The Mage's Daughter (33 page)

“I approve,” he said softly.

“A pity yours isn't the approval I need,” Miach said with a deep sigh.

“It helps, though, doesn't it?”

“Aye,” Miach agreed, “it does.”

“Did you find anything interesting today?”

Miach nodded. “Those were handy things you gave me, but I'm sure you knew that already. What else can you find me?”

“I'll see,” Sosar said. “I'll meet you here in the morning and we'll have at it. Now, why don't you kiss that girl of ours once more, then let me walk her to her chamber. It will no doubt be what keeps you free of the dungeon and able to peruse more things you shouldn't.”

Miach nodded, then put his hand on Morgan's head. She woke immediately, then looked up at him.

“Finished?”

“For tonight,” he said. “Let Sosar walk you back. I'll see you at some point tomorrow. For a proper good night, if nothing else.”

She nodded, accepted Sosar's help to her feet, and only hesitated just a bit before she accepted her crown that Miach handed her. She leaned over and kissed him.

“Be here tomorrow,” she whispered against his mouth.

“I will,” he promised.

She put her arm around his neck, hugged him briefly, then walked away before he could say anything else to her. He watched her leave the library, but she didn't turn to look at him again. He looked at the door for quite some time, then leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. At least Morgan would be safe whilst he saw to a few more unpleasant matters of business.

He had to find that well—to see if he was mistaken, if nothing else. He had the sinking feeling he wasn't. His spells were being undermined as if a tide washed them away. What better to do that than evil flowing from a well? The sooner he determined whether or not he was right, the better off Neroche's defenses would be.

He only hoped he would be able to find that well before someone else managed to open it fully.

T
hree days later, Morgan sat at the high table in Sìle's hall and stared fondly at the lovely eating dagger in front of her. It seemed a shame to sully it with the blood of either of the dolts sitting next to her, eating Sìle's food and generally making nuisances of themselves, but she was tempted. Those fools were Draghail and Buaireil of Ainneamh and they were two of the three lads Sìle had been able to produce on short notice to come court her.

Hence her search for something sharp to disabuse them of that notion.

Her first instinct, when she had been introduced to the elves on either side of her, had been to tell her grandfather to go to hell, that she could choose her own husband, but she supposed Sìle knew that already. Her only avenues of escape had been either to hide with her grandmother and learn deportment or feign interest in court politics so Sìle would go on about it and spare her lectures on the proper sort of man for her.

All of which resulted in her knowing several sets of dance steps and which visiting ambassadors she could safely insult, but not much else.

She had only seen Miach in passing. He was generally with Sosar when she did see him, which eased her mind about how he was being treated, but it didn't ease her heart. She supposed he was doing what he needed to do.

She was fairly certain, though, that he had to be finished with it by now and it was past time for them to be going. She had been polite, memorized all the spells Sìle had pressed upon her, and given him more time and deference than she'd ever intended to. She was, to put it simply, finished.

“So, Princess Mhorghain,” the elf on her right said, leaning in very close and almost felling her with his perfume, “I thought you would be interested in the extent of my wealth.”

Morgan opened her mouth to tell him she couldn't have cared less, but she was interrupted by her aunt Ciatach pulling her chair out from underneath her.

“Come with me,” Ciatach said, catching her by the arm and hauling her to her feet. “Hurry.”

Morgan had no idea what was wrong, but if it meant she could escape the table and the buffoons peopling it, she was for it.

She stopped Ciatach just outside the dining hall. “What is it? Is it Miach?”

“Aye.”

Dread settled into the pit of her stomach. She ran through corridors with her aunt until they reached a gate that opened onto a field that could have passed for lists in any other place. She slowed to a walk, then came to a complete stop. The lists were being used for swordplay, to be sure. She found that the combatants were two she wouldn't have expected to see there. One was Miach; the other was Cruadal of Duibhreas.

Cruadal had been the first of her potential suitors to arrive. Even if her heart hadn't already been given, she never would have considered him. He made her skin crawl.

She looked out over the field. She supposed one might have said that Miach was fighting him. To her mind, Miach was embarrassing him, but the other man didn't seem to realize it. Cruadal was boasting in a most obnoxious manner that he would most certainly have—

Mhorghain of Tòrr Dòrainn.

