The Mage's Daughter (36 page)

He turned and blew south again, keeping to the western side of the Sgùrrachs, paying no heed to the updrafts that tore into him and the peaks of the mountains that cut through him. He was heartily sick both in body and mind from what he'd seen. The fact that he now knew what was attacking Neroche and trailing after Morgan didn't ease him any.

It also left him with the uncomfortable feeling that there was still more to it than he was seeing. Lothar would have been pleased to have some new means to wreak havoc, but Miach knew damn well he wouldn't settle for that. If he had found Gair's well, he wouldn't be content with just sitting and watching it trickle. He would be actively seeking to open it fully, using any means at his disposal.

Or any
one
.

And it was only a matter of time, perhaps, before he found out that there might be someone he could use.

Miach bolted back south.

 

T
wo hours later he reached Slighe, the village at the crossroads a pair of hours north of Seanagarra. It was notorious for rough company, quietly disposed-of bodies, and very bad ale. Miach imagined Làidir had spent more than his share of time in the taverns there. He couldn't even truly enjoy that as he should have.

He didn't particularly want to stop there either, but he was exhausted. Even half an hour of simply sitting would be enough.

He walked through the muddy streets and pulled disinterest about him like a cloak. It kept him from being noticed, but it didn't keep him from noticing who was cursing his way up the same street.

Searbhe of Riamh.

Miach wasn't sure if he was surprised that Searbhe would find himself so far from home, distressed that Searbhe was so close to where Morgan was safely hiding, or terrified that Searbhe might know where Morgan was.

And
who
she was.

Miach followed him without hesitation. As he did, he considered that evening when Searbhe had attacked Morgan in Weger's gathering hall. Had it been in retaliation for Morgan's having thrown him down the stairs, or had there been more to it? Morgan had been particularly loath to talk about it, which likely should have given him pause. It wasn't possible that Searbhe had recognized Morgan as Sarait's daughter, was it?

Perhaps he had good reason to find out the truth of it.

He followed Searbhe into a particularly unpleasant-looking tavern and took a seat in the corner where he could watch him.

Searbhe sat down near the ale keg and demanded quite loudly to have his cup filled. Repeatedly.

Miach paid for ale that he left untouched on the table in front of him. The serving wench didn't approach again, but he'd planned that. What was the use in being the archmage of Neroche if he couldn't drape himself in a decent spell of aversion now and again? A pity he didn't dare use something to silence Searbhe.

Instead, he sat in the darkest corner of the great room and watched Searbhe drink far more ale than he should have. The longer he drank, the more he seemed to think there were actually people in the chamber who gave a damn about what he said.

Miach found that he certainly did.

“She was bloody beautiful,” Searbhe said, waving his mug about expansively. “Dark-haired, green-eyed, slender. And that wench could even wield a sword.”

Snorts of derision greeted that announcement.

“I lost her outside Angesand,” Searbhe said, looking about himself for sympathy, but finding none. “The creatures followed her there, and I followed
them
, but I was too late to capture her.”

Miach closed his eyes briefly. He had suspected they wouldn't escape that encounter completely unscathed.

“But now I have a handful of those same creatures listening to
me
. They seek out magic, you know, and
she
has an abundance of it. So does that mage who was with her.”

Miach watched as every man in the chamber turned his back on Searbhe. There was one rule in Slighe: no magic was allowed. Obviously, Searbhe hadn't read the sign posted prominently over the bar. He continued to drink, continued to blather on, continued to make others in the chamber extremely uncomfortable.

Miach was equally as uncomfortable, though for different reasons.

It came as no surprise to him that Searbhe was looking for them. Miach imagined that Searbhe had every intention of doing him in if he could. He hesitated to think what Searbhe would do if he actually managed to capture Morgan. It was, however, the knowledge that Searbhe had managed to bend the wills of a few brutes to his own that was unsettling.

They would have to be seen to.

