by Lynn Kurland
“I think this is a mistake, but I can see that you are determined. Short of following you, I suppose we cannot change your mind. What do you need for the journey? What can I give you?”
Miach shook his head with a smile. “A show of support has been more valuable than you know. I’m usually going off accompanied by snorts of derision from my eldest brother.”
“Adhémar is an ass,” Sosar said promptly. “Làidir, go fill his saddlebags. I’ll make certain he’s well stocked with spells.”
Làidir scowled at him, then turned back to Miach. “I will see to food for your journey. I would send out spies for you, but I imagine you don’t plan to be gone long.”
“Not if I can help it,” Miach agreed.
Làidir looked at him a final time, then sighed and walked away. Miach looked at Sosar.
“Thank you.”
Sosar pursed his lips. “Aye, you’ll need to thank me in truth after I’ve kept my niece trapped within these walls. I just want you to admit that you’re leaving me with the more difficult task.”
Miach managed a smile. “I will concede it without hesitation. You can at least take comfort in knowing that Mhorghain’s wrath won’t be directed at you.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t know if she’ll forgive me for this one.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because the well was worse than you can imagine, and I suppose you can imagine quite a few vile things. There is nothing in the Nine Kingdoms that will convince me to allow her anywhere near it. I’m very sorry Sarait attempted it.”
Sosar gaped at him. “And what in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing to attempt it? Miach, it’s suicide!”
“Power is as strong as blood—”
“So said Sarait,” Sosar said pointedly.
“I’ll find the spell.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I will. I will find the proper spell if I have to search through every drawer of every corrupt wizard in Beinn òrain. I will shut the well, then return before a se’nnight has passed.”
Sosar sighed deeply. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” He started to turn away, then stopped. He looked at Sosar. “I don’t have time to give you the reasons, but I fear there may come a time when Lothar comes looking for Mhorghain. Here.”
“Lothar?” Sosar said in surprise.
“’Tis possible. Go behind my spells and place your own there. Have Làidir do the same. I will be back well before Lothar could possibly discover who my lady is, but just in case…”
“Very well, Miach,” Sosar said grimly. “I’ll see it done.”
Miach nodded, went inside his luxurious chamber, and changed into his traveling clothes. He quickly wrote Brèagha a brief note of thanks, then gathered his gear and walked back out into the passageway. Sosar walked with him to the stables where Làidir had Fleòd already saddled and filled saddlebags attached.
“Fare you well,” Làidir said simply.
Sosar put his hand on Miach’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose I need to say this, but don’t be stupid enough not to send word if you need aid. We would come, if you asked.”
He nodded to Sìle’s sons, mounted, then rode out of the stables and down the path toward the outer gates.
Then he turned and headed east.
He let his mind lie fallow and only used enough magic to completely cover his tracks and himself. He didn’t dare allow himself to think about Morgan, what she would say when she woke, or what she would do. All he could do was trust her uncles and concentrate on the task that lay before him.
It was an hour before dawn when he stopped close to a bend in the river Allt that cut through the plain of Ailean. He dismounted under the trees and made himself a quick breakfast from what Làidir had provided, then pulled what gear he needed off Fleòd’s back. He put his hand on the horse’s withers.
“Go back to Tòrr Dòrainn,” he said quietly. “You’ll be safe there.”
The horse balked, but Miach pointed west and commanded him to go. The beast backed away, slowly and without enthusiasm. Miach watched him until he’d turned and trotted off up a small rise. The horse refused to go any farther. Miach was tempted to force him, but decided there was no point. Hearn had given the beast its instructions and it would follow them to the death. Perhaps the gelding would bolt when it saw what was to come.
Miach wouldn’t have blamed him.
He turned and surveyed the countryside before him. He walked about the place for quite some time, examining it from all angles until he was satisfied that he could carry out the pretense he planned. He found an old tree stump and sat down.
Then he began his magic.
He created an enormous fire in front of him that burned without heat but rose hundreds of feet into the sky. He wrapped his name in the flames so it would be clear to any soul with magic in his blood who had created it.
He sat and watched it burn.
It would be only a matter of time now.
They came at noon.
There were so many of them, they looked like a wave sweeping over the plain from the northwest. He stood and drew his sword, more to give himself something to do than from a desire to use it. Magic would be his weapon, not steel.
He began to lay snares for the faster trolls, spells meant to entrap, then engulf in flame. He waited until the first one reached the first trap.
And he stared in horror as the creature shook it off and continued on.
He realized with a sickening feeling that it was going to take much more than simple spells to counteract what he would face—and that he should have realized that far sooner than he had.
He killed the first troll with a quick and brutal spell of Wexham that fell upon the creature like a hammer. The troll dropped with a hoarse shout, stunned, then shook its head and continued forward on its hands and knees.
Miach swore viciously. He threw another spell of the same sort at another troll, but this one was of Olc. The creature screamed and fell dead. That would have been a relief—for the spell was unsettlingly easy to use—except now he had scores of the creatures to deal with and they were, quite suddenly, hard upon him.
With Searbhe riding on a scruffy steed, leading the charge.
