through as best I can.”
“How many of my spells did she teach you?” Sosar asked, studying him with a faint smile. “Just out of curiosity.”
“More than you would remember giving her.”
Sosar blinked, then laughed out loud. “I daresay.” He looked at Miach, then laughed again. “Read that business, then I’ll see if I can find you other things.” He pushed away from the table. “For now, I’ll find you something to eat.”
“I appreciate your help, Your Highness.”
Sosar smiled. “It’s Sosar, Prince Mochriadhemiach.”
“It’s Miach, Sosar.”
Sosar extended his hand and shook Miach’s. “An ally in the court. What legendary feat will you accomplish next?”
“The Fates are breathlessly awaiting it.”
Sosar laughed again, then walked away. “No doubt.”
Miach carried his treasures over to a cushioned chair next to a roaring fire, laid his sword on the floor, and sat down. Well, the first thing he would admit was that Sìle’s library was by far the most comfortable he’d ever been in. He could only hope the quality of information he would glean would be equally as magnificent.
He sat and opened the first book. It was a detailed court history and he did as Sosar had suggested and skimmed it. It was interesting, but not overly enlightening. He had just flipped past the last page when he looked up to find Sosar walking toward him bearing a tray.
“Strength for your labors,” he said, setting it down on the table near Miach’s chair.
“Thank you,” Miach said, with feeling.
Sosar filched an apple and tossed it up in the air. “My pleasure. And just so you know, Mhorghain has been in Sarait’s chamber most of the afternoon.”
Miach closed his eyes briefly. “Poor gel.”
“Aye,” Sosar agreed. “I fear things will only get worse. I heard that my sire is planning a formal ball tomorrow night. I suspect he’ll have an elvish prince or two to present to your lady.”
“Perfect,” Miach muttered.
“I doubt you’ll be invited,” Sosar continued, his eyes twinkling, “but never fear. I’ll go and take copious notes on everything that happens. Every glance, every compliment, every kiss—dutifully recorded for your pleasure.”
Miach gave him a baleful look. “Are you being helpful?”
Sosar grinned. “Of course not, but you couldn’t expect anything else. Actually, I imagine you’ll be too busy reading all the deliciously forbidden things I find for you to think about who might be wooing your lady. I might even find a book or two of spells for you.”
“I’d rather dance with your niece.”
Sosar straightened and laughed. “You are a besotted pup. Enjoy your reading, Miach. I’ll keep you apprised of the madness above.”
Miach watched him go, then poured himself wine. He flipped open the cover of the second book. He set his wine down carefully and stared in amazement at what he was holding in his hands.
It was Làidir’s private journal.
Miach supposed he really shouldn’t be reading it, but it was too great a gift not to. He turned pages gingerly, trying not to pay heed to more than he had to.
And then he saw Gair’s name.
He closed his eyes briefly, then began to read.
He was immediately drawn into Làidir’s world. However prickly the eldest prince of Tòrr Dòrainn might have been in person, he was, in his writing, rather likeable. He recorded all he saw and felt with an unvarnished honesty that was engrossing.
Miach watched events unfold from Làidir’s eyes and saw Gair from an entirely different perspective, the perspective of a man who had been befriended by Gair, then watched him destroy Sarait’s life. He read of attempts to take the children away, to take Sarait and the children away, to make a magic that would render Gair powerless. He read with a sickening feeling just how powerful Gair had been—powerful enough to leave the elves of Tòrr Dòrainn believing that they could not stop him.
He watched, with Làidir, as Sìle held Mhorghain in his arms and vowed on his life that he would see Sarait and the children protected. He listened in on conversations between Làidir and Sìle concerning how best to see that done. He watched them finally decide on an amulet that Sarait could claim was a simple gift from her father. He stood at Sìle’s elbow over the course of months and read the spells that were used in the amulet’s fashioning.
He memorized those, of course, without hesitation.
He read of Sìle’s fury at Sarait’s refusal to accept his talisman, then his anguish once the fury had dissipated. Làidir had supposed that Sarait had been afraid Gair would sense the amulet’s power, then her plan would have been ruined. She had been determined to kill Gair herself and confident she could manage it without help.
