The Mage's Daughter (5 page)

“You're exceedingly lucky to be alive,” he said grimly.

“Aye,” she managed. “I think so too.”

“You need to rest.”

“Later.”

He grunted at her. “Very well. You may come watch, but then it's back to bed with you.” He took her arm and walked her over to the door, then left her there.

Morgan clutched the door frame until she caught her breath, then left the hall and shut the door behind her. She put her hand on the wall and started down the passageway. It was more of an effort than she wanted to admit to limp toward the end that opened into the uppermost courtyard.

She wondered, as she shuffled along, if Weger had built the place, or inherited it, or pilfered it. The whole fortress rested between two enormous towers of rock, looking as if it had simply grown spontaneously from the stone. There were courtyards on many levels, open to the air and reached by stairs cut into rocky outcroppings. It was magnificent, in a stern, unyielding kind of way.

But best of all, there was no magic within the walls. Morgan had believed that previously because rumor had said as much. She knew the truth of it now because she had whispered a spell that morning in the privacy of her own chamber and had it drop into the silence like a rock dropping into a bottomless well.

She had been vastly relieved.

She stopped at the end of the passageway, sheltering herself from the worst of the stiff sea breeze that blew through Weger's tower almost without ceasing. Normally she would have stridden out into it and enjoyed its fierceness, but today she was past striding, and she feared the wind would blow her away.

She heard the fighting before she saw it. She looked out into the courtyard and saw a few of the older students gathered there, waiting to watch the carnage. There wasn't much in the way of entertainment at Gobhann, but the thrashing of a potential novice provided some, at least.

Jeers and abuse accompanied the new lad as he fought his way up the stairs. Morgan almost smiled. It was cheering to listen to the same sort of mistreatment of a lesser swordsman by his betters that she had offered during her previous, lengthy stay at Gobhann.

Soon the taunts faded away and all that was left was the ring of swords and the grunts of men at their work. Morgan tried to get a glimpse of who was fighting, but Weger was in her way. He finally looked over his shoulder, saw her, and stepped aside so she could see. She expected to find a man of decent mettle in the process of being reduced to pleading for mercy.

Instead, not fifty paces away from her, stood none other than Mochriadhemiach of Neroche.

The bloody archmage of the realm.

She was so surprised, her knees almost gave way. Fortunately, there was a wall handy and she was able to lean against it and keep herself upright. She could hardly believe her eyes, but they at least were functioning as they should. She gaped at Miach and wondered what in the
hell
he was thinking to come inside a place where his magic was going to be completely useless…and given that his magic was the only thing to keep his sword skill from being called nonexistent, he was truly in trouble.

Well, perhaps that was a bit harsh. She studied him dispassionately for quite some time and had to admit that while he might not be besting his opponent, he was at least holding his own—and his opponent was very, very good.

And then, quite quickly, he wasn't holding his own anymore.

Morgan watched him stand there with his arms down at his sides, his sword point down against the stone, his chest heaving.

She didn't want to watch him anymore. Unfortunately, she couldn't make herself look away. Just the sight of him was like cool, soothing rain after endless weeks of unbearable heat. She closed her eyes briefly, swallowed hard, then had to look again.

He was beautiful. She'd forgotten, in those days of haze and pain, just how handsome he was. His features were perfectly proportioned, his form no doubt the envy of every man in the keep, and his bearing regal. And there was something more about him, something that simmered under the surface of his very polished appearance, something quite lethal. Whatever else he was, he was a very dangerous man. Perhaps he was less roughened about the edges than the other men standing in a circle around him, but he was just as perilous.

And his eyes were still that palest of blues.

She was interrupted in her lusting—an alarming thought in and of itself—by Weger backing up to stand in front of her. He blocked her view, but she thought that perhaps she should be grateful for that.

“What do you think?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Throw him off the parapet,” Morgan wheezed.

Weger grunted, then strode out into the courtyard. He nodded for his student to move, then took up that lad's place. For the briefest of moments, Morgan felt sorry for Miach. It wouldn't have surprised her to see Weger take him on at that point, just to humble him a bit more. But Weger only folded his arms across his chest and looked at Miach.

Eye to eye, if anyone was curious.

Morgan reminded herself that she hated Miach of Neroche. He had lied to her, led her unwittingly to a fate she had never wanted, then revealed himself as who and what he was only because he'd had no choice. He had allowed her to fall in love with him, passing himself off as a simple farmer, when he knew that he was most definitely not and he
knew
how she felt about mages. He had obviously abandoned her at Lismòr without once returning to see if she lived or not.

There was the difficulty of wondering why he found himself standing not thirty paces in front of her at present, but that was something she would work out later, when she was more herself.

“Who are you?” Weger demanded. “Your name, before I cut it from you.”

