The Mage's Daughter (27 page)

“What now, then?”

“We'll make for Tòrr Dòrainn without any magic. And I'll completely hide any traces of our essences, not just our magic.”

“What's our other choice?”

“Retreat to Tor Neroche—”

“Nay,” she said immediately. “I won't run, and neither will you.” She paused. “Do you think we should seek them out?”

He looked about him for a moment, then sighed deeply. “I've considered it, but I think it won't serve us. We could go all over Neroche and look, but since we haven't sensed them before, I can't imagine we'll sense them in the future. And that doesn't solve the problem of where they're coming from.”

“It doesn't, but it also doesn't do anything to stop these creatures from killing innocent villagers.”

“If there was anything I could do differently, I would. I think our only choice is to continue on and be quick. But we will still stop in Tòrr Dòrainn.” He had to. If that talisman did indeed exist and it would do anything at all to help him keep Morgan safe, he would have it if he had to pry it from the king of Tòrr Dòrainn's cold, dead fingers.

“We'll run, then,” she said firmly. “I'm much more myself today. I'll manage.”

She was better than she had been, but plainly not herself. Miach started to say as much, but she shook her head.

“I will manage,” she said. “Have a look at these lads. I'll go thank Hearn for the aid.”

Miach didn't protest. He cleaned his sword on the snow and resheathed it, then went to fetch his knife. He pulled it from the creature's eye, then froze as he reached out for a bit of the troll's tunic to use in cleaning that blade. He frowned. What the lad was wearing was less a tunic and more some sort of leathery flesh. He rubbed snow carefully on his knife, then stuck it back into his boot before he squatted down to have a closer look at what he'd killed.

The troll was covered with some sort of webbish magic. It was a part of him in the same way the tunic was, only rather less cloth and more flesh. Miach tried without success to unravel the spell. Every time he thought he had hold of it, it slipped away from him.

Much like his spells of defense, he realized with a start.

He had to stand up only because if he'd remained squatting, he would have fallen over from surprise. He stood there, looking down, and finding that things were not at all as he'd suspected they were.

Whatever was sending the creatures before him was also undermining his spells. He would have staked his life on that.

But it wasn't Lothar. This magic was different, less crude, less showy.

Somehow more evil.

Miach looked up into the darkening sky and wondered. He considered again his list of black mages, but could credit none of them with something this devious. Devious and slippery and impossible to take hold of. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

He had to find out what was causing it before there was nothing left of the realm.

He dragged his hand through his hair, then turned back to the west. Morgan was standing with Hearn, talking earnestly. Actually, she was shaking her head vigorously every time Hearn said anything. Miach left his mystery behind and walked over to them.

Hearn turned to him as he approached. “I told your lady here that I've a pair of horses with wings on their feet. You'll take them—despite her resistance.”

“I cannot guarantee their safety,” Miach said without hesitation.

Hearn looked at the fallen for a moment or two, then looked at Miach. “If these sorts of beasts fill the land, I won't have any horses anyway, will I? Send the mounts back when you've finished, or bring them back yourselves when you have a chance. They will fly for you, if you ask it.”

Miach bowed his head. Horses would mean nothing less than the difference between success and failure. He blew out his breath and looked at Hearn. “How do I begin to thank you for this?”

“Name your firstborn son after me.”

Miach managed a laugh. “We just might.”

Hearn looked at Morgan from under his bushy eyebrows. “You're bested, gel, admit it. Give in graciously.”

Morgan sighed. “A wise warrior knows when to surrender and bow to the superior man.”

“So as that warrior pretends to bow, he can pluck the knife from his boot and do a little damage to that superior man, is that it?” Hearn asked with a snort.

She laughed a little. “Aye, my lord, so it goes. But I thank you. We've yet to come to your hall that we don't leave with horses.”

“A terrible habit,” Hearn said. “Can't imagine why I keep spoiling you two.” He winked at Miach, then turned and walked off, calling orders to his men to tidy the battlefield.

Miach watched him go, then turned to Morgan. “This is a gift that can never be repaid. We'll make good time and be able to do so without magic.” He looked at her. “Can you kindle a fire?”

“I've managed to survive by less lofty means than you, my lord,” she said archly. “I'll see you don't freeze at night. I can also, if you can believe it, hunt.”

“Then what shall I do? Knit?”

“I suppose you'll think of something.” She smiled, but it faded quickly. “I hate to ride these good beasts into danger.”

“We'll vanish into the mountains and no one will be the wiser. They will be safe enough.”

He stood with Morgan until the horses arrived, stocked with gear, and looking ready to run. Hearn took their reins and handed one set to Miach and the other to Morgan.

“Unremarkable looking,” Hearn said, “but very fleet, stouthearted, and loyal. I've told them of your plight. They're prepared to aid you as they may.”

