The Mage's Daughter (39 page)

“He doesn't want Mhorghain to come with him, Father,” Sosar said quietly. “He didn't need to stage this whole battle if his intent was to merely take Mhorghain to the—”

“Sosar!” Miach exclaimed.

Morgan looked at them, knew that Miach had trusted Sosar with details he hadn't been willing to give to her, and couldn't decide if she was furious or if her feelings smarted.

Furious was better.

She strode away before she couldn't stop herself from drawing her sword and doing him in for good this time. She walked down the bank to the lazily flowing river there, then knelt and washed her hands. She washed her face as well and worked on the spatters of blood on her sleeves. Those were hopeless and 'twas Miach's blood anyway, so she let them be. She finally did nothing but kneel there in the mud and watch the water.

She didn't like where she found herself. She was accustomed to leading the charge, not being told to go back to the house and wait whilst the men took care of the truly difficult work. And she simply couldn't face another day where she woke thinking,
knowing
that Miach was dead and she could have prevented it if she had been with him.

It was almost enough to convince her that perhaps she should take Mehar's ring, hand it back to him, and bid him a final farewell.

She heard soft footsteps behind her, but she didn't turn. Miach knelt down next to her and was silent for a minute. She was afraid if she looked at him, she
would
stab him, so she continued to simply look down into the water. She heard him strip off his shirt, then saw out of the corner of her eye that he had leaned forward to wash the blood from his arms and chest.

She didn't think; she merely gave him a hearty shove.

He went rolling into the water. She would have told him that he deserved it, but before she managed to open her mouth and get the words out, she found herself being jerked into the water as well.

The river was deeper than it looked. She resurfaced with a curse, coughing out things she hadn't intended to ingest. She managed to get to her feet only to find Miach unbuckling her swordbelt.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

“Ridding you of any potential weapons,” he said, reaching down into the water and pulling Mehar's knife free of her boot. He tossed it onto the bank with her sword.

She tried to get past him, but he caught her about the waist and turned her to him.

“Let me go,” she snapped.

“Nay.”

She scowled up at him. “You're going to leave me behind again, aren't you?”

He sighed deeply and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Morgan, I will
not
take you any farther on this journey.”

“And when was it, my lord Archmage, that I became a helpless woman who is only fit to sit and stitch whilst you're about the business of keeping the realm safe?” she said sharply. “I am part of the Nine Kingdoms too. If I cannot do my part as well as you, then what use am I?”

“Do you have any idea,” he said through gritted teeth, “what it would do to me if I lost you?”

“Actually,” she said quietly, “I do.”

He opened his mouth, then apparently realized what she meant. He suddenly looked quite winded. He looked at her for a long moment in silence, then bent and carefully rested his forehead against hers. “I'm sorry, Morgan, for this morning,” he whispered.

“Yet you'll leave me behind again.”

He lifted his head. “Aye.”

She was rather grateful to be drenched from head to toe. It hid her tears quite nicely. “I am beginning to think you don't want me—”

His eyes widened, then he jerked her against him and cut off her words with his mouth. She tried to protest the tactic, but realized rather quickly that Miach wasn't at all interested in idle chatter. He kissed her until she began to have trouble staying on her feet. He took her hands and put them around his neck, then pulled her hard against him and kissed her quite a bit longer.

Then he suddenly tore his mouth away. “Wash your hair,” he said hoarsely. “I'll comb it out for you.”

She reached out and took his face in her hands so she could force him to look at her. “I will not let you leave without me. I'll come and guard your back.”

He smiled wearily. “Of course, Morgan.”

She was vaguely unsatisfied with that answer, but saw that she would have nothing more from him. She rinsed things out of her hair she preferred not to identify, then climbed out of the water and stood on the bank, shivering, while she waited for Miach to finish. He came out of the water dripping, but looking much more like himself. He gathered her blades for her, then took her hand and his ruined tunic and walked with her back to where a fire had been built near the trees. Morgan saw that Sìle's elven army was gone. Only Làidir, Sosar, and Sìle remained, but Làidir was wearing a cloak and looked ready for travel.