Searbhe demanded more ale, but apparently the barkeep had had enough. Before Searbhe could blurt out any more of what he planned, he'd been taken in hand by a pair of burly lads and hauled to his feet.

“I've got to find her,” Searbhe slurred as he was helped toward the door. “Find the wench and I'll find the mage. And if I kill the mage, then
he
will trust me.”

Miach could just imagine who
he
was. Searbhe would need to be careful or he would be meeting Smior of Treunnar's fate soon. Lothar was not one to be either trusted or courted. As Nicholas had said, he was capricious.

Miach rose and eased unobtrusively outside. Searbhe was lying in the mud, unmoving. Miach watched him for a few minutes, but the other man made no move to rise. He was breathing, though, so perhaps he would manage to get himself to his feet in time.

Miach stood in the shadows and considered. As tempting as it was to merely drag Searbhe behind the tavern and silence him forever, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. There was always something to be gained from a fool who blurted out all his secrets to anyone who would listen.

At least it didn't sound as if Searbhe knew who Morgan truly was. As far as Searbhe was concerned, Morgan was only a means to Miach himself.

Miach could understand that. He'd humiliated Searbhe more than once. He wondered, absently, if he might somehow use that to his advantage at some point.

He'd barely begun to truly contemplate that when he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He looked about him, but saw nothing suspicious. Even so, he slipped along the front of the tavern slowly, then ducked into a side street and changed himself into a sparrow. Within moments, he was sitting on top of a lamppost, looking down at the street. What he saw almost knocked him off his perch.

Cruadal of Duibhreas was standing in the middle of the street, looking at where Miach had last been.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised.

Cruadal walked over to Searbhe and hauled him up out of the mud. Cruadal shook him vigorously. Searbhe's head lolled from side to side. Cruadal swore.

“Wake up, you fool!” he shouted.

Searbhe's only answer was to vomit down the front of Cruadal's tunic.

Miach fully expected that Cruadal would fling the other man away and stomp off in a fury. He did throw him back into the mud, but he didn't walk away. He went to sit on the edge of a horse trough, apparently content to wait for Searbhe to sleep off his malaise.

Miach watched him for quite some time, wondering if Cruadal might lose interest or if he was truly that determined. The elf didn't move, not even when a rather audacious lad bid him be off so his horse could have a drink.

The lad must have seen something that troubled him, for he gulped and backed away without making any more demands.

Miach reconsidered his decision to allow Searbhe to live. If he joined forces with Cruadal, it could spawn a truly unfortunate chain of events. Miach supposed he could rid himself of Searbhe and Cruadal both, true, but it would take killing magic, which would not only be difficult to hide but draining.

And no matter how detestable the fools in front of him were, he simply didn't have it in him to kill them without a fair fight.

Perhaps Cruadal had it aright and his kindness would be his undoing.

Well, as long as it wasn't Morgan's life in trade for it, he would keep his soul—and his kindness—intact.

He supposed, though, that any hope of keeping himself and Morgan hidden would disappear once Searbhe had regained his powers of speech and babbled every bloody thing he knew to Cruadal.

He turned away from renewed thoughts of assassination and wondered how he might turn what would no doubt become an alliance between the men in front of him to his advantage. Searbhe would wake, Cruadal would learn many things he hadn't suspected, then they would travel either to Riamh or to Tòrr Dòrainn.

Unless they could be drawn another way.

What if Searbhe managed to do what he so obviously desired? What if the man had—or thought he had—killed the archmage of Neroche? Searbhe would cease hunting Morgan and likely go back to Riamh and live out his life in boastful bliss.

Cruadal was another tale entirely. Miach suspected that if Cruadal somehow learned that Lothar wanted a descendant of Gair's to open the well for him, he would run to Riamh as fast as his legs would carry him and attempt a bargain with Lothar himself. It wouldn't go well for him, but he would likely manage to live long enough to tell Lothar who Morgan was. Lothar would then sweep down to Tòrr Dòrainn with every fiend he'd ever created hard on his heels and pound at Sìle's spells until they gave way.