Miach didn't flinch and he most certainly didn't cower. Morgan watched him incline his head in a marginally deferential way.

“You could call me Miach,” he said quietly.

Weger stared at him for so long that even Morgan began to grow a little uncomfortable. Miach, however, merely stood there and let Weger study him all he liked.

Well, whatever else could be said about the fool, it had to be conceded that he didn't lack courage.

Finally, Weger shrugged. “As you will. Why are you here?”

Miach only hesitated slightly. “For sword skill, my lord.”

Weger grunted. “Obviously, since you have none of your own. What will you give me in return?”

Morgan held her breath. No one earned Weger's mark without giving something dear in return. Some brought gold, or family heirlooms, or offered to stay on afterward and see to other menial tasks in the keep for a certain period of time. She had remained in his tower as a swordmaster as her payment. But Miach?

She suspected what he would have to offer would be things Weger would never want.

“I will give you whatever you ask,” Miach said finally.

Weger considered for an absurdly long period of time before he nodded. “Paul, show our new lad here his luxurious accommodations. Work begins at dawn tomorrow.”

Miach bowed low, then bowed to Paul as well.

But he looked about the courtyard, as if he searched for something in particular. Morgan jerked backward into the shadows. She wasn't at all sure that Miach wouldn't be able to hear her heart pounding from where she stood, though she was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to see her. She was too far in darkness for that.

He looked worried. Perhaps he feared he would never escape back out Weger's gates. Perhaps he worried he wouldn't make it past the first se'nnight. She couldn't imagine that he was worried he hadn't seen her.

He left in the keeping of the novices' mentor. Morgan watched him until he disappeared out of sight, then jumped at the feel of Weger's hand on her arm.

“Morgan, go to bed,” he said shortly. “You're of absolutely no use to anyone if you can't keep yourself on your feet.”

She was surprised enough at him calling her by her name, something he had never done, to allow him to pull her toward the hallway that would eventually lead to her chamber. His usual term for her was
woman
or
wench
or simply a grunt in her direction. Perhaps he was more concerned about her than she'd suspected.

She let him escort her to her chamber itself and didn't argue when Stephen caught up with them, bearing yet more food.

She also didn't argue when Weger stood in her doorway and glared at her until she finished as much of her supper as he determined she should.

“Now sleep, wench,” he ordered, then slammed her door shut.

Morgan sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. She would sleep, just as soon as she allowed herself to wonder about a few things.

Miach had to have known his magic would be useless inside Gobhann, hadn't he? If he hadn't, he surely would have felt it the moment he stepped beyond the gate.

Yet he had continued on through his initiation challenges just the same.

She couldn't bring herself to believe he had come for her, but she could think of no other reason. The question was why. All he'd ever wanted from her had been her hand on the Sword of Angesand, but since that sword was now gone, her usefulness to him should have disappeared as well.

Had he come to censure her for her actions? If so, then why had he waited until she'd come inside Gobhann? He could have come south at any time and shouted at her.

But he hadn't. He hadn't shouted at her, not even after she'd destroyed a sword that had been in his family for generations. He'd just looked at her with pity in his eyes, as if he had known what she suffered and wished he hadn't been a part of it.

She decided abruptly that she didn't care why he was there. She had her own life to live, a life that did not include magic, finger-waggling, or an archmage who had no sword skill.

She put herself to bed before she had to think on it any longer.

M
iach sat on a stool in what could be generously termed a cell and wondered what in the hell he'd been thinking to come anywhere near Gobhann.

He was without magic, without a sighting of Morgan, and without even so much as a dab of horse liniment to use in rubbing out the knots he could feel all through his back thanks to Weger's brutal and relentless training regimen. He'd spent the previous three days training with the sword from dawn until well past sunset. The only respite from swordplay had been those pauses several times during the day when he'd been invited to run up the stairs from the base of the keep to its parapet and back down again to improve his stamina.

And he'd entered Weger's gates willingly?

He was beginning to wonder if he'd lost his mind.

It wasn't that he was unaccustomed to physical work. He did stir himself to go out to the lists now and then. He tended his own horse, cut his own meat, shoved his brothers out of his way as the occasion arose.

But this was something else entirely.

It had begun the moment he'd set foot inside Weger's gates. He'd had the luxury of but a handful of heartbeats to accustom himself to having his magic snuffed out as if it had been a particularly offensive candle before he'd been assaulted by the gatekeeper. He had passed that first test easily only because he'd been expecting the like and he'd been prepared for it. The successive challenges had been increasingly difficult, but he'd expected that as well.

He hadn't shown as well as he would have liked, but he'd been distracted by all the looking about he'd done to see if Morgan was there. He hadn't expected Morgan to be engaging in any swordplay, but he had assumed he would at least see her.

