The Mage's Daughter (3 page)

Except she wasn't.

He froze, his breath catching. He searched through all the buildings that made up the university and orphanage, but found nothing.

But it couldn't be. He was certain she'd been on Melksham Island that morning. He'd felt her presence, faint but definite. Of course he hadn't tried to determine the condition of her health, but he'd assumed she was at least still alive.

He swept over the land surrounding Lismòr, but found no sense of her. He cast his mind about in ever larger sweeps over the whole island, but found…nothing.

“Miach!”

He came back to himself to find both Turah and Cathar shaking him.

“Miach, you're screaming,” Cathar said urgently. “Stop it!”

Miach realized that the entire collection of souls come to witness Adhémar's wedding was watching him with astonishment and alarm. Well, except Adhémar, who was glaring at him as if his fondest wish was to take his sword and plunge it into Miach's chest.

Miach shook off his brothers' hands. “I can't find her. I can't feel her anymore.” He backed away from them. “I must go.”

“You will not,” Adhémar said in a commanding voice. “You will remain where you are until I am wed. If you do not, I'll…” He seemed to be searching for an appropriately dire threat. He drew the Sword of Neroche with a flourish, came close to removing his betrothed's hat, and then pointed that sword threateningly at Miach. “I'll see you hanged!”

“You'd like to think you could,” Miach said shortly.

“Then I'll see you replaced!” Adhémar spluttered.

Miach didn't bother replying. He pushed his way through Adhémar's guests, then ran out of the chapel, through the passageways, and up to the tower chamber.

He didn't have many personal things, hardly enough to fill up half the wardrobe that sat in a corner near the cot he occasionally used when he had no choice but to sleep, so he didn't bother with gear for himself. He did dig around in his armoire for a particular knife, which he stuck in his belt, and a particular ring, which he shoved into his boot. He turned toward the door and found his way blocked by Morgan's companions.

“Miach?” Paien of Allerdale said, his visage blanched. “What has befallen Morgan? Well, more than what's already…”

“I don't know,” Miach said, trying to ignore his own distress. “I don't know, but I'll find out. Perhaps 'tis merely my unease that speaks.”

They didn't look convinced.

He wasn't either.

“I'll send word,” Miach promised, “once I know more. Will you wait for me here?”

Paien looked at his comrades, then back at Miach. “Aye, we will. Perhaps Prince Cathar will vouch for us while you're gone.”

Miach nodded. “Tell him I asked it of him if he hesitates, though I don't imagine he will.”

He shook hands all around, bid them farewell, then pushed through them and ran down the stairs. He slipped through a particular door and walked out onto the battlements. He leapt up onto the parapet wall and gathered his thoughts—

“Damn you, Miach,” Adhémar thundered suddenly from behind him, “I vow this time—”

Miach dove off the wall and whispered a spell of shapechanging as he fell. In the next heartbeat, he was beating dragon wings against the air and rising toward the tops of the castle walls. Adhémar was standing on the parapet, waving his sword in a fury and cursing himself hoarse.

Miach couldn't stop himself. He spewed out a blast of fire that no doubt singed more than Adhémar's feathered hat, then rose high into the sky and sped south.

 

I
t was sunset before he reached the Island of Melksham. He circled the university, then swooped down and landed in the innermost courtyard next to the fountain. He shook off his dragon's shape, then hunched over with his hands on his knees and sucked in desperately needed breaths. It was bitterly cold, something he hadn't noticed as he'd been flying. He wanted a hot fire and something to drink, but he could wait for both until he had found out what had befallen his love. He took a final breath, then heaved himself upright so he could look about and get his bearings.

Nicholas, the lord of Lismòr, stood not twenty paces away with his hand on the arm of an overanxious archer. Miach froze, realizing only then that that archer was but one of two dozen with their arrows pointed at him.

Nicholas pushed the lead archer's bow down so the arrow pointed at the ground instead of at Miach's heart. The other archers followed suit.

“William, dismiss the guard for me, then you may go to your rest,” Nicholas said to the lad standing at his elbow. “I can see to this whelp myself.”

“As you will, my lord,” William said. He made Nicholas a bow and turned to see to the guard.

Miach watched the guardsmen walk away, most looking uneasily over their shoulders at him as they did so. He waited until they had all gone, then crossed the courtyard to where Nicholas stood. “What befell Morgan?” he asked without preamble.

Nicholas frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I lost my sense of her,” Miach said impatiently. “What befell her?”

“You've made good use of your new skill, haven't you?” Nicholas said, sounding pleased.

“Aye, and that is the only reason I remained at Tor Neroche until now, which you knew,” Miach said evenly. “Your Grace, I left my brother's wedding before they even finished listing his many marvelous accomplishments, terrified that I would come too late and find my lady dead. Is she?”

Nicholas looked at him in surprise. “Well, of course not.”

Miach rubbed his hands over his face. It was either that or weep. The relief that washed over him was so great, he almost had to sit down.

Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder. “Come have a drink with me and I'll tell you all.”

Miach nodded silently, then followed Nicholas across the courtyard and into what he assumed was one of Nicholas's private chambers.

It was a luxurious solar, with finely wrought tapestries on the walls and heavy rugs on the floor. A fire burned cheerily in the massive hearth set into the far wall. Miach sat down gratefully, then accepted a cup of ale, which he drank in one long pull. He set the cup down on the table in front of him, then looked at Lismòr's lord.

“Where is she? If she's alive, why can't I feel her?”

Nicholas smiled. “The answer to both is Weger's tower.”

Miach blinked, just certain he'd heard the older man awrong. “What?”

