The Mage's Daughter (7 page)

She decided that it could wait. She walked carefully across the courtyard and paused in front of the steps. She stood there for quite some time, trying to judge whether or not she could manage them. They weren't necessarily narrow, but they were very steep, very uneven, and they were flanked by rough rock on one side and on the other…well, nothing at all.

She climbed five steps before she had to stop and rest. It was madness. She should have crawled back down those five steps, congratulated herself on a show of wit, then hurried as quickly as possible back to her chamber.

Instead, she continued to climb. Perhaps Miach couldn't tend his arm himself and she could be of some use. 'Twas a certainty he would never ask for aid freely, so perhaps she should simply demand that he allow her to see to it.

All for the good of the realm, of course, nothing more.

She climbed for hours. Well, perhaps it wasn't hours, but it felt like it. The weather was terrible, the wind frightening in its ferocity, and her own form simply unequal to the task of climbing more than a handful of steps at a time before having to rest again. She reached the top at last, drenched and freezing and firmly convinced she'd lost her mind. She would never, ever climb those steps again.

She remained where she was for quite some time, struggling to breathe in enough air to satisfy her burning lungs.

Eventually, she looked at the door and saw the keyhole there. That did her no good given that she had no key, nor any useful tools to use in besting such a simple lock. As an afterthought, she pushed on the door.

To her surprise, it gave way.

She peered inside. It was a smallish sort of chamber, boasting not even so much as a chair. There was certainly no hearth for keeping a body warm, nor any windows for allowing a body to see what the weather was doing. She knew all this thanks to the soft, warm glow that came from a ball of werelight that hovered near the ceiling.

Werelight?

Miach sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the chamber, silent and unmoving. Morgan took a step inside to investigate both him and his light, then gasped as magic slammed into her like a wave. Her own magic. Magic she had never wanted, had desperately tried to deny having, and would have cut from her if she'd been able.

The door slammed shut as she fell back against it, which she supposed saved her from a tumble down the stairs. She closed her eyes as she drowned in dreams and spells and things she shouldn't have known anything about.

No wonder Miach came here.

She was curious how he'd found the place, but decided that was something she didn't need to know. She stumbled past him and managed to get herself down onto the floor without too much trouble. She leaned against the wall facing him and watched him.

He didn't look much worse for the wear of his wounded arm, but he did look tired. She wondered how long it was he spent each night in such a terrible place, doing whatever it was archmages did. For all she knew, he was simply snoozing.

Then again, perhaps not. Though the room was bitterly cold, there seemed to be some sort of heat coming from him. Was he making magic? She supposed that was possible. It was also possible that he was using enormous amounts of energy to list all the ways he could do damage to the hearts of foolish mercenaries. She wouldn't have been surprised.

She studied him as he sat there, and collected her former loathing of him like spoils from a particularly plentiful battlefield.

First, he'd allowed her to believe he was a simple farmer, not the archmage of the realm. He had also allowed her to believe that his brother was a bumbling oaf, not the king of Neroche—though perhaps she couldn't lay her eagerness to believe that at Miach's feet. She'd been more than happy to call Adhémar an insufferable prig. All he had to do was open his mouth to convince everyone within earshot that they were better off far away.

Miach was nothing like his brother. He was a plainspoken, easily amused man who seemed perfectly content to tromp about in his boots doing good. Who would have thought he was the most powerful mage in Neroche? She certainly hadn't.

Not that it excused him. He should have told her who he was and
what
he was. That he hadn't was something she thought she might never be able to forgive him for.

He sighed suddenly, then rubbed his face with his hands. He looked around him blearily and his gaze fell on her. He looked so surprised, she almost smiled.

Almost.

She quickly reminded herself that she had good reason to hate him.

There was a flash of something across his face—relief, perhaps. It was gone as quickly as it had come, and he assumed a more careful expression. He stretched out his legs and rubbed them absently as he looked at her. “Morgan,” he croaked, then he cleared his throat. “Morgan, how long have you been here?”

“I don't know,” she said. “And I didn't come to visit, I came to see about your arm.”

“Oh,” he said, putting his hand over it, “that. 'Tis but a scratch.”

“I doubt that. Let me see it.”

“Nay.”

She patted herself for a knife but found, distressingly, that she still didn't have one to hand. Her new sword was lying on her bed, else she would have used that. She settled for a fierce frown. “Let me see it, damn you.”

He smiled at her as if she amused him somehow, then sobered abruptly when he caught sight of her glare. He sighed and pulled up the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a terrible slice across his arm that had been sewn together with ugly, hasty stitches. Morgan swallowed, hard.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “It was an accident.”

Morgan saw the prints of five fingers burned into his flesh above the new cut. Those were prints she was responsible for. She'd given them to him another time when she'd healed his arm with magic of her own.

She attempted another swallow. She wasn't entirely successful.

“I could try to see to that,” she ventured.

He pulled his sleeve back down. “I'm fine. It will heal. Besides, now that you're here, I'd rather talk—”

She flung herself to her feet in a sudden panic. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to know what he wanted from her that would have nothing to do with her sword skill and everything to do with her magic. If he wouldn't let her see to his arm, the most sensible thing she could do was flee.