“We've decided,” Làidir said, “that one of us needs to return home now. I'll go and take Mhorghain with me.”

“Mhorghain isn't going with you,” Miach said. He shot Làidir a look. “Let me walk with you a minute so I might give you my final thanks, if you don't mind.”

Morgan watched them go off together. She might have enjoyed the sight of them speaking companionably, but she was too busy wondering what they were saying about her. They spoke in low voices for quite some time, then Làidir turned himself into a powerful eagle and soared off into the west.

Sìle sighed.

Morgan watched Miach come back to the fire. He caught a tunic Sosar tossed him and pulled it over his head. He took off his boots, set them down by the fire, then sat down on a stump. He produced a comb from somewhere and looked at her.

“Come and sit, love,” he said quietly.

She took off her own boots, set them next to his by the fire, then sat down in front of him. She wanted to ask a score of questions, but she knew she would have no answers. Even Sosar wouldn't meet her eyes. She gave in, for the moment, and closed her eyes as Miach worked on her hair.

“Sosar, you saw to the trolls?” he asked quietly.

“I did. And Father has provided us with a covering here. Lads may walk toward us, but the glamour will confuse them and send them in another direction. We're safe enough.”

“Thank you,” Miach said quietly.

There was, for quite some time, nothing but the sound of the fire popping and cracking in front of her. She opened her eyes, finally, once Miach had finished working tangles from her hair and was simply trailing his fingers through it. Sosar was watching them with a sad smile on his face. Her grandfather, though, wasn't looking at her; he was watching Miach. She didn't bother to try to decipher what his expression might mean.

“Perhaps we should be on our way,” Sosar said casually. “Beinn òrain, Miach?”

“Hmmm,” Miach agreed. “In a bit. When Mhorghain's boots are dry.”

Morgan knew exactly what he planned because she would have done the same thing. He was going to wait until she'd fallen asleep, then desert her without a backward glance.

Well, there was no sense in not helping him along.

She yawned. “I think I might want a little nap before we go. What do you think, uncle?” she asked, looking at Sosar pointedly.

His eyes widened for a moment, then he suddenly produced a considerable yawn. “I agree. A little rest is just the thing for us.”

Sìle said nothing. He merely sat with his feet toward the fire, his arms resting on his knees, looking for all the world like a soldier who had seen so many battles that they had ceased to hold any excitement for him.

Or he would have, if he hadn't looked so much like an elven king, beautiful and terrible.

He wasn't watching her, though; he was watching Miach.

Morgan took Miach's hands that were resting on her shoulders and pulled them forward so she could wrap his arms around her. “Thank you, my love,” she said leaning back to kiss his cheek. “I think, though, that I truly do need a rest.”

“Of course, Morgan.”

She squeezed his arms briefly, then stretched out near the fire. She closed her eyes, let her breathing deepen, then waited for the inevitable to happen.

“You
would
give your life for hers.”

“Aye, Your Grace. And I will.”

“She will mourn.”

“She will be alive to do so.”

“All right…Miach.”

Morgan continued to breathe evenly. She would wait, then follow him before he could leave without her.

Again.

 

S
he heard him rise at midnight. She listened to him walk off with a lightness of step she had to admire, then she tapped the top of Sosar's head with her toe.

Sosar lifted his head slowly, looked toward where Miach had gone, then looked at her. “Aye?”

“Where's he going?”

Sosar closed his eyes briefly. “The well.”

“Damn him to hell,” she whispered fiercely. She rose soundlessly and looked down at her uncle. “I'm going with him.”

Sosar reached out and put his hand on her foot. “Take care of him, niece. And yourself.”

She nodded, then turned and melted into the shadows. She made it only a few paces into the darkness before she found herself slowing to an uncomfortable stop.

She didn't want to face what was there in front of her mind's eye, but she knew she could avoid it no longer. If Miach tried to shut that well, he would fail. Just as her mother had.

But what if she could help him?

