“What would you call it, then?” Morgan managed.
“Gifting,” Droch said in a deceptively pleasant voice. “It’s what mages do when I ask it of them. It’s what you will do, Mhorghain, and you’ll thank me for the pleasure afterward. I think Lothar calls it Taking, but that seems a pedestrian sort of term for it, doesn’t it? Anyway, your sire was particularly loath for anyone to know about this business of appropriating another mage’s power. It made him particularly angry to learn that Reil had the complete spell. The lad of course immediately told his brothers what he’d learned and the lot of them decided to confront Gair.”
Morgan started to see stars. Better that than the darkness full of shapes and claws and endless, bitter cold. She realized Droch was suffocating her as well. She understood how desperate Miach must have felt whilst battling on that chessboard with him. The temptation to do as Droch wanted so the darkness would abate was so overwhelming, she almost gave in. She clung to both her will and sanity with all her strength, trying to block out his words.
She focused on the blade she held with both hands, then realized with a start that Droch’s magic had stopped just short of her left wrist. It writhed there like a live thing, but it wouldn’t cross the runes that encircled her wrist.
Damnation, but she wished she knew more Fadaire. Even a simple spell of defense to counter what Droch had assaulted her with would have been useful.
“Of course, the lads didn’t realize that their mother had followed them in a panic,” Droch continued relentlessly. “Lismòrian overheard Gair taking the lads’ power away, which left Gair with no choice but to kill her as well, given that she had heard his spell. I would have used her as some sort of bargaining piece in a game of chess with King Nicholas, but I have more imagination than your father had.”
“But less power,” Morgan managed.
The change in his mien was swift and terrible. She closed her eyes, but it didn’t matter. The darkness was complete. Not even Mehar’s knife was any comfort any longer.
“Stupid girl,” Droch snarled. “I’m finished negotiating with you.”
He ripped Mehar’s knife out of her hand and threw it down the passageway, then threw her after it so hard and so far, she was certain her feet didn’t touch the ground. She was caught by other arms and fought them furiously until she realized they belonged to Miach. She scarce had the time to thank him before he had shoved her behind him. She found herself behind yet another body with a scarred, ruined hand holding her there.
She looked around Soilléir’s servant to watch what was happening. Alarm bells were ringing wildly, but she couldn’t imagine that would do anything to stop the battle of spells raging in the passageway in front of her. Miach was in a fury, but then again so was Droch, so perhaps there was little hope for either to gain the upper hand. Morgan had once watched Miach fight another battle with spells of Olc and supposed she wouldn’t see anything worse here.
She was wrong.
She reminded herself of what Master Soilléir had said about her own sorry self, that she was full of both darkness and light. It surely applied to Miach as well, though she suspected she was being treated to a full view of his darkness at present. He was every bit Droch’s equal. Perhaps it was because he was angry, perhaps it was that he had things to repay Droch for, things she wasn’t privy to.
Before she could decide what it might be, she found her view again blocked first by Sosar, then Turah, then her grandfather. Soilléir’s servant had taken up a place behind her and put his heavy hands on her shoulders, as if he feared she might rush ahead and try to defend Miach. She was no coward, but she was also no fool. She had no means of standing against Droch.
She didn’t want to think about what that boded for her trip to her father’s well.
“Enough.”
Morgan escaped the servant’s hands, ducked past Turah, and elbowed Sosar out of the way. She stood next to her grandfather and watched the collection of masters standing in the passageway. They were, to a wizard, gaping at Miach and Droch. Soilléir was there, standing in front of them all, the only voice of reason in a gaggle of men who should have had the good sense to stop what was going on.
“Enough,” he repeated.
Droch whirled on him. “Who are you—”
“Capable of turning you into a rock, that’s who I am,” Soilléir shot back. “Care to test it?”
“One day,” Droch spat, “one day you won’t dare. I vow it.”
Soilléir stepped in front of Miach. “I look forward to that day as I’m sure you do.”
“Gair’s get had best watch herself—”
Soilléir thrust his arm out to keep Miach behind him, then simply stood there until Droch cursed viciously and walked away. Miach leaned over with his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. Morgan pushed past her grandfather and ran up the passageway. Miach straightened as she reached him and yanked her into his arms.
“How did you know?” she said, her teeth chattering.
“I laid a spell over Soilléir’s door,” he wheezed. “I knew the moment you left his chamber. It took me far longer to get here than I wanted it to. I think I plowed over Soilléir’s servant on his way to fetch me.”
“I thought you shouldn’t be alone in the library,” she said weakly. “I feared Droch might come for you.”
He laughed a little, then tightened his embrace so quickly, her back popped in protest. “I should have left you a note.”
“You should have woken me.”
“I tried. You wouldn’t wake.”
She pursed her lips. “I daresay that’s your fault. You almost killed me with the end of my grandfather’s spell.”
“Your friend’s hand is healed, though.”
“The price was high.”
“But he was grateful. And don’t look now, but I think you have other admirers.”
Morgan turned to find that there was a rather long line of wizards behind her who were perfectly happy to greet her in the middle of the night. Most were in their nightclothes with their nightcaps askew. She supposed she didn’t look any less rumpled and undone, so perhaps it didn’t matter.
It was a very long reception line.
An hour later, she found herself back in front of the fire with her weapons at her feet, her love sitting next to her on the floor, and her pride hanging in shreds around her. She looked at Miach.
“I don’t know why he didn’t take my power,” she said bleakly. “I suspect he was simply toying with me.”
“And I suspect you’re stronger than you realize,” Miach said with a faint smile.
