by Lynn Kurland
“I promise to make him stop before lunch,” Nicholas vowed.
She shook her head. “Don’t do it on my account. He can read all day if he likes. I’m happy merely to be somewhere warm and have something decent to drink.” Perhaps she could drink herself into a stupor and that would keep her from dreaming any more whilst the sun was up.
She didn’t want to think about what the night might bring.
“Is the wine not so delicate at Gobhann?” Nicholas asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“It isn’t drinkable,” Miach said with a snort, “though one does drink it because the ale is worse. For myself, I’d much rather be here where the wine is excellent and the company lovely.”
“Thank you,” Nicholas said modestly.
Miach laughed. “You’re quite attractive as well, my lord.”
Morgan rolled her eyes as she shoved off her boots and drew her feet up onto the sofa with her. Miach pulled a blanket off the chair opposite him and draped it over her, continuing to carry on his conversation with Nicholas. She found Miach was tucking it under her toes without looking and had to concede that she was uncommonly and unsettlingly comfortable. She ate a wonderful meal, drank delicious wine, then found herself substantially more spent than she should have been.
Miach placed a small cushion against the arm of the sofa farthest from him. “Rest,” he suggested.
She supposed it wouldn’t hurt, though she had no intention of falling asleep.
She realized she had, though, only because she woke and found herself stretched out on the couch with her feet in Miach’s lap. She sat up with a start and looked around her. The table in front of the sofa was burdened with at least twice the number of books it had been the last time she’d seen it, and there were plates and glasses in a pile near those books. Miach was watching her with a grave smile, and Nicholas was nowhere to be found. She dragged her hand through her hair, encountering the same number of tangles she had earlier. She was going to have to find a brush very soon.
“I slept,” she said with a yawn.
“Aye, you did,” he agreed.
“I didn’t dream.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t.”
“Perhaps it was because you were holding my feet.”
He smiled. “If only it were that simple, Morgan, I would hold your feet constantly.”
“And never accomplish anything else,” she said, pulling her feet out of his lap. “But I thank you. I haven’t slept so well in weeks.” She rested her chin on her knees and studied him. “You must take your turn. Would you trust me to watch over you?”
“Of course,” he said, looking surprised, “why wouldn’t I?”
“I might truly do you in the next time,” she said in a low voice.
He leaned close, so close that she could see all the fractures in his very pale blue eyes. “It was just a nightmare, Morgan. I have them too.”
“Do you dream I’m someone I’m not?” she asked lightly. “And want to do me in?”
“I have dreamed of you, but doing you in was never involved.”
“I hesitate to ask what was.”
“’Tis probably better not to know,” he said, sitting back with a smile. He watched her for a moment, then his smile faded. “How are you, in truth?”
She knew exactly what he was talking about. “Terrified,” she said frankly. She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to go back to Gobhann, but I will admit it was pleasant not to dream whilst I was there.” She looked at the books on the table. “Think you there might be answers there?”
He was silent for so long, she had to look at him. He was very still but his eyes were full of pity and no small bit of regret.
“Nay, Morgan,” he said quietly, “the answers are not in those books.”
She attempted a swallow, but it didn’t go very well. “And you would know where they are to be found?”
“Aye.”
“Where?” she whispered.
He looked at her for a moment or two in silence, then tapped his forehead. “Here.”
She was on her feet without knowing quite how she’d gotten there. She swayed so violently that she almost went sprawling over the table littered with books about things she knew would make her skin crawl.
“Morgan—”
“I have to walk.”
She found Miach’s hands on her arms, holding her upright. He turned her to face him. “Morgan, you cannot simply will this morning’s magic to leave you unaffected. It is too soon to be bolting anywhere—even if it is only from tidings you don’t want to hear.”
She found, to her horror, that her eyes were full of tears. She couldn’t see him standing in front of her, so she felt for his arms.
“Help me with my boots,” she pleaded. “I cannot sit here, Miach. I simply cannot. I must at least walk about the cloister. You know why.”
He sighed deeply. “Very well.”
She held on to his shoulders as he knelt in front of her and put her boots on her feet, then she let him turn her around and help her over to the door. She felt him put her cloak around her shoulders, heard him do the same for himself, then watched him open the door for them both.
It was a bitter, windy day. The breeze found gaps in her cloak and slid its icy fingers through them to chill her even more than her thoughts had. Miach’s arm was suddenly around her shoulders, pulling her under the added shelter of his cloak. She wasn’t one to lean on a man for strength, but she supposed she could be forgiven it that day. Miach was warm and solid in a world of things that seemed to slip out from under her fingers every time she reached for them. She rested her head against his shoulder, closed her eyes, and thought of nothing as she allowed him to lead her around the covered edge of the courtyard.
It took five turns about the courtyard before she thought she could open her mouth without some horrible, inhuman sound coming out. It took another two before she could actually see something besides a blur of tears. Another handful of times left her almost feeling like herself.
Or what had been herself before she’d laid her hand on a magical knife fashioned by Mehar of Angesand and had her dreams begin.
