“Miach.”
Miach looked at Sosar leaning against a bare, misshapen tree. “Aye?”
“Go rest if you can, lad. I’ll keep watch.”
Miach shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You might be,” he said quietly, with a nod toward the camp behind him, “but there are others who aren’t.”
Miach turned to look at Morgan. He’d thought she was asleep, but he realized now that her eyes were open. He bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck for a moment or two, then nodded his thanks to Morgan’s uncle, and walked over to squat down next to her.
“I thought you were sleeping.”
She shook her head, but said nothing.
He found another blanket to put over her, then lay down beside her and put his arm over her waist. He propped his head up on his hand and looked at her gravely. “I didn’t know you were awake, Morgan. I would have come sooner otherwise.”
“I can usually at least scold myself into sleeping,” she said wearily, “but not tonight. It isn’t as if I fear dreaming any longer. Not now.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m not sure what ails me.”
Miach smoothed the hair back from her face. “Dragon wildness,” he said gently. “ ’Tis a bit like too much rich food at supper. It leads to restless nights.”
She attempted a smile, but didn’t manage it very well. “Tell me a tale, Miach,” she whispered. “Something pleasant. Something to take my mind off . . . well, off what’s before us.”
He tucked strands of hair behind her ear, one by one, before he trusted himself to meet her gaze and not reveal the depths of his distress for her. He took a deep breath, then smiled at her. “Of course, my love,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cold lips briefly. “I think I can bring to mind something that will suit you quite well. There are swords wielded, mages humiliated, battles won in glorious fashion.” He paused. “There will no doubt be copious amounts of romance in it.”
“I’m too unsettled to make the comment that last bit deserves.”
He smiled. “Shall I try to keep those parts to a minimum for you?”
“Nay,” she managed. “I think I’ve acquired a taste for your brand of it. Clandestine forays into places no sensible soldier would go, visits to elven palaces, pleasant mornings in dwarvish smithies. I’m not quite sure what you’ll do in the future to outdo any of that.”
“Flowers?”
She managed a half laugh. “I can just imagine what you grow in your garden, my lord.”
“You’ll find out by and by,” he promised. “Now, come you here and put your head on my shoulder before I begin.” He waited until she was settled, then took a deep breath. “There was once a lad, the youngest son of the eldest son of an obscure house in the mountains, who despaired of ever finding someone to love. If you were to ask my opinion, though, I daresay his heart was wiser than his head and knew that there was a gel he was destined to love the moment he first saw her—”
“Miach?”
“Aye?”
“You’re not off to a promising start with this thing.”
He kissed her hair, then felt for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “Have patience. I think the lass will draw her sword soon and use it on her would-be suitor. You’ll enjoy that bit.”
She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I daresay.”
“Now,” he continued, “as it happened, this shieldmaiden had spent her youth on business of her own, learning to loathe all sorts of things that likely deserved it, and honing her skill with a blade far beyond what most men could endure.”
“Save the lad, I assume.”
“Well, he didn’t neglect his studies with the sword, but he was nowhere near her equal. I’ve heard tell that after he and the gel met, he did his best not to let her thrash him completely whenever they met over blades, but I daresay it was a very dodgy thing, indeed. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. It happened, as these things do, that the lad met the lass and he did indeed fall in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her, and he loved her more with every day that passed. There was a task laid before them, a very unpleasant one, but the accomplishing of that task is a tale better left for daylight. What we’ll concern ourselves with now is what happened after their work was finished.”
He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t so he went on, describing in great detail all the court functions they would avoid and the lovely hours they would pass in the lists at Tor Neroche where he could personally guarantee she would not be training in the bitter cold that seemed to be a fundamental part of Gobhann. He turned then to things he was sure would please her, such as a view of the sea from the battlements at Tor Neroche, the fine stables that would house their Angesand steeds, and the private garden where they could go dig in the dirt and forget for a time about things of the realm.
He felt her hand resting on his chest twitch a time or two, then still. He continued to describe all the sorts of things they would plant in that garden until he felt her begin to breathe evenly. He stopped speaking, then carefully pulled his cloak over them both. He settled his pack under his head a bit more comfortably, then looked up into the sky and watched the stars wheel overhead.
He hoped for the ending he’d given her. He hoped for years with her after his work as archmage was finished, years of watching the turn of the seasons, of watching her with her family and his, of watching their children and grandchildren and grandchildren’s grandchildren grow and take their turns on the world’s stage. It wasn’t a certain thing, as his parents could have attested. But he hoped for it.
Aye, he hoped for it just the same.
Seventeen
M
organ walked through the forest of Ceangail at dawn.
It was worse than she’d feared, and she had allowed herself to imagine quite a bit of awfulness. Spells covered the entire forest like a canopy, shielding it from the sun with layers of confusion and distraction. It was far too much like Droch’s garden for her taste. She looked up and shivered. The spell overhead seemed to be mostly intact, but she could see where it had been rent and left dripping down through the trees, as if a great wind had tried to blow it away and only succeeded in shredding it against branches. She had no desire to examine any of it more closely to see how it was wrought. All she wanted to do was find the glade, then be out as quickly as possible.
She continued on, ignoring the magic that pressed down on her. It was more difficult to ignore the sensation of having been there before. It was the same thing she’d experienced when walking into her father’s solar at Dìobhail, only this was a hundredfold worse.
