“Lovely pheasant,” Miach said suddenly. “Don’t you agree, Master Droch?”
Droch’s foot moved, then both his boots turned away and carried him off with them. Morgan forced herself to merely draw in unremarkable breaths until the stars stopped swirling in front of her.
When she could see again, she realized that Droch had once again taken his place across the table from Miach. She wished she could have listened to whatever Master Ceannard was babbling about, but all she could do was watch the man who seemed to be drawing all the light in the chamber to him so he could extinguish it. He fingered his glass and ignored everyone else in favor of staring at Miach.
Morgan wished quite desperately that she’d brought her sword.
But as she hadn’t, she settled for loosening the blades in the sheaths strapped to her forearms. She had heard Droch’s voice before, which had been bad enough, but watching him was a thousand times worse. He was dark-haired, like Miach, and handsome, also like Miach, but that was where any similarities ended. The master of Olc’s eyes were dark and soulless, lacking even the smallest amount of humanity. She shivered even though he wasn’t looking at her. She supposed Miach was accustomed to it, for he didn’t pause in the consumption of his meal. Then again, she’d never seen him be put off his food by anything. He had a strong stomach, for many things.
She, however, slipped her piece of bread under her stool and gave up thoughts of food anytime soon.
“Someone broke into my solar last night,” Droch said.
Morgan held her breath. Not a soul moved. Well, perhaps that wasn’t true. Her elven relations had apparently given up on any plans to continue their meal. Turah, very wisely to her mind, swallowed what he was chewing and didn’t reach for anything else, presumably so he wouldn’t spew it across the table when the battle began. Master Soilléir, whom Morgan could see thanks to the space between Miach and Turah, was watching Droch as if he studied a new species of vermin that might cause him irritation if he got too close. Miach only reached for his wine and sipped.
“It sounds like a popular activity,” he remarked.
Morgan eyed the only exit from the chamber. If worst came to worst, she could fight her way—and Miach’s—out the door.
“I know who it was,” Droch said, looking at Miach pointedly.
“Do you, indeed?” Miach asked. “Interesting.”
“You would find it so, I daresay.”
“I doubt it,” Miach said. “And given that such is the case, I’d appreciate it if you would keep your speculations to yourself and let me finish my meal in peace.”
There were gasps from the other wizards at the table. Morgan cursed silently and wondered if it would be a misstep to point out to Miach that he was an idiot for provoking the other man. She could only hope she would be pointing that out later from outside the gates and not sooner whilst hanging from some uncomfortable gibbet, or whatever else it was that the masters of Buidseachd did with whatever miscreants they managed to find inside their gates. Given the expression on Droch’s face, she had the feeling anything the masters could do to them would pale in comparison to whatever tortures Droch would devise.
Worse still, she suspected she would discover just what those might be sooner rather than later.
Four
M
iach had had more enjoyable lunches.
It wasn’t that the fare wasn’t edible. It was certainly far superior to the dreck that was served in the buttery downstairs. He supposed the students didn’t care what they ate, being too wrung out from their labors to speculate on what they might be missing. He had only vague memories of his first taste of the fare below. He’d come to Buidseachd during his tenth summer and his misery had been so complete, he hadn’t noticed anything besides that. Adhémar had mocked him relentlessly for having used the excuse of homesickness to leave Beinn òrain, but he hadn’t cared. What point had there been in staying when his mother had been able to teach him everything the masters could—and then some? He had hardly needed to be at Buidseachd to learn his craft.
Well, he’d been homesick as well, but perhaps that was an admission better left unmade.
He had presented himself a second time to the masters when he’d been ten-and-six, once he’d become comfortable with the mantle of archmage. He’d done so only because there had been things that he’d wanted, things he couldn’t have unless he possessed the seven rings of mastery. And so he’d endured a month of vile offerings in the buttery below in order to demonstrate mastery of both lore and craft to the six masters who doled out the usual rings, then spent another exhausting fortnight convincing the seventh wizard to hand over the rarely given, ferociously coveted seventh ring. Then, rings in hand, he’d turned his mind to what he’d actually come to Buidseachd for.
The spells of Caochladh.
They were spells of essence changing, taught only to those who possessed the seven rings of mastery, and only then if Soilléir of Cothromaiche found the candidate particularly worthy.
Miach had spent another month as Soilléir’s apprentice, learning not a single spell but finding himself and his honor tested in scores of ways, relentlessly, unforgivingly, until he’d wondered if it was worth it. He had looked inside himself so long and so hard, he’d almost lost his sense of who he was. At the moment when he was certain he would never find his way back out of himself, Soilléir had announced it was enough.
Miach was fairly certain he’d wept.
A month later, he’d been grateful for the depths of himself he’d plumbed. The things that had been entrusted to him were so immense and overwhelming, he’d suspected that if he hadn’t already been to the bottom of his soul and seen what lay there, he couldn’t have borne what he’d been given.
He’d returned to Tor Neroche a much humbler young man than he’d left.
And he still preferred Master Soilléir’s unrelentingly demanding spells to anything else, still preferred to spend time in the solar of a man who was clear and bright as noonday sun. He would have given quite a bit to be facing him across the table at present instead of the absolute darkness that was Master Droch.
“Are you telling me you know nothing about it?”
Miach looked up from his dessert. “About what?”
“About the trespasser in my solar last night!” Droch shouted.
Miach shrugged and helped himself to a bit more of a lovely mousse. “I can’t imagine why anyone would bother with your chamber,” he said, between bites. “Your spells aren’t to everyone’s taste, are they?”