“I have to go,” she said, holding on to the wall as the chamber spun violently around her.

His hands were immediately on her arms. She didn't want to rely on him, but she had no choice. She allowed him to hold on to her until she thought she could step away from him and not land on her face.

“I am well,” she managed.

He said nothing.

She realized he was looking at her, but she couldn't identify the expression. She didn't want to identify it. Coming to check on him had been monumentally stupid. The farther away from him she managed to get herself, the better off she would be.

She found, suddenly, that he was draping his cloak around her shoulders. He fastened it under her chin, then stepped back.

“You need to be abed,” he said quietly.

“I don't need your cloak—”

“You're welcome,” he said with a smile. “Give it back to me later.”

Morgan didn't want it. She didn't want something that smelled like Miach, like sweet earth and sunshine and mountain air blowing through the pines. She didn't like the warmth or knowing that he was giving up something for her comfort.

But before she could protest, she found herself shepherded out of the tower chamber and crowded onto the landing with him as he locked the door behind him. She did her best to ignore the fact that she was half a foot from being in his arms.

She also tried to ignore the fact that losing the magic she'd felt inside had drained her more than she'd dreamed it could. She was cold and weary and heartsick.

“I'll go first,” Miach said, putting the key into a pocket and stepping down a step. “I'm afraid I can't block much of the wind.”

She could only nod with a jerk and pray she wouldn't find herself blown off the side of the mountain.

Miach paused. “I could carry you.”

“I'm fine,” she said quickly.

And she was, for half a dozen steps. Then she found that her legs were shaking so badly, she could hardly stand. Miach took her hands and put them on his shoulders.

“Climb on my back,” he said.

“Nay,” she gasped, “you'll kill us both.”

“I could run down the steps with you and miss nary a one.” He shot her a quick smile, then patted her hands on his shoulders. “Put your arms around my neck, gel, and climb on.”

Morgan was quite sure she'd never done anything like it in her life. Praying she wouldn't send them both plunging to their deaths, she put her arms around his neck and let him lift her onto his back. She pressed her face against his hair and hoped she would live to see the courtyard again.

She was never going up those dreadful stairs again.

Fortunately for them both, Miach was as surefooted as he'd claimed to be. It didn't take but a handful of minutes before he was letting her slide down to her feet. Morgan clutched his shoulders and rested her face against his back until she thought she could stand on her own.

She released him, then stepped away. She felt herself begin to fall, but an arm was there for her to reach for. She grasped it, only to find that the owner of that arm wasn't Miach.

It was Weger.

Morgan blinked in surprise. “Where did you come from?”

“Guard duty,” he said mildly.

Morgan let him pull her away. She looked at Miach. He only made her a low, formal-looking bow.

“A good night to you then,” he said, as if she'd been a grand lady.

Weger tugged on her. She stumbled away with him because he left her no choice in the matter. She walked until they reached the gate, then looked back over her shoulder. Miach was standing where she'd left him, watching her. Moonlight shone down on him, a lethal, polished bit of business dressed all in black.

She had to look back in front of her, or risk going sprawling. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until Weger had her standing in front of her own door. She looked up at him, trying to breathe evenly.

“I went to see about his arm.”

Weger grunted, then opened her door for her. “Stephen brought you tea. Finish it before it grows cold.”

“He only wants me for his war,” Morgan blurted out.

Weger stared at her for several minutes in silence, then he shrugged. “And what man with two wits to rub together
wouldn't
want you for his war?”

Morgan couldn't exactly tell him that the kind of thing Miach wanted her for had little to do with sword skill and everything to do with the magic she might or might not possess.

Nay, Weger wouldn't understand at all.

“Go to bed,” Weger said, nodding into her chamber, “before your womanly thoughts overwhelm what good sense you used to have. I don't want to see you tomorrow. Stephen will bring you food.”

Morgan nodded, went inside, then heard the door close behind her. She went to stand in front of that terribly luxurious fire. It was surely nothing Miach would enjoy. Novices didn't even have braziers to warm themselves by. She stood in front of her own fire until she was warm enough to take off her cloak. It was only then that she realized she was still wearing Miach's as well. He would be cold.

She blew out her breath, then folded his cloak and set it upon a stool near the fire. She drank her tea, then went to bed before she had to think on anything she didn't care to.

What man with two wits to rub together
wouldn't
want you for his war?

Weger had a point. After all, wasn't that why she had spent many years training? She'd fully intended to be the kind of mercenary lords would pay exorbitant sums to have at their disposal. Why wouldn't the king of Neroche—or his archmage, for that matter—want her to wield a magical sword for him?

Unfortunately, she hadn't given a damn what the king of Neroche wanted, but she had found herself caring very much what his archmage had wanted from her.

And that hadn't had a bloody thing to do with swords or swordplay.

She would have thrown up her hands in disgust, but she was too tired. She settled for a weak snort. If
she'd
had two wits to rub together, she wouldn't have given Miach another thought, but she would have agreed last fall to wield the Sword of Angesand because it was a very famous sword and any swordsman worth his mettle never passed up the chance to wield a very famous sword.

A pity she'd smashed it to bits.

She rolled over with a fierce frown and a vicious curse.

Miach. Magic. The fate of the realm and her heart.