She turned from that thought as if it had been accompanied by a thousand spells of Olc. She cast about for anything else to concentrate on, anything that had nothing to do with magic or evil or darkness.
She realized, after a time, that Miach was stroking the hand she’d put around his waist. It reminded her of all the times he had held her hand in the past, as if it was something that pleased him.
Why, she couldn’t have said. Worse yet, what would others say when they saw him doing such a thing? She looked up to find him studying her. She couldn’t even smile. She could only stare at him and wonder what in the hell he was thinking. Romance? To what bloody end? Her hands were rough; her nails were chipped. Her hands were not the sort of hands a man would ask for in any sort of formal sort of business.
No matter what he’d said the night before.
He stopped and turned her to him. “What is it?”
She frowned fiercely at him. It was either that or weep, and she’d had enough of tears for the moment. “I don’t understand why you want to…well, whatever it is you want to do with me.”
“Are you speaking of swords,” he asked with a frown, “or something else?”
She tried to muster up a glare, but she couldn’t. She found that she could do nothing but look up at him, mute. She feared that if she opened her mouth again, she would simply howl.
He winced, then pulled her close and wrapped his cloak around her. He put his hand behind her head and pressed it against his shoulder.
“You need a distraction, I think, from things that are too serious. Of course,” he said lightly, “I am more than willing to oblige you with conversation about other things. Romance is always uppermost in my mind.”
“You’re daft,” she managed.
“Morgan, my love, there is enough of evil and darkness in the world. If a lad and a
lass cannot speak of lighthearted things now and again, then the darkness has won.”
She felt a sigh come shuddering out of her. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I am about this. Now, if you’re curious why I would like to do something besides face you over blades, I suppose ’tis for the usual reasons.”
She hadn’t had much time to consider what those might be, but she had a fair idea. She stood still for quite some time before she managed to speak. “So I can be your mistress?” she asked finally, pained.
He froze. “My what?”
She looked up at him. “You heard me.”
He gaped at her in astonishment for several moments, his mouth working as if he simply couldn’t form any useful words. “Do you honestly think,” he said finally, “that I would risk my life, my honor, and the safety of not only the realm of Neroche but all the Nine bloody Kingdoms together to fetch you out of Gobhann just so you could be my mistress?”
“Sshh,” she hissed, nodding toward a pair of students who were watching them with great interest. She sent them scampering with a glare, then turned back to Miach. “How would I know what you want?”
He looked at her for another long, drawn-out moment, then he bent his head and rested it on her shoulder. He wheezed. Or he might have laughed. In truth, she didn’t know which it was. She did know, however, that she was on the verge of becoming completely offended by whatever it was he was doing that wasn’t nearly as dignified as it should have been.
She finally stomped quite vigorously on his toes.
“Ouch, damn it,” he gasped. “What was that for?”
“You were laughing at me.”
He fought his smile, without much success. “Morgan, I just never know what you’re thinking. And what you were thinking was so far from what I was thinking…well, it was either laugh or weep.”
“Indeed,” she said stiffly.
“Daft wench,” he said affectionately, “you can’t really believe that is what I want from you.”
“I don’t know what you want. I know what mercenaries mean when they speak of romance and that generally includes a very short bit of business without any entanglements that I never thought was worth my time.”
He smoothed his hand over her hair. “I’m surprised you agreed to it with me, then.”
“You spoke only of swords and cards,” she muttered. “That I thought I could bear.” She shot him a dark look. “I have no idea what else it is you expect of your women—”
“I don’t have women,” he said with a faint smile.
She scowled. “Potential women, then. Perhaps you are accustomed to long lines of wenches waiting for you to notice them. Perhaps you…er…”
“Woo,” he supplied helpfully.
She jerked out of his arms. “I’m finished with this conversation.”
He laughed and caught her before she managed to escape fully. “Oh, nay,” he said, “I’m finding it to be quite enlightening. Let’s walk a bit more and talk about just exactly what it is I expect from my women—”
“Miach,” she warned.
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll stop provoking you, but I will have the answer to a question. Why do you think most men woo?”
“Because they have no sword skill and need something with which to occupy their time?”
He blinked in surprise, then bent his head and laughed again.
She cursed him, but that didn’t seem to intimidate him as it should have.
“It may take me a bit to find a decent reply to that,” he said, his eyes watering madly. “Walk with me until I do, won’t you?”
She agreed only because walking was better than sitting and thinking. Even walking with Miach, who apparently giggled at everything that amused him, was better than sitting and thinking.
They walked for quite some time before he finally stopped in front of Nicholas’s solar and turned her to face him. He took off his cloak, wrapped it around her, then pulled her braid free and fussed with arranging it for a moment or two. Then he met her eyes.
“I have sword skill already,” he said with a grave smile, “and no need for things to fill up my days.”
She stared at him, mute, for far longer than she should have. “Then why are you about this business of yours?” she asked, finally.