“Their names?” Morgan asked, stroking the black on the right.

“Fleòd for Miach and Luath for you. Send them off when you've no more need of them. They'll find their way home.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Miach said, with feeling. “In truth, we cannot thank you enough.”

“I have another well awaiting your pleasure,” Hearn said cheerfully. “After you wed my Morgan here, you can come honeymoon in my loft. Work on my well during the day and on my namesake during the night. If you manage to win this gel, of course.”

Miach smiled in spite of himself. “I'll see what I can do about the latter that I might manage the former.”

Hearn nodded, then turned and boosted Morgan up into Luath's saddle. Miach shook the lord of Angesand's hand, then took Fleòd's reins and mounted. Hearn looked at them both.

“Fare you well,” he said. “And be
careful
.”

Miach supposed he wasn't merely concerned about the horses. He nodded to Hearn, looked at Morgan, then urged his horse forward. Luath followed along without hesitation. Miach waited until he and Morgan were out of earshot before he pulled up and looked at her.

“I hate to run the horses in the dark, but I fear even more not doing so,” he said quietly.

“Don't you think they know where they're going?”

He nodded. “Aye.”

“Let's fly, then.”

 

T
hey rode through the night. Miach had considered stopping to rest several times during that journey, but his mount had only flicked his ears back at him as if to call him mad and continued on without hesitation.

But now, even he had begun to feel the need of a brief respite. As dawn was breaking, he reined Fleòd in and looked at Morgan, who had done the same.

“How are you?”

“Exhausted,” she admitted. “I'm not sure I'll ever walk again.”

He smiled wearily. “I suspect the horses could go on for quite a bit longer, but perhaps they'll have pity on us.” He nodded toward a beautiful, clear stream. “Let's see how that tastes.”

She looked about her, then frowned. “Where are we?”

He swung down and walked in front of Luath to hold up his hands for her. “Chagailt is to the northwest, through that forest.”

She landed, swayed, then steadied herself. “Then perhaps we shouldn't stop,” she said anxiously. “Not after what happened to us in that forest the last time.”

Miach considered. “This is the forest south of Chagailt, not the one to the west of it, but I understand your concern. The horses need to be watered, though, if only for a few minutes. A quarter hour won't matter.”

“Very well,” she said, but she loosened her sword in its sheath.

Miach led the horses to the stream and let them drink. He felt Morgan come up beside him and put her arm around him. He gathered her close and rested his cheek against her hair, then closed his eyes and was grateful for ground beneath him that didn't move.

“Miach?”

“Aye, love.”

“About these creatures,” she began slowly. “There's a part of me that fears there may come a time when we won't best them.” She looked up at him. “I'm not happy thinking that, and I don't doubt our skill…” She shrugged helplessly. “Even a superior warrior finds himself bested at least once.” She paused. “It is usually his last battle—for obvious reasons.”

“I don't believe we'll fail.”

She looked off into the distance for a minute, then turned to him. “What of Searbhe?”

Miach nodded. “I wondered about him. I looked for his presence on Melksham one night at Lismòr and didn't sense him. But I am not as adept at that sort of thing as I would like to be. I want to believe he ran home to Riamh, but I don't know.”

She frowned. “Then you don't think he's responsible for any of this?”

“I don't.”

“I think that doesn't reassure me.”

“I daresay it shouldn't,” he said grimly. He looked around them, then put his hand briefly on her shoulder. “We'll hurry.”

She nodded.

But she didn't look any more at ease than he was.

They would water the horses, then continue on. If nothing else, perhaps they could outrun whatever might be seeking them.

He didn't want to think on what it would mean if they couldn't.

M
organ opened her eyes and saw daylight streaming down through trees around her. Though the sight was beautiful, the fact that it was day and not night bothered her. She remained still and tried to determine why. The last thing she remembered was Miach saying that he felt safe enough to camp under the eaves of Sìle's forest. She had no recollection of getting down off her horse and rolling up in very cozy blankets. Perhaps a se'nnight with hardly any sleep had been more taxing than she'd wanted to admit.

She wasn't one to complain about the harshness of any given journey, but the one they'd just made had been grueling. They'd ridden almost without ceasing from Hearn's keep, though not always at a gallop and certainly with much less speed as they made their way through the mountains. Miach had estimated they would reach Tòrr Dòrainn in a fortnight. They had made it in eight days, eight terrible, endless days. They hadn't seen anything untoward. Then again, they hadn't exactly stopped long enough to see much of anything at all. She'd finally resorted to memorizing the spells Miach taught her to keep herself awake in the saddle.

Or, rather, she had for the first pair of days until she found she remembered most of the spells on her own.

She was still trying to come to terms with that.

