distaste. “I’m not surprised. Gair was famous for taking pieces of whatever suited him and forcing those pieces into things new and revolting.” He stopped abruptly and looked at Morgan. “I’m sorry, Mhorghain, to speak of your sire thus.”
She shook her head sharply. “Until the end of fall, I didn’t know who he was, much less suspect he might be my father. I’m under no illusions about his character.” She paused. “Did you know him?”
“Aye, quite well,” Léir said with a faint smile. “He was younger than I am, of course, so I was able to watch him grow into his power—which was formidable. He was a restless man, never content with his situation or his heritage. He roamed the Nine Kingdoms for decades until he settled upon Ceangail as home. How he came to be lord there is something better left in the shadows, as are the years he spent there, stretching his power. I encountered him in various locales and grieved for what he could have been but chose not to be. When he wed Sarait, I hoped he had turned his back on the darkness.”
“But he hadn’t,” Morgan said quietly, “had he?”
Soilléir reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. “Nay, though I can’t say I was surprised. He had sought out and taken for his own spells that he never should have had. As for his using spells of Olc, nay, that doesn’t surprise me either. The only assumption you’re making that you shouldn’t, Miach, is that Gair would ever beg anything from Droch, or use anything that Droch had laid claim to. To say they were enemies is understating the truth badly. Droch loathed Gair with a fury that bordered on madness and Gair reciprocated in equal measure. Gair was the far superior mage, of course, and used whatever magic suited him, which galled Droch no end—especially when he saw that Gair could bend Olc to his will when he had no bloodright to it.”
“But I can use it,” Morgan said very quietly.
Léir slid her a sideways look. “How do you know?”
She took a deep breath. “I have nightmares, and that seems to be the language of magic that comes out of my mouth during them. I keep dreaming that Miach is Gair and trying to kill him before I realize he’s not.” She paused. “I haven’t had those dreams in a while, though.”
Léir smiled at her kindly. “Your dreams will fade as you settle into yourself and then Miach won’t have to sleep with one eye open any longer. And you can perhaps sleep more easily knowing that even if you use a spell on our good archmage there, he will always be capable of countering it—unless you catch him completely by surprise. Even then, you likely won’t manage to best him.”
“Why not?” Morgan asked.
Miach watched Léir turn to him expectantly and knew there was no point in even attempting a dodge. He turned to Morgan. “Because Olc is a blood magic, like Fadaire or Camanaë. Only those with it in their veins can truly harness its full power, though others who do not claim it as their heritage can use it—with enough power.” He sighed deeply. “If you care for the history, I’ll give it to you.”
“Perhaps you should,” she managed. “I might feel better about it the next time I try to do you in.”
He squeezed her hand briefly. “You might. As for the magic, there are, as it happens, only a handful of well-known practitioners of Olc in the world because they were the only ones to manage to survive into adulthood. The first master of Olc was Duaichnidh. His descendants were in the habit of having children, waiting until they were grown, then killing off all but the strongest lad.”
“What of their girls?” Morgan asked, looking horrified.
“I suppose there are a few of them still roaming the wastes past Aonaranach,” he conceded, “but I wouldn’t want to seek them out. Outside of those few lassies who escaped, the blood has remained concentrated in only a few over the centuries until Dorchadas of Saothair.
She shook her head sharply. “Until the end of fall, I didn’t know who he was, much less suspect he might be my father. I’m under no illusions about his character.” She paused. “Did you know him?”
“Aye, quite well,” Léir said with a faint smile. “He was younger than I am, of course, so I was able to watch him grow into his power—which was formidable. He was a restless man, never content with his situation or his heritage. He roamed the Nine Kingdoms for decades until he settled upon Ceangail as home. How he came to be lord there is something better left in the shadows, as are the years he spent there, stretching his power. I encountered him in various locales and grieved for what he could have been but chose not to be. When he wed Sarait, I hoped he had turned his back on the darkness.”
“But he hadn’t,” Morgan said quietly, “had he?”
Soilléir reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. “Nay, though I can’t say I was surprised. He had sought out and taken for his own spells that he never should have had. As for his using spells of Olc, nay, that doesn’t surprise me either. The only assumption you’re making that you shouldn’t, Miach, is that Gair would ever beg anything from Droch, or use anything that Droch had laid claim to. To say they were enemies is understating the truth badly. Droch loathed Gair with a fury that bordered on madness and Gair reciprocated in equal measure. Gair was the far superior mage, of course, and used whatever magic suited him, which galled Droch no end—especially when he saw that Gair could bend Olc to his will when he had no bloodright to it.”
“But I can use it,” Morgan said very quietly.
Léir slid her a sideways look. “How do you know?”
She took a deep breath. “I have nightmares, and that seems to be the language of magic that comes out of my mouth during them. I keep dreaming that Miach is Gair and trying to kill him before I realize he’s not.” She paused. “I haven’t had those dreams in a while, though.”
Léir smiled at her kindly. “Your dreams will fade as you settle into yourself and then Miach won’t have to sleep with one eye open any longer. And you can perhaps sleep more easily knowing that even if you use a spell on our good archmage there, he will always be capable of countering it—unless you catch him completely by surprise. Even then, you likely won’t manage to best him.”
“Why not?” Morgan asked.
Miach watched Léir turn to him expectantly and knew there was no point in even attempting a dodge. He turned to Morgan. “Because Olc is a blood magic, like Fadaire or Camanaë. Only those with it in their veins can truly harness its full power, though others who do not claim it as their heritage can use it—with enough power.” He sighed deeply. “If you care for the history, I’ll give it to you.”
“Perhaps you should,” she managed. “I might feel better about it the next time I try to do you in.”
He squeezed her hand briefly. “You might. As for the magic, there are, as it happens, only a handful of well-known practitioners of Olc in the world because they were the only ones to manage to survive into adulthood. The first master of Olc was Duaichnidh. His descendants were in the habit of having children, waiting until they were grown, then killing off all but the strongest lad.”
“What of their girls?” Morgan asked, looking horrified.
“I suppose there are a few of them still roaming the wastes past Aonaranach,” he conceded, “but I wouldn’t want to seek them out. Outside of those few lassies who escaped, the blood has remained concentrated in only a few over the centuries until Dorchadas of Saothair.
Similar Books