He hadn't—not even in the uppermost circle where he'd come face-to-face with Scrymgeour Weger himself.
That
had truly been a moment worth recording in the annals of the histories of the archmages of Neroche. He'd wondered, absently, what Cathar would have said if he'd been watching. Nothing polite, no doubt.

He bowed his head and tried to stretch his aching shoulders. Well, at least he had the comfort of not finding himself immediately thrown back out the gates, or over the walls, or whatever Weger did with those completely unworthy of his time. That he'd been allowed to stay had been flattering, but it hadn't solved any of his more pressing problems, the first being that he still had no idea if Morgan was truly inside the keep or not.

He had to know. Soon. The realm could not wait.

He rose and drew his cloak around him as he left his cell. He would have to search while he was at liberty to do something besides hoist a sword. At least he'd had the good sense to wear black to Adhémar's wedding. It allowed him to be less conspicuous whilst he did a bit of spying to see if Morgan was indeed inside the keep.

He walked along silently, then paused at the entrance to the common dining chamber. He listened for several moments, but heard nothing useful so he continued on. He wandered through passageways, up several staircases, and along the edges of the courtyards. Unfortunately, he seemed to be the only one fool enough not to make the best use of dark by sleeping.

He finally stopped in the uppermost courtyard where he'd encountered Scrymgeour Weger. It was empty, as empty as every other place he'd been that night.

Or, perhaps not.

He spun around, his sword halfway from its sheath, only to come face-to-face with Weger himself. He resheathed his sword and nodded to the lord of Gobhann. He bowed for good measure, but Weger didn't acknowledge it. He was merely still, as if he'd been made of stone.

Miach supposed that was how he intimidated—though he wondered why the man bothered. Surely rumors of his sword skill were enough to terrify all but those too stupid to realize their peril. Miach was not that sort of lad and he understood the danger quite well. He didn't flinch as Weger regarded him impassively, but he was tensed and ready for any sort of assault.

Weger turned suddenly and started across the courtyard. “Follow me,” he threw over his shoulder.

Miach supposed he had no choice. He followed, but warily. Was Weger going to throw him off the parapet? Miach supposed he wouldn't find it an easy task, nor was Miach particularly worried about the descent. Surely the tower's dampening influence did not extend past the walls. If nothing else, he would change himself into a hawk, or a breeze, or a bit of dew as he fell and regroup when he landed.

Weger led him over to the far wall of the upper courtyard enclosure and opened a gate that Miach hadn't noticed before. Miach followed him through it and out onto another flat space that couldn't have been called a courtyard, but couldn't truly have been anything else. It was here that Weger stopped.

Miach considered a quick spell, but rejected the idea immediately. The deadness of the ground he stood on was testament enough that he was still within the sphere of Weger's influence. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Gobhann's lord expectantly.

Weger fished about in a pocket, then held out a key.

Miach took it automatically. Well, better a key in his hand than a knife between his ribs.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think.” He looked at the key, then back at Weger. “What's it to?”

Weger pointed to his left, to a set of stairs cut into the sheer side of a cliff. They wound upward at an alarming angle before disappearing into the darkness above. Miach looked at Weger.

“I don't understand.”

“There's a chamber up there,” Weger said.

“And you think I should use it?”

Weger looked at him coolly. “Don't you have things to see to…my lord Archmage?”

Miach knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. “Ah,” he began.

Weger nodded sharply toward the stairs. “Your magic will work within that chamber.”

Miach blinked. “It will?”

Weger glared at him. “Can you do nothing but ask stupid questions?”

“I didn't expect this,” Miach said honestly. “I'm off balance.”

“I daresay,” Weger grunted. “Well, whatever else you do, don't lose that key. It's the only one I have.”

Miach wasn't one to indulge in overly enthusiastic displays of gratitude, but he was tempted to drop to his knees and kiss Weger's scuffed boots. But since he suspected Weger would kick him off the side of the keep if he did so, he settled for a silent sigh of relief. He could stay long enough to do what was necessary to find Morgan.

He made Weger a very low bow. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Why are you really here?” Weger asked, folding his arms over his chest. “It cannot be simply for the swordplay.”

“Can't it?”

“Why would it be?” Weger asked. “Surely your magic makes up for your substantial lack of skill.”

Miach didn't bother taking offense. He also didn't bother revealing his real reason for coming inside Gobhann. He was quite sure if Weger knew that he'd come for Morgan, he would do all in his power to remind her of her distaste for magic…and mages. Nay, it was best to keep his true motives a secret until he had no choice but to reveal them.

He shrugged with a casualness he most certainly didn't feel. “I lost something.”

“And you think you'll find this missing thing here?”

“I might.”

