The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  “How long have you been there?” he asked.

  “About an hour,” Cathar said, holding out a mug of ale. “You were very far away.”

  “I was working,” Miach said. “Mostly.” He accepted the ale and downed it gratefully. “Is there something useful happening downstairs, or just more of the same?”

  “The ceremony should begin soon, actually,” Cathar said. “I came to fetch you.”

  “Finally,” Miach said in disgust.

  “Well, you know Adhémar couldn’t resist delaying things a bit longer, just to see how many people he could annoy.”

  “He’s succeeded, at least with me. I’m ready to have the torture over with so I can go.”

  “Go?” Cathar echoed, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Go where?”

  Miach eyed his brother. “You know where.”

  “To Melksham, to see about Morgan,” Cathar said. “Aye, I knew. I’m just wondering if Adhémar will allow you to.”

  Miach opened his mouth to protest, but Cathar interrupted him with a laugh.

  “I’m provoking you,” he said. “I know ’tis only good taste that has kept you here this long.” He finished his ale and set the cup down. “Is your lady well?”

  “She lives still,” Miach said. “I can tell nothing more than that.”

  “No word from her?”

  “I didn’t expect any, actually.”

  “At least none you’d want to hear,” Cathar agreed. He put his hands on his knees and rose. “So, you’ll be polite during the wedding, then be off to Melksham. Do you have a plan for when you arrive?”

  Miach set his cup aside, then rose and followed his brother across the chamber. “I thought I would just fall on my knees and blurt out an apology.”

  Cathar whistled softly. “I imagine you’ll need to get past the point where she wants to arrange all of her blades artistically in your gut before you attempt that.”

  Miach would have argued, but he feared Cathar was right. He would be fortunate indeed if Morgan ever spoke to him again.

  “What of what you’ll leave behind?” Cathar asked as they made their way down the twisting tower stairs. “What of the realm’s defenses?”

  “I don’t have to be here to see to them,” Miach said, “but you knew that already. As for anything else—” He shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

  Cathar only grunted.

  Miach walked with his brother through the marble-paved hallways, lit by dozens of glittering lamps and flanked, of course, by piles of luggage that hadn’t found homes yet. At least he wouldn’t have to trip over those much longer. A few more hours, then he would be on his way.

  He paused at the doors to the great hall. They were open and the tables laid for the wedding feast. Miach looked above the massive hearth at the back of the hall. In times past, the Sword of Angesand had hung there, protected from theft by its own magic, waiting for the right hand to come wield it.

  The sword was no longer there.

  Miach didn’t particularly like to think on why not.

  The Wielders of the Sword of Angesand will come, out of magic, out of obscurity, and out of darkness…

  He dragged his hand through his hair as he turned away from the hall and those words. He had thought, half a year earlier, that he might need the power of the Sword of Angesand to aid him in besting Lothar of Wychweald, the black mage to the north. He’d sent Adhémar off on a search for a wielder for that sword, then followed along a pair of months later to find out why his brother hadn’t returned. It had been then, on the day when he’d found his brother, that he’d first laid eyes on Morgan of Melksham.

  And lost his heart.

  He had traveled with her for a month, come to love her more with each day that passed, and dreaded with equal fervor the moment when he would have to admit to her that he wasn’t Miach the simple farmer, as he had led her to believe, but Mochriadhemiach, the archmage of Neroche. It might not have mattered so much who he was except for her loathing of magic in general and mages in particular.

  She’d discovered his identity—and that he believed her to be one of the prophesied wielders of the Sword of Angesand—at a most inopportune moment. Her anger had been so great, she had taken that magical sword, brought it down against that very table at the back of the hall, and splintered it into a thousand pieces. She’d fled, encountered Lothar of Wychweald, then drunk poison he’d given her before Miach had been able to catch up with her. He had had no choice but to send her unconscious self back to Melksham to heal whilst he remained behind and attempted to see to the tatters of the realm.

