Princess of the Sword Read Online Free Page A

isn’t.”

    “There was a battle, Master,” the man offered hastily, “less than a se’nnight ago, on the plains of Ailean. Many of those strange creatures were slain and ’tis said that the archmage of Neroche was slain with them. His runes were written in fire—”

    “I saw his sign myself,” Droch said coldly. “And if you think he allowed himself to be killed, you are a fool. He may be young, but he’s neither stupid nor powerless. He hasn’t skill to match mine, of course, but he shouldn’t be underestimated.” He made a noise of impatience. “These are not new tidings—”

    “Then hear these,” the man blurted out with the desperation of one truly terrified of whom he served. “There is a report that the king of Tòrr Dòrainn is staying at the Uneasy Dragon with his youngest son.”

    Miach closed his eyes briefly. Damn it. He’d known something like this would happen from the moment he’d taken the elven king to be fitted with discreet traveler’s gear and Sìle had instructed the poor tailor to look a bit harder for silk instead of homespun. At the very least, he should have locked Sìle in the chamber at the inn, or insisted he conceal who he was beyond merely dressing plainly. Perhaps he should have demanded that Morgan’s grandfather go back home to Seanagarra instead of coming with them to Beinn òrain.

    But then Miach wouldn’t have had the pleasure of Morgan’s company for the past se’nnight, and he wouldn’t have found himself betrothed to the woman who was as still as death behind him.

    He hoped they didn’t pay a steep price for the concession.

    “His younger son, you imbecile,” Droch said. “He only has a pair of them. And what would Sìle of Seanagarra be doing here? We rid ourselves of his prying self centuries ago.”

    “He was trying to pass himself off as a mere traveler, but that isn’t the interesting bit,” the other man said, beginning to warm to his topic. “One of my local lads says he saw three others with them, one of whom he thought might have resembled the archmage of Neroche—”

    The crack of a hand across a face echoed in the chamber. “Now you waste my time,” Droch snarled. “The day the king of Tòrr Dòrainn endures the company of that brat from Neroche will be the day I sit down for tea with Eulasaid of Camanaë.”

    “I could continue to look—”

    There was a bit of gurgling, then the unmistakable sound of a man being dragged across the room and thrown out the door. “Bring me proof of the elven king’s presence here and I’ll think about letting you live.”

    “Aye, my lo—”

    The slamming of that door made the door of the wardrobe creak thanks to its breeze. Miach would have pushed himself back harder against Morgan, but he didn’t dare do even that. He merely remained motionless and listened to Droch rage for a moment or two about gold wasted and the stupidity of local ne’er-do-wells. Miach closed his eyes and cursed. Even if Droch didn’t believe the tidings at present, he would consider them when he’d calmed down a bit, and then he would begin to think things he shouldn’t. Miach listened as Droch strode angrily around his chamber, then slowed to a halt in front of his desk.

    He suddenly became very still.

    Miach knew this because he could see a sliver of a reflection of the man in the enormous mirror hanging over the hearth. Droch ran his hand over his books, stopped, then turned and looked in the mirror.

    Miach knew it wasn’t possible that Droch could see him, not even through the slit left by the partially open wardrobe door, but even so his heart began to pound forcefully. He knew it was only in his own ears that it sounded so appallingly loud, but there was no comfort in that.

    Droch walked over to the hearth and hauled his servant to his feet. The boy woke with a squeak.

    “Aye, milord?”

    “Has anyone been in here?” Droch demanded.

    “Nay, milord,” the lad gasped. “Nay, not a