Miach calculated furiously. If he could just give himself a se'nnight's time, long enough to be in and out of Beinn òrain and back to Gair's well. He would shut it, stop the magic, then return to Tòrr Dòrainn to put himself between Morgan and Lothar.

And this time, he
would
keep her safe.

He had a final look at Searbhe, but saw no change in his condition. He flung himself up into the sky and flapped off energetically. He watched behind him, but saw nothing following him. He flew into the nearby forest, then swept up out of it as a strong north wind, tearing south toward Tòrr Dòrainn.

He would spent a few hours in Seanagarra, see to Morgan's protection as best he could, then determine how in the hell he was going to leave her behind and convince her to stay there. She wouldn't agree, but he had no choice. He was not going to subject her to Gair's evil and he wouldn't leave her vulnerable to Lothar's rage.

He would keep her safe, if it meant his own life in trade.

M
organ walked down the passageway, cursing under her breath. The afternoon had waned and still Miach had not returned. She had spent the morning trying to beat the truth out of Sosar in the lists, but he had proven to be more closed-mouthed than she would have expected, even under such duress. She'd allowed him to go finally, but promised she would hunt him down and have the truth from him if Miach wasn't back by supper.

Supper was about to be served and Miach was nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, she hadn't a clue where to even begin looking for him. And since she didn't have that ability of his to sense her from great distances, she would have to resort to things she could manage such as threatening to slide Mehar's knife into her uncle's belly if he didn't open his mouth and spew out something useful.

She rounded a corner and came to a skidding halt. There were two men standing there, arguing in angry whispers about things Morgan was certain she would find highly instructive if she could just eavesdrop long enough. She jerked herself back behind the corner post, then went so far as to tuck herself into an alcove and push herself back into the darkest corner of it where she couldn't be seen.

She closed her eyes briefly and fought the temptation to sit down. Miach was back safely. She took a deep, unsteady breath. He was, of course, capable of seeing to himself, but just the same…

“I don't care where you've been,” Sìle said angrily. “How dare you tromp through my halls in your slovenly condition, unwashed, unshaven, looking as if you'd just finished rolling in the mud with the hounds!”

“I apologize,” Miach said tightly. “Now, if we might return to what I was trying to discuss with you—”

“I can just imagine what
you
want,” Sìle interrupted with a snort.

Morgan wished that her grandfather would, for once, just be quiet. She was desperately curious about where Miach had been and what he'd been doing. She would certainly never learn that if Sìle didn't shut up.

“I want Sarait's amulet.”

“You want
what
?” Sìle gasped.

Morgan, for once, agreed with him. Miach wanted what?

“I want the amulet you made for Sarait that cost you a year of your reign,” Miach said firmly. “I want it for Mhorghain.”

“Never,” Sìle spat.

Miach cursed. “Can you not be reasonable? I want it to protect Mhorghain for precisely the same reasons you wanted to protect Sarait—”

“Mhorghain has no need of it.
I
will keep her safe.”

Morgan pursed her lips. How conveniently Sìle was forgetting that it was Miach who had saved her from Cruadal the previous morning.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Miach said, sounding as if he were holding on to his patience only barely, “you're wrong. You will not be able to. I have seen what hunts your granddaughter. I have set my own spells of ward within your borders—”

“You set
what
!” Sìle roared.

“I didn't do it for you,” Miach roared back.

Morgan listened, openmouthed, as they snarled at each other for a full ten minutes before there was anything to listen to besides curses and insults.

It was, she had to admit, rather impressive.

“I did it for Mhorghain,” Miach shouted, finally. “For Queen Brèagha, for your sons and daughters, your grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

Sìle was silent.

He was silent for so long, she began to wonder if something had happened to him. Miach wouldn't have slain him, but her grandfather could have shouted himself into a stupor. She eased out of the alcove and peeked very carefully around the corner. Sìle was merely standing there with his arms folded over his chest, glaring at Miach.