She remembered vividly the feeling of her grandfather's hands over hers. He hadn't repeated the entire spell of healing with her, just the last word. She had felt his power rush into her hands,
through
her hands, into Miach's chest. It had been a blinding flash of magic that had rendered her senseless. But it had accomplished what it had been meant to.

What if she could do that for Miach?

She shivered. It had very little to do with her clothes that were still damp and everything to do with the hard, unflinching realization that she was forced to accept.

She
could
help Miach.

But only if she accepted who she was.

The feeling that washed over her was every bit as unpleasant as the one she'd experienced when Miach had told her about her parentage at Lismòr. She thought, for a moment, that she just might be ill—she who had never shied away from the difficult.

But this was magic, not swordplay, so perhaps she could be forgiven for having to lean against a tree and simply breathe until she was sure she wouldn't retch.

It took far longer than it should have, but she finally found the strength to straighten. She had to take several more deep, fortifying breaths before she could continue on. She walked until she could see Miach near the river. His horse was standing there, saddled and ready. Miach was sitting on a log, bent over a sheaf of paper.

Writing a farewell note, no doubt.

She stopped because she couldn't bring herself to go on any farther. She wrapped her arms around herself. She was cold, suddenly. Cold and frightened.

If she took a step, a full and committed step into Mhorghain of Ceangail's world, there would be no turning back. She could no longer be Morgan of Melksham who loved the way fire danced along her blade and preferred a game of cards where magic was only used to describe how she slipped cards out of her sleeve. If she chose to be Mhorghain, she could no longer be that girl with no past and no responsibilities past the current siege. She could no longer relegate elves and wizardesses and fierce, beautiful magic to tales told by the fireside at night.

She could also not choose to merely be Mhorghain of Tòrr Dòrainn. She would have to accept that part of her that came from her father as well.

She stood there, terrified by the choice and all it would mean.

Then she took a deep, steadying breath and deliberately shoved aside her fear.

She put her shoulders back. She would do what needed to be done. After all, wasn't that what Weger had taught her? To press on ahead, no matter the cost personally, no matter the danger or peril? To see the job done, then weep later?

So she took a step forward, her first step into the world of elves and elvish magic and a lineage that included souls she'd only heard tell of in legend.

It was very hard, that first step.

But the second was easier, the third easier still. She walked forward slowly, walking into her future, walking toward the man who would shoulder everything alone if she didn't force him to let her be a part of it.

It was easier than watching him walk away from her again.

Though not by much.

M
iach had had better days.

Almost dying had been the least of the misery, though his chest still ached abominably and he wondered if he would ever truly catch his breath again. He didn't want to admit that the shortness of breath came from more than just the sword that had resided there in his heart earlier. If leaving Morgan the night before had been difficult, this was a thousand times worse. And he was leaving her not safely hidden at Tòrr Dòrainn, but out in the open with only her marginally qualified relatives to guard her.

Unfortunately, he had no other choice.

He had a sheaf of paper in his hand, but he couldn't bring himself to write anything down yet. How could he possibly put into words how much he loved her, how hard it was to leave her, and how greatly he feared he would not return from the business in front of him? It was impossible, so he looked for something else to do to put off the inevitable a bit longer.

He reached for Sarait's letter and read it one more time. It still said all the same things, still implied that only one of Gair's blood could close the well, still left Miach feeling that he could only make the choice he was making at present. He could not subject Morgan to the horror there.

He set the letter aside, considered, then started to write.

“A lying, honorless whoreson,” a voice said from behind him, “and that is a slur for
you
, not your honorable dam.”

Miach fell off the log he'd been sitting on. He looked up and found Morgan standing over him, glaring at him. He opened his mouth to argue with her, but before he could, she had snatched up not only his letter but Sarait's.

He jumped to his feet. “Morgan, don't—”

She held him away with a stiff arm. Then she looked up at his magelight and called it to her.

It deserted him without hesitation.

He went down on his knees in the mud. “Morgan, I beg you. Please give me back—”

She shot him a look that made him shut his mouth. She pulled him up to his feet and pointed to the log he'd been sitting on. He hesitated, then retreated to sit down on it. There was no point in asking her to stop reading. Not now.

