The Mage's Daughter (10 page)

Damn him to hell for them all.

By the time he was finished with whatever it was he did, she was stiff and cross. She clambered clumsily to her feet and glared at him.

He blinked in surprise. “What did I do now?”

She wanted to list a thousand terrible things, but she found she couldn't bring a single bloody one of them to mind. Perhaps she would work on that list later, when she wasn't so distracted by the sight of him.

“'Tis late,” she said shortly. “Let's go.”

He rose without comment, then followed her toward the door. Werelight floated suddenly over their heads, then the torch went out. She knew it hadn't done so on its own.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

“Years of practice,” he said with a smile. “Would you like to learn the spell?”

Nay
was on the tip of her tongue, but she found she couldn't quite bring herself to say it. “I am curious,” she admitted unwillingly. “But I don't want to learn the spell.”

“I won't teach it to you,” he said, “but I will show you a few others, if you like.”

She nodded.

He said a single word and fire danced again along the top of the torch. “There are, as you might suspect, as many ways to put out fire as there are languages of magic.”

Morgan watched and listened as he extinguished and relit the torch half a dozen ways. The last spell sounded familiar. The fire wasn't ruthlessly obliterated, or squelched, or made to disappear; it seemed to smile at her before it gracefully faded to nothing. Morgan looked at him.

“That was a spell of Camanaë,” she said in surprise.

“That was a spell of Camanaë,” he agreed, looking as if he thoroughly approved of her.

She swallowed, hard. “It was beautiful.”

“Well, it is a beautiful magic.” He studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Let me try another you might like.”

He spoke a trio of words and the fire sprang to life with a beauty so intense, Morgan could hardly look at it. He spoke another handful of words and the fire sparkled away until there was a single, small flash of red. Morgan found that its disappearance left her quite bereft. She blinked, hard, then looked up at him.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Fadaire. 'Tis the magic of the elves of Tòrr Dòrainn.”

“Tòrr Dòrainn?” she repeated uneasily.

“Aye,” he said softly.

Morgan shivered. She had dreamed of Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn, but she would fling herself down the steps outside before she thought about why. “That magic was exquisite,” she managed, praying Miach wouldn't say anything about those dreams. “How is it you know any of it?

He smiled, a mischievous smile that had her wishing quite suddenly for a chair.

“I know many things I shouldn't, but I am careful with them. The elves there will survive my trespassing.”

“You stole the spell?” she asked, surprised.

He tsk-tsked her. “
Stole
is such an ugly word. I might have glanced at the odd book of spells opened conveniently to a page I needed. 'Tis also possible I once found myself locked in King Sìle's solar and needed something to do to pass the time.” He shrugged unrepentantly. “I'm a little vague on the details, truth be told.”

She snorted at him. “I imagine you are. So, are those all the pilfered spells you know for ridding yourself of fire, or do you know any more?”

His smile faded. “I know two more, but I'll not use either of them here.”

“Why not?”

“Because the first is the magic of Olc. It is…evil.”

“Do you know much of it?” she asked faintly.

“Aye,” he said, though he looked very reluctant to say more. “The other is Caochladh. I don't use that magic without great need, for it changes the essence of a thing. It would change the fire to air, permanently. I would then have to change the air back to fire.” He smiled briefly. “Very powerful and very dangerous.”

“Then how is it you know any of it?”

“I might have eavesdropped.”

She almost smiled. “You didn't.”

“I didn't,” he agreed. “The spells of Caochladh are taught by a single man at Beinn òrain and only to those who have won the seven rings of mastery—and only then when those souls have proved themselves to be exceptionally discreet.”

“And that would be you.”

“I may not be many other things, but I am discreet.”

“That I can believe,” she conceded. “So, how long did it take you to win all these rings of mastery?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Well, mine was a rather unorthodox journey, so you can't precisely judge the rings by time spent there. I was there in my youth, but I didn't stay long.”

“Why not?”

He smiled, looking slightly sheepish. “I missed my mother.”

She smiled before she could help herself. “Did you?”

He reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from her face. “I did. She was a wonderful woman and my closest confidant. She was also a damned fine mage. I learned as much from her at home as I ever could have at Beinn òrain. But I did go back later, after I had shouldered my duties. I spent a month showing the masters there what they wanted to see and earned the rings.”

“You're not wearing any rings.”

He shrugged. “They're languishing in a drawer somewhere. I only wanted them because they were a means to the spells of Caochladh.”

“Of course. And this exceptionally choosey man gave them to you?”

“Aye.”

She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“I don't understand why you're here.”