“It might have been your spell that held.”
“I didn’t want to say as much, but aye,” he agreed with a small smile, “it might have been.”
“Cheeky, aren’t you?”
“Terrified,” he said frankly. “I’ve never run so fast in my life. I’m not sure I ran. I think I might have arrived as a bitter wind. I’m a little hazy on the details, truth be told.”
Morgan smiled, but she didn’t think it had been a particularly good smile. She glanced at Soilléir, who was sitting apart, lost in some sort of wizardly stupor.
“Who is he?” she murmured. “In truth?”
“Among other things, he is the one who keeps Droch in check,” Miach said quietly.
“He’d better have someone taste his wine for him.”
“I imagine he does.”
She took a deep breath, then reached for Miach’s hand. “What were you looking for in the library?”
“I’m not sure,” he said with a shrug. “I couldn’t sleep and I hoped I might stumble across something useful.”
Morgan looked down at his fingers intertwined with hers. She trailed her fingers over the back of his hand, studying the scars there, then turned his hand over and did the same with the calluses. Those she was fairly sure he’d earned from swordplay. She wasn’t sure if magecraft left any outward sign of what it cost to learn. Then again, with some magics perhaps it did. The coldness in Droch’s eyes was indication enough of what he’d traded for his power. She looked at Miach and found him watching her gravely.
“What is it, love?” he asked.
She had to force herself to spew out the realization that had plagued her for the past hour. “My skill lies with the blade, not with spells. I think I could spend a year learning every spell of Olc and still not be able to do what I must.”
“Morgan, all it takes is the right spell and the daring to use it.”
“But I couldn’t even face Droch.” She swallowed, hard. “It was as if everything I’d ever learned, all those hours in Weger’s tower learning to master my fear, every battle I’d ever fought—all of it vanished.” She paused. “I was petrified.”
He studied her thoughtfully. “You know, even here at Buidseachd, an apprentice is not required to know advanced spells at the start. And there isn’t an apprentice alive who would think to face Droch and come away unscathed.”
“Not even you?” she asked quietly. “Not then?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not during my youth. He did catch me in the passageway after I’d earned the rings of mastery and was trying to pry the spells of Caochladh from Master Soilléir.” He smiled faintly. “Léir rescued me then just as he did tonight.”
“You didn’t need rescuing tonight.”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “Who’s to say? Perhaps I didn’t, but I have walked in places where Droch’s sort of magic reigns, no light is possible, and he is not the master. I am able to fight his spells because I know them myself—and because they are my bloodright. I don’t expect you to know those spells, nor to want to use them.”
“But he doesn’t frighten you—”
“Morgan, he scares the hell out of me, but if I showed it, Léir would never let me forget it.” He squeezed her hand. “And before I think on that possible humiliation overlong, let me put you to bed.”
“Nay, I’ll keep watch,” she said. “You need the sleep worse than I do. I’ll tell you a tale to help you along. Some elvish rot.”
He smiled and leaned over to kiss her softly. “Perhaps it will put us both to sleep. You’ll have to whisper it over your grandfather, though, since he seems to have placed himself between our beds.” He paused. “Well, perhaps not whisper. He’s a bit of a snorer, isn’t he?”
“That’s your brother.”
He laughed softly and rose, pulling her to her feet. “So it is. The noise will cover all the slanderous things you’re about to tell me. Come lie next to me, Morgan. We have chaperons enough, I warrant, to satisfy even your grandfather.”
Morgan made herself at home on his bed with her head on his shoulder. She suspected her grandfather would wake and boot Miach onto the floor for sleeping within ten paces of her, but that would come later. For the moment, she was content to have Miach’s arms around her and several layers of his recently laid, impenetrable spells cascading down around her.
“My tale?” he prompted.
Morgan wasn’t sure she managed a single sentence before he fell asleep.
It was quite a bit longer before she managed the same thing.
He’d said it would merely take the right spell and a goodly amount of courage to close her father’s well. She had the second, to be sure.
But despite all their efforts and all the unpleasantness they’d both faced at Beinn òrain, they were no closer to finding the first than they had been two days ago.
Where they were going to look now was anyone’s guess.
Eight
M
iach walked across Buidseachd’s outer bailey, following an escort truly worthy of the leave-taking of the king of the elves. Sìle led the procession with Master Ceannard trotting alongside him, heaping compliments and pleasantries upon his head as if the very future of the university depended on it. It didn’t, of course, but Miach couldn’t blame Ceannard for being a little dazzled by Sìle’s sheer splendidness. Miach managed to avoid the same, but then again, he had much on his mind and none of it was pleasant.
He’d spent breakfast reading over the spell that Morgan had written down for Léir. As if having it almost put him off his food hadn’t been enough, he’d also come to the conclusion that simply reversing it would not do what they needed. The spell was far too different from what Sarait had written down, and Miach had to believe that Sarait had managed to piece together most of what Gair had intended to use. She had been a deft mage herself, and she’d had seven compelling reasons to want to free herself from her husband’s arrogance. Her spell was accurate.
It was also unfortunately quite incomplete.
“See anything interesting?” Soilléir asked.
Miach realized that Léir was talking to Morgan. He looked to his left to find Morgan studying the company in front of them with a frown, as if she tried to discover things about them they might not particularly care to reveal. He supposed she was doing the like in an effort to distract herself. She had put on a good face at breakfast, but she hadn’t been able to hide her unease. The encounter with Droch the night before had unsettled her greatly and Miach knew why. It was one thing to fight with steel and courage; it was another thing entirely to fight with spells.