She'd said she would come with him wherever he went, just to guard his back so he could be about whatever business lay before him. He supposed she hadn't considered that the business might be the business of her father's well and that she might be the one doing the shutting of it.

She read his letter, shot him a glare, then crumpled up the sheaf and threw it at him. He would have smiled, but his heart pained him too much for that. He spelled his unfinished letter into oblivion with a quiet word and waited.

Morgan took Sarait's letter in hands that were steady at first, then began to shake. The blood drained from her face as she read. He waited, silent, as she finished. Then she turned the letter over and read the postscript. She looked at the letter in her hands for quite some time before she looked at him.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

He leapt up, strode over to her, and pulled her into his arms. He heard Sarait's letter crumple as Morgan threw her arms around his waist and held on to him. Her breath came in gasps.

But she said nothing.

Miach found nothing to say either. He cradled her head against his shoulder, wishing there was some way he could have spared her what she'd just read. He could only say that he'd tried.

Perhaps he shouldn't have.

“I'm so sorry, Morgan,” he whispered.

“Was it bad?” she asked. “There at the well?”

“Words are inadequate to describe it.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “I don't think I remember much of it.”

“You're fortunate, then.”

She put her hands on his chest, then pushed away only far enough to look up at him. “And you think she was right?” she asked. “My mother?”

He nodded.

“In my dreams I have seen my father standing there with blood on his hands.” Tears were streaming down her face. “It will take someone with his blood to undo what he has done, won't it?”

Miach closed his eyes briefly. “Your mother suspected so.”

“Then why in the
hell
do you think
you
can do it without me?”

“I won't accept anything else.”

“Even if it costs you your life?”

He took a deep breath. “Aye.”

“And the realm?” she asked pointedly. “Are you not the archmage of Neroche? If memory serves, you have a duty to that realm.”

“I chose duty over you the last time—”

“So you'll sentence yourself to death this time?” she asked furiously. She pulled out of his arms. “You will take from the realm of Neroche what keeps it safe and you'll take from me what makes my heart whole.”

“Morgan—”

She poked his chest with her finger. “Just stay out of my way, damn you to hell. I will find the spell on my own, then close the well on my own.”

He looked at her with her tears streaming down her face and couldn't decide if he was grateful for her courage or very, very ill at the thought of what she would face.

He reached for her, wrapped his arms around her, and smiled down at her in spite of the tears he could feel on his own face. “I won't stay out of your way,” he said. He had to clear his throat roughly. “I will be in front of you, behind you, with my arms around you as often as I can be until you draw your sword and force me away. If you'll allow it.” He paused. “Will you give me that answer now, or later?”

“Here's my answer,” she said slowly. “If you leave me behind again, when I find you I will take Mehar's ring and shove it down your throat.”

“Fair enough.” He smiled in spite of the way his eyes burned. “Now look at what you've reduced me to.”

“You do love me, don't you?” she whispered.

“With everything I am and to my very last breath,” he said seriously. He smoothed her hair back from her face. “I once told you I could not promise you peace, or safety, or respite from your dreams. I suppose that means I can't promise you freedom from the horrors of the world either, can I?”

“There are some things, my love, that you simply cannot. But I can bear them, if you're there.”

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “I think that was a term of endearment you used on me.”

“Apparently it took an event of this magnitude to wrench it from me.”

He pulled her close again and rested his cheek against her hair. He couldn't bear the thought of Morgan anywhere near Gair's well, but he realized he had no choice but to accept that he could not stop her from going there. Not now. She would go alone if he didn't keep her near him. He sighed deeply. “Very well, Morgan,” he said quietly. “I concede the battle and the war. I will take you with me.”

“I will be a help, not a hindrance.”

“That, my love, was never the issue.”

“I know,” she said. “I just thought you should know.”

He pulled back and looked down at her with a smile. “Go fetch your gear, woman, and let's be on our way before we have a pair of chaperons.”

“Too late,” Sosar said cheerfully from the edge of the trees.

Miach looked over to find not only Sosar but Sìle standing not more than thirty paces away. Sosar was smiling. Sìle was only watching, his expression inscrutable. Miach decided that he might have better luck being reasonable with Morgan's uncle.

