Princess of the Sword by Lynn Kurland Page A

look at Miach, then set the glass on the floor.

    “One hour, Archmage of Neroche.”

    Miach nodded, looked at Morgan again, then walked into the chamber and shut the door behind him. Morgan leaned back against the wall and wished for the comforting chill of her swordhilt beneath her hand, not the horrible, bone-numbing bitterness that seemed to freeze more than just her body. She hadn’t noticed it the night before—perhaps she’d been too terrified to—but Olc’s darkness seemed to not only chill her form, it began to work on her mind as well. Unreasonable fears assaulted her, fears of things that lurked in shadows in the depth of night when there was no light to drive them away.

    She took a deep breath, then looked around Sosar at the glass on the floor. Unfortunately, only a barely discernable amount of time had passed.

    She looked up at her uncle, but his eyes were closed and he was breathing very carefully. Perhaps he was walking in the garden at Seanagarra where songs of Fadaire whispered through the leaves and his father’s spells kept the worst of winter away.

    She closed her eyes to attempt the same thing, but once she did, she was immediately assaulted by visions of the serpents she’d seen inside Droch’s chamber the night before. No aid from that quarter. She opened her eyes and looked about her for some other, less evil distraction.

    She found it in the person of the tall man who was walking down the passageway toward them, looking for all the world as if he too strolled peacefully in Seanagarra’s pleasant gardens. She elbowed Sosar, and he opened his eyes reluctantly. He looked, then smiled at the ageless man who stopped in front of him.

    “Master Soilléir,” Sosar said, inclining his head, “I didn’t have the chance to greet you properly at luncheon today.”

    Master Soilléir made him a very low bow. “Not to worry, Prince Sosar. The circumstances there were less than ideal. Tell me, how long has it been since last we met?”

    “Three,” Sosar began, squinting up at the ceiling, “perhaps four hundred years?”

    “Too long,” Soilléir said without a hint of irony. He turned to her and held out his hand. “I’m Léir,” he said simply. “And you are . . . ?”

    She took his hand in a firm grip and answered before she thought better of it. “The archmage’s servant.” She made what she hoped was a gruff, manly noise as she pulled her hand back and tucked it into her sleeve. “Buck.”

    Soilléir only looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “Indeed, Buck. I thought you were mute.”

    “It comes and goes.”

    He laughed. “I imagine it does—to your lord’s edification, no doubt. Would you mind if I kept vigil here with you and Prince Sosar?”

    Morgan shook her head. “I’m sure Miach—I mean, my lord Mochriadhemiach—would appreciate it.”

    Soilléir gave no indication of having marked her slip. He merely leaned against the wall next to her and folded his arms over his chest. He looked around her now and again, as if he checked the hourglass as well, but said nothing more. Morgan didn’t want to credit him with more sterling qualities than he deserved, but she had the feeling he was just as interested in keeping Miach safe as she and Sosar were.

    The hour passed with excruciating slowness. Morgan tried not to think about what Miach might be finding, or—worse still—not finding. She had no choice but to believe he had been in more terrible places than Droch’s solar, but that was of little comfort.

    And still the sand dropped one grain at a time.

    Droch appeared precisely as the last grain fell. He pushed the servant out of the way, then threw open his door as if he expected Miach to be plundering his coffers. Morgan saw Miach standing just inside the door, as if he’d been preparing to come out. She knew this because in the scuffle, she’d moved to stand where she might most advantageously fling her knives into Droch’s back if he tried anything