Miach had then presented her with the choice of learning more difficult spells of Camanaë or beginning her study of Fadaire. She chose the latter because she sensed that it amused him to know he was giving her something he shouldn't know anything about. She'd asked him, at one point, how he'd learned those spells in truth. He'd said that, in addition to truly finding himself locked in King Sìle's solar one night, one of Sìle's grandsons had been particularly susceptible to bribery and that the masters at Beinn òrain really should keep better locks on their more perilous elvish texts. He did point out to her that he'd picked the lock on that particular book without any magic so they wouldn't know who'd been at it.

She rather liked him for that, all things considered.

And so she'd learned what he taught her, a bit because it pleased him, but mostly because she was afraid not to. She told herself that the spells were nothing more than strictures, not unlike what she had learned at Weger's. She suspected that as long as she considered them only that, she could bear to learn them.

Heaven help her if she ever had to use any of them.

She rolled over onto her belly and rested her chin on her fists where she could look at Miach sitting on a blanket, resting his forearms on his bent knees. He tossed a stick onto the fire, then smiled at her.

She smiled back, because she simply couldn't help herself. She'd known from their journey north in the fall that Miach was a decent traveling companion, but this trip had been different. Perhaps it had been because she'd allowed herself to accept the small considerations he gave her as a matter of course. She'd stopped telling him she didn't need help off her horse, that she could fetch her own water, that the cloak she had was sufficient to keep her warm and he could keep his. He was determined to treat her as something delicate and fine; she'd given up trying to convince him that she was anything else.

And she'd come to rely on finding him there when she woke from whatever brief sleep she'd had, on seeing him riding beside her, on having him tell her all manner of tales to keep her awake.

But what she'd come to realize perhaps most profoundly over the past eight days was that there was a depth of resilience to Miach that she'd never expected to find in anyone besides herself. She suspected that even when she had reached the limits of her endurance, Miach would be able to continue on. She didn't want to find that comforting, but she couldn't help it.

“Interesting thoughts?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Just kind ones about you. I won't repeat them, lest you blush, but I will tell you that you let me sleep too long. You should have taken a turn.”

He shrugged. “I'll sleep in Seanagarra whilst you're about the arduous task of meeting all your relatives.”

She ignored the flicker of unease that ran through her. “We aren't close, are we?”

He smiled. “Not particularly. We've just passed the eastern border of Ainneamh. Seanagarra is half a day's easy ride farther east still—or a full day's quick walk.”

“But I thought Tòrr Dòrainn was part of Ainneamh.”

“A story perpetrated by the wishful-thinking elves of Ainneamh,” he said dryly. “Despite rumors to the contrary, it has always been its own country and we are right on its border. I fear, though, that we may reach the palace sooner than you'd care to. The horses seem determined to see us there.”

She twisted around to look behind her. There stood Fleòd and Luath, apparently quite ready to be going. She looked back at Miach. “Do you think they're following Hearn's instructions?”

“I imagine they are,” he said, “though I suspect it isn't entirely altruistic on Hearn's part. He just wants us back safely so we can see to his well and his garrison.”

“Would you mind?” she asked. “Going back again?”

“To Aherin?” he asked in surprise. “Of course not. Things seem to improve each time we do. This time you didn't look at me once as if you wanted to stab me—though you did almost roll me out of the loft onto the floor.”

“You threw me in the hay.”

He laughed softly. “And so I did. I promise I won't the next time we find ourselves there.” He smiled. “May that day come swiftly.”

She nodded, then watched him turn back to his contemplation of the fire. She waited for him to speak again, but he seemed content to merely sit there and watch the flames. He looked impossibly tired and she could understand. He'd stayed awake many times when he'd allowed her to sleep. Perhaps what he needed was to sleep for a pair of hours in that elvish palace up the way before they moved on. Surely spending any more time than that in a place where she would most certainly not find any relatives would be unnecessary.

Actually, maybe it would be best if they just continued on. She could ride behind Miach on Fleòd and hold on to him whilst he slept.

That sounded reasonable.

“Miach?”

He reached out and put his hand on her head without looking at her. “Aye?”

“I think we should keep going,” she said, cursing herself for the tremble in her voice. “The realm calls, doesn't it?”

“I have business here as well, Morgan,” he said, amused. “A day or two won't hurt.”

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt him, but she couldn't say the same for herself. It wasn't every day she rode into an elven palace and presented herself to an elvish king as a long-lost granddaughter. That she should have the cheek to even consider such a thing was appalling. That she should intend to do the like and have the outcome be agreeable was yet more far-fetched. She would have begun to seriously doubt herself, but Miach and Nicholas were both so certain…and then there were her dreams.

Difficult to deny the last.

She felt Miach's hand under her chin. He lifted her face up.

