Princess of the Sword Read Online Free

eyes and thought about Gobhann, about the bitter wind that blew there eleven months out of the year and the harsh summer sunshine that beat upon the rocks during the lone month of warmth. She thought about the strictures she’d learned from Weger and how he would have looked at her in disgust to learn she’d even given heed to any ache or pain she might have felt in her frail womanly frame. That helped, but not overmuch.

    She and Miach were trapped.

    And the only way out lay past a man who would never let them go willingly.

     

Two

    M iach suspected he might have indulged in a bit of plunder once too often.

    He had slipped in and out of Buidseachd quite successfully before, but never with anyone else. It was also one thing to intend to have just a peek in the library downstairs. Assaulting the chamber of Droch of Saothair, the master of Olc, was another thing entirely. He should have insisted that Morgan remain behind.

    Unfortunately, it was too late at present for regrets. All he could do now was decide what he might attempt if they were discovered. As he had told Morgan earlier, he could stand easily against one of the masters of Buidseachd, less easily against two or three, but not against all of them together.

    At last count, there were ten wizards at the school, each the acknowledged master of his craft. Miach wasn’t in the habit of doubting his own abilities, but there came a point where a man had to admit what his limitations were.

    Even if he released his power, fought his way out of Droch’s solar, and escaped the keep, he would be forced to slink back to Tor Neroche, shamed, ostracized, spoken of with disgust for centuries to come.

    Which he would do without hesitation, if it came to a choice between that and Morgan’s life. At least she might still care for him if he were disgraced. Better disgraced than dead.

    But better undetected than disgraced. He would get them out without incident if he could manage it.

    He fought to quiet his breath and his mind. He didn’t dare reach behind him for Morgan’s hand lest he brush something and give away their presence. Morgan was absolutely still, though her fingers were digging into his back, which told him she hadn’t fainted from fright. He would have to tell her that the last thought had crossed his mind—later, when she could invite him outside and repay him for the slight with her sword.

    “Give me tidings,” Droch commanded, “and pray make them something useful.”

    “Aye, my lord,” another voice said quickly. “Of course, my lord, there are the usual tales about those creatures that are wandering all over Neroche—”

    “I know that already!”

    Miach didn’t doubt it. Droch wasn’t one to leave his comfortable lodgings at Buidseachd very often, but he more than made up for it with the quantity and quality of his spies. Miach had encountered them on more than one occasion in places he wouldn’t have thought to find them.

    “But those monsters have been seen east of the Sgùrrachs,” the man added gingerly. “There is no definite word on who sends them, but the rumor is that Lothar—”

    “Lothar of Wychweald?” Droch said with a derisive snort. “He isn’t capable of creating what roams through the Nine Kingdoms at present.”

    “But his art—”

    “Art,” Droch sneered. “I have art. He has a cobbled-together, inelegant patchwork of rubbish that works only because he’s stumbled upon spells a child could master and puts a bit of flair behind them.”

    Miach might have smiled had the situation not been so dire. It was a well-known fact that there was no love lost between Droch and the black mage of Wychweald. He himself had perhaps a different opinion of the latter’s power, though he certainly had to agree with Droch’s assessment of Lothar’s technique.

    “What else do you have?” Droch demanded. “It had best be worth the gold I’ve given you, for what you’ve told me so far certainly