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message a quarter hour ago.” Sosar held out a note, pinched between as little of his thumb and forefinger as possible. “I couldn’t bring myself to read it for you.”

    Miach opened the missive. Words of Olc slithered down the page to wind themselves around his fingers. Next time alert me to your arrival, and I’ll make certain to leave my door unlocked.

    The note burst into flames and Miach dropped it with a curse. He ground the smoking rubbish under his boot, then stared down at the ashes. Well, whatever else his faults might have been, Droch was no fool—and he had a knack for being able to tell who was behind him without looking over his shoulder. Perhaps there had been spells laid across the doorway or over the books that he hadn’t seen. He looked at Sosar. “I suppose we’d best have a decent breakfast.”

    “As I advised,” Sosar agreed. “I’ll go now and see to clothes for this historic visit. You can find your own baths, though. I’m sure my father will aid you when he catches a whiff of your fragrant selves.”

    Miach cursed Sosar briefly as he slipped past them, then he took as deep a breath as he dared. “This is a boon,” he said to Morgan with forced cheerfulness. “Perhaps I might even be invited into a few interesting chambers this time.”

    “Who was the missive from?”

    He thought about attempting to dodge the question, but discarded the idea. If Morgan was going back inside Buidseachd with him, she had best know what they stood to face. “It was from Droch.”

    “He knows we were there, doesn’t he?”

    Miach managed a weary smile. “He believes that I was there, at least.”

    She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t go back inside his solar, Miach.”

    “Morgan, this is but a bit of light work before the true labor begins,” he said. “I cannot aid you when it comes time to use the spell we seek. At least allow me to aid you now by finding what you’ll need to use.”

    “I don’t like it.”

    He wouldn’t have either, in her place, but there was nothing to be done about it. He held her close for a moment or two, then stepped back and reached for her hand. He ran his thumb over the back of that hand as they walked, feeling the scars there. Those were scars she had earned during years of swordplay in a place that was, in its own way, as terrifying as anything Master Droch could conjure up. Her hands had very recently learned to weave spells, something he knew she had come to accept at enormous cost to her soul. He also had a fair idea of the sort of spell she would have to weave to right the wrong her father’s arrogance had caused. If there was something he could do to make that easier for her, he would.

    Besides, who knew what sorts of things he might find whilst roaming about the keep on the pretext of stretching his legs?

    He was willing to risk quite a bit to find out.

     

Three

    M organ walked up the road that led to the castle, squinted briefly at the early afternoon sun, and wished desperately that she were walking anywhere else.

    She had a decent selection of blades secreted on her person, but that was the only improvement over the night before. Her magic was hidden and her sword propped up in a corner at the inn, because apparently servants of archmages didn’t have magic or carry swords. She had been selected to act as Miach’s servant because their relatives had obviously had too much time on their hands whilst she and Miach had napped.

    Or whilst she had napped, rather. Miach hadn’t, but that wasn’t anything new. There were times she suspected he never slept at all. She would have chided him for not resting—and for being a no-doubt willing party to the decision about her assumed identity—but he’d looked so weary, she hadn’t had the heart to. She wasn’t sure how he was still on his feet, but there he was, walking in front of her with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed.

    She patted herself absently for weapons,