by Lynn Kurland
He shrugged with a casualness he most certainly didn’t feel. “I lost something.”
“And you think you’ll find this missing thing here?”
“I might.”
Weger grunted. “Well, if what you’re missing is sword skill, then perhaps you’ve come to the right place.”
Miach smiled. “If I don’t find that here, the fault will be entirely mine.”
“Aye, it will.” Weger nodded toward the stairs. “Best be about your labors, then.”
Miach started toward the stairs, then paused and turned back around. “A question, my lord.”
“Pray, make it an intelligent one.”
Miach smiled briefly. “How did you know who I was?”
Weger looked at him with disgust. “Think you I only heed the affairs of my keep?”
“Well,” Miach said nonplussed, “it isn’t as if my face is on the money.”
“Nay, but you look like your brother, the king, and his face is. And I’ve heard that the youngest brother’s swordplay is better than any of the other brats rampaging about in the hallowed halls of Tor Neroche—though that doesn’t say much about the quality of your swordmaster, does it?”
“My father would have been offended,” Miach said with a small smile.
Weger only grunted. “I also know the names of all the Neroche lads. Miach is quite a bit closer to Mochriadhemiach than it is to Cathar now, isn’t it?”
Miach nodded, acknowledging the point. “I usually give that name accompanied by a little spell of insignificance. Not possible here, though, is it?”
“Apparently not. Now, take the bloody key and go do what you do so I can sleep peacefully at night.”
“Do you ever go up there?” Miach asked.
The look Weger shot him made him smile in spite of himself.
“I suppose not,” he said. He inclined his head. “My thanks, my lord.”
Weger walked away. “Training begins at dawn,” he threw over his shoulder. “Don’t be late.”
Miach supposed he didn’t dare. He watched Weger go, then turned to look at the stairs. He allowed himself a moment of profound relief before he climbed up them, ignoring the sheer drop to his right. He did look a time or two, simply because the moon was out and he couldn’t help himself. A man would fall off the steps and land hundreds of feet down on rocks that would break him instantly into innumerable pieces. And he had the sinking feeling that the air was just as dead magically there on those rocks as it was where he stood.
Best to be careful, then.
He finally reached a doorway cut into the rock. He fitted the key into the lock and entered the chamber. He staggered as his magic returned to him with a rush. It took a moment or two before he managed to lock the door behind him. He leaned back against it and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.
He closed his eyes and set to work checking the spells of defense that he had set all along the borders of Neroche. They were all intact save for the strange erosion he had noticed several months earlier, as if their underpinnings were being washed away by a tide he could not see. It was the usual amount of damage, though, and he corrected it without complaint.
As an afterthought, he examined the borders of Riamh, Lothar’s land to the north. He set spells of ward along Riamh’s border with Wychweald, promising himself a good apology to his cousin King Stefan later, when he had the time for it.
He came back to himself to find the chamber just as dark as it had been when he’d entered it and bitterly cold. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it had to have been a decent amount because he was stiff. He rose with a groan and stretched out his back.
He was, again, considerably grateful for the key.
He wrapped his cloak around himself, then let himself out of the chamber. The wind hit him so hard, he staggered and caught himself against the rock face to his right. He took a moment to accustom himself to his lack of magic and the howling wind, then locked the tower chamber door, pocketed the key, and went down the stairs.
If Weger had any idea of the gift he’d given away…
He froze on the bottom step as he realized that the shadows to his right contained more than a body might reasonably expect. A dark shape detached itself from the overhang and walked out into the courtyard. Miach looked at Weger in surprise.
“Did I need a guard?”
“Keeper, more like,” Weger said. “I’ll lose interest soon, no doubt. You keep that bastard from Wychweald at bay, though, so consider this repayment.”
“I will.”
“But don’t think it will win you any lenience during the days,” Weger said, frowning fiercely. “You’re naught but flesh here, mage. My sword is sharp and my patience for pampered princes nonexistent. You’ll earn whatever you take away: a mark or your final resting place on the rocks below.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away. Miach watched him, openmouthed. He stood there for several minutes until the preposterousness of the slander dissipated enough for him to move. Pampered? It was so far from the reality of his life, he could scarce begin to address it. His days were spent seeing to nothing but the defenses of the realm, an endlessly grinding task that left him with no time to do anything but eat when he remembered to, train with his sword when he dared, and snatch a few short hours of sleep each night when he could stay awake no longer.
He shut his mouth and started across the courtyard. The brisk wind blew some bit of perspective back into his poor, fogged mind. Perhaps there was some truth to Weger’s charge after all. He remembered vividly Morgan’s reaction to her first sight of Tor Neroche. It had been clear to him at that moment how accustomed he was to the immensity and grandeur of the palace, a place he had taken for granted from birth. He had lived his entire life, save a year he preferred not to think on overmuch, dividing his time between the grandeur of Tor Neroche and the sweeping beauty of the palace of Chagailt. He worked hard, true, but he did it in spectacular surroundings.
