The Mage's Daughter (15 page)

He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “We could debate that, I imagine. All I know is that it's over, and for that I am very grateful. Now stop watching me, woman, lest I blush.”

Morgan opened her mouth to comment that his suddenly red eyes left him looking more likely to weep, but he put his hand on her head and turned her to face Nicholas. She looked at Nicholas and shrugged.

“Miach earned that mark,” she said quietly. “There is no doubt about that.”

Nicholas rubbed his finger over his mouth. “The king of Neroche will have fits over it, I imagine.”

Miach grunted. “I'm thinking I'll just keep it to myself.”

Nicholas chuckled. “I daresay that is wise. Now, tell me about the rest of your business. Did Weger know who you were?”

“Immediately,” Miach admitted, “though he did me the favor of keeping it to himself. He also presented me with a key to a tower just outside his walls where magic is possible.”

“Fortunate for you, then,” Nicholas said, sounding very surprised.

“Critical,” Miach corrected. “It allowed me the luxury of time to convince a certain gel that she was meant for more than a life within those walls.”

Morgan felt him tucking hair into her braid. She looked at him and found him watching her with a small smile. She had to look away, before she started up with her cursed tears again.

“And soon you must turn your thoughts to the future,” Nicholas said, “but perhaps you could first take a day or two and rest from your labors. Why don't we make it an early night? I'll walk with you to your bedchambers—”

“I imagine Miach has things to see to first,” Morgan interrupted. “Is there a quiet spot where he might retreat to work on his spells?”

“Of course,” Nicholas said with a smile. “Pull a chair in front of the fire, Mochriadhemiach, and be comfortable. I'll send someone along with something sweet and more wine, lest the labors become too heavy. Morgan, your bedchamber is as it always is. Put your lad in the one down the hall, won't you?”

Morgan nodded, then stood when Nicholas did. “Thank you, my lord, for the safe haven.”

He took her face in his hands and smiled at her. “My dear, it doesn't seem like much at all. Just food and a bed. But I'm pleased to be able to provide it.” He kissed her cheeks, clapped Miach on the shoulder in passing, then left the solar.

Morgan watched him go, then felt the chamber begin to grow cold as silence descended. She was fine if she was talking, or fighting, or about some other noble labor. It was merely standing and thinking that gave her trouble. She wrapped her arms around herself, then looked at Miach who was still sitting on the sofa.

“I'm cold,” she said.

“I'll go build you a fire in your bedchamber—”

“Nay,” she said quickly, then she took a deep breath. “Please, Miach. Not yet. Let me stay with you whilst you work.”

“Of course, love,” he said, rising. He stood in front of her and rubbed her arms for a moment or two, then released her and walked over to toss more wood on the fire.

Morgan walked over unsteadily to sit down in one of the chairs he placed in front of the hearth. Miach sat, then captured one of her feet between his boots. “I'll hurry.”

“Take all night if you like. I'd prefer it thus, actually.”

“Morgan, you have to sleep eventually,” he said.

“Do I?” she asked, striving for a light tone. “I think I can avoid it if I work at it.”

He sighed, then leaned forward and took her hands in both of his. “I wish I could spare you what troubles you.”

“And I wish you could spell me into a dreamless sleep,” she whispered. “I don't suppose you have that sort of spell to hand, do you?”

He smiled faintly. “I might.”

“Have you ever used it?” she asked in surprise.

“Do you actually want me to admit to that?”

“Was Adhémar involved?”

He laughed. “I'll only say this: there is little point in being a mage if you can't rid yourself now and again of the torment of your eldest brother blathering on endlessly.”

“At least you're using your power for good,” she managed.

“You cannot pretend not to share the sentiment, if not the execution of the remedy,” he said with a smile.

“I'll concede that,” she admitted. “He is irritating in the extreme.” She looked at him and sighed. “Thank you. I needed the distraction.”

“My pleasure. But I will hurry with my business. Whether you want it or not, sleep is what you need.”

She nodded, though she didn't exactly agree. She watched him close his eyes, then felt his stillness become a tangible thing in the chamber—that and the power that flowed from him. She watched him for quite some time, somewhat surprised to find that she didn't find it at all strange to be sitting across from a mage without reaching for her sword.