“Don't worry.”

She didn't bother to deny it. “I don't like not knowing what to expect.”

“Which is why you're so comfortable with me,” he said dryly.

“At least I know that given the choice, you'll waggle your fingers—though you have resisted admirably over the past se'nnight. I have no idea what to expect from…well, from this business in front of us.” She found that her mouth was suddenly and quite appallingly dry. “I think we should just keep going.”

“You won't regret this.” He smiled down at her. “Trust me.”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked crossly.

“It seems to have worked out well enough for you in the past, wouldn't you say? Nay,” he said quickly with a half laugh, “don't answer that. Instead, how would you like a brief distraction before we pack up and go?”

“What sort?” she asked, finding it in her to smile.

“The sort that I like best,” he said with an answering smile.

“Cards? Swords?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, leaning toward her.

Morgan closed her eyes.

But the kiss never came.

Morgan opened her eyes, ready to complain, then realized why Miach wasn't moving.

There was a sword at his throat.

She looked up and saw that they were surrounded by a half dozen men. Miach straightened gingerly, then held up his hands.

“I have no blade,” he said easily.

The man holding the sword snorted. “As if you needed one, Prince Mochriadhemiach. Just remember I could slit your throat before you could spew out a spell.”

“Perhaps you could try, Dionadair, but my magic does not require any spewing,” Miach said evenly, “so slitting my throat would not serve you.”

Morgan blinked. She'd never heard anyone call Miach
prince
before. She had grown so accustomed to thinking of him as simply Miach that it was unpleasantly surprising.

She wondered, uneasily, what else would come as an unpleasant surprise.

She watched Miach sit perfectly still until the elf named Dionadair removed the sword from his throat. He rose without haste, then held down his hand. Morgan took it and scrambled to her feet with far less grace. She didn't have a chance to say anything before Miach had quickly pulled her hood over her face and drawn her behind him.

Morgan was tempted to protest, but she supposed he had good reason for what he did. She was tempted to run and fling herself on that very fleet Angesand steed, but she supposed Miach knew that. He kept his hand on her arm until she took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. Then he squeezed her arm briefly and released her. She turned around so they stood back to back. At least she would make certain he didn't find a blade plunged into his heart.

Unfortunately, turning around didn't accomplish much past giving her a decent look at the men guarding her. She was rather glad her face was in shadow. It saved her from embarrassing herself by gaping at what were easily the most beautiful men she had ever seen—beautiful and terrible and glittering, as if they were come recently out of a dream. No wonder Miach was so mesmerizing to look at. Obviously whatever elven blood he possessed had come to the fore in him.

She paused. Did she look like that? To be sure, she hadn't spent much time looking into a polished glass—indeed, she couldn't remember the last time she had—but she was fairly sure that she hadn't seen anything in herself that came close to resembling the beauty she was looking at.

She leaned back against Miach and fought the urge to weep in appreciation.

“Why are you inside King Sìle's borders, Prince Archmage?” Dionadair asked coldly.

“I'm bringing His Majesty something he lost,” Miach said.

“Give it to me and I'll see it delivered.”

“I fear I cannot,” Miach said calmly. “His Majesty can do with me what he wishes after the fact, but I will deliver this to him in person. With or without your escort, Dionadair,” he added.

“Is that so?” Dionadair said scornfully.

“Would you care to test it?”

Morgan had the presence of mind to note that Miach had that same edge to his voice that he'd used with Searbhe at Gobhann. Perhaps these elves would do well to heed it.

Then again, perhaps these lads didn't care. She couldn't imagine anyone daring to mar their perfection with any sort of blade.

Dionadair grunted finally. “Very well. We'll see you there.”

It wasn't an enthusiastically made offer, but perhaps she and Miach could expect no more. Morgan realized she'd been holding her breath only because she managed to let it out. She straightened and decided that her sword could remain safely in its sheath.

Then she realized her sword was over by the fire.

Truly, it had been a very trying year so far.

“We have Angesand steeds that need stabling,” Miach said. “You know what sorts of tales they'll bear if they aren't treated properly.”

A pair of the guardsmen abruptly deserted them to hasten over to the horses, where they stopped and made appreciative noises. Morgan watched another guardsman pick up their gear—including her sword—and carry it off. That left only three elves to escort them. Morgan supposed that if things deteriorated too quickly, she and Miach could easily see to them—swords or no swords.

Though she suspected that wouldn't be the best way to introduce herself to the court.

Miach turned around and looked at her. “Follow my lead, I beg you,” he whispered.

“That wasn't exactly a friendly welcome,” she whispered back. “They don't seem happy to see us.”

“They're not happy to see
me
.”

She frowned at him. “Why is it I'm beginning to think there are things we should have discussed before?”