by Lynn Kurland
He looked at her in surprise. “At Gobhann?”
She ignored how much relief was coloring his expression. “I meant I didn’t think I could stay here in this chamber.”
He smiled, but it was something of a strained smile. “Of course. You’ve no need to worry, though. Searbhe won’t come inside the gates again.”
“What happened to him?” she asked. “I forgot to ask you before you went into the tower.”
Miach leaned against the wall under the torch and smiled at her. “He woke, changed himself into a scruffy-looking hawk, and flew off.”
Morgan looked up at Miach standing in the soft firelight, his eyes so pale they were almost colorless, his face so handsome she was rendered feeble-minded, and wished for nothing more than to go into his arms and never move again.
But if she left Gobhann, she would be in darkness.
“Morgan?” he said softly.
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Where are you for?”
“I was going back to the upper hall. Weger sent word that he wanted to talk.”
“Are you going?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You were angry with him this afternoon.”
Miach smiled. “Aye, but I don’t stay that way very long.”
“What did Weger say that set you off?”
“I didn’t like the picture of Gobhann he painted for you,” he said simply. “I also didn’t like him trying to convince you to stay here when I want you to come with me.”
She swallowed with difficulty. “I see.”
He took her hands in his and rubbed his thumbs over the back of them. “Morgan, I can’t promise you safety, or peace, or respite from your dreams, but I can promise you that I will never leave you.”
She realized, to her horror, that tears were streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t dare wipe them away, lest she draw any more attention to them. She bowed her head and a sob caught her before she could stop it.
“Come with me?” he asked quietly.
She caught her breath and looked up to meet his gaze. She had the feeling he was talking about more than just up the passageway to the gathering hall. “I…I don’t know.”
His smile didn’t falter, but it was very grave. “Let’s go find a hot fire, gel. It will do you good. You’re drenched.”
“All right,” she managed.
She let him lead her down the passageway, but she could hardly bear it. She didn’t want to think that it might be the last time she felt his hand wrapped around hers, or the last time she saw the torchlight on his dark hair, or the last time she found his grave smiles turned on her.
She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to face what she knew awaited her outside Weger’s gates: magic, dreams, darkness. Miach.
All of that or the stark, unyielding quiet of Weger’s tower.
It wasn’t a choice she was sure she could make.
Nine
Miach stood at the window in the gathering hall and stared down at the sea churning below him. He had, as it happened, never seen the sea below in the daytime. He’d always been too busy training so that he might have the prize he wanted. He supposed that today might be the last chance he had to reach for it.
A pity he suspected that, despite the easiness of the last few days, the prize didn’t want to be won.
He wasn’t sure where Morgan was and he didn’t dare go look for her. He honestly couldn’t remember when she’d left the gathering chamber, though he supposed he’d slept through it. It had been a very long night. It didn’t help that his head pained him almost beyond reason. He wondered, absently, if Weger had anything stronger than ale. He would have killed for some of that very potent sour wine from Penrhyn that Adhémar was far too fond of. He sincerely hoped Adaira had brought along a kingly supply.
He didn’t dare touch the place on his forehead above his left brow that hurt. It couldn’t have been a very large mark, but it burned like hellfire.
It was something he’d accepted during the last watch of the night. Morgan had been sleeping curled up in a chair, no doubt exhausted by the discussion of wizardly minutiae, when Weger had suddenly leaned over and pulled something from the fire. Miach had barely had time to recognize that something as a slim metal rod before Weger had motioned for him to brush the hair back from his forehead.
“Hold still,” he’d said casually.
Miach had, only to find himself branded like a heifer.
“Congratulations,” Weger had said. “You may leave through the front gates.”
“Which way does the sword point?” he’d managed.
“I’m not sure,” Weger had said, peering at it. “I’m not a good aim this late at night.”
Miach had gaped at him only to watch him toss the iron back in the fire and laugh.
“Ah,” had been the only thing he’d found to say.
That had been somewhere near dawn. He’d finally closed his eyes for just a moment, then woken to find that it was after noon and he was alone. Stephen had come in shortly thereafter and set down a hearty meal in front of him.
“Your last one,” the lad had said with a gulp. “I think it’s over the wall and onto the rocks for you, you poor fool.”
Miach had only smiled grimly, then set to with gusto. Over the wall, out the gates; it was the same if he went alone.
The door opened suddenly behind him. Miach didn’t dare hope it was Morgan, dressed for travel. He took a deep breath, then turned and looked to see who it might be.
It was Weger, dressed for a usual day’s work. Morgan followed him inside. There was, unfortunately, no pack on her back, no cloak around her shoulders.
And she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Miach stood where he was and watched them for several minutes. Weger actually didn’t look any happier than he felt. Perhaps Morgan wanted nothing to do with either of them. He supposed that should have consoled him, but somehow it didn’t.
Well, there was no sense in delaying the inevitable any longer. He walked across the chamber and stopped in front of Weger. He bowed low to Gobhann’s lord.
“My thanks for your many kindnesses.”
Weger grunted. “You’re welcome. Now, give me back my key.”