But in time she found that watching his arresting face was no longer enough to block out her unease. It was one thing to say Lismòr was a safe place. It was another thing to realize that it was at Lismòr that she had first begun to dream.

She rose and wandered about Nicholas's chamber. It occurred to her that it had been here that she'd first read something she wished she hadn't. She stopped in front of Nicholas's desk that sat beneath a long, leaded window. She remembered vividly having stood in that exact place in the fall. She'd reached for a book and it had fallen open to a page she hadn't called.

It was there that she'd first read about Gair of Ceangail. Her nightmares had begun soon after, nightmares that had led to her discovering she had magic and to a whole host of other things she hadn't anticipated—

She wondered if more pacing might keep her from thinking any more.

It was worth a try.

 

S
he had walked around the room countless times and thrown half a dozen logs on the fire by the time Miach finally opened his eyes and sighed. She could tell immediately that all was not well. She sank down in the chair opposite him.

“What's wrong?” she asked uneasily.

He seemed to consider his words carefully. “Nothing that hasn't been in motion for the past month, but I hear rumors of things that trouble me.” He paused. “Creatures, like the ones we saw near Chagailt and near the inn.”

“Who is sending them?” she asked. “Who are they coming for?”

“Good questions, both,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face and wincing. “I keep forgetting about this.”

She leaned forward and brushed his hair off his forehead. “I would make you a poultice for that, but it would heal it—and that would defeat the purpose.”

He smiled. “Trust me, the pain is nothing.”

She looked at his mark for a moment or two, then met his eyes. “You were at Gobhann too long, weren't you?”

He shook his head. “Nothing has changed substantially in the realm, Morgan, so don't burden yourself with the thought. I was able to do at Gobhann exactly what I could do at Tor Neroche.”

She supposed she had no choice but to believe him. “Well, what will you do now?”

“First, I'll see tomorrow what messages Nicholas has for me. I imagine Paien will have sent word. He and the others were anxious to be going even before I left.”

“Are the lads still at Tor Neroche?” she asked in surprise.

“Aye,” he said, “I passed many pleasant evenings with them whilst we waited for Adhémar to be about his nuptial madness. We kept ourselves out of his sights by hiding in my tower chamber and discussing your many fine qualities.” He smiled. “They are all terribly fond of you.”

“They just appreciate my ability to keep them from dying,” she said dismissively. “Where is it they want to go now?”

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I asked them to take the shards of the Sword of Angesand to Durial for me.”

She felt a little faint. “I see.”

“They wanted to be of some use.”

Morgan looked down at her hands for quite some time before she thought she might be able to manage to speak. She lifted her head. “I'm sorry I destroyed it.”

He shook his head. “Swords can be reforged—”

“It isn't that,” she protested. “I lost control and destroyed something beautiful.” She took a deep breath. “I've never felt such anger. For a moment, I think I almost relished it.”

“You had cause, Morgan.”

“I was angry, but not for the reason you think.”

He put his hands on top of hers. “I can imagine the reason, Morgan. Or at least I flatter myself I can. If the places had been reversed, I wouldn't have been particularly happy to think you wanted me only for my skill with a blade and not for my sweet self. True enough?”

She nodded, but found to her horror that tears were falling on his hands. Her tears. She looked at him miserably.

“I keep telling myself these tears are but the aftereffects of Lothar's poison, but I fear it's just me, turning slowly and inexorably into a tavern wench.”

He laughed and released her. “I imagine it's nothing so dire as that. You're tired and you still have healing to accomplish. Let me walk you to your chamber so you can be about it. There will be time enough tomorrow to worry about the rest.”

She nodded, then moved out of his way so he could bank Nicholas's fire. He collected their swords and cloaks, then led them out of Nicholas's solar.

“Miach?” she asked quietly as they walked through the cloister.

“Aye, love.”

“Can I be there?” she asked. “When you reforge the sword?”

He smiled down at her. “Of course.”

She chewed on her words for a bit before she managed to spew them out. “Can I teach it to sing?”

“Like Catrìona of Croxteth?” he asked. “I imagine you could, if you wanted to.”

“I would like to.”

“Then you shall.”

She nodded and continued on with him until they were standing in front of her door. He opened it, then sent a ball of werelight floating toward the ceiling. He pulled back and smiled.