Morgan pulled back and waited.

“And I misspoke,” Miach continued in a rather more calm tone of voice. “I did it for you as well, Your Grace, because when those creatures that have been hunting your granddaughter come into your lands and your spells fail, mine will hold.”

Sìle began to splutter.

“And if mine fail, that amulet you fashioned for Sarait will, I believe, at least keep Mhorghain safe from them.”

“Then you acknowledge that my magic is superior,” Sìle said huffily.

“You poured a year of your love and fear into that talisman,” Miach said. “I only had a pair of hours to use on my spells—”

“How dare you invade my land and pollute it with your magic,” Sìle said, though in far less stentorian tones than before. “Wexham, Croxteth—what manner of bilge did you use? Olc?” he finished with a sneer.

“Fadaire,” Miach said quietly, “strengthened with Camanaë and a great deal of my own power.”

“Fadaire?” Sìle thundered. “And how in the
hell
do you know enough of that—”

“I've been in your private books,” Miach shouted back, “and I've spent the past three days and nights memorizing every last bloody spell I could lay my greedy hands on!”

There was a gurgling noise. Morgan had another look, but found it was only Sìle in a towering rage. Miach merely stood there, letting her grandfather rage on. She would have smiled to herself, but Miach's words were starting to sink in.

He'd set spells of protection all around Tòrr Dòrainn. He wanted an amulet to protect her…because he wasn't planning on being there to do it himself.

Damn him to hell, he was going to leave her behind.

“I will not use the spells anywhere else,” Miach said quite loudly, then he took a deep breath. “Well, I would if it meant keeping my lady safe. I am, as you well know, discreet. I will not give them to anyone else. And I will not use them in the business I'm about outside your borders.”

“And what is that business?” Sìle snapped.

Morgan leaned forward to hear, but found a hand over her mouth and her body pulled backward. She had her assailant on his knees with her thumbs in his eyes before she realized it was Sosar. She released him immediately.

“Sorry,” she whispered shortly. “You shouldn't sneak up on me.”

“Apparently not,” he said, wide-eyed. He struggled to his feet, rubbing the spot on his neck where she'd clutched him on his way to his knees. “What are you doing?”

“I am successfully eavesdropping on the man I am considering marrying because I know he's too bloody stubborn to give me the details on his own.” She glared at him. “I don't need any aid in this endeavor.”

“Hmmm,” he said, but he didn't move.

Morgan shot him another warning look, then turned her attentions back to what had become a rather quiet conversation all of the sudden. She eased closer to the corner of the wall she was hiding behind and breathed silently.

“You'll never manage it. But by all means, go try.”

Morgan cursed silently and shot Sosar a look of fury. She'd obviously missed the most useful bits.

“I will go,” Miach said tightly, “
after
I watch you give Mhorghain the amulet.”

“So you can take her with you and use her whilst she's protected by
my
magic?” Sìle spat. “I don't believe you want it for any other reason.”

“And I don't care what you believe. Damn it, Your Grace, I have her best interests at heart! I
will
do whatever is required to
keep
her safe even if that means giving my life in exchange for hers.”

Morgan found that tears were running down her cheeks. She had no idea where Miach planned on going, but it had to be somewhere unpleasant if he didn't want her along. Were the schools of wizardry so dangerous, then?

Sìle was silent a bit longer, then he sighed gustily. “Very well, I will give her the amulet. At a time of my own choosing,” he added sternly.

“Tonight.”

“I will do it—”

“Tonight,” Miach said firmly. “You will allow me to have a final meal with my love and I will watch you hand her that amulet. And then I will go.”

Sìle only grunted.

“And a dance,” Miach added.

“Absolutely not!”

“And one last thing,” Miach continued, as if he hadn't heard Sìle's protests. “When I return, I want Mhorghain's hand.”