Miach took a deep breath, then continued to watch with Làidir as events marched relentlessly on toward their disastrous conclusion. He saw the events of the year Sìle had spent recovering from his magic, watched Sarait visit often and spend most of her time in the library searching for spells to help her. He read them one by one, then sat for a minute and contemplated them.<
br />
At first blush, they seemed more than adequate for her purposes. He rubbed his finger over his lips thoughtfully. Truly, Sarait had been powerful. There was no reason she shouldn’t have succeeded. He was missing something, obviously.
Perhaps it was the same thing Sarait had missed.
He ignored the chill that ran down his spine at that thought. He continued on with Làidir as Làidir watched Sarait come for a final visit. Sìle pleaded with her to remain. She vowed she could not; she would destroy Gair and free herself and her children. She’d had no choice. Gair had become increasingly irrational and had begun to accuse the children of plotting to steal his magic.
Miach paused and considered that for quite some time. He had wondered, over the past pair of months, why Sarait had allowed her children anywhere near the well. He realized now, as he continued on, that she had feared for their lives.
Besides, her children hadn’t been all that young. Morgan had been six, true, but the eldest, Keir, had been a score and eight.
His own age, actually.
He ignored the shiver that crawled up his spine, then turned back to the diary. Once the children had known what Sarait intended, the older lads had insisted they come along, determined to add their magic to their mother’s when the time came. As for the younger lads and Morgan, Sarait hadn’t dared let them out of her sight, lest Gair make good on his threats.
What a terrible choice. Miach pitied her for finding herself needing to make it.
Sìle raged in such a frenzied fashion after she left that final time that they all despaired of him ever finding his wits again.
Làidir followed to gather tidings. By the time he’d reached the well, Gair, Sarait, and the children were dead. The destruction had been so complete that not even all the bodies had remained. Sarait had been lying next to the well, her hands on it as if she’d been in the middle of a spell when she’d been slain.
Làidir had then found a woman who claimed to have sheltered Keir, but she’d been so terrified of things she wouldn’t name that Làidir hadn’t managed to pry any but the barest of details from her. She’d said that Keir had indeed come to her, he’d died in her house, then others of Ceangail had come to take him away and cremate him.
Miach looked into the fire. First Keir had died, then he had disappeared, and now he had died again. He wanted to believe there was something to the discrepancies, but he dared not. Contradictions in differing versions of the same tale were legion. It was interesting, but not unusual.
He turned instead to something else that had puzzled him. Why had Gair named himself after a place that hadn’t belonged to him, given that his father was from Ainneamh and his mother from Camanaë? Ceangail was not a place travelers nowadays went willingly, for ’twas rumored that there was evil in the forest…there…
Miach froze.
There was evil in Ceangail.
He sat there for several minutes, stunned by the direction his thoughts were taking him. Was it possible that Gair’s well was still geysering, twenty years later? Was that what was washing away his spells?
He examined the possibility of that from all angles and decided upon one thing only.
He was an idiot.
A deep shudder went through him. How could he have been so stupid? He rubbed his hands over his face. He should have seen it before. If that evil was still gushing out of that well, it was possible it was trickling down through all the Nine Kingdoms. He had no idea why it had only begun to assault his spells in the fall, but there had to be an answer to that as well.
He turned back to the diary and continued on. Làidir had come home and relayed the tidings to the king. Sìle had turned away and refused to speak further of the entire affair.
Làidir continued on with the events of his own life, but Miach shut the book before he went any further. Those were details he didn’t need.
He stared down at the book in lap. The most unsettling thing about what he’d read was seeing in such detail just how badly Sarait had failed. Surely she would have known the spell Gair had intended to use to open the damned well. Nay, something had gone horribly awry.
He drew his hand over his eyes, then set the book aside. It was enough for the day.
He looked around him to see if anyone else was left below and saw a woman sitting across the room from him. She was arrestingly beautiful, with dark hair curling down to her waist, dressed in a lovely, flowing white gown. She wore a crown, but it was slightly askew—
Miach realized with a start that it was Morgan.
He rose to his feet in astonishment, then crossed the room toward her. He went down on one knee in front of her and stared at her because he simply couldn’t look away.
He felt a little winded. “Morgan?”
She shoved her crown back atop her head. “Who else?” she said crossly.
“I thought there for a minute that I was dreaming,” he said. “You look so…well, elvish.”
“I feel ridiculous.”