  But the tatters were mended, for the moment, and he would make do without the Sword of Angesand. He would also allow himself a pair of days to travel south and attend to the matters of his heart.

  “Miach, should you have changed clothes, perhaps?”

  Miach looked at Cathar, trussed up uncomfortably in his finest court clothes, and shrugged. “Adhémar told me not to stand out.”

  “But black, Miach,” Cathar protested. “Could you not have donned something less forbidding? You have six brothers, you know. Surely you could have found something in one of our closets.”

  “The rest of you don’t dress any better than I do,” Miach said, “save Rigaud, and I wouldn’t wear anything he owns. This way I’ll fade into the background, which will please Adhémar the most.”

  Cathar frowned thoughtfully. “Can’t say I wouldn’t rather be less conspicuous myself. All right, let’s be about it.”

  Miach took a fortifying breath, then followed his brother into the chapel.

  There were so many people inside, there was scarce room for him to squeeze through them to reach the front. He looked over the company as he did so. There was the usual royalty from neighboring nations, ambassadors where the royalty could not be troubled, as well as the odd assortment of dwarves, wizards, and an adventurous elf or two. And a quartet of mercenaries.

  Miach smiled at those last lads as he took his place at the end of the line of his brothers. They were Morgan’s companions; two men, a dwarf, and a lad who had hoped for adventure but gotten quite a bit more than he’d bargained for. They had remained at the palace as his guests over the past month, waiting with him for tidings of Morgan’s condition.

  Could he be blamed if he’d asked more than a respectable amount of questions about their dealings with her? He’d had her company for less than a month, long enough to learn to love her, but not nearly long enough to know her as he would have liked. Their tales of her everyday doings had been a balm to his heart. He’d been equally willing to listen to tales of her skill with a sword; those had come as no surprise to him. After all, she had studied with Scrymgeour Weger.

  Weger’s fame as a swordmaster was widespread and sobering. Graduates of his tower at Gobhann couldn’t be called assassins, but they were certainly men for whom anything but swords had ceased to exist. Ostensibly Morgan had gone there to improve her swordplay, but Miach suspected the true reason she’d sought the solace of Weger’s tower was because Weger shunned anything to do with magic or mages.

  “Did you bring anything to eat?”

  Miach looked at his next eldest brother, Turah, who was standing on his left. “What?”

  “I’m hungry and I suspect this will take all day,” Turah said with a gusty sigh. “I should have brought a stone. I could have at least been sharpening my knife.”

  Miach held out his hand and a sharpening stone appeared. Turah looked at it, then laughed.

  “I don’t dare. But,” he said, taking the stone and tucking it into a pocket, “I’ll use it later. You couldn’t conjure up a chair for me as well, could you?”

  “Too conspicuous,” Miach said, though he supposed there might come a time when he would wish for the same thing.

  He waited for the proceedings to begin, but apparently the heralds were waiting for Adhémar to see one last time to his hair. He clasped his hands behind his back and silently recited all the
shapechanging spells he knew. He knew scores, which passed the time pleasantly, but he finished and still nothing was happening save guests shifting in their seats and a few unfortunate souls succumbing to fits of coughing.

  He turned his mind to reciting silently spells of reconstruction, where a change could be made and fixed for a predetermined amount of time. That took quite some time as well, for he knew many. He was then forced to move on to changes of essence, where a thing’s true nature was affected in a way that rendered it permanently transformed. Those spells were few and immensely complicated. Though reciting them mentally kept him awake, it didn’t hurry Adhémar along.

  He had finally resorted to inventing new ways to induce warts and other disfigurements upon his brother the king when the heralds and musicians finally arrived to trumpet the impending arrival of that king and his bride. After another handful of minutes, Adhémar finally came ambling down the aisle, resplendent in his finest court clothes and wearing a very large hat with an even larger plume of feathers. Miach thought the toes of his brother’s shoes were overlong and curled overmuch, but what did he know? If he ever managed to wed, he would wear boots.

