The Mage's Daughter (29 page)

She realized that the queen had come to sit on her right hand. She put her hand over Morgan's.

“Eat, darling,” she said with a smile. “I'll show you to your chamber soon. I imagine a good night's rest will make things easier to bear in the morning.”

Morgan nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Brèagha only smiled and motioned for a page to pour Morgan wine.

“Now,” Sìle said, turning and fixing her with a purposeful stare, “I'm ready to hear your tale. Begin at the beginning, won't you?”

Morgan had a long drink of wine, pushed aside thoughts of murdering a certain archmage, then began where she thought she should.

She had the feeling it was going to be a very long evening.

M
iach sat on the steps leading up to Sìle's throne and sighed deeply. He would have given much for someplace to put his head down. He didn't expect to wind up in the dungeon, but he would have settled happily for it at the moment. Then again, considering the look on Sìle's face when he'd seen Morgan, he might just find himself sleeping—albeit briefly—in a decent chamber.

He rubbed his hands over his face then jumped in surprise. Sìle's heir, Làidir, stood there in front of him, staring down at him with an expression that was somehow less than welcoming.

Miach sighed lightly. Perhaps he'd pilfered one too many spells on his last visit.

He rose and made Làidir a bow. “Your Highness,” he said deferentially. “A pleasure, as always.”

“I have a question or two for you, Prince Mochriadhemiach,” Làidir said without preamble. “Over supper, in the kitchens.”

“It would be an honor.”

Làidir didn't move. “Some might consider that location to be an insult.”

“Are you trying to insult me?” Miach asked mildly.

Làidir studied him for a minute. “Perhaps.”

Miach smiled. “Food is food, Your Highness. The closer it is to the fire, the hotter. Besides, I've never been in Seanagarra's kitchen.”

“But you've been in several other chambers here, haven't you?”

Miach clasped his hands behind his back. “Prince Làidir, if there's something you wish to say to me, please be blunt. I'm in need of food and sleep, not games.”

Làidir stared at him for a minute or two in silence, then nodded abruptly toward a door at the other end of the hallway. “I'll be frank with you over supper.”

Miach followed him willingly. At least he was being fed. He supposed he couldn't ask for much more than that.

Elves were, as Adhémar would have said, impossible creatures. They were intensely private, fiercely loyal to those of their ilk, and generally antagonistic to anyone who wasn't an elf. The elves of Tòrr Dòrainn were substantially more aloof than the elves of Ainneamh. Sìle had a particular aversion to mages, which Miach supposed he could understand, considering how many of his descendants he'd lost to them.

It didn't bode well for him, actually.

He followed Làidir along corridors and down stairs until they reached the kitchens. Miach sat down within sight of the fire and soon was applying himself to a marvelous meal. He heaped lavish praise on the head cook's head and was rewarded with almost more than he could eat.

And all through the meal, Làidir merely sat across from him at the table and watched him. Miach thought about reminding Làidir that they were kin—Màire of Meith, Làidir's sister Alainne's youngest daughter, was his grandmother several generations removed—but he supposed that wouldn't improve things any, so he kept that to himself.

He finally put his knife and fork on his plate and pushed it aside. He had a final drink of a very fine, dark ale, then looked at Làidir.

“Thank you. That was most welcome.”

Làidir nodded, but didn't smile. “How is it you came to be Princess Mhorghain's escort here?”

Miach gave a serving girl a smile as she refilled his cup, then he turned back to Làidir. “I was very fortunate to be in the right place at the right time—”

“That isn't an answer,” Làidir interrupted severely.

“It would be,” Miach said evenly, “if you'd let me finish.”

Làidir's mouth tightened briefly, then he nodded curtly. “Very well. Go on.”

Miach supposed he must be curious indeed if he was willing to submit to that sort of rudeness. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I had been off looking for my brother in the fall and found Mhorghain traveling in a company with him.”

“I heard a rumor that Adhémar lost his power,” Làidir said, “and that you sent him on a quest to look for a wielder for that sword of Queen Mehar's you have hanging in your hall. I also heard that the sword was destroyed.”

Miach blinked at that. “How did you hear that?”

“I travel a fair amount,” Làidir said with a faint pursing of his lips. “One does what one must to keep busy, and inns are the best place for reliable gossip.” He sipped his ale. “Who broke the sword? I heard it was a wench. Some witless girl you picked up in your travels?”

Tidings traveled swiftly, apparently. Miach didn't particularly want to tell Làidir anything, but perhaps it was best he knew before he insulted Morgan and found himself skewered because of it. He wrapped his hands around his cup. “It was Mhorghain.”

Làidir choked. Miach couldn't take any enjoyment in it, though Morgan likely would have. It took quite a while for Sìle's heir to recover.

“Impossible,” he gasped.

“I watched her do it,” Miach said calmly. “'Tis my fault, of course. I neglected to tell her who I was as we traveled together, and she was justifiably angry with me when she learned the truth.” He smiled deprecatingly. “She has a particular aversion to mages.”

“A girl with sense,” Làidir said grimly. He nursed his own ale for a few minutes, then shook his head. “I don't understand why she didn't come home sooner.” He shot Miach a look. “Was she being held against her will?”

“Nothing so dire,” Miach said. “She simply didn't know who she was. Nicholas of Diarmailt had watched over her for years—”

“Why didn't King Nicholas tell her who she was? She could have been living her life in peace and safety here!”

Peace and safety. Miach grimaced. Would those words never cease to torment him? It was best Làidir never know the import of them. Miach wouldn't have put it past him to use them himself.

“And where is the former king of Diarmailt?” Làidir continued angrily.

“Your
brother-in-law
,” Miach said pointedly, “is safely and anonymously running the university at Lismòr.”