“Cruadal challenged Prince Mochriadhemiach a quarter of an hour ago,” Ciatach said quietly.

“For me?”

“Aye. Sosar thought you should be here.”

Morgan saw Sosar standing off to her left. Sìle was there as well, as was Làidir. Neither her grandfather nor his heir were doing anything besides standing with their arms folded over their chests and identical, inscrutable expressions on their faces.

There would be no aid from that quarter.

Perhaps Sosar would be up for it, if necessary. Morgan thanked her aunt quietly for the escort, then went to stand next to her uncle. She clasped her hands in front of her, under her sleeves where no one would see how white her knuckles were.

Miach was, she had to admit, a spectacular swordsman, but she didn't know enough about Cruadal to speculate on what he would do when he realized his swordplay was not going to win the day for him. He wasn't arrogant in the overly loud, obnoxious way that only bespoke stupidity. He was arrogant in a cold, cruel way that made her want to have a blade in her hand, just in case.

“This is promising,” Sosar remarked.

“Do you think so?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the field.

“It says Cruadal thinks our good mage has some claim on you. That alone made my father grind his teeth.”

Morgan pursed her lips. “That won't mean much if Miach is dead, will it? Not that he'll lose. As you can see, he earned what he took away from Gobhann.”

Sosar smiled. “You, or his mark?”

“Both,” she said pointedly.

Sosar only smiled and turned back to his contemplation of the battle in front of him. He frowned suddenly.

“What's he doing?”

Morgan was almost positive Weger had once said the same thing about Miach. She let out her breath slowly. “He's allowing Cruadal to underestimate him. 'Tis his favorite ploy.”

“I hope it serves him,” Sosar muttered. “Cruadal is famous for his sword skill.”

“Surely not,” Morgan said in disbelief. “I could best that bumbling oaf with one hand and a broken blade. I think Miach could use a few harsh words on him and send him scampering off in tears.” She looked at Sosar assessingly. “I think, uncle, that even you might be able to best him.”

Sosar laughed. “Good heavens, Mhorghain, you are harsh.”

“Seasoned,” she corrected. “Cruadal is cruel but relatively harmless. Miach will have no trouble with him.”

“I hope you're right,” Sosar said slowly. “I hope so indeed.”

Morgan decided there was no reason to try to convince him of anything. He would see in time that she spoke the truth.

She watched, suppressing her yawns, then suddenly found herself quite a bit more awake as Cruadal conjured up a second sword. Morgan knew that Miach wouldn't use magic to do the like and she wished that she'd brought her blade. She could have at least thrown it to him.

Perhaps it wouldn't matter, in the end. Cruadal was not Miach's equal. He would not best him.

Miach threw away any pretense of being less than he was. He fought with a ruthlessness that might have forced even Weger to give a slight nod of approval. As for herself, she found herself a little breathless at the sight of him and she wasn't one to swoon over a man. He was a lethal bit of business clad all in black, and if Cruadal had had any sense, he would have turned tail and fled.

Unfortunately, he seemed not to have any sense. He did, however, have that savage streak that she had sensed in him. Stupid and cruel, but ruthless nonetheless. He used his two swords to their best advantage, then started to weave spells as he fought.

Morgan realized she was chewing on her lips only because she bit down too hard and it hurt. She wiggled her jaw, took a deep breath, and forced herself to relax her hands. Miach would manage what he needed to. He wasn't, as he had once said, a village witch's brat. Searbhe had learned that well enough.

Miach avoided Cruadal's spells, stepped around them, and flat out ignored them. Perhaps he was canny enough at present to avoid the traps Cruadal was setting for him, but Morgan had to concede that there would surely come a time when he could do so no longer.

Sosar was watching the field with a look of astonishment. “Use your magic, you fool!” he shouted at one point.

“Then cover what I do!” Miach shouted back.

“Sosar most certainly will not,” Sìle bellowed, his face turning red. “You insolent
boy
, are you ashamed to have anyone know you've been here?”

Morgan shoved past Làidir and ran to stand in front of Sìle. “He's trying to protect me—”

“Nonsense,” Sìle huffed. “He's being disrespectful.”

“He isn't,” Morgan insisted. “There are creatures outside your borders that are hunting us. If Miach uses any magic, he will draw them to us.” She put her hands on his crossed arms. “Cruadal will use whatever magic he has to hand without thought, but Miach will not because he wants to protect
me
. If you do not at least hide what he does, you doom him to defeat.”