Miach dug it out of a pocket and handed it to him. “What will you have as my payment?”
“You’ll think of something useful,” Weger said. “Send it along later. You, however, may go now.”
Miach didn’t move. He looked pointedly at Weger, but the man didn’t acknowledge it. Either he had the wit of a stump or he had no intention of making anything easy. Miach suspected it was the latter and knew he shouldn’t have expected anything less.
“I would like to talk to Morgan,” he said. “Privately.”
“Nay,” Weger said, a definite edge to his tone.
Miach found his hand on his sword without knowing quite how it had gotten there. He decided, though, that a swordfight in the gathering hall wouldn’t have been wise.
And it wouldn’t serve him. If Morgan was going to come with him, she would because she wanted to, not because he had ground Weger under his heel. He glared at Weger, then took a deep breath and turned to Morgan.
“I don’t give a damn about the Sword of Angesand,” he said in a low voice, “or your magic, or your destiny. I just want you to come out of here—with me.”
She looked up at him, mute.
Then she looked away.
“There’s your answer,” Weger said promptly. “Best be on your way, then. I’m sure you have things to do.”
Miach wanted to argue the point, but he supposed there was no use. Perhaps he had been deluding himself. It was clear to him that even though Morgan might have forgiven him, she wasn’t interested in leaving with him.
He held out his hand to Weger. “Thank you again, my lord, for the mark.”
“You earned it,” Weger said. “Fare you well.”
Miach looked one more time at Morgan’s profile. He hesitated, then spoke. �
�I love you.”
Then he walked out of the room before he had to see the expressions on either of their faces. He closed the door behind him, took a deep breath, and walked wearily down the passageway.
He wandered along the edge of the courtyard, shaking hands with others where appropriate, ignoring slurs elsewhere, then he jogged down the stairs to the lowest level of Weger’s tower. He went into the hovel he’d lived in for so long and sat on the stool that listed to one side, much as he had the first few nights he’d been there. He put his face in his hands, carefully, for several minutes and let his hopes dwindle away into nothing.
In truth, he shouldn’t have expected anything else. He had wondered there for a few days if Morgan might have changed her mind about him, but apparently he had been mistaken. Her loathing of mages had been clear from the start. He should have accepted that.
He dragged his hand through his hair and sighed deeply. Perhaps it was for the best. After all, what could he offer her? A life of endless peril? Days on end spent waiting for him whilst he saw to the tedious business of being about the realm’s defenses interspersed with hours of life-threatening battles? Would he invite her to sit next to him whilst he stuck his nose in yet another book of spells? Would he force her to be confined in the same country with Adhémar?
Perhaps she had rejected him for that last bit alone.
He sat there for far longer than he should have, but he simply couldn’t make himself move. He wasn’t one to give in to self-pity, but at the moment he was damned tempted.
He rubbed his hands over his face, cursed, then stood up. He would leave, then return home by the quickest route. Perhaps if he buried himself in the affairs of Neroche, he would be able to forget about the affairs of his heart.
He looked over the chamber a final time, then realized something was on the bed. It was a slim, elegant dagger with a hilt of gold, obviously meant to be tucked cleanly and discreetly down the side of a boot. He drew it forth from its finely tooled sheath and found, to his surprise, that it was covered with runes of the house of Neroche. A kingly gift, to be sure. Miach supposed Adhémar would be intensely jealous and immediately—and loudly—demand that it be his, which Miach supposed Weger somehow knew. It was almost enough to make him smile.
But not quite.
He stuck the knife in his boot, slung his cloak over his shoulders, and left the chamber. He was actually somewhat grateful for the burning in his forehead. It helped ease the ache in his heart.
He walked back through the maze of corridors, then down the final way to the gate, remembering vividly how he’d been assaulted by the gatekeeper that first day. There was a cloaked and hooded figure standing by the gates, no doubt waiting for his own assault. Miach thought to warn the lad, but perhaps there was no point. Anyone fool enough to enter Weger’s gates was a fool indeed if he didn’t know what he faced.
He opened the front gate himself, then hesitated. He turned and looked back up the way. He was sorely tempted to run back up the stairs, find Morgan, then carry her outside the gates before she realized what he was doing.
But once she was outside the gates, assuming she allowed him to get her that far, her magic would almost match his, her sword skill was superior, and he would be without any means to keep her near him. There was, in the end, no point if she didn’t come with him willingly.
He sighed deeply, then turned and walked through the gates and into the sunset.
His magic returned to him in a rush, even more strongly than it ever had in Weger’s uppermost tower. He stumbled for several paces, then went down to his knees. He knelt there in the snow and gasped for breath until stars stopped swimming in front of him. He drew his hand over his eyes to try to clear the haze away, then focused on the forest in front of him, just to give himself something to concentrate on besides the almost soul-shattering return of his powers.
It was, he had to admit, a very welcome feeling.
When he thought he could manage it, he heaved himself to his feet. He stood there for a moment or two, took a deep breath, then set off through the snowdrifts piled up against the footings of the castle. It was tempting to turn himself into something with wings and merely fly off, but he decided there was no sense in terrifying anyone looking over the walls. Better to go a mile or two into the forest, then be on his way.