“You’re absolutely stunning, despite how you might feel.” He brought her hand to his mouth. “I’m almost afraid to touch you.”
“I’m afraid to move.” She pulled him up to sit in the chair next to her. She laced her fingers with his. “This thing is completely impractical. I had to leave Mehar’s knife under my pillow because I didn’t have a decent place to stash it. I didn’t dare put a spell on it,” she said unhappily. “I also learned this afternoon that Sìle wants me to begin lessons in Fadaire. I didn’t dare tell him what you’d already taught me.” She paused. “I don’t think that I should have anything to do with that magic right now, do you?”
“Learning the spells wouldn’t harm anything,” he said, “but I think you shouldn’t use them.” He reached out to wrap a lock of her curling hair around his finger. “You’re very distracting in that gown.”
She blew a stray hair out of her eyes. “Am I less distracting in boots?”
He laughed softly. “Nay. I just didn’t expect the pleasure of seeing you today. I’m overwhelmed. And your hands are cold—” He stopped suddenly. “You were in Sarait’s bedchamber today, weren’t you?”
She started to shiver. “It wasn’t as disturbing as I thought it would be, but…”
“But?”
She took a deep breath. “I look like her.”
“Of course you do, my love,” he said quietly. He rose and pulled Morgan up with him. “That padded chair over there in front of the fire is large enough for two if we’re friendly.”
“Will you hold my feet?”
He realized then that tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Of course, Morgan.”
She walked with him across the chamber, then waited whilst he sat down. She kicked off her shoes and curled up on his lap. He took her very cold feet in his hands and rubbed them until they weren’t quite so chilly. Then he reached up and took off her crown to set it aside. He trailed his fingers through her hair and looked at her gravely.
“Would you like to tell me about it?” he ventured.
She took a deep breath, then nodded. “I saw paintings of Sarait’s children.”
“And how was that?”
She met his gaze. “I knew them.”
“Did you?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “I can’t deny what my eyes have seen, but I don’t want to believe it.” She hesitated, then put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his hair. “I wish I were anywhere but here.”
Miach held her as she shook. He didn’t think she was weeping, but he couldn’t help but think that would have been better than what she was doing.
“You should have sent for me,” he said quietly.
She let out a shuddering breath. “Queen Brèagha offered to fetch you, but I thought you might be busy—”
“Morgan!”
A half sob escaped her, then she took a deep breath. She pulled back and pressed her sleeve-covered fists against her eyes for a moment. “I’ve spent my whole life alone. Now, it seems a s
trange thing to not be with you.” She took her hands away and looked at him. “Isn’t that odd? I never expected that when I left Gobhann to come with you.”
“I’m so happy you did,” he said, taking her face in his hands and wiping her cheeks with his thumbs. “Thank you, my love. And the next time I’m too stupid to sense your distress, send for me.”
She managed a faint smile. “It was enough to know you were near, though I cannot deny it was difficult to face alone.” She looked at him seriously. “I will give you anything you ask if you’ll fly away with me right now.”
He combed through her hair with his fingers for a few moments, then met her eyes. “Of course I will go with you,” he said. “If that is what you truly want.”
She looked at him for several moments in silence, then sighed and put her head on his shoulder. Miach put his arms around her and simply held her until her breathing evened out and deepened. He knew she didn’t sleep because she was stroking the side of his hand she held.
He didn’t press her for a decision. It was certainly one he couldn’t make for her.
He heard the door behind them open, listened to Sosar and Leabhrach argue for a moment, then heard a tray be set down with a bang. Supper had arrived, apparently.
He looked up as Sosar came to a halt in front of them. Sosar had hardly opened his mouth to speak before there was a bellow from behind them.
“What in the hell is going on here?”
Sosar was already striding back across the library before Miach could ask him if he would mind seeing to the disturbance.
He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder because he could easily hear Làidir and Sosar discuss quite vigorously the fact that Sosar was a liar and Mhorghain was consorting with someone who should have been thrown in the dungeon yesterday.
“Leave them be,” Sosar said loudly. “If you have half a thought in that empty head of yours, you’ll turn around, make yourself present at table, and keep your mouth shut. And take this bloody, huffing keeper of the books with you. We would like a bit of peace.”
“You lied,” Làidir repeated incredulously. “You said Mhorghain was indisposed, yet here she is—with him! You lied.”