There was more gasping by the others at the table, but Miach paid them no heed. He was far too busy wondering if Droch would leap over the table and throttle him before he could blurt out a spell of protection.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Droch said in a deceptively soft tone. “Some seem to manage them well enough. Especially those with a bloodright to them.”
Miach smiled blandly, ignoring the barb. Droch was certainly one to talk there. At least he knew which parts of his blood to choose and which to leave alone. He suspected Droch had long ago passed the point of even having a choice.
“I want to know where you were last night, Prince Mochriadhemiach,” Droch pressed.
“I can’t imagine my whereabouts could possibly interest you,” Miach returned, “so I think I’ll keep them to myself.”
Droch slapped his hands on the table. “I’ll have my answers one way or another.”
“Will you, indeed?” Miach said with a smile. “And just how do you think you’ll manage that?”
Droch leaned forward. “By challenging you to a duel.”
Miach suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, though he supposed no one would have noticed if he had. Half the masters were on their feet, shouting, and the other half were gaping at him as if he’d actually done something completely untoward.
Such as climb over the walls and slip into Droch’s solar.
He glanced at Soilléir to find his former mentor sitting back in his chair, rubbing his finger over his mouth as if he strove not to smile. Miach scowled at him, then looked back at Droch.
“I’m busy today,” Miach said, loudly enough to be heard over the others. “You’ll have to find someone else to humor you.”
“Damn you, I demand it!”
Miach considered, then shook his head. “Nay.”
Droch’s face was becoming a rather unattractive shade of red. Miach would have enjoyed that, but he didn’t dare. A man could only poke a viper so many times before he found himself bitten as a result. He’d come perilously close to that the night before. He had no desire to tempt fate again.
“You cannot refuse a challenge!” Droch thundered.
“I think I just did.”
Soilléir laughed, then rose and walked away from the table, shaking his head. He was still laughing as he pushed past the guards and left the chamber. Miach wished he could have done the same thing, but he couldn’t. Challenges inside the walls of Buidseachd weren’t issued lightly and when they were, they were, as Droch had said, never refused. To do so was incredibly poor form.
Not that Miach had any intentions of truly begging off. He simply wanted to make certain that Droch was to the point where he was willing to agree to what Miach truly wanted.
“I might accept,” Miach said when Droch paused in his shouting long enough to take a breath, “if the prize was worth the risk.”
Droch looked at him furiously. “And what would you consider to be such a prize, boy?”
“An hour of free rein in your solar.”
“And I’ll have a recounting of where you were last night,” Droch shot back without hesitation. “Signed with your blood.”
Miach ignored the new round of shouting from down the table that threatened to deafen him. An hour of rifling through Droch’s private books or his death.
It seemed reasonable to him.
“Agreed, then,” he said.
Droch shoved his chair back and stood. “Now.”
“When I’ve finished my wine.”
Even Sìle choked at that. Droch stood there with his arms folded across his chest, simply radiating hatred. Miach wasn’t sure if that was an improvement over his threats or not; it was probably something better left undecided.
He did decide, however, that a year spent in Lothar of Wychweald’s lowest dungeon, learning to ignore even the most vile of things pressing down on his mind, had been of more use to him than he had ever thought it would be. Ignoring the very powerful wizard glaring at him was relatively easy. Droch had a poor opinion of Lothar’s skill with a spell, but he might have thought differently if he’d had a decent taste of Lothar’s cruelty.
Miach finished his wine in his own good time, thanked the masters for a delicious lunch, then pushed his chair back without haste and looked at Droch.
“Where to, my lord?”
“Just shut up and follow me,” Droch threw over his shoulder as he strode from the chamber.
Miach raised his eyebrows briefly at the other’s rudeness, then shrugged and started along after him. He didn’t make it five paces before he ran bodily into the king of Tòrr Dòrainn.
“You’re mad,” Sìle said in a low voice. “Do not have anything to do with him. No good will come of it.”
Miach put his hand on the elven king’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, I want what he’s willing to give. I won’t lose.”
“Damn these wizards and all their foul doings,” Sìle muttered. He looked at Miach from under bushy eyebrows. “You needn’t capitulate to their rules, you know, nor to their ridiculous challenges. You’re beyond that.”
Miach smiled in appreciation of the compliment. “Thank you, Your Grace. But if it eases you any, I don’t imagine Droch will use much imagination in his choice. He’ll likely settle for a simple game of cards. I’ll fare well enough considering that your son taught me almost everything I know about cheating.”
Sosar laughed uneasily and pushed back from the table. “I did not,” he said, standing. “You were proficient enough in that without my aid. We’ll come along, of course, though I’m not sure what assistance we can offer.”
“You’ll think of something,” Miach said with a slight nod over his shoulder. If something happened to him, they would have to look after Morgan, which Sosar surely realized. Miach glanced at Morgan. “Come along, Buck, and wait for me whilst I’m about this fine entertainment.”
Morgan’s hands were hidden under her cloak, no doubt holding on to those lovely knives he’d made for her. He supposed it wouldn’t be inappropriate to hope she wouldn’t use them on him before Droch could have at him.
She fell into step behind him as he left the chamber. He wasn’t sure who was cursing in a less successful whisper, Morgan or her grandfather. Sosar and Turah were, blessedly, refraining from the same.
“Buck, my arse,” Morgan hissed from immediately behind him. “You idiot, what are you doing?”
“Just a little sport,” he said easily, loudly enough that Droch could hear from where he walked twenty paces ahead of them. “We’ll be on our way come sunset, I imagine.”