Miach quickly wove the most extensive spell of death he’d ever used. He put his fire behind him, kept his eyes fixed on the creatures rushing at him from the north, and forced himself to speak the words slowly and clearly. He supposed that if he had to, he could leap up into the air and leave them all behind.
In fact, he was beginning to think that might be the best idea.
He had almost finished when Searbhe reached him. Miach leapt up, but Searbhe caught him before he could finish the change and flung him to the ground. Miach cursed and heaved himself to his feet. He continued with the spell of death, fought off Searbhe’s clumsy attempts at his own killing magic, then found himself needing his blade after all.
He built a perimeter around himself with a single word, a shield that the creatures could not penetrate, then concentrated on Searbhe. The howls of outrage from Searbhe’s companions were terrifying, but Miach forced himself not to heed them. He kept Searbhe at bay and put the finishing touches on his spell. It lacked but a trio of words and then he could be on his way.
Searbhe began to smile. “Go ahead and finish,” he goaded. “I only wish I could see your face when you realize all you’ve killed.”
“I’ll weave a special dispensation in it so you will,” Miach assured him. He did, then opened his mouth to speak the final words—
“Miach, don’t!”
Miach whipped around to find Morgan standing just outside his spell. She held the amulet in her hand, though it was still on its chain about her neck. Miach wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that she had broken through what he’d used to put her into a dreamless sleep for a se’nnight or that the amulet worked as it should. The trolls avoided her completely. That was a great relief.
Or at least it w
as until he saw a troll outside his spell change himself into a man.
Or elf, rather.
Miach reached out and jerked Morgan through the spell before Cruadal reached for her, then spun her around so her back was against his. He raised his sword as Cruadal slipped inside his protective net.
“You won’t survive the day,” Cruadal said in a flat, expressionless voice. “I’ll see to that.”
Miach didn’t waste time arguing. He had stopped himself from killing Cruadal within Sìle’s borders and he had shown him mercy in Slighe, but he labored under no such constraints here. He fought against the elf ruthlessly with sword and magic, holding on to the threads of his spell of death and trying to separate Morgan’s essence from it at the same time. It wouldn’t have been difficult if he hadn’t been distracted by the noise the trolls were making and Cruadal’s very vile spells. He was very grateful to have Morgan standing at his back so he didn’t have to try to fight Searbhe at the same time.
It probably would be what saved his life.
Cruadal tore a hole in his perimeter suddenly, sending trolls rushing in. Miach crushed three trolls with a spell of Olc, but the surge continued. He sealed the rent with a single word, then smashed the hilt of his sword into Cruadal’s face, sending him sprawling. He concentrated on the creatures Cruadal had allowed inside, slew them ruthlessly, then spun around to see how Morgan fared.
She leapt aside to avoid Searbhe’s thrusting blade. Miach didn’t pause to consider, he merely took his sword and plunged it into Searbhe’s belly. Searbhe fell forward, grasping for Morgan as he did so. Miach yanked her out of the way, then watched grimly as Searbhe crashed to the ground and was still. He sighed deeply. One less thing hunting them now, at least.
Morgan dragged her sleeve across her forehead. “Don’t regret that,” she said, panting. “He would have killed you if you hadn’t finished him first.”
Miach nodded, then flinched as he felt something slam into his back. He caught his breath at the agony of it. Bloody hell, had one of the trolls broken through his spell with a rock? It was a damned large stone, if that were the case. He looked at Morgan and saw an expression of absolute horror on her face. He looked down and realized why.
There was a sword point coming out of his chest.
It was coming out of the front of him because it had gone into the back of him. He realized that he wasn’t making much sense, but it wasn’t every day that he found himself impaled by a sword he hadn’t expected.
“You bloody whoreson,” Morgan spat.
Miach looked at her quickly, but realized she wasn’t talking to him. She threw herself at someone behind him, then she pulled up short and cursed viciously.
“He’s gone,” she said, looking around frantically. “Miach, I can’t see him anywhere.”
Miach didn’t have the energy to look. He found himself on his knees without exactly knowing how he had gotten there. He saw Morgan standing over him with her sword bare in her hand. He reached up and put his hand on her lower back. It was excruciating to do even that, so he sank down on his heels.
Then he realized that he couldn’t see anything anymore.
He hunched over and sucked in desperately needed breaths. Perhaps he should have taken Làidir up on his offer of aid. He might have avoided a bit of his present distress if he had.
“Sosar, I’ve lost Cruadal!” Morgan shouted.
“Forget him,” Sosar called. “See to Miach!”
Miach would have sighed in relief, but it hurt too much, so he merely crouched there and was enormously grateful for aid that was unlooked-for.
He heard the king of Tòrr Dòrainn wiping out evil with words alone. Làidir and Sosar were doing the same thing. He supposed there were others in the party as well, but he didn’t mark them. He felt Morgan’s hand on his head.
“I’ve got to pull the sword out,” she said in a low, urgent voice. “It will hurt.”