None of that mattered at Gobhann, obviously. He suspected that Weger was serious: either he would take away a mark or he would find himself flung off the walls.
All the more reason to work on his swordplay.
And perhaps whilst he was doing that, he might actually manage to find the woman he hoped was within Gobhann’s dreadful walls.
He walked through the gate and across Weger’s uppermost courtyard. He was so intent on reaching his bed that he almost ploughed a lad over before he realized what he was doing. He grasped the boy by the arms to steady him.
“Sorry,” he said automatically.
The lad jerked himself away and almost went sprawling. The hood fell back away from his face as he struggled to keep his feet.
Or her feet, rather.
Miach closed his eyes briefly, then reached out again to take Morgan by the arms. She held him off, swayed for a moment or two, then stumbled away.
“Morgan,” he said, “wait.”
He started after her only to find someone else in the way.
“I’ll see to her,” Weger said.
Miach stepped back. He was so astonished by how frail Morgan was, he could do nothing but watch as Weger took her by the arm and walked her off into the shadows.
“Why are you out of bed, woman?” Weger growled. “I told you to stay there until I gave you leave to move.”
“I can decide when I’ll leave my own bed, thank you very much,” Morgan snapped.
Miach started to follow them, then caught a full view of the warning look Weger threw him. He stopped immediately, then merely stood there and watched them walk away together. Weger was clucking over Morgan like an anxious hen and Morgan was, unsurprisingly, having none of it. He would have smiled at the thought of someone else being subjected to her stubbornness, but he was suddenly far too envious of Weger’s position in Morgan’s life to smile. He was no nursemaid, to be sure, but he would have given much to have been the one to tend her.
He was giving much, as i
t happened.
He looked thoughtfully after them and considered the look Weger had given him. Rather too possessive for a man whose only interest in Morgan was her sword skill, to his mind.
Damnation, what next?
He watched until he could see them no longer, then turned and made his way back down to his frigid cell. Dawn would come sooner than he cared for and there would be the task of swordplay to keep him from thinking too much. He felt a little unsteady as he walked into his chamber and shut the door behind him.
Morgan was alive and he had seen her with his own eyes. It was a start.
A pity she was just as displeased to see him as he’d feared she would be.
Four
Morgan dreamed.
She stood in the great hall of Tor Neroche and stared up at the Sword of Angesand hanging over the fireplace. It sang a song of Camanaë, a beautiful song that wove itself in and out of her thoughts until she became part of it. She reached up and the sword leapt off the wall and into her hand as if it had been waiting for her to come call it.
And then someone spoke her name.
She turned around. There on the other side of the table stood Mochriadhemiach of Neroche. She wanted to walk around and throw herself into his arms, then she remembered that he had lied to her about who he was and what he wanted from her—which was, as it happened, her hand on the sword she held.
A great anger welled up in her. It raged through her with a sound of rushing wind, white hot in its fierceness, leaving her blind to all but her fury. Miach had lied to her. He had called her love.
She lifted the sword—
And brought it down with all her strength against the lord’s table before her.
The blade splintered, shattered, sparked as it disintegrated into thousands of shards and bits that floated through the air before her like snow.
Morgan stared at the haft of the sword, that beautiful hilt that was worked with a tracery of leaves and flowers, and could not believe what she had just done. She looked over the table, but Miach no longer stood there.
In his place was Gair of Ceangail, the black mage who had slain his entire family with a single act of arrogance…
Morgan woke with a gasp. She wasn’t supposed to dream inside Gobhann. She certainly wasn’t supposed to dream about black mages and other mages and swords she had once held that were now no more.
She forced herself out of bed, shaking as she did so. She dressed, but it took her far longer than it should have. Her hands trembled so badly when she tried to drink tea that it splashed all over the floor. She set the cup down and sat on the edge of her bed until she thought she could get herself across the room. She would drink later, when she’d regained control of her frenzied imagination.
Her dream was an aberration. Gobhann was a safe place for her. As long as she was within its walls she had no magic, no terrible dreams, nothing to fear. Her unwelcome and hopefully solitary nightmare had no doubt come because she’d been in bed too long.
She’d been there since she’d seen Miach in the upper courtyard a se’nnight ago. She’d had too much time to think about things she should have avoided, too much time to listen to her blood sloshing languidly through her veins, and far too much time to wonder how it was that Miach of Neroche managed to say her name differently from anyone else.
In a small, private way that made her want to curl up next to him as if he were a merry fire and she in desperate need of his warmth.
She would have given herself a good shake, but she feared that would land her back in bed, so she contented herself with a selection of curses chosen for their ability to drive foolish thoughts from her head. She shut her door behind her with a bang, then squeaked in surprise as something slid along the wall toward her.
She had to take several deep breaths when she realized it had only been a sword to tip her way. She picked it up and looked at it.