  Adaira, the eldest princess of Penrhyn, swept down the aisle a few minutes later in her own bit of finery, sporting an even taller plume on her hat than Adhémar’s. There was a bit of jostling between bride and groom as they attempted to find the best spot for being seen there in front of the priest, then they settled down for what would no doubt be a very lengthy and detailed recounting of dowries, exploits, and other flattering items necessary for the occasion.

  “You’re yawning.”

  He looked at Turah, who was watching him with a smirk. “It’s keeping me awake.”

  Turah smiled and elbowed him companionably, then turned back to watch the spectacle. Miach did as well, but he suspected that given the fact that the priest was still heaping praise upon Adhémar’s already swelled head and hadn’t even managed to mention the word marriage, he was going to be there awhile. Perhaps no one would notice if he let his mind continue to wander.

  He wandered mentally down that well-worn track across the plains of Neroche, and over the sea to Melksham. This time, he thought that perhaps it wasn’t inappropriate to be a bit more thorough in his search. He could at least see what Morgan was doing. He let his mind brush over the walls of the university at Lismòr and seek out where she was no doubt walking in the morning sunshine—

  Except she wasn’t.

  He froze, his breath catching. He searched through all the buildings that made up the university and orphanage, but found nothing.

  But it couldn’t be. He was certain she’d been on Melksham Island that morning. He’d felt her presence, faint but definite. Of course he hadn’t tried to determine the condition of her health, but he’d assumed she was at least still alive.

  He swept over the land surrounding Lismòr, but found no sense of her. He cast his mind about in ever larger sweeps over the whole island, but found…nothing.

  “Miach!”

  He came back to himself to find both Turah and Cathar shaking him.

  “Miach, you’re screaming,” Cathar said urgently. “Stop it!”

  Miach realized that the entire collection of souls come to witness Adhémar’s wedding was watching him with astonishment and alarm. Well, except Adhémar, who was glaring at him as if his fondest wish was to take his sword and plunge it into Miach’s chest.

  Miach shook off his brothers’ hands. “I can’t find her. I can’t feel her anymore.” He backed away from them. “I must go.”

  “You will not,” Adhémar said in a commanding voice. “You will remain where you are until I am wed. If you do not, I’ll…” He seemed to be searching for an appropriately dire threat. He drew the Sword of Neroche with a flourish, came close to removing his betrothed’s hat, and then pointed that sword threateningly at Miach. “I’ll see you hanged!”

  “You’d like to think you could,” Miach said shortly.

  “Then I’ll see you replaced!” Adhémar spluttered.

  Miach didn’t bother replying. He pushed his way through Adhémar’s guests, then ran out of the chapel, through the passageways, and up to the tower chamber.

  He didn’t have many personal things, hardly enough to fill up half the wardrobe that sat in a corner near the cot he occasionally used when he had no choice but to sleep, so he didn’t bother with gear for himself. He did dig around in his armoire for a particular knife, which he stuck in his belt, and a particular ring, which he shoved into his boot. He turned toward the door and found his way blocked by Morgan’s companions.

  “Miach?” Paien of Allerdale said, his visage blanched. “What has befallen Morgan? Well, more than what’s already…”

  “I don’t know,” Miach said, trying to ignore his own distress. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out. Perhaps ’tis merely my unease that speaks.”

  They didn’t look convinced.

  He wasn’t either.

  “I’ll send word,” Miach promised, “once I know more. Will you wait for me here?”

  Paien looked at his comrades, then back at Miach. “Aye, we will. Perhaps Prince Cathar will vouch for us while you’re gone.”

  Miach nodded. “Tell him I asked it of him if he hesitates, though I don’t imagine he will.”