“All safe.”

Safe in the chamber, possibly, but not safe in the darkness that awaited her there. She looked up at him. “Spell me to sleep?”

He winced. “I don't think you're quite that desperate yet. Just trust that you'll be safe enough here. Where is my bedchamber?”

“'Tis the one at the end of this passageway. That's where Nicholas usually puts visiting royalty.”

He blinked, then laughed. “He's teasing me, apparently.”

“He's flattering you.”

“Perhaps,” Miach said with a smile. He looked down at her. “Whatever the case, at least it puts me close enough to you to suit me tonight. I'll sleep with my door open so I'll hear you if you cry out. Unless you'd like me to sleep on your floor.”

“The lads would never survive the scandal,” she said wearily. “You needn't worry about me. I will be well.”

“You will be,” he agreed. He shooed her back inside her bedchamber, then spoke a handful of words.

A thin blue line appeared on the floor, stretching from one side of her doorway to the other.

She looked at him. “What is that?”

“A charm of ward, to protect you from any evil. It will entangle itself around the feet of anyone who crosses your threshold, be he man or mage, and render him immobile. And it will wake me as it does so. Unless,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “you want me to sleep on the floor next to your bed. We could hold hands. Very innocent.”

She scowled up at him. “Go to bed before the thought overwhelms you.”

He laughed then took her face in his hands and kissed the end of her nose. “Going to bed irritated with me will be your salvation, I'm sure. Good night, love. Sweet dreams.”

She took a deep breath, then nodded and shut the door. Miach's werelight was still there, glowing softly and lighting her way. She pulled off her boots, shucked off her leggings, and dove beneath a goose-feather duvet fit for a queen without a second thought.

She lay there for quite a while. It helped to look up at the werelight. It reminded her that Miach was watching over her. She didn't want to find that as comforting as she did, but it was impossible not to. In time, her eyes grew heavy. She forcibly pushed away the darkness and the cold and concentrated on the light above her that Miach had given her.

It was the only thing that kept the darkness at bay.

M
iach sat in the bowels of the university and rubbed the spot between his eyes that had begun to pound. He supposed it was because of the mark over his brow that still burned like hellfire. He wondered absently what Adhémar would say when he saw it. Likely bellow like a stuck boar and then list all the reasons why it had been the height of foolishness. Miach supposed he would have had a point, though looking back on it presently, he could only count it time well spent.

He looked around him blearily, wondering what time it might be, then saw Morgan sitting just around the corner of the worn wooden table from him.

She had fallen asleep with her head against the back of the chair. Her hair was escaping her braid in places and she was swathed in the fur-lined cloak he had conjured up for her the night before.

He shut the book he was reading and allowed himself the pleasure of looking his fill. She was remarkably beautiful, and he was unwholesomely grateful to be looking at her in Lismòr's library.

A throat cleared itself pointedly.

Miach looked at the university's librarian, a dour man named Dominicus, who sat perched like a bird of prey on a tall stool in the corner.

“Are you not finished yet?” Master Dominicus whispered fiercely.

Miach took hold of what patience he had left before it disappeared. It wasn't his habit to be rude to librarians—they did provide him with things he needed after all—but he was tempted. “I am not,” he said as pleasantly as possible. “I'll let you know when I am.”

“I can't imagine what a soldier needs with books,” Master Dominicus added pointedly.

“He's not just a soldier,” Morgan said, opening her eyes and turning to look at the man. “He's a very
good
soldier with a very
sharp
blade who I might or might not have seen loitering on the
other
side of the island. I'd let him look at what he wants, if I were you.”

Master Dominicus shot Miach a nervous look, then tucked his arms into the sleeves of his robe and remained silent.

Miach smiled at Morgan. “Thank you.”

“I live to torment him,” she said, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “In fact, I came down here with the express purpose of rescuing you from him before the sun set completely.”

“Is it that late?” he asked in surprise.

She nodded solemnly. “You've been down here all day.”

“I can't believe I didn't notice you sooner.” It was a wonder he hadn't found himself stabbed to death long before now by some testy librarian whilst he'd been about a search for some obscure thing or another.

“I haven't been here all that long. I will say, though, that you were rather involved in your texts. For a mere soldier,” she added.

“I appreciate the discretion.”