He walked without haste through the woods for half an hour before he realized he was being followed. He was so surprised, he almost stopped. He quickly considered the possibilities and decided that it was most likely Searbhe, come back to finish what he’d started. He continued on, straining to hear the faint sound of a knife hurtling through the air toward his back. He continued to walk for several more minutes as the sun set, then suddenly melted into twilight mist.
The gasp behind him was immediate. “Miach!”
He wrested himself back into his proper form, then spun around to find that his shadow was none other than Morgan of Melksham, standing thirty paces away from him, gaping at him in astonishment.
He noted that she was dressed for travel. It occurred to him then that she had been the slight lad standing at the gates. He was surprised he hadn’t recognized her, but in his defense he had been a little preoccupied.
He wondered what meaning, if any, he should attach to the fact that she had followed him—if she had indeed followed him. Perhaps she had merely chosen to leave Gobhann and her road had conveniently lain with his. Perhaps she’d only called to him because she thought he might have brought along something to eat.
Perhaps he would do well not to think overmuch for the next five minutes.
He made three very quick decisions. He would keep his mouth shut, his hands clasped behind his back where they wouldn’t be tempted to clutch her to him, and let her tell him what she was about. He could see from where he stood that she was shivering. He supposed that had more to do with the chill in the air than with nervousness, but it was something he could see to. He took off his cloak, then walked over to where she stood and wrapped it around her. He didn’t dare meet her eyes as he fastened the clasp under her chin, lest he see revulsion there.
He was, he decided, a coward.
Admitting it was one of the easier things he’d done in the past month.
“You looked cold,” he offered.
“I was. Thank you.”
He nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you,” he said, finally, “just out for fresh air?”
She blinked in surprise. “Well, nay,” she said. “I thought that perhaps…well, I was thinking that you might…”
He waited.
She took a deep breath. “I thought perhaps you might need…company. Or perhaps someone to guard your back.”
He fought the urge to close his eyes in relief. Company or comrade-in-arms. At the moment, he would take either gladly.
“Whatever suits you, Morgan,” he said with a smile. He stepped backward and nodded toward the path. “Shall we?”
“Where were you going?”
He rapidly changed his plans. He had intended to return to Tor Neroche, but that would have taken him a grueling day as a dragon and he supposed Morgan would not be amenable to changing her shape. He obviously couldn’t ask her to go on any long marches when but half an hour’s stroll from Gobhann had seemingly taken its toll on her. Lismòr was a likely spot. She could have a day or two to rest in comfort whilst he determined his final course.
He opened his mouth to suggest that, but found himself interrupted by the very unwelcome sound of a branch cracking under a boot behind him.
He spun around and saw Searbhe standing in the trees some fifty paces from them. He drew his sword with a curse and stepped in front of Morgan. Though it was tempting to do Searbhe in and be rid of the aggravation, he knew he wouldn’t. He’d had this same conversation with Weger the night before. Killing a man because he was a fool was not justification enough for murder. Perhaps all Searbhe needed was one last bit of shaming to convince him that a hasty return
to Riamh was the best choice to make.
But on the off chance that it wouldn’t convince him, Miach decided that lingering in the area wouldn’t be wise. He would plunge Searbhe into peaceful insensibility and then he and Morgan would be on their way.
Searbhe started toward them with his sword raised, bellowing a cry that bespoke serious business.
“Can you ride?” Miach said over his shoulder.
“A horse?” Morgan asked.
“Actually, I was thinking about a dragon.”
She gasped. “You?”
He would have been happy to discuss it further, but Searbhe was, after all, not a completely useless swordsman. Miach pushed Morgan behind him.
“Find a part of the path where it’s widest and wait for me there,” he said, stepping forward to meet Searbhe.
“I’ll kill you this time,” Searbhe panted as he swung wildly.
Miach suspected not. He had little trouble keeping the other man at bay, but that was perhaps due to all the effort Searbhe was pouring into a pitiful spell of fettering. Miach engaged him for a moment, but Searbhe wasn’t paying any attention to his swordplay, so Miach sighed lightly and propped his sword up on his shoulder. He took hold of the ends of the spell reaching out toward him and gave them a new direction. He stood there and watched as Searbhe’s own spell began to wrap itself around him.
Searbhe cursed viciously and batted at the spell wildly until he realized he could stop its assault himself. He did so with a curse, then looked at Miach, his face purple with rage.
“How did you manage that?” he demanded.
Miach pursed his lips. “Did you think I was a village witch’s brat, Searbhe?”
Miach ducked to avoid being decapitated by Searbhe’s swing, then punched the other man full in the face. He resheathed his sword, waited until Searbhe had shaken off that assault, then looked coolly at the other man.
“Have you had enough this time?” Miach asked pointedly.
Searbhe flung himself forward with a curse. Miach kicked Searbhe’s sword out of his hands, then caught him under the chin. Searbhe went sprawling. The sound of his head against a rock was loud in the stillness of the evening.