Sìle looked down at her stiffly. “I will not aid him.”

“But you won't stop me from doing it, will you, Father?” Sosar said sharply.

Sìle shot his son a murderous look, but said nothing. He merely turned back and looked over Morgan's head at the field where curses mingled with the ring of swords. Morgan slowly and very deliberately turned her back on her grandfather, then walked over to stand next to Sosar.

“Will you help us?” she asked quietly.

“Absolutely.”

“Sosar,” Sìle warned with a growl.

Sosar ignored him. He spoke several sharp words and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. Morgan watched as a shimmering arc of magic sprang up over Miach and Cruadal. It spread out until it formed a ceiling five score feet in the air, then walls dropped down like curtains to the ground. The entire spell glistened for a moment, then faded until there was only a hint of magic there. It was so beautiful, Morgan had to blink away tears. It seemed almost blasphemous that something so lovely should enclose something so terrible.

Once the wall touched the ground, Miach threw away his sword. Morgan gaped, then stepped forward in surprise. She heard a horrible rending sound and realized, only because Sosar caught her before she fell on her face, that she had stepped on the hem of her dress and ripped it half off. Sosar whispered a spell and the gown was made whole.

“Thank you,” Morgan said. “Now let go of me so I can beat some sense into him—”

“Don't,” Sosar warned. He kept hold of her arm. “Let him fight as he knows best. And watch through the filter of elven magic. You'll see things you wouldn't otherwise.”

She didn't want to leave Miach to his own devices, but she supposed she could trust that he didn't need any aid. She also didn't want to watch, but she was not a fainthearted miss, so she put her shoulders back and contented herself with knowing that Miach was defending her honor.

Cold comfort indeed.

Cruadal threw his swords at Miach. They burst into flame and became barbed as they flew. Miach waved them off and they exploded with the light of a thousand torches. Cruadal changed himself into a snake with half a dozen striking heads with venom dripping from their exposed fangs.

“Disgusting,” Sìle snapped.

Morgan didn't comment. She was far too busy gaping. Miach had become a bitter frost that covered the snakes and rendered them slow and useless. The next minute Miach was himself again and he was throwing a human-again Cruadal across the field.

“He should just kill him,” Morgan said under her breath.

“He doesn't dare,” Làidir said slowly. “Sìle will not forgive murder within his gates.”

“And if Cruadal murders Miach?” Morgan said, turning to look up at him. “Then what is left me? Miach's honor to keep me warm for the rest of my days? Will your father do me the courtesy of putting Cruadal's head on a pike outside my door so I'll have something to watch as my heart breaks into thousands of pieces?” She paused and glared at him. “Did you let this proceed?”

He hesitated. “They are grown men, Mhorghain. They know what they're doing—”

“Which they wouldn't be doing if Cruadal hadn't been invited,” she said bitterly.

Sìle shifted, but said nothing.

“What was I to do when Cruadal issued the challenge?” Làidir asked her. “Forbid it and cost Prince Mochriadhemiach his pride?”

“Nay, you shouldn't have done anything,” Morgan said sharply. “But your father should have listened to me when I told him I wasn't interested in any of the princes he was determined to auction me off to.”

Làidir chose, perhaps wisely, to remain silent.

Morgan shot Sìle a glare, which he didn't see, then turned away from the both of them. She found that Sosar was rocking back on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back, whistling softly. She was quite happy for someone else to glare at.

“I think your levity is misplaced,” she said curtly.

“You don't actually think Miach will lose, do you?” he said in surprise. “Good heavens, Mhorghain, you have no idea who he truly is.”

“I know who he is,” she muttered.

“Then instead of wringing your hands like a fretful alewife, why don't you enjoy the spectacle? I can't imagine he has much call for this sort of display at Tor Neroche.”

Morgan cursed him, but it didn't ease her any. It was one thing to discuss Miach in a scholarly sort of way and hope for the best; it was another thing entirely to watch him fighting off the ferocious attack of a man with nothing to lose. Perhaps it would have been easier if she'd had anger to keep her warm. Now all she had was the cold terror of fearing that perhaps Miach might stumble, or slip, or falter and she wouldn't have the skill to aid him.