“I was hoping for secrecy,” he ventured.

“We can be secret,” Sosar said. “Well, I can. I'm not sure about my father.”

Miach found Morgan looking up at him. He felt her lips on his cheek briefly, then she pulled out of his arms and went to stand before her grandfather. She took his hands.

“I will return to Tòrr Dòrainn,” she said quietly. “After Miach and I have finished this, I
will
return. And while Miach and I appreciate the show of support, we will be fine on our own.”

The king cleared his throat roughly. “I forced you to choose between us, Mhorghain, and I apologize. I was wrong.” He shot Miach a look. “I will come along. I can be discreet. Certainly more so than Sosar who requires all sorts of concessions and comforts.”

Miach suspected that Sosar was not the one who would require concessions and comforts, but perhaps he underestimated the old man.

“Well?” Sìle prompted.

Miach found that Morgan and her grandfather both were watching him. He wondered, briefly, if it was possible to travel with those two elves and remain anonymous.

He doubted it.

“I appreciate the offer,” he began slowly.

“We'll be ready to go in a moment,” Sìle said, turning away before Miach could finish. “Sosar, fetch the horses you called to us earlier. I'll ready the saddlebags.”

Miach looked at Morgan. She was smiling.

“You're outnumbered,” she said.

“I'm a little queasy at the thought, actually,” he said seriously.

“I don't think it will go badly for us. Sosar is prudent. Sìle might heal us both if needed. I'll go get my gear.”

He nodded.

“Be here when I return.”

Heaven help him, he would. It wasn't wise and it wasn't safe, but if he hadn't meant to share his life with her, he should have left her safely in Gobhann. He watched as she walked through the trees away from him and was extraordinarily glad he hadn't managed to rush off without her.

Though he supposed he hadn't tried very hard, truth be told.

He hoped he wouldn't come to regret that decision.

 

H
e wished, four days later, that he'd tried a little harder to leave Sìle and Sosar behind.

He walked through the streets of Beinn òrain near sunset, held Fleòd and Luath's reins in one hand and Morgan's hand with the other, and contemplated the ironies of life. The last time he'd been there, three years ago, he'd been escaping clumsy attempts by Adhémar to find brides for all his younger brothers. He'd fled east on the pretext of keeping current with the masters in Buidseachd. He'd made the required visit, of course, then spent several days just wandering the city and wondering if there would ever come a time when his life might include more than just spells.

He never would have imagined that his life might include Mhorghain of Tòrr Dòrainn.

Or her family.

He watched the king of Tòrr Dòrainn and his youngest son walking in front of him, leading their own horses and trying to pass themselves off as simple travelers. Sosar was succeeding; Sìle was failing miserably—and that in spite of the money they'd spent on fitting him with discreet clothing.

Well, at least they'd come this far without magic. Perhaps people would simply overlook them and they would manage a quick and uneventful stay.

He looked to his right and saw Buidseachd sitting up on the rocky bluff in the middle of town. He remembered his first sight of the fortress. He'd been walking down the very same street at ten years old, holding his mother's hand. She had elbowed him and told him to look up. He could still remember his absolute astonishment at the sight that greeted him. His mother had laughed at him, hugged him tightly, and told him she loved him.

Miach smiled at the memory, then squeezed Morgan's hand.

“Morgan, look up,” he said, nodding to her right.

“I'm fine,” she said, putting her head down and continuing on through the press. “I don't like crowds.”

“I won't let anyone run over you. Just turn your head a bit and look up.” He kept her hand in his and pointed with it in front of her nose toward the castle that stood on the edge of the rocky bluff, high above the rest of the city.

She finally caught sight of it. Her mouth fell open.

He smiled. “I wondered when you'd notice.”

“What's that?” she wheezed.

“Buidseachd. The schools of wizardry.”

“We aren't going there, are we?” she asked, looking absolutely miserable.

“Not today. Today we'll find proper housing for the horses, then find ourselves the same near the gates of the keep. We'll carry on tomorrow.”