“I imagine you do.” She studied him for a moment or two, then shook her head. “Why I ever believed that you were a simple farmer is beyond me.”

“You were distracted by my scruffy boots, no doubt,” he said with a half smile.

“Well, it isn't as if you're dressed in purple silks,” she agreed, “or long velvet robes and a pointy hat.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Nay, I'm not—thankfully. I'll happily limit myself to soldier's gear.” He looked at her and deduced by the faint circles under her eyes that she had not had a particularly good night. He pushed aside his book so he could rest his elbows on the table. “So, how may I serve you today? More werelight? Swords? Tales that show the king of Neroche in his least flattering lights?”

She smiled, seemingly in spite of herself. “The latter, assuredly. Start with his most recent humiliation, then work your way backward. You can tell me about your other brothers as well, after you run out of Adhémar's follies.”

“I don't know that either of us has the patience for all of them, but I'll give you at least one.” He motioned for Morgan to lean forward. “This particular tale begins in the chapel during the beginning of what had promised to be the longest wedding ceremony in the history of the Nine Kingdoms.”

“I can only imagine,” she muttered.

“No doubt you can. Now, as it happened, Adhémar and his bride-to-be had just taken their places at the front of the chapel and settled in for a glorious recounting of dowries and honors and exploits. I was, as you might imagine, looking for any way possible to keep myself awake, so I let my mind wander south just to see how you fared—”

“Did you?” she interrupted in surprise. “Could you?”

He nodded. “It was something I learned I could do over that first month of your convalescence. I could sense your presence, much like a man might see a candle shining in the dark. Or at least I could, until you went inside Gobhann's gates.”

“Which must have been that same morning,” she said thoughtfully.

“Aye, it was,” he agreed. “When I lost my sense of you, I left Adhémar's wedding at a dead run, and bolted to the parapet where I could throw myself off—”

“Miach!”

“Momentum, Morgan,” he said dryly, “not a death wish. I was a dragon within a heartbeat and pulling myself back upward within half a dozen more. Adhémar, as you might imagine, was highly displeased with the interruption I caused and had followed me to tell me so. He was standing on the walls, waving his sword about and demanding that I come closer so he could inflict all manner of bodily harm. Of course, being the dutiful younger brother I am, I obliged him.”

“What did you do?” she asked, a smile playing about her mouth.

“I flew up to him, snorted out a bit of fire, and singed off his wedding hat—and a bit more of him, I fear. He was trying madly to put out the flames as I flew over him.”

“You'll pay a steep price on your return, I fear,” she said with half a laugh.

Miach shrugged. “There isn't much he can do to me, save shout himself hoarse. The thought isn't keeping me awake at night.”

She snorted. “I daresay. Now, tell me instead about these other lads of yours. I think I know more than I want to about your eldest brother.”

He imagined she did. He settled himself more comfortably, then began his list. “After Adhémar comes Cathar, then Rigaud, Nemed, the twins Mansourah and Turah, then me—”

“The wee babe.”

“Aye, if you can believe it.”

“I have a hard time,” she admitted. “You have old eyes. So, what of these brothers? Which one do you love the most? Which one do you trust the least? Who would you die for without hesitation?”

He smiled, pained. “Those are terrible questions, but I'll answer one or two of them just the same. I would trust Cathar with my life, Turah with my back, and Nemed with a few of my secrets. I would trust Mansourah to take a message for me to another kingdom. I would
only
trust Rigaud to tell me how to dress for a court function.”

“I think I remember him,” she mused. “He was wearing quite fancy clothes in the great hall. I thought he was the king.”

“He would be enormously gratified to hear it. As far as the other question goes—” He shrugged. “I'd give my life for any of them.”

“Even Adhémar?”

“Almost without hesitation.”

“But you don't trust him.”

“Do you truly want the answer to that?” he asked mildly.

“I don't think I need it. That puts you in a difficult position, doesn't it?”

“Very.”

She rubbed her arms suddenly. “Oddly enough, I am somehow comforted to think you might be running about behind Adhémar, repairing all the damage he does, rather than him controlling everything on his own.”

He smiled. “Thank you. I think.”

“It was a compliment.” She smiled slightly. “You're fortunate to have all those brothers. You must love them.”

