Miach managed a weary smile. “He believes that I was there, at least.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t go back inside his solar, Miach.”
“Morgan, this is but a bit of light work before the true labor begins,” he said. “I cannot aid you when it comes time to use the spell we seek. At least allow me to aid you now by finding what you’ll need to use.”
“I don’t like it.”
He wouldn’t have either, in her place, but there was nothing to be done about it. He held her close for a moment or two, then stepped back and reached for her hand. He ran his thumb over the back of that hand as they walked, feeling the scars there. Those were scars she had earned during years of swordplay in a place that was, in its own way, as terrifying as anything Master Droch could conjure up. Her hands had very recently learned to weave spells, something he knew she had come to accept at enormous cost to her soul. He also had a fair idea of the sort of spell she would have to weave to right the wrong her father’s arrogance had caused. If there was something he could do to make that easier for her, he would.
Besides, who knew what sorts of things he might find whilst roaming about the keep on the pretext of stretching his legs?
He was willing to risk quite a bit to find out.
Three
Morgan walked up the road that led to the castle, squinted briefly at the early afternoon sun, and wished desperately that she were walking anywhere else.
She had a decent selection of blades secreted on her person, but that was the only improvement over the night before. Her magic was hidden and her sword propped up in a corner at the inn, because apparently servants of archmages didn’t have magic or carry swords. She had been selected to act as Miach’s servant because their relatives had obviously had too much time on their hands whilst she and Miach had napped.
Or whilst she had napped, rather. Miach hadn’t, but that wasn’t anything new. There were times she suspected he never slept at all. She would have chided him for not resting—and for being a no-doubt willing party to the decision about her assumed identity—but he’d looked so weary, she hadn’t had the heart to. She wasn’t sure how he was still on his feet, but there he was, walking in front of her with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed.
She patted herself absently for weapons, just to lessen her unease. She had insisted that if she was going to go as Miach’s servant, she should at least have first choice of all available gear lest she be called upon to protect him by more pedestrian means than a spell—and given the contents of Droch’s missive to him, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t find that to be necessary.
Her grandfather had drawn himself up and told her with a bit of a huff that he wasn’t in the habit of stuffing blades up his sleeves, so he had nothing to offer her save a bit of advice on what might be considered appropriate accoutrements for elven princesses. She had a difficult time thinking of herself as such, so she had ignored his list and turned to her uncle. Sosar had justified his lack of steel by pleading an overwhelming desire to leave his flesh unnicked. Having seen him with a sword in his hands, she couldn’t help but agree that was wise.
Turah, however, had surprised her with the number and quality of blades he’d pulled forth. She’d expressed her approval, then poached a pair of the best.
She’d then turned to see what Miach had to offer only to watch him hold out a pair of lovely, slim daggers, seemingly freshly forged, with hilts of bright gold.
“Did you buy these?” she’d asked in surprise.
He’d shaken his head with a small smile. “I made them for you, just now.”
She had drawn each forth and blinked at the sight of what she’d already learned to recognize as runes of Tòrr Dòrainn and Neroche intertwined there. She was one to get a bit misty over the sight of a goodly blade, so she’d eyed the finely wrought steel with unabashed emotion, then embraced him and called him by a particularly heartfelt term of endearment.
Her fond feelings for him had departed abruptly when he’d informed her that in addition to her being his servant, he thought she should be a mute one—which had led her to suspect he’d had much more of a hand in choosing her disguise than he’d admitted. He’d promised he wouldn’t enjoy her silence. She’d promised him he would wish she were mute in truth when she had the chance to meet him in the lists and sharpen her tongue on him whilst she was about the happy labor of humiliating him with the sword. And damn him if he hadn’t looked particularly intimidated by either threat.
It was impossible not to admire him a bit for that.
Of course, that had been whilst they’d been safely in front of their fire in the inn. Now they were walking up to a place she most certainly didn’t want to visit again and she was having a hard time admiring much besides the way that led back down the hill.
She looked for a distraction. There were those aplenty, fortunately, and four of the most dazzling ones were walking in front of her.
Her grandfather had given up all pretense of being less than he was. Even if his terrible beauty and his kingly demeanor hadn’t announced who he was, his clothing would have. His trousers were dark velvet, his tunic heavily embroidered and encrusted with gems. Over it all, he wore a cloak of ermine, trimmed in some other sort of fur that sparkled and shimmered in a way that demanded attention. He’d forgone the crown, but Morgan supposed that had been an oversight.
Sosar was dressed just as elegantly, in white trousers and a golden tunic, with a cloak that was slightly less showy than his father’s, but no less luxurious. The sun shone down on his fair hair, turning it into pale, spun gold. She watched mere mortals stop to gape at him as he passed and understood why. He was nothing short of stunning.
Even Turah had been garbed in princely attire and wore a circlet of silver on his head. Perhaps the men he passed didn’t stare at him, but the women certainly did. Morgan caught sight of a handful of winks he threw to an equal number of handsome wenches and had to smile. He might have looked like Miach, but they were completely unalike in temperament—which was probably fortunate indeed for the state of her heart.