“She's in Gobhann,” Nicholas said. “I took her there myself, actually.”

“You did
what
?”

Nicholas laughed. “I understand your surprise, believe me. I thought it a very poor idea as well, but she wouldn't listen to me. She's very determined, you know.”

Miach could hardly believe his ears. He had expected to find Morgan very ill. Indeed, as he'd flown he'd repeated silently all the spells he'd learned over the past pair of fortnights, spells that he was certain would drive out whatever lingering poison Nicholas hadn't been able to see to. He'd actually tried to prepare himself to find that she had died.

But he hadn't expected this.

“I tried to convince her 'twas too early to leave Lismòr,” Nicholas remarked, sipping brandy from a delicate goblet, “but she refused to listen to my pleas. She would have made the journey herself if I hadn't insisted on taking her. As it was, I dragged the whole thing out for a solid se'nnight—and earned more than my share of curses as a result.” He smiled. “It may comfort you to know that she's found her tongue, at least.”

“Oh, vastly,” Miach managed. He shook his head in disbelief. “I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. Of all places, why there?”

“Why do you think?”

Miach sighed. “Because she wants nothing to do with magic in general and mages in particular.” He paused. “Or is it that she wants nothing to do with a particular mage?”

“I imagine that was part of it,” Nicholas said. “I suspect she's also running from her dreams.”

“Poor gel,” Miach said quietly. He sat for quite a while, looking at a tapestry of a battle scene on the wall across from him, then made his decision. He would find Morgan, apologize, then change them both into evening mist and waft over the walls before Weger could kill him. He looked at Nicholas. “My thanks for the tidings, my lord. I'll go now.”

“Go?” Nicholas echoed. “Go where?”

“To Gobhann.”

Nicholas looked at him with a smile. “You'll need a sword, my lad. Do you have one?”

Miach patted himself, then shrugged. “Apparently not. I'll just conjure one up when I get inside the gates. Besides, I'll only be inside long enough to find Morgan and convince her to leave with me. If worse comes to worst, I'll bind Weger with a few spells so we might walk out the front gate.”

“Do you think so?”

Miach looked at him sharply. “I think, Your Grace, that I can manage to control Scrymgeour Weger for as long as necessary, no matter his reputation for fierceness. Don't you?”

“Well, you certainly could,” Nicholas said slowly, “if Gobhann weren't a magic sink.”

Miach heard the words, but it took a moment for the meaning of them to register. He blinked in surprise. “Gobhann is a
what
?”

“'Tis a magic sink,” Nicholas said.

Miach found that his mouth was hanging open. Worse still, he wasn't sure when it had fallen open. “That's impossible,” he began.

“It isn't, which you well know. There are places enough in this world where magic is nothing but a fond memory. It shouldn't surprise you, actually, that Weger would choose such a place for his home. He's not overly fond of mages, is he?”

“So rumor has it,” Miach said faintly. A magic sink? Of all the things he had expected to hear in Nicholas's solar, that was the last. Just what in the hell was he supposed to do now?

He was so tired, so damned relieved to find that Morgan was still alive, and so floored by what he'd just learned, he was tempted to laugh. He rubbed his hands over his face and settled for a handful of rather vile curses instead, lest Nicholas think him mad.

And perhaps he was, given that he was actually considering going inside the place.

“That is why you couldn't feel Morgan any longer,” Nicholas continued, as if they spoke of nothing more remarkable than the ten months of rain Chagailt saw each year. “She has entered Weger's gates and no magic in the Nine Kingdoms, nor all of it combined, will reach inside there and gain a sense of her. Nor will it bring her out. If you go to fetch her, you'll go as a mere man. And if I were you, I would be more worried about how I was going to get myself back out Weger's gates than how I was going to convince Morgan to leave with me.”

Words suddenly failed him. That wasn't a common occurrence, and he found it almost as unsettling as the tidings he'd just learned. And just how was he supposed to maintain the defenses of the kingdom of Neroche when he would be required to check his magic at the door?

“You could just leave her there, I suppose,” Nicholas mused.

“I can't,” Miach said without hesitation. “And it has nothing to do with her destiny, or her magic she refuses to acknowledge, or that I want to keep her safe at Tor Neroche. Even if it isn't with me, she deserves a life in the sunshine.” He paused. “Don't you think?”

“I do, but I imagine she won't.” He smiled. “But you don't expect anything else.”

Miach shook his head. “I'm not under any illusions.”

“And you aren't going after her from a misguided sense of guilt, are you?” Nicholas asked.

Miach managed a wry smile. “It is love, Your Grace, that motivates me, not guilt.”

“I thought as much,” Nicholas said, sounding satisfied. “Now, let's consider the realities of your visit. How is your swordplay?”

“Not as bad as you might think,” Miach said.

“Without your magic?”

Miach pursed his lips. “Aye, startlingly enough.”

“Then perhaps you should have a decent meal, a good night's sleep, and be on your way first thing. Perhaps your task is to meet her as just a man, not a mage. But do it quickly, for you cannot leave the realm untended. And you cannot ask another to do it in your stead.”

“Trust me,” Miach said with a deep sigh, “I never forget that.” He reached down and pulled the ring out of his boot and the knife that matched the Sword of Angesand from his belt. He handed them both to the lord of Lismòr.

“Keep those for me, Your Grace, if you will. I'll return for them after I've convinced Morgan to come back with me.”

“You're optimistic.”

“Always,” Miach said gamely.

“You'll need to be. Now, go find a meal,” Nicholas said. “It may be the last decent one you have for some time to come.”