Weger grunted. “Well, if what you're missing is sword skill, then perhaps you've come to the right place.”

Miach smiled. “If I don't find that here, the fault will be entirely mine.”

“Aye, it will.” Weger nodded toward the stairs. “Best be about your labors, then.”

Miach started toward the stairs, then paused and turned back around. “A question, my lord.”

“Pray, make it an intelligent one.”

Miach smiled briefly. “How did you know who I was?”

Weger looked at him with disgust. “Think you I only heed the affairs of my keep?”

“Well,” Miach said nonplussed, “it isn't as if my face is on the money.”

“Nay, but you look like your brother, the king, and his face
is
. And I've heard that the youngest brother's swordplay is better than any of the other brats rampaging about in the hallowed halls of Tor Neroche—though that doesn't say much about the quality of your swordmaster, does it?”

“My father would have been offended,” Miach said with a small smile.

Weger only grunted. “I also know the names of all the Neroche lads.
Miach
is quite a bit closer to Mochriadhemiach than it is to Cathar now, isn't it?”

Miach nodded, acknowledging the point. “I usually give that name accompanied by a little spell of insignificance. Not possible here, though, is it?”

“Apparently not. Now, take the bloody key and go do what you do so I can sleep peacefully at night.”

“Do you ever go up there?” Miach asked.

The look Weger shot him made him smile in spite of himself.

“I suppose not,” he said. He inclined his head. “My thanks, my lord.”

Weger walked away. “Training begins at dawn,” he threw over his shoulder. “Don't be late.”

Miach supposed he didn't dare. He watched Weger go, then turned to look at the stairs. He allowed himself a moment of profound relief before he climbed up them, ignoring the sheer drop to his right. He did look a time or two, simply because the moon was out and he couldn't help himself. A man would fall off the steps and land hundreds of feet down on rocks that would break him instantly into innumerable pieces. And he had the sinking feeling that the air was just as dead magically there on those rocks as it was where he stood.

Best to be careful, then.

He finally reached a doorway cut into the rock. He fitted the key into the lock and entered the chamber. He staggered as his magic returned to him with a rush. It took a moment or two before he managed to lock the door behind him. He leaned back against it and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

He closed his eyes and set to work checking the spells of defense that he had set all along the borders of Neroche. They were all intact save for the strange erosion he had noticed several months earlier, as if their underpinnings were being washed away by a tide he could not see. It was the usual amount of damage, though, and he corrected it without complaint.

As an afterthought, he examined the borders of Riamh, Lothar's land to the north. He set spells of ward along Riamh's border with Wychweald, promising himself a good apology to his cousin King Stefan later, when he had the time for it.

He came back to himself to find the chamber just as dark as it had been when he'd entered it and bitterly cold. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it had to have been a decent amount because he was stiff. He rose with a groan and stretched out his back.

He was, again, considerably grateful for the key.

He wrapped his cloak around himself, then let himself out of the chamber. The wind hit him so hard, he staggered and caught himself against the rock face to his right. He took a moment to accustom himself to his lack of magic and the howling wind, then locked the tower chamber door, pocketed the key, and went down the stairs.

If Weger had any idea of the gift he'd given away…

He froze on the bottom step as he realized that the shadows to his right contained more than a body might reasonably expect. A dark shape detached itself from the overhang and walked out into the courtyard. Miach looked at Weger in surprise.

“Did I need a guard?”

“Keeper, more like,” Weger said. “I'll lose interest soon, no doubt. You keep that bastard from Wychweald at bay, though, so consider this repayment.”

“I will.”

“But don't think it will win you any lenience during the days,” Weger said, frowning fiercely. “You're naught but flesh here, mage. My sword is sharp and my patience for pampered princes nonexistent. You'll earn whatever you take away: a mark or your final resting place on the rocks below.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away. Miach watched him, openmouthed. He stood there for several minutes until the preposterousness of the slander dissipated enough for him to move. Pampered? It was so far from the reality of his life, he could scarce begin to address it. His days were spent seeing to nothing but the defenses of the realm, an endlessly grinding task that left him with no time to do anything but eat when he remembered to, train with his sword when he dared, and snatch a few short hours of sleep each night when he could stay awake no longer.

He shut his mouth and started across the courtyard. The brisk wind blew some bit of perspective back into his poor, fogged mind. Perhaps there was some truth to Weger's charge after all. He remembered vividly Morgan's reaction to her first sight of Tor Neroche. It had been clear to him at that moment how accustomed he was to the immensity and grandeur of the palace, a place he had taken for granted from birth. He had lived his entire life, save a year he preferred not to think on overmuch, dividing his time between the grandeur of Tor Neroche and the sweeping beauty of the palace of Chagailt. He worked hard, true, but he did it in spectacular surroundings.