“I wouldn't waste much thought on
that
,” Sìle snarled. “You'll be too dead to wed with her.”

“We'll see. For now, I'll be satisfied when Mhorghain has what I want for her. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go make myself presentable—”

Morgan shoved past Sosar before he could stop her, then ran back to her chamber. Her maid was sitting on a stool, half asleep.

“I need the finest gown I own,” Morgan said quickly. “Perhaps even a crown.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” the girl said, jumping up immediately. She smiled. “In truth?”

Morgan wondered if she had been so obstinate about matters of grooming before, then decided it wasn't worth wasting time on. She was more than willing to be fussed over at present and perhaps that was what counted.

She didn't say a word at the outrageously elegant dress of deep green velvet the girl put on her. She sat perfectly still as the wench took an inordinate amount of time to see to her hair and settle her crown. It was weaponry. Sìle would think she had accepted her birthright and leave her be. Miach would be so dazzled with her clothes and hair, he wouldn't notice when she followed him from the palace.

She rose, thanked the girl, then walked from her chamber. She considered several locations, then decided she would start in the garden. Perhaps Miach was working on his spells.

Perhaps he was merely seeking a bit of silence after what he'd just listened to.

And so he was. She stood in the shadows of a path and watched as he paced restlessly under trees that had begun to bud out in preparation for spring in the midst of winter.

Morgan found it quite difficult to take a decent breath. He was dressed in black hose and a blue tunic that made him look so regal, it was all she could do not to drop to her knees and bow her head to him. He wore black boots, apparently shined for the occasion, and a circlet of silver atop his head.

He looked remarkably like a prince.

“He is handsome, isn't he?”

Morgan turned to find her grandmother standing next to her. She managed to swallow. “He is,” she said. “Exceptionally.”

Brèagha linked arms with her. “You will have beautiful children, love. And powerful ones. If Sìle allows it.”

Morgan looked at her seriously. “He will have nothing to say about it. I will wed where I will, Grandmother. Besides, Miach is
not
Gair.”

“Mhorghain, darling, you're right. Miach's not Gair. He makes Gair look like a village sorcerer's apprentice and
that
is why Sìle dislikes him so. I have lived centuries and seen mage after mage walk across the world's stage.” She smiled. “Prince Mochriadhemiach stands alone before them all.”

Morgan felt a little faint. “But he's just Miach.”

“Darling, he is so much more than that. Perhaps he doesn't realize fully what he's capable of, but there will come a day when he must.” She reached over and touched Morgan's cheek. “You will need to come to terms with that same thing someday as well, darling.”

“Oh, I don't know—”

“Mhorghain, you must accept who you are at some point, just as you must accept that if you give yourself to Prince Mochriadhemiach, you cannot change what he is, or what he can do.”

Morgan looked at her grandmother. “He would never use his power for ill.”

“He wouldn't, which is why you love him. Neither would you, which is why you are worthy of being his consort.” She kissed Morgan on both cheeks. “And you will have beautiful children, which is what this grandmother's heart awaits with pleasure. I'll leave you to fetch him, darling. I imagine he's waiting for you.”

Morgan watched her walk away, then turned back to look at Miach. Surely he was just a man with substantial sword skill and a few spells at his disposal. She didn't want to think about what else he might be, or what he might possibly expect of her. It was much easier to limit herself to wondering where he'd gone and why he'd looked as if he'd been to hell and back.

Had he encountered more of those creatures? Had he gone all the way to Riamh? She didn't want to believe the last, but she supposed it was possible. He looked impossibly grave, like a man who had a terrible secret that he knew he would have to keep under difficult circumstances.

She thought she just might not make that easy for him, actually.

Then again, perhaps for the night he could stop being the archmage of Neroche and she could stop being a princess of Tòrr Dòrainn and they could be Miach and Morgan. They could take one night for themselves, one night that would count as a stolen moment of ease and happiness before the real task was faced.