"I am Adaira," said the woman in question. She looked down her very aristocratic nose at him. "I am here, my lord Mochnadhemiach, to become your queen. The wedding is in a month's time. Did my lord not see fit to tell you? "
Miach shot Adhémar a look of barely repressed fury. "Congratulations on your nuptials, my liege. Thank you for bothering to tell me."
Adhémar shrugged. "I told you I'd had business in Penrhyn. Now you see what that business was."
"Indeed, I do. Now, it you will excuse me, I am going to find our very vital wielder and see if I can stop her before she throws herself off the battlements. "
"Why bother?" Adhémar asked. "She's ruined the damned sword."
"Then she can use yours," Miach snapped. "You don't have the magic for it."
"What?" said Adaira, looking unpleasantly surprised. "Adhémar, what is he talking about?"
"Nothing," Adhémar said. "Mindless babbling. An aberration. My brother is a fool, on many accounts. Leave Morgan be, Miach. She's not worth the trouble."
Miach walked over and plowed his fist into his brother's face before he thought better of it. Adhémar went sprawling. Miach did not bother to help him up. He turned and tossed the hilt of the Sword of Angesand at Glines. "Guard that with your life. "
"I will," Glines said faintly.
Miach looked at the rest of the companions he had grown quite fond of. They were all regarding him with various degrees of astonishment. "I apologize for the subterfuge. I will find Morgan, then we will all have speech together. Guard Glines and the hilt, if you will. I will return as soon as may be."
"Aye, to find yourself in the dungeon!" Adhémar bellowed, struggling to his feet.
Miach turned and looked at him. "Do you honestly believe you can manage that?" he asked. "In truth?"
Adhémar opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it. "I'll expect more courtesy from you at my wedding banquet."
"I imagine you will," Miach said, then he strode from the great hall.
He ran through the passageways, up and down half flights of stairs, and out toward the kitchens. There was a pair of souls standing at the end of the hallway.
Morgan.
There was someone with her.
Miach skidded to a halt, then forced himself to run even faster. He skidded again, through shards of glass and spells laid to tangle about the feet and entrap.
Miach caught Morgan as she fell.
Lothar made him a low, mocking bow, then straightened. "Kinsman. Or should I say great-nephew several generations removed? Or should I merely sayformer guest in my dungeon?"
Miach hardly had the wherewithal to block the spell of death Lothar threw over him like a dark cloak. He was no longer the child he'd been when Lothar had first captured him riding recklessly along the border. He was a man full grown, in full possession of his powers, and damned close to being Lothar's equal.
Lothar laughed with genuine humor. "Do you think so?" he asked. "Oh, I daresay not. But we'll find out eventually, I imagine. "He yawned, patting his hand delicately over his mouth. "Unfortunately, my work is finished here, for the day. I'll be back for you later."
And with that, he vanished.
Miach was torn between catching his enemy and caring for the woman in his arms. He took a step, then stopped, the glass crunching under his boots. He looked down. There were the spells of entrapment, which he wiped away easily. But covering them, as it it had been wine sloshed generously upon the floor, was something else.
Poison.
Miach countered that as well, but it took him a moment or two and left him a little light-headed.
Or perhaps that was the aftereffects of the look Morgan had given him.
He'd known she would be angry and he'd been sure she would feel betrayed. He hadn't expect to see naked hatred on her face. Hecertainlyhadn't expected her to destroy a sword that had hung in the hall of Neroche for five hundred years.
Her power was staggering.