“On Melksham?” Làidir asked, stunned. He sat back in surprise. “I hadn't considered that, though I should have. He had said he planned to leave his crown to his nephew, but I never thought he would lower himself to dwelling in such a rustic place.” He cursed briefly. “Why didn't he send word when he found Mhorghain? How old was she when he took her in? What has she been doing until now?”

“You know,” Miach said, “these really are questions you should be putting to your niece. I will warn you, however, that she considers Nicholas something of a father. You would do well not to disparage him.”

“I wouldn't,” Làidir grumbled. “Mage though he was, he at least treated Lismòrian as he should have.”

That was an understatement, or so the tales went, for Nicholas's adoration of his lady wife had been legendary.

“As for why King Nicholas didn't send word,” Miach continued, “I think he wanted to shield Mhorghain from her memories—at least at first. Then I think he thought it best to keep her ignorant so she would be safely hidden from those who might want her dead.” He looked at Làidir. “Wise, don't you agree?”

“I think he took a great deal on himself,” Làidir said stiffly.

Mentioning that Sarait had asked for Nicholas to watch over Morgan was probably something else better kept to himself. Miach only inclined his head. “Argue with him over that when next you meet. And as you well know, there's nothing you can do to change what's gone before. All you can do is be grateful for what you have now.”

“Of course,” Làidir said. “And since she'll now be fine with us, you may be on your way tomorrow.”

“I'll go when Mhorghain asks me to.”

Làidir frowned fiercely. “The only reason you want to stay is so you can make clandestine forays into places you shouldn't go.”

“I would like a peep into your father's library, if possible,” Miach admitted. “I'm looking for something I think I might find there.”

“Is that all you're here for? Books?”

Miach considered. It wasn't that Làidir wasn't trustworthy, it was just that his duty was to be where Sìle could not and bring back details the king never could have gleaned on his own. Whatever he told Làidir would go straight to Sìle's ear. He would have to choose his words carefully.

“I would like,” he began slowly, “to reassure your father that I only have Mhorghain's best interests at heart.”

“To what end?” Làidir asked.

Miach looked at him evenly. “I imagine you'll divine that on your own if you think about it long enough.”

Làidir looked at him blankly for a moment, then his mouth fell open. “You cannot be serious.”

Miach only watched him. Perhaps that training at Weger's had actually been of more use than he'd hoped. He was able to watch Làidir spluttering like a teakettle without feeling the need to respond. He simply sat and waited for the other man to wear himself out.

“You cannot be serious,” Làidir repeated. He stood and looked down his nose at Miach. “My father will never give her to such a one as you.”

Miach lifted one shoulder negligently. “I am a prince, just as you are.”

“As if you could begin to compare Neroche to Tòrr Dòrainn!”

“Perhaps not, but you forget that elvish blood runs through my veins, just as it does yours,” Miach said, “and not just from Ainneamh. I claim kinship with Màire of Meith, whose mother, if memory serves, is your sister. So perhaps I am not so unworthy as you might think.”

Làidir leaned his hands on the table and glared. “If you think,” he began in a low, dangerous voice, “that my father will give another of his children to a
mage
, no matter what parentage you would
like
to claim, then you are as foolish as you are brash. We will not lose another of our family to your ilk.”

Miach wondered why in the hell he'd expected this to turn out any other way. He'd anticipated resistance to the idea of his wedding Morgan, of course, but in the back of his mind, he'd held out the hope that the resistance would be bested eventually. Obviously he'd been too long in Weger's tower and his wits had rotted.

“I loved Sarait,” Làidir said, “but she was blinded by her heart.”

Miach blinked at the non sequitur. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sarait loved Gair, at first,” Làidir said with a fair amount of distaste. “Gair courted her and flattered her and convinced her he was other than he was. More's the pity that my father didn't destroy the bastard when he first set foot in Seanagarra. Believe me when I tell you that he won't make
that
mistake again.”

“You underestimate Mhorghain—”

“And you underestimate your peril,” Làidir snapped. He shoved his chair out of the way and strode angrily from the kitchens.

Miach looked at his cup of ale and considered. He couldn't imagine Sìle actually doing him in, or being able to. He supposed he wouldn't have put it past Làidir to try. Làidir seemed to be nurturing an especially virulent hatred for Gair in particular and mages in general. It was an intense hatred indeed, if it had been burning this brightly for twenty years.

He pushed away his cup, thanked the cook for a memorable meal, then made his way from the kitchens. A page was waiting at the bottom of the steps to show him to his accommodations. He wondered if he might be sleeping in the dungeon after all.

He was slightly relieved to be shown a chamber not in the cellar. It had to have been Queen Brèagha's doing. She, at least, didn't seem to mind him. Of course, that had been before he had arrived with her granddaughter's name on his lips, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

His gear was there, as well as water for washing and clean clothes. He desperately wanted to cast himself down and sleep for a se'nnight, but he had things to see to before he could. He had to check on his spells, and he needed to know how Morgan was faring.

He unbuckled his swordbelt, laid his sword on the bed, and left the chamber. He wandered through passageways briefly, but saw nothing of Morgan. Well, it was still early and he suspected she was still being interrogated over supper. He would see to his business, then venture to the dining hall. Perhaps Sìle would be more reasonable after he'd had something to eat.

He continued to wander until he found himself in an enormous private garden. He walked through it until it flowed into the forest. There was a bench there, in a little corner that seemed to be free of the full strength of Sìle's glamour. Miach sat with a sigh, closed his eyes, and set to work.

Things were not so dire as they had been, though perhaps it only seemed thus because he was bone weary. He patched until he simply could do no more. It cost him much to hide his tracks, but he didn't hurry that along. He would be more thorough in the morning. If he didn't sleep for a few hours, he wouldn't manage even that.

He opened his eyes, then started in surprise.