Miach walked along with his brother, dressed very simply in unremarkable black, his crownless head still bowed and his hands still clasped behind his back. Only a fool, though, would have mistaken him for a common man. Even she could sense his power.
“Something wrong?” he asked, dropping back suddenly to walk next to her.
She had assumed that there would come a time where she would look at him and no longer be surprised by the flawless perfection of his face, but perhaps that was a vain hope. It certainly wasn’t going to be possible today. “I’m not sure where to begin in answering that,” she managed.
“Were you thinking kind thoughts about me?” he asked politely.
“I might be, but since I’m to be a bit short on conversation today, you’ll never know.”
He smiled, then reached out and tugged her hood up closer around her face. “ ’Tis best you not tell me, I imagine, lest I blush. I will tell you, though, that you’re far too lovely for anyone to believe you’re a mere serving lad. You should keep your face covered, if you can.”
“I’ll try.” She took a deep breath. “Aren’t you anxious about this?”
He shrugged negligently. “For all they know, I’ve just come to town and am making a social call with my brother, my newly made allies the king of Tòrr Dòrainn and his son, and, of course, my obeisant servant.”
She looked at him narrowly. “I wouldn’t enjoy this overmuch, were I you.”
“Oh, I fully intend to,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I imagine it may be the only time in our lives that you’re this deferential.”
What she imagined wasn’t worth saying. She scowled at him and had a laugh for her trouble. “I think you shouldn’t accustom yourself to my deference. I also think we’re daft to go back inside these gates. Aren’t you worried about Droch?”
“He might think he knows quite a few things, but he’ll
have a difficult time proving any of them. All will be well.”
“Are you trying to reassure me, my lord Archmage, or yourself?”
He smiled. “You know, you’re awfully cheeky for being the mute servant of a powerful mage.”
“As if you would know how such a servant should behave,” she said with a snort.
“I could learn, if you were that lass—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Miach,” Turah said with an exasperated laugh, “cease with that. You’re being watched from the battlements, which I’m sure you know.” He shot Morgan a brief look. “I apologize in advance, Morgan, for the way I’m going to treat you. And so does my brother. You can take him to task later. I’ll keep him from escaping the field in fear as you do so.” He dropped back and slung an arm around Miach’s shoulders. “Come, brother, and leave the wench to her meditation on that happy confrontation.”
Morgan slowed enough to allow them to walk on in front of her. Miach didn’t look at her again, but he gave her a brief wave from behind his back. She sighed, bowed her head, and gave herself over to the contemplation of his freshly shined black boots. He might not have been nervous, but she most certainly was. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d gone back inside a keep she’d recently escaped from, but it was certainly the first time magic had been involved.
She slipped her hands into her sleeves and fingered the reassuring chill of steel.
Her second entry into Buidseachd was, unsurprisingly, no less unpleasant than her first. Though her magic was dulled and her senses should have been as well, she still felt suffocated the moment she walked under the barbican gate. She clasped her hands together and concentrated on breathing as she walked into the main courtyard.
From the look of things, this wasn’t going to be a discreet, unobtrusive visit. There was an entire gaggle of wizards there to greet them, all dressed in their finest robes, all wearing very tall, pointed hats and attempting to look very important. A few of them were gaping at Sìle, but perhaps that couldn’t be helped.
Her grandfather was in a courtyard with men who were by no means unimpressive, yet he somehow managed to look as if he was so far above and beyond anything the others might hope to achieve that they shouldn’t bother. It was no wonder the wizards looked a bit small by comparison.
One of the masters stepped forward, made Sìle a flatteringly low bow, then began spouting titles, compliments, and other pleasantries that were apparently required for a visit of such unheralded magnitude and importance. Morgan listened for a few minutes, then fought the urge to look for somewhere to sit down. It was no wonder Miach preferred to tromp about in muddy boots and a patched cloak if this were the alternative. She wished heartily that she hadn’t promised to remain silent. She might have managed to hurry them all along otherwise.
“And Prince Mochriadhemiach,” said the wizard who was apparently the headmaster, making Miach a bow that wasn’t quite as low as the one he’d made to Sìle. “An honor, as always. What brings you so far east in such august company?”
“A goodwill visit to Tòrr Dòrainn, Master Ceannard,” Miach said easily. “When I indicated that it had been too long since I’d made a visit here, His Majesty was gracious enough to favor me with his company for a bit longer.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “The king of Tòrr Dòrainn is in an accommodating mood, I daresay. Fortuitous for relations between Buidseachd and Seanagarra, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Indeed,” Master Ceannard agreed, smoothing his hands nervously down the front of his velvet robes. “Perhaps we should discuss those relations in more detail inside. I believe luncheon has been prepared for your pleasure.”
Sìle looked skeptical, but followed just the same. Morgan walked along behind the company, but not too far. The last thing she wanted was to become lost and be forced to cut her way through spells to find the front door.
The longer she walked, the less sure she became about whether she were dreaming or awake. She had become relatively accustomed to the magic that shimmered in the air in Tòrr Dòrainn and the fact that she was related to the souls living there, but now she was again in deep waters, drowning in a tangle of spells and magic and things that swirled around her, unseen but powerful.