“Most of them,” Miach said. “I have, of course, mixed feelings about Adhémar. I daresay Cathar would have made a better ruler, but fate did not decree it thus. And if I don't find what I'm searching for soon, there will be no kingdom for Adhémar to ruin.”

“How long have you been doing all this?” she asked.

“Reading in the library?”

“Nay,” she said, “what you do. You know.” She waggled her fingers at him. “That.”

“Fourteen years now. Since my mother died.”

She blinked. “But you can't be more than a score and ten.”

“A score and eight, actually,” he said. “Almost a score and nine.”

Her jaw went slack. “You've been the archmage of Neroche since you were
fourteen
? How did that come about?”

He opened his mouth to give his usual response that he was just precocious, but realized immediately that he couldn't hand Morgan such a flippant answer. She would have to know eventually, so there was no reason not to tell her the truth. Perhaps it would, in some small way, make the past that she had yet to face seem a little easier to bear.

He rested his clasped hands on the table and put on the best smile he could manage. “Well, it all began when I was out riding the borders alone when I was ten-and-three—an arrogant whelp with not enough wit to realize my peril. I was captured by our unpleasant neighbor to the north.”

She caught her breath. “Lothar?”

“The very same.”

She leaned back against her chair and held up her hands. “Don't tell me any more. I beg you.”

“You asked,” he pointed out.

“Aye, and if I'd had any idea this was what you were going to say, I wouldn't have.” She considered him for quite some time in silence, then sighed. “I suppose that now you've begun, you had best finish, hadn't you?”

“I had planned to tell you anyway, at some point, so there isn't any reason not to tell you now.” He took a deep breath. “I was taken by Lothar because I was too stupid to have taken a guard as I should have. Lothar carried me back to his keep, then threw me into his dungeon where I rotted for an entire year before my parents managed to get me out. My mother died during the attempt. My sire succumbed to his wounds a se'nnight later.”

“You were in his dungeon a year,” she whispered incredulously.

“Aye.”

She reached out and put her hands over his. “How on earth did you bear it?”

“While I was there, or after?”

“Either. Both.”

“Hmmm,” he said, “well, while I was there is something I don't like to think on overmuch. It was very dark. I think the only reason I didn't go mad was that I'm such a cheerful soul.”

She laced her fingers with his. “Miach…”

“I continually recited spells, just to pass the time,” he continued, looking down at her fingers intertwined with his own. “But the first time I saw light after that year…” He took another deep breath. “I thought my eyes would catch fire. And afterward I did my damndest to outrun my demons.” He looked at her. “You understand that.”

“Aye,” she agreed.

“I flew in various shapes when I could, ran in my own shape when I couldn't. And I stretched myself and my power every chance I had so that the next time I met him, I would best him. Only, I didn't fare so well recently. I should have killed him when I saw what he'd done to you.” He paused. “I was not thinking clearly.”

“It had been a difficult day,” she said quietly.

“Aye,” he said. He squeezed her hands, then pulled away. “Give me five minutes to read, then we'll go. I am suddenly quite desperate for a bit of air.”

“Of course.” She paused. “I'm sorry, Miach. About the other. And I'm sorry about your parents.”

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“I imagine it doesn't make it any easier,” she said. “Now, shall I take the rest of your books back to Master Dominicus and purchase you a bit of peace?”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. He was more than willing to turn his mind to other matters—not that they would be any less grim than what he'd just discussed. At least they wouldn't be quite so personal.

He waited until Morgan had gathered up his books and started toward the librarian before he opened the book Nicholas had given him earlier that morning when he'd knocked on the man's door and asked him for something interesting to read.

He had spent a goodly part of the night before considering the black mages who had the power to affect his spells. Lothar of Wychweald was alive, but Miach was convinced he was not the author of the magic. Wehr of Wrekin was rumored to be dead and even if he wasn't, his power had been so weakened by his last battle decades earlier with Neroche, Miach was positive he was not the man behind the assault. Gair of Ceangail was verifiably dead, so that made him a very unlikely suspect.

There had been other, less powerful men, but he had dismissed them immediately. The magic vexing him was subtle, but substantial. Perhaps he had reason enough to make the journey to Beinn òrain. What good were those seven rings languishing under his old, ratty training clothes if he couldn't have a peep at a few perilous texts now and again?