“Because, Morgan, my love, our road is dark and will likely grow darker as we journey down it. If we cannot find a few moments of pleasure and comfort along the way, it will be a grim road indeed. Don’t you think?”
“Is that your reason?”
He took her face in his hands. “Nay, love. What I really want is you in my arms as often as possible. This seemed the best way to see to it.”
She would have glared at him, but she suspected he was telling the truth.
“Let me woo you, and we’ll see how it suits you,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure my attentions won’t include anything more interesting than sharpening your blades, cleaning your boots, and occasionally brushing your hair. If I’m feeling particularly clever, I might take you out in the lists and allow you to best me.”
“Allow?” she repeated incredulously.
He laughed at her and pulled her into his arms. “You’re too easy to bait. Let’s go inside and we’ll work on that very first of all.”
She stopped him. “I don’t think I can go in,” she said, feeling her voice catch in her throat. She managed a very uncomfortable swallow. “There are answers waiting for me in that solar that I can’t face quite yet.”
“Shall we walk more?”
“Aye, but take your cloak back, then put it around us both. ’Tis foolish, I know, but I feel safer that way.”
He nodded, donned his cloak, then drew her under it again. She tried to decide if it was his nearness that soothed her so, or the warmth of his arm around her. She contemplated that for several circles of the courtyard, but came to no decision.
“You won’t leave me?” she asked, at one point.
“Nay, love, I won’t.”
She couldn’t ask anything more of him than that.
So she continued to walk in the sunshine. The darkness that awaited her was something she couldn’t bring herself to face.
Not even if Miach was there with her.
Thirteen
Miach sat on the floor next to the low table in front of Nicholas’s very fine sofa and tried to pay attention to what he was reading. He wasn’t having much success, but just the effort gave him something to concentrate on besides what he would have to tell Morgan when she awoke.
He’d finally convinced her, after a score of turns about Lismòr’s inner courtyard, to come inside the solar and sit down. He’d built up Nicholas’s fire, then suggested she might like to stretch out on the sofa and listen to a story guaranteed to keep her awake. She had agreed, he imagined, only because she’d been so desperate to avoid anything to do with either her dreams or his wooing.
And so he’d told her the enormously fascinating tale of Tharra of Fearann Fàs who had scoured the wastelands east of Beinn òrain for a wife to suit his ugliness. He had hardly gotten Tharra out of the city before Morgan had succumbed to slumber. That had left him with nothing to do but patch his spells and wait for her to wake.
The door opened behind him and Miach looked back over his shoulder to find Lismòr’s lord coming inside. Nicholas shut the door behind him and walked silently over to sit in his chair.
“You convinced her to sleep,” he noted.
“Finally,” Miach said. “She was reluctant.”
“I can’t say I blame her,” Nicholas said, “especially after this morning.” He smiled. “You look to have survived your brush with death well enough.”
“It was a near thing,” Miach admitted. “She’s very powerful.”
“I daresay. Her strength in many things has come back, though I will admit that there were times during those first few days that I truly feared it wouldn’t.” He studied Morgan for a few minutes, then
nodded. “Aye, she is much improved, even more so after being here such a short time.”
“Gobhann is not a good place to heal,” Miach said slowly, “though I’ll own that Weger did coddle her as much as she would allow, and it did do her some good.”
“I don’t understand why she loves it there so. It can’t be pleasant.”
“It isn’t,” Miach said without hesitation. “It’s harsh, unforgiving, and cold as hell. A bit like its lord, actually.”
Nicholas smiled. “And how does Weger find himself these days?”
“Relentless.” Miach looked at Morgan to judge her depth of sleep, then turned to Nicholas. “I assume you know who he is.”
“Aye.”
Miach smiled. “And you never said anything to her.”
“Would you?” Nicholas asked, raising an eyebrow. “She had to run somewhere when she left Lismòr; I wasn’t going to spoil her refuge for her. Besides, if I’d told her, she would have wondered how I knew, and that would have required too many answers I wasn’t ready to give.”
“You were right not to,” Miach said quietly. “Weger admitted his heritage to her a se’nnight before we left Gobhann. It was, as you might imagine, very difficult for her to hear. I don’t know what she would have done if you had told her eight years ago.”
“She likely would have called me a fool,” Nicholas said ruefully, “and gone inside anyway.”
“Perhaps,” Miach said. “As for Weger, I can understand why he has chosen his current home. He hates Lothar—and perhaps his own magic—with a fierceness that is all the more terrifying because he expresses it so calmly.”
“I can’t blame him,” Nicholas said. “A pity his father was such a fool. I told Smior he was mad to wed Eisleine inside Riamh instead of bringing her out, but he wouldn’t listen. He underestimated Lothar and found himself in Lothar’s dungeon as a result. But you can understand how that would happen, can’t you?”
Miach shut his mouth when he realized it was hanging open. He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised that Nicholas had spoken with Weger’s father or that Nicholas knew of his own incarceration in Riamh. “I have no secrets, I see.”