  He shook hands all around, bid them farewell, then pushed through them and ran down the stairs. He slipped through a particular door and walked out onto the battlements. He leapt up onto the parapet wall and gathered his thoughts—

  “Damn you, Miach,” Adhémar thundered suddenly from behind him, “I vow this time—”

  Miach dove off the wall and whispered a spell of shapechanging as he fell. In the next heartbeat, he was beating dragon wings against the air and rising toward the tops of the castle walls. Adhémar was standing on the parapet, waving his sword in a fury and cursing himself hoarse.

  Miach couldn’t stop himself. He spewed out a blast of fire that no doubt singed more than Adhémar’s feathered hat, then rose high into the sky and sped south.

  It was sunset before he reached the Island of Melksham. He circled the university, then swooped down and landed in the innermost courtyard next to the fountain. He shook off his dragon’s shape, then hunched over with his hands on his knees and sucked in desperately needed breaths. It was bitterly cold, something he hadn’t noticed as he’d been flying. He wanted a hot fire and something to drink, but he could wait for both until he had found out what had befallen his love. He took a final breath, then heaved himself upright so he could look about and get his bearings.

  Nicholas, the lord of Lismòr, stood not twenty paces away with his hand on the arm of an overanxious archer. Miach froze, realizing only then that that archer was but one of two dozen with their arrows pointed at him.

  Nicholas pushed the lead archer’s bow down so the arrow pointed at the ground instead of at Miach’s heart. The other archers followed suit.

  “William, dismiss the guard for me, then you may go to your rest,” Nicholas said to the lad standing at his elbow. “I can see to this whelp myself.”

  “As you will, my lord,” William said. He made Nicholas a bow and turned to see to the guard.

  Miach watched the guardsmen walk away, most looking uneasily over their shoulders at him as they did so. He waited until they had all gone, then crossed the courtyard to where Nicholas stood. “What befell Morgan?” he asked without preamble.

  Nicholas frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I lost my sense of her,” Miach said impatiently. “What befell her?”

  “You’ve made good use of your new skill, haven’t you?” Nicholas said, sounding pleased.

  “Aye, and that is the only reason I remained at Tor Neroche until now, which you knew,” Miach said evenly. “Your Grace, I left my brother’s wedding before they even finished listing his many marvelous accomplishments, terrified that I would come too late and find my lady dead. Is she?”

  Nicholas look
ed at him in surprise. “Well, of course not.”

  Miach rubbed his hands over his face. It was either that or weep. The relief that washed over him was so great, he almost had to sit down.

  Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder. “Come have a drink with me and I’ll tell you all.”

  Miach nodded silently, then followed Nicholas across the courtyard and into what he assumed was one of Nicholas’s private chambers.

  It was a luxurious solar, with finely wrought tapestries on the walls and heavy rugs on the floor. A fire burned cheerily in the massive hearth set into the far wall. Miach sat down gratefully, then accepted a cup of ale, which he drank in one long pull. He set the cup down on the table in front of him, then looked at Lismòr’s lord.

  “Where is she? If she’s alive, why can’t I feel her?”

  Nicholas smiled. “The answer to both is Weger’s tower.”

  Miach blinked, just certain he’d heard the older man awrong. “What?”

  “She’s in Gobhann,” Nicholas said. “I took her there myself, actually.”

  “You did what?”

  Nicholas laughed. “I understand your surprise, believe me. I thought it a very poor idea as well, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She’s very determined, you know.”

  Miach could hardly believe his ears. He had expected to find Morgan very ill. Indeed, as he’d flown he’d repeated silently all the spells he’d learned over the past pair of fortnights, spells that he was certain would drive out whatever lingering poison Nicholas hadn’t been able to see to. He’d actually tried to prepare himself to find that she had died.

  But he hadn’t expected this.

  “I tried to convince her ’twas too early to leave Lismòr,” Nicholas remarked, sipping brandy from a delicate goblet, “but she refused to listen to my pleas. She would have made the journey herself if I hadn’t insisted on taking her. As it was, I dragged the whole thing out for a solid se’nnight—and earned more than my share of curses as a result.” He smiled. “It may comfort you to know that she’s found her tongue, at least.”