It was plain and unadorned, but light—obviously made for her strength of arm. She drew it partway from the sheath. It was lethally sharp and obviously freshly forged. She would have wept, but she was too tired. Truly Weger had done more for her than she deserved.
She resheathed the sword and considered briefly using it as a cane, but that was an appalling thought, so she carried it and vowed to not use it that way unless she simply had no other choice.
She made her way out to the courtyard, assuming that since Weger had left a sword for her, he intended that she use it. She paused on the edge of his training circle. He was working with someone she would have found nothing more than a marginally worthy opponent two months ago, but now found simply exhausting to watch. She wondered, briefly, if she would ever regain her strength enough to be what she once was.
Weger noticed her and held off his student. He resheathed his sword and strode across the courtyard to her.
“You found your new blade.”
“I did, my lord,” she said with a nod. “It was very generous and I thank you for it.”
He nodded toward the stairs. “Come with me. You’ll train someone today.”
“A novice?” she asked, following him with as much spring in her step as she could muster—which wasn’t much. She was better than she had been, though. Perhaps lying abed had been more useful than she’d thought.
“Nay, he’s not a novice,” Weger said. “He’s passed the first four levels, and quickly too. In fact, only one other soul has ever progressed at such a pace.”
Morgan watched her feet so she wouldn’t trip and land upon her lovely sword. “Who was that?”
“You, of course,” Weger said. “You don’t think I’d completely insult you, do you?”
“You’d be justified in it.”
“Nay, gel, you can still best half the lads in the keep even now. But try not to indulge in any womanly swooning whilst you’re about this labor. It wouldn’t be good for morale.”
She nodded and followed him to the next courtyard down. It was, as it happened, the one with the most sunshine. It was also the most protected, sheltered as it was from the sea air by the upper levels of the castle. She was unwholesomely grateful for the warmth—she who in another life had preferred the cold, cruel wind that drove all but the most hardy indoors. But now she was not herself and the wind threatened to steal not only her breath but her strength as well. A bit of light exercise in the sunshine was welcome indeed.
“As I said before, this lad has some skill, but nothing to match yours,” Weger said. “Even in your weak condition, you should be able to keep the upper hand easily.”
Morgan nodded, let him take her cloak and scabbard, then took her sword in her hand and moved out from behind him to face her student.
It was Miach.
“Begin,” Weger commanded.
Morgan raised her sword only because Weger had trained her too well to obey without question. “We’ll s-start with ri…right-handed sweeps,” she said automatically, stammering in spite of herself.
But she swung amiss on the first attempt. Miach’s reflexes were, fortunately for him, far quicker than hers. He caught her blade with his and stopped it from slicing across his face. She was so startled by that, she almost dropped her sword.
Weger made a sound of disgust.
Morgan took a better grip on her sword, then began again. Miach did nothing more than follow her movements faithfully, as if he truly sought to learn something new. She remembered suddenly a conversation she’d overheard in a tavern near Tor Neroche. The men behind her had been discussing the archmage of Neroche.
He can outride the king, outfight Cathar the Fierce, weave melodies in thewind that would shame Nemed the Fair, and do all these other things that normal men couldn’t do even if they had magic—and the archmage can do all these things in spite of his magic.
She realized that though she had fought alongside Miach in a skirmish or two, she had never fought against him. It was obvious by the way he was engaging her that he was far beyond needing to learn what she was supposed to be teachin
g him.
Why was he in Gobhann?
“Come on, woman,” Weger said impatiently, “pour some energy into seeing to this whelp.”
Morgan had to rest for a moment. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder,” Weger growled. “Dredge up your irritation for something. Perhaps pampered lads who’ve never done a decent day’s work in their lives. Nay, here’s something else: mages. Think on how much you loathe them, those prissy, finger-waggling meddlers who tamper with lives and kingdoms and scores of other things they shouldn’t.”
Prissy? Morgan looked at Miach and was forced to admit that of all the things he might be, prissy was not one.
Weger continued on with his list of things mages befouled, but Morgan could hardly pay attention to it, much less muster up any enthusiasm for it. She found that she couldn’t look Miach in the eye either. Every time she did, she faltered.
Damn him to hell, why had he come?
“Morgan, be about it!”
She raised her sword and attacked Miach, but she was weak and clumsy. Perhaps Weger was the one who should be damned. Why was he goading her so? It wasn’t possible he knew who Miach was.
Was it?
“Bloody hell,” Miach exclaimed, flinching suddenly.
Morgan looked at his arm and saw the rent there in his sleeve—and the slice across his arm under the rent. Her sword fell from her hand and landed with a clang against the stone under her feet. “I’m so sorry,” she said, embarrassed beyond belief.
Miach shook his head. “My fault. I was in your way.”
The arm of his tunic was rapidly growing wet. Weger stepped around her and examined the wound. She watched in consternation as Weger borrowed a marginally clean rag from another student and cinched it tight around Miach’s arm.
“Have that seen to,” Weger commanded.
Miach nodded and resheathed his sword. “I’ll return as soon as I have.”