“Don't you?”

She scowled at him. “You've apologized already. You can go now.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He took a deep breath. “I'm not finished here.”

“Do you want Weger's mark so badly?”

“It's incidental to what I want.”

Morgan didn't think she dared ask him to elaborate. He couldn't have come for her. It just wasn't possible.

He reached out and tugged gently on her braid. “Come on, gel. You should be abed.”

Morgan allowed him to usher her out the door because she couldn't think of a good reason to stop him. She walked outside first and gasped in spite of herself at the chill and the darkness that fell over her heart as her magic left her.

Damn the scourge and all its incarnations.

She supposed Miach locked the door behind him. She couldn't have said for the howl of the wind. She felt him take her hand and didn't protest as he kept hold of it as he led her down the stairs.

She realized he had stopped suddenly only because she had run into him. She looked up and found that he had run into Weger. Weger disentangled her fingers from Miach's, pushed him out of the way, then pulled her off the final step. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

“Dawn,” he said to Miach. He looked at Morgan. “I'll see you to your room, Morgan.”

Morgan caught sight of Miach's expression. She was certain that his astonishment mirrored her own, but she didn't dare say anything. She walked with Weger across courtyards and through passageways until she stood in front of her own door. Weger opened it for her, then stepped back.

He made her a low bow.

Morgan could scarce believe her eyes.

“You needn't go with him, you know,” he said quietly. “You might stay here with me.”

And with that, he pushed her inside her room and very quietly shut the door.

Morgan gaped at the door for several minutes until she managed to shut her mouth. She supposed she wouldn't have been any more surprised if Weger had conjured up a fistful of flowers and handed them to her.

She sat down on her bed before she fell there. She reached absently for the tea that was sitting on the little table next to her. It was hot and actually rather tasty. Stephen hard at work again, apparently.

Go with Miach?

Stay with Weger?

She thought about it for the space of five heartbeats, then shook her head. Miach was a fool and Weger…well, Weger had obviously taken a blow to the head. Neither of them was serious. She was a rough, unpolished shieldmaiden.

Besides, Miach hadn't exactly offered her anything but an apology. And Weger hadn't offered her anything more than a place to stay.

Unbidden, a vision of elven magic danced before her eyes. She saw its fierce beauty, the spells of Camanaë and their sweetness, all the other things that Miach had shown her, things she never would have seen if she'd never gone into that tower chamber, never agreed to take Nicholas's blade to Tor Neroche, never met a man who patiently fashioned spell after spell so she could look them all over and see what pleased her the most.

Go with Miach and face her dreams. Stay with Weger and live out her life in unrelenting silence.

It was a terrible choice.

One she wasn't sure she could make.

M
iach sat in the tower chamber a se'nnight after Morgan had healed him and wanted nothing so much as to simply lie down and sleep until noon. He wasn't one to shun difficult tasks, but he was willing to admit, without shame, that he might be facing just a bit more than he could adequately surmount.

He'd been invited, the day after Morgan had healed him, to join the lads in the upper courtyard. That he might have managed, but the invitation had come from Weger himself, along with the casually dropped nugget that Weger had decided to take over his training personally.

The torture had begun thereafter before dawn and continued until Gobhann was draped in the lovely colors of twilight. By the time the sun had set each evening, Miach hadn't given a damn what time it was, how lovely the keep looked, or whether or not he'd survived another day. All he'd wanted to do was crawl in bed, but even that hadn't been possible. He'd spent the better part of each night seeing to spells that were now never as he'd left them but hours before. He'd begun to dread the arrival of dawn.

Dawn, however, continued to come. His world had become nothing but swords and spells and wishing that he might, for just a few hours, do something else.

And so he found himself, on that particularly long night after a particularly grueling day, wishing that he could just close his eyes and sleep.

But he couldn't, so he closed his eyes and went about his work. It took him longer than he would have liked, but his spells had begun to shift in a way he could no longer predict. Unless he managed to stop what was eating away at them, he would be shoring them up constantly. He had to determine what was responsible for the assaults and stop it—and that he couldn't do simply sitting in Weger's tower night after night.

He opened his eyes and faced the truth he'd been trying to avoid for days.

He could put off the inevitable for perhaps another se'nnight, but then he would have to go. He didn't particularly want to force Morgan's hand, but he had no choice. The realm could not wait much longer.

He heaved himself to his feet, then left the chamber, locking it behind him. He turned and paused in surprise. Morgan was sitting on the staircase, some twenty steps below him. She had kept watch over him over the past se'nnight, but she had refused to come any farther than the bottom step. Why she'd chosen that terrible perch was a mystery. The wind was biting and it was starting to rain. Miach eased past her and turned to lean toward her.