He nodded. He thought he might have made some sort of noise as she carefully pulled the sword free of him. He hoped it hadn’t been a scream. He fell over because he simply couldn’t keep himself upright any longer. He felt for Morgan’s hand.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“You idiot,” she wept. “You fool. You need me, damn you!”
“I know,” he wheezed.
“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Please, Miach. Hold on. I can fix this.”
He didn’t think so, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her as much. He felt her hand on both sides of the wound, on his chest and on his back. He heard her quickly speak a spell of binding. It did nothing. He could still feel his life ebbing away.
She tried a different spell. And another. She started to repeat them one after another, weeping so hard he could scarce understand her.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”
“Help!” she shouted. “Someone help me!”
The sounds of battle started to recede a bit. Miach found that pleasing somehow. If he was going to die, he didn’t want to have his passing be accompanied by sounds of trolls shrieking. He felt Morgan’s hand clasp his and hold on, hard.
“Hang on,” she pleaded. “Please, Miach, hold on.”
“Try this spell, Granddaughter.”
Miach listened to Sìle give her a Fadaire spell of healing. It wouldn’t work, of course, but he didn’t have the strength to tell Morgan that. He was too close to death, too empty of what he needed to hold his soul in his body. He felt Morgan put her hands on him again, one on his chest, the other on his back, then begin the spell. He felt more pressure. Perhaps Sìle’s hands were pressing on top of hers. Well, at least he would slip into the next world with his love’s hands on his chest and her words in his ears.
Morgan neared the end of the spell, then Sìle spoke the last word with her.
Miach felt a white-hot magic streak through him.
And then he knew no more.
Twenty-six
Morgan swam through deep waters, struggling to surface and finding it impossible. It was a magical sort of lassitude, much like what she’d fought off that morning. Damn that Miach of Neroche—
She opened her eyes with a start, realizing at once where she was and what had happened.
Miach was dead.
She had come too late.
A black pit opened up suddenly in front of her, the same pit that had caught her when she’d learned her father had killed Nicholas’s wife and children. To keep from staring into its fathomless depths, she forced herself to look up at the sky above her. Perhaps if she looked at the clouds wafting lazily above her, she could keep herself from falling endlessly into darkness.
It seemed somehow too cheerful a sky to be shining down on a place of such desperate tragedy. She contemplated the shapes of clouds and wondered absently who would be archmage after Miach. She wondered, with substantially less detachment, how she would manage to draw many more breaths without Miach alive in the same world she inhabited.
She had taken too long to realize that she couldn’t unravel his sleeping spell. In desperation, she had finally spoken a word of Opening. It had broken the spell—and opened every drawer, door, and box in her chamber. She had ignored the complaints coming from those in chambers surrounding hers who had likely experienced the same thing, flung herself into her clothes, and bolted down the passageway at a dead run.
She’d made it almost to the great hall before she ran, bodily, into her grandfather. He’d folded his arms over his chest and said four words to her.
The mage, or me.
He’d likely said the same thing to Sarait. Morgan had ignored the chill that had gone down her spine at the thought, then thanked him politely for his hospitality before pushing past him and continuing on her way.
Sosar had been waiting for her in the stables. The only thing she had wanted to hear from him had been directions to where Miach had gone. He’d considered, then sighed and told her that he wasn’t exactly sure, but he
had the feeling she wouldn’t have much trouble finding out.
She had raced out of the stables, turned east, then seen the enormous stream of fire that reached into the sky and announced in runes that even she could decipher that Miach was there.
She’d wanted to kill him.
Her fury had lasted a handful of leagues before something resembling common sense had returned. Miach wouldn’t have left her behind because he didn’t love her, he would have left her behind because he was an idiot and thought she would be safer out of harm’s way.
How unrelentingly unforgiving that decision had to have been for him.
Luath had raced toward the fire without her having asked it of him. Eagles had flown over her head soon after, reaching the scene of the battle just as she did. Those eagles had changed themselves into her grandfather, her uncles, and two score elves with very sharp swords and useful spells. They had fought valiantly, but it hadn’t been enough. Not for Miach.
She closed her eyes because she couldn’t bear to look up into the sky anymore. Of course, darkness didn’t help either. All she could see was Miach standing there with Cruadal’s sword sticking out of his chest, all she could hear was the sound it made as she had pulled it from him, all she could feel was his blood on her hands and the way his breathing had grown more shallow every time he sighed.
She remembered Sìle’s hands over hers, the pain of his immeasurable power rushing through her hands and into Miach’s chest. If the sword hadn’t killed him, that likely had.
She held her hands up where she could see them. They were covered in blood, but other than that they didn’t look any different. The only thing that was different was the fact that she was wearing Mehar’s ring on the middle finger of her left hand. It had been sitting in the middle of Miach’s crown that had been intertwined with hers on her bedside table. It hadn’t been placed there by accident, that much she knew.
A pity it was nothing more than a memento now.
She felt next to her with her hands that were still a little scorched and found that her sword and Mehar’s knife were lying beside her. She put her hand on the cold steel and struggled to take even breaths. Well, if nothing else, she could return to Melksham and take up her life again as a mercenary. This time she could even fly and avoid having to take a boat. She would fly one last time, then put it all behind her…