She had to stop, finally. She looked at the ground, which seemed to be remarkably free of anything untoward, until she thought she could go on. She took a deep breath, then began walking again.
She had to do that more times than she wanted to count.
She paused at one point, because she couldn’t catch her breath. Miach was behind her, somewhere, which should have comforted her. Her brother was with her grandfather and her uncle, perhaps even closer to her than Miach. Even her mercenary companions had swallowed their gorge and agreed to wear spells of un-noticing so they would be a help and not a hindrance. She wasn’t alone, yet she felt as if she were the only poor fool for miles.
Sìle hadn’t wanted her to be that fool. Even though the plan had been agreed on before they left Durial, he had balked that morning at the thought of her going ahead alone. She’d had no other choice. If something went awry, or any enemy attacked, she would be underestimated.
She had long last come to appreciate Miach’s favorite ploy.
She had done other things to ensure success. She had used Miach’s Duriallian spell of hiding to completely bury her magic, insisting that he listen to make certain she’d done it aright. She’d then taken the Sword of Angesand in her hand and prepared to hide its essence as well.
That had been more difficult than she’d expected it to be.
It had been impossible not to appreciate the perfection of the sword, not only because of the way it felt in her hand but also because of the sheer beauty of the blade itself. It was spectacular, crafted with skill that Weger’s smiths would have given much to have called their own. Not even the magic she knew was folded into the blade lessened its magnificence.
On the contrary, it enhanced it.
It had been with sincere regret than she had laid over it spells of Olc that made her ill to look at and queasy to touch. She’d resheathed the sword just the same and promised it a good cleaning after the fact.
The wielders will come out of magic, out of obscurity, and out of darkness . . .
The words she’d read in the fall came back to her suddenly, though she no longer felt any fear when she thought of them. If anyone came from the last, it was her. She had no idea what the prophecy meant in relation to the well and Mehar had told her that she’d only seen the women who would wield the sword, not what their battles would be. Morgan suspected Mehar had known quite a bit more than she was telling, but she hadn’t pressed her for what that more might have been. She had enough to think on without adding to it. She had, however, allowed herself to speculate how many times a year Mehar and Gilraehen had supper with Master Soilléir. Several, was her guess. Perhaps after she was finished with the task in front of her, she would give some thought to just exactly what they saw as they sat in his solar, lingering over their wine.
Unfortunately, she had no time for such pleasant ruminations at present. She put her shoulders back and continued on. Now that the moment was come in truth, she began to feel a remarkable calm, as if what she stood to do was no more taxing than convincing herself to leave the marginal comfort of her cell in Gobhann to go train out in a bitter winter wind—and to be sure she’d done that often enough.
She walked out into the glade before she realized where she was, then came to a stumbling halt.
She was prepared for all sorts of terrible things, but what she found in the glade was actually not as bad as she’d feared it might be. The worst part of it was realizing she had been there before.
She turned herself slowly about until she saw the place where she had gone with Ruithneadh to hide as her mother had begun to goad her father. She looked up and saw the evil that hung down from the spell above like so many repulsive, putrid vines. She suspected those spells had been intact when her father had visited the well, but whether they had been ripped when the well had spewed forth its vile contents or during some other battle she had no desire to know about, she couldn’t have said.
She continued on until she stood just in front of the well. It was an unremarkable thing, not giving any outward sign of what lurked within. After a moment to get her bearings, she turned her attentions to the trees ringing the glade. She walked in a northeasterly direction until she could go no farther. A spell of illusion dripped down the bark of the tree in front of her like sap, but it moved easily enough when she brushed it aside.
And there, under her hand, was a word.
She was so surprised to find what she had been looking for where it was supposed to be, she could only stand there for a moment or two with her fingers digging into that mark and smile. It was the second major component of her father’s spell of closing, which meant the first part should find itself to her left. She turned and looked directly across the glade for a tree that should have represented another corner of Gleac’s battle plan, then jumped in spite of herself.
Trolls stood in the shadows of those trees, watching her.
She put her hand over her mother’s amulet, but realized there was no need to do so. The creatures were not coming any closer. Still it was very unsettling to realize they were standing just under the trees—all the trees, including those directly around her.
She took a deep breath, left them unchallenged, and went to look for signs on the other three trees. She was amazed to find what she was looking for where it should have been found. It seemed too easy, but perhaps not. She never would have thought to look for a mark in such a place without having taken the steps that had led her to such a conclusion. Perhaps no one else would either. She never would have arrived at that conclusion if it hadn’t been for six years spent in Gobhann, and she never would have gone to Gobhann if she hadn’t spent the years of her girlhood in the care of Nicholas of Lismòr. She was starting to feel a bit like a tree in King Uachdaran’s garden, with her life twisting and turning in patterns she wouldn’t have imagined up on her own.
Patterns that had led her to where she stood at present.
She shivered, then turned and walked back to the well before she could think on that overmuch. She stopped in front of it and watched the evil bubble up and trickle down over the edge of the rock. It landed with an audible
plop
in a small well that had been dug there to receive it. Morgan drew Mehar’s knife from her boot and sliced through the spell laid over the little hollow before it could create anything untoward. She put the knife back in her boot, then began to study the well, looking for the same sort of thing she’d seen carved into the trees.