“Morgan, you've got to get down from here,” he shouted.

She looked up at him, then her eyes widened suddenly. “Miach—”

Miach felt himself be flung off the stairs. It was all he could do to grab for the edge of a step and blurt out a spell—and the spell served him not at all. His rapidly numbing fingers were the only thing keeping him from plunging to his death. He swung his foot up on the stairs to try to pull himself up only to have Searbhe kick it back off. The ring of steel was clearly audible above the howl of the wind, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He could only hang there helplessly and watch Morgan try to save them both.

He'd seen her at her lethal best; she wasn't anywhere near that at present. Fortunately for them both, however, she was proficient enough and Searbhe was not her equal. She finally boxed him on the ear with the flat of her blade, then sent him tumbling down the stairs by means of her foot to his belly.

Miach would have congratulated her on the feat, but he was too busy worrying whether or not his heart would continue to beat long enough for him to get himself back up on the steps. Morgan resheathed her sword, then knelt and grasped him by the wrists. She held on to him until he could hook his leg on the stairs and pull himself back up. She jerked him away from the edge of the stairs and flung him back against the mountainside. He gasped at the pain of sharp rocks digging into his back as she threw herself against him, but he didn't protest. That he was willing to endure such discomfort was indication enough of just how desperate he was to have Morgan in his arms.

He held her tightly and watched the turn of the stairs, waiting for the glint of steel or a change in the shadows. There was nothing, but that wasn't particularly reassuring.

“We need to go,” he said against Morgan's ear. “Do you want me to carry you?”

She shook her head as she pulled away from him. “I am well.”

She didn't look it, but he wasn't going to argue with her. He took her hand, kept his sword bare in the other, then led her carefully down the steps. He saw nothing, not even in the shadows of the courtyard at the bottom of the staircase. They couldn't have been so fortunate as to have had Searbhe fall to his death.

He resheathed his sword, but kept Morgan's hand in his as they ran across the courtyard, more to keep her on her feet than for any more romantic reason. He was exceptionally grateful she'd had the strength to defend them both, but he could see that she had paid a steep price for it. He opened the gate for her, then shut it behind them with a clang. He ran with her across the inner courtyard until they had reached a passageway where a torch drove away the shadows. Morgan released him, then collapsed back against the wall, gasping for breath.

“I must rest for a moment,” she wheezed.

Miach smiled at her. “You have cause. You were magnificent, by the way. I appreciate the gift of my life.”

“It was a near thing,” she managed.

“Too near,” he agreed.

She rested for a moment or two, then pushed away from the wall. “We must tell Weger,” she said. “A fair fight is one thing; murder is something else entirely.”

“I can't imagine he bothers about assaults until the victims aren't breathing any longer.”

“He'll bother about this one.”

Miach didn't think so, but he followed her along the passageway just the same until they reached a heavy wooden door. He was absolutely certain Weger wouldn't give a damn who had pushed whom where. It would be better to keep it to themselves and be prepared for a next time.

He stopped Morgan before she put her hand on the latch. “I don't want to say anything about it whilst Searbhe is within earshot,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him. “You know something.”

“I suspect something,” he said. “He's not telling the truth about himself and I find that curious. It may be nothing, but I'm willing to wait him out and see what becomes of it.”

“And if he tries to murder you again?”

Miach smiled. “I suppose you'll just have to spend all your time guarding my back, won't you?”

She pursed her lips at him. “I'll think about it.”

He didn't argue with her, lest she think on it too long and decide to refuse. He reached around and opened the door for her. “After you.”

He followed her inside and looked around with interest. He couldn't say it was a luxurious place, but it was surely more comfortable than anything he'd seen so far. There were bookshelves full of books, numerous well-made chairs, and a very large hearth at one end. The hall was empty except for Weger sitting in front of the fire with Searbhe and another handful of lads he didn't know very well.

“Doesn't he ever sleep?” Miach muttered.

“Weger? Not much, I imagine. You'd think Searbhe would need some now though, wouldn't you? Especially now that he's sporting so many bruises.”

Searbhe looked up as they approached. “No novices allowed,” he said loudly.

“He is hardly a novice, is he?” Morgan returned sharply. She stopped behind the chair nearby and looked Searbhe over assessingly. “You're a bit bloodied. Fall down and cut yourself?”

Searbhe got to his feet and loomed over her. “A gust of wind caught me,” he said coldly.