She continued to watch Miach’s boots and hope she wouldn’t draw attention to herself by suddenly blurting out a plea for someone to carry her outside the walls so she could breathe.
She forced herself to walk into a dining hall paneled in dark wood and full of candles and torches that cast the shadows back into the corners. She looked for somewhere unobtrusive to sequester herself and saw a spot between sideboards already laden with bottles, glasses, and platters. Morgan found a stool there and sat, trying to blend into the woodwork. The hall was large enough to accommodate Sìle’s entourage and no doubt all ten masters without the least trouble. Morgan filched a piece of bread when she thought no one was looking, but realized immediately that she wasn’t going to be able to eat it. Obviously, she shouldn’t have slept through breakfast. She set her bread on her lap, then pressed herself back against the wall and looked at the wizards in front of her, trying to guess who each was and what they did.
Miach had told her on their journey from Tòrr Dòrainn who the masters were and what they taught. Each of the seven levels of mastery were watched over by a particular wizard, leaving the headmaster, a wizard of no small amount of power himself, to see to the business of bringing students in and out of the gates.
Well, and dealing with miscreants who hopped over the walls.
The last two masters were ones that had no responsibility for doling out any of the rings aspirants came to try to win. Master Droch was one. The other was Soilléir of Cothromaiche, the man who had taught Miach the spells of essence changing. Miach had only said complimentary things about him, so Morgan supposed she would survive a meeting with him, though she suspected the fewer mages she encountered inside Buidseachd, the happier she would be.
Unfortunately, there she was in a chamber with a mob of them and she suspected lunch was going to drag on for most of the afternoon.
She leaned her head back against the wall and looked at the wizards sitting around the long, elegantly laid table. Some of them looked ancient, others surprisingly young, but all had that strange, otherworldly sort of radiance about them, as if they were definitely not just ordinary men. The glamour wasn’t close to what radiated from her uncle and grandfather, but it wasn’t insignificant either.
She would have been very happy to have been free of it, and the sooner the better, to her mind.
She wondered when they would begin to eat, then she realized what the delay was. There were two empty chairs, both across from where Miach had taken his seat. It occurred to her, with a sickening feeling, that she just might know who should have been filling at least one of those chairs. She looked at Miach, but unfortunately he had his back to her so she couldn’t tell what his expression was. He was tapping his foot occasionally in a manner that didn’t seem particularly frantic, so perhaps he was less troubled by the empty seats than she was.
The sound of a light footfall startled her. She looked up as a blond man walked into the chamber. At first glance, she thought him no more than a student. Then she realized that the magic surrounding him was too significant to have been tamed by a man who had no mastery of his art. His wasn’t so much a tidal wave of power as it was a crystal shaft of sunlight that seemed to fall down over him and radiate out from him.
It was beautiful.
Miach stood immediately and walked over to embrace the other man briefly.
“Master Soilléir,” Miach said deferentially.
Soilléir laughed and more perfect sunlight seemed to filter down into the chamber. “Prince Mochriadhemiach. What a pleasure.” He stepped away and turned to make Sìle a very low bow. “And Your Majesty. An unprecedented and most undeserved honor.”
Sìle acknowledged the compliment with a regal sort of nod, though he did deign to reach ou
t and shake Master Soilléir’s hand.
Morgan stared at the man in astonishment. It didn’t seem possible that he could be the one who held spells of such import, but she supposed he could have been no one else. She looked around at the other wizards and found them watching Soilléir with expressions that ranged from disinterest to outright antagonism—along with a very substantial bit of envy.
Somehow that was rather reassuring. Power ofttimes begat a lust for more and Soilléir was certainly in a place where power was prized. That the masters should be so open about their feelings was something that made them seem slightly more like the lads she usually encountered. At least chewing on that thought for a bit would provide a pleasant respite from reality.
Unfortunately, her reprieve was interrupted sooner than she would have liked by a silent thunderclap. She looked to her left and saw a man standing just inside the door, a cold smile on his face.
It was Droch. It could be no one else. Master Soilléir might have been clear, beautiful light; Master Droch was darkness embodied.
Miach remained in his chair this time.
Morgan had to viciously suppress the urge to flee.
Droch sauntered into the chamber. “You waited for me,” he drawled as he made his way around the far side of the table. “How pleasant.” He stopped behind the last empty chair and nodded at Sìle. “Your Majesty. A pleasure—again. And your son. And a prince of Neroche.” He paused and looked at Miach. “And the young archmage of that same rustic realm.”
Morgan had to force herself not to stiffen at the tone of his voice, which wasn’t so much contemptuous as it was dismissive—as if Miach wasn’t worth his notice. Morgan couldn’t see Miach’s face, but she imagined his expression would give nothing away. She also imagined this wasn’t the first time Droch had insulted him.
“Master Droch,” was all Miach said.
Droch sat down and snapped his fingers at his servant. Wine was immediately provided. That seemed to be some sort of signal, for the rest of the wizards set to their meals with the sort of swiftness men use when they fear their supper might be interrupted and they’d best get it down whilst they can.