“Best stay indoors, then, hadn't you?” she said with a snort.

Miach yanked Morgan out of the way before Searbhe could shove her aside. He glared at Miach, then cursed his way past them and across to the door. Miach watched him leave, then leaned against the back of a chair and watched until the other remaining lads seemed to find his scrutiny uncomfortable and departed for safer ground as well.

Once the chamber was empty, he sat down and tried to make sense of the low arguing that Morgan was doing with Weger. He'd obviously missed quite a bit, because he found they had left pleasantries far behind and were settling for things approaching shouts.

“I know Miach doesn't want him thrown out and I know you won't throw him out, but I think he needs to be watched,” Morgan was saying rather heatedly. “I wouldn't put it past him to stab any of us!”

“Searbhe has no desire to harm you or me,” Weger disagreed. “'Tis our good archmage that he loathes. I daresay there's a particular reason for it.”

“Because Miach has sword skill and Searbhe doesn't?” Morgan asked tartly.

Weger shook his head. “I think Searbhe recognizes him.”

“He doesn't look
that
much like Adhémar,” Morgan said. “Fortunately. And at least when Miach opens his mouth, all within earshot don't plug their ears.”

Miach stroked his lips with his fingers to keep from smiling. Poor Adhémar. Traveling with Morgan in the fall had to have been taxing in the extreme.

Weger pursed his lips at her. “I wasn't thinking the current king of Neroche, actually, though Miach does bear an unfortunate resemblance to him. Our wee mutterer here looks a bit like a pair of his ancestors. I thought at first Symon of Wychweald—”

“Symon of Wychweald?” Morgan interrupted. “Who is that? Is he related to Lothar?”

Weger sighed gustily. “Morgan, do you know
nothing
about the Nine Kingdoms?”

“I've never been interested in anything to do with Wychweald or black mages or things of that sort,” Morgan said stiffly. “Nor with anything to do with the rulers of Neroche.”

“A little knowledge of the outside world isn't a poor thing,” Weger said. “Perhaps you should continue your convalescence here in my library. For tonight, I'll simply tell you that Symon of Wychweald is related to Lothar. He was also the first king of Neroche. How that came about is something you can look up for yourself.” Weger shot Miach a look. “I've changed my mind. You look less like Symon than you do Gilraehen the Fey. You have the same pale, spooky eyes he has.”

“Thank you,” Miach said dryly.

“How would
you
know that?” Morgan asked Weger in surprise.

Miach listened to Weger give Morgan a vague answer about being very well read and wondered silently how Weger could possibly make the comparison he'd just made. He studied Weger, but saw nothing that would have indicated he was anything more than he seemed to be.

Then again, looks often deceived.

“I don't understand why any of it matters,” Morgan said. “Even if Searbhe recognizes Miach, why would he care?”

Miach reached for the answer and found it suddenly beneath his fingers. “Because Neroche is at war with Riamh.”

“Riamh?” she echoed.

Weger swore in frustration. “History, Morgan. Geography. World affairs. Pick up a book tomorrow.”

Morgan buried a curse in her cup.

Miach smiled. “Riamh is not only the name of Lothar's castle, 'tis the name of his realm.” He looked at Weger. “Searbhe is kin of Lothar's, isn't he?”

The corner of Weger's mouth tipped up in the slightest of smiles. “My faith in the security of the realm is restored.”

“Searbhe of Riamh,” Morgan repeated faintly. She looked at Weger in surprise. “How do
you
know who he is?”

Weger hesitated, then sighed. “Because Searbhe is my cousin.”

Miach heard Morgan's cup hit the floor. Fortunately for their boots, the cup was empty. Miach picked it up and set it on the table slowly. He looked at Morgan, but she was staring at Weger with the same sort of look she'd worn when she'd learned who he was.

The poor gel.

“Your cousin?” she whispered. “How is that possible?”

Weger leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Because as unpleasant a fact as it is, I am Lothar's grandson, many generations removed. Through my mother.”

Morgan put her face in her hands.

“I grew up in Riamh,” Weger continued impassively, “and did my share of things I regret. To your ancestors, Miach, as it happens. Sorry.”

Miach smiled and shrugged.

Morgan lifted her head. Her eyes were wide with shock. “You have
magic
?”

Weger smiled grimly. “Not here.”

Morgan shivered so violently, Miach could see it from where he sat. He rose and went to look for a blanket of some sort. He found one wadded up on the end of a bench, shook it out, then walked back to the fire. He draped it over her, then leaned closer on the pretext of tucking it up around her shoulders.