The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  Miach listened to Weger give Morgan a vague answer about being very well read and wondered silently how Weger could possibly make the comparison he’d just made. He studied Weger, but saw nothing that would have indicated he was anything more than he seemed to be.

  Then again, looks often deceived.

  “I don’t understand why any of it matters,” Morgan said. “Even if Searbhe recognizes Miach, why would he care?”

  Miach reached for the answer and found it suddenly beneath his fingers. “Because Neroche is at war with Riamh.”

  “Riamh?” she echoed.

  Weger swore in frustration. “History, Morgan. Geography. World affairs. Pick up a book tomorrow.”

  Morgan buried a curse in her cup.

  Miach smiled. “Riamh is not only the name of Lothar’s castle, ’tis the name of his realm.” He looked at Weger. “Searbhe is kin of Lothar’s, isn’t he?”

  The corner of Weger’s mouth tipped up in the slightest of smiles. “My faith in the security of the realm is restored.”

  “Searbhe of Riamh,” Morgan repeated faintly. She looked at Weger in surprise. “How do you know who he is?”

  Weger hesitated, then sighed. “Because Searbhe is my cousin.”

  Miach heard Morgan’s cup hit the floor. Fortunately for their boots, the cup was empty. Miach picked it up and set it on the table slowly. He looked at Morgan, but she was staring at Weger with the same sort of look she’d worn when she’d learned who he was.

  The poor gel.

  “Your cousin?” she whispered. “How is that possible?”

  Weger leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Because as unpleasant a fact as it is, I am Lothar’s grandson, many generations removed. Through my mother.”

  Morgan put her face in her hands.

  “I grew up in Riamh,” Weger continued impassively, “and did my share of things I regret. To your ancestors, Miach, as it happens. Sorry.”

  Miach smiled and shrugged.

  Morgan lifted her head. Her eyes were wide with shock. “You have magic?”

  Weger smiled grimly. “Not here.”

  Morgan shivered so violently, Miach could see it from where he sat. He rose and went to look for a blanket of some sort. He found one wadded up on the end of a bench, shook it out, then walked back to the fire. He draped it over her, then leaned closer on the pretext of tucking it up around her shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” he murmured.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, her teeth chattering.

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “Not now.” She looked up at him bleakly. “Thank you, though.”

  “The offer stands.” He touched her shoulder briefly, then sat down. He rested his boot against hers, felt her press her foot against his so hard it almost hurt, then turned his mind to considering what he’d just learned. The particular properties of Gobhann made sense now. It also explained why Weger knew where the tower chamber was. It didn’t explain why Weger had asked Morgan to heal him instead of doing it himself, but perhaps he had a vile sense of humor. That, or he had suspected something about Morgan and wanted to test her. Miach wouldn’t have been surprised by either.

  “Why did you leave Riamh?” Miach asked.

  “Lothar pushed me too far,” Weger answered, dragging his attention away from Morgan. “He put my father and my two younger brothers in his dungeon, let them all rot there until they went mad, then forced my mother to kill what was left of them. I tried to fetch them out before that, of course, but I failed. I hid in the shadows until I was able to retrieve their bodies and bury them. Then I left. I have no idea if my mother is still alive or not.”

  “Does Searbhe know who you are?” Miach asked.

  Weger shook his head. “I imagine not. He’s much younger than I am, and I’m quite sure my name is never spoken in Riamh. Perhaps they’ve forgotten all about me.”

  “How old are you?” Miach asked.

  “How old do you think I am?” Weger returned, with one raised eyebrow.

  Miach considered Lothar’s genealogy, wandered down through the generations, then paused. There had been a powerful mage from Treunnar who had wed with one of Lothar’s granddaughters…and that mage had been slain with his family by Lothar. Miach would have preferred a few more details—such as whether or not it had been all the family and not just a pair of the lads—but he hadn’t spent all that much time memorizing Lothar’s generations so the sketchy details would have to do. He met Weger’s gaze. “Your mother is Eisleine.”

  Weger looked faintly surprised. “Aye, she is.”

  “That would make you…six hundred and fifty?”

  Weger looked at Morgan. “At least he reads, eh?”

  Morgan made a noise that sounded a little like a moan. Miach found her watching them both with an expression he wasn’t sure he wanted to identify. It was either shock or horror—or both.

  Actually, she looked rather ill.

  Miach reached out and put his hand on her knee. “Morgan, perhaps you should go to bed.”

  “And miss more of these interesting revelations?” she said, looking as if she would have liked nothing better. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Weger leaned over and poured more wine for her. “She’s made of stern stuff; she’ll survive. But now that we know who we all are, I’d like tidings of the Nine Kingdoms. I heard rumors that Adhémar lost his magic. Tell me of it.”

  Miach waited until Morgan had drunk some of her wine before he turned back to Weger. He supposed there was no reason not to be frank. In fact, if he hadn’t been angling for a proper leave-taking out the front gates with Morgan at his side, he might have felt as if he were chatting amicably with a peer.

  So he gave Weger details as thoroughly as he would have given them to Cathar. He told him about Adhémar’s loss of magic, about the difficulty with his spells, about his concern that there was something else afoot in the world besides Lothar.

  “What of the Sword of Angesand?” Weger asked. “Why don’t you use that to do damage with for a bit? Mehar gave me a taste of it one particularly nasty afternoon.”

  “Did she?” Miach asked with a smile.

  Morgan was making choking noises. “You fought Mehar of Angesand?” she asked incredulously.

  “Of course,” Weger said. “A wonderful wench, that one. I daresay you would like her.” He looked at Miach. “Why don’t you use her sword?”

  “He can’t,” Morgan said. She cleared her throat. “I broke it.”

  Weger’s mouth fell open. “You what? That sword is centuries old. It’s slathered with magic. Bloody hell, Morgan, it sings!”

  “I know!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to!”

  Weger shook his head. “The bloody Sword of Angesand, Morgan. I can hardly believe it. What a bloody stupid thing to do!”

  Morgan glared at Weger. Miach might have believed she was truly angry, but her eyes were very red. He suspected that if he didn’t get her out of the gathering hall and out of Weger’s sights very soon, she would weep.

  “I drove her to it,” Miach said pleasantly. He set his cup down on the table with a hearty bang, stood, and pulled Morgan to her feet. “If you’ll excuse us, my lord, we’ll be off. Morgan needs to be abed.”

  He didn’t wait for Weger to respond. He took Morgan by the arm and pulled her across the hall and out the door before she had the time to protest. He shut the door, then looked down at her.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You shouldn’t weep in front of him,” Miach said quietly. “He’ll blame me.”

  “He would have cause,” she managed.

  “Aye, I daresay he would.” He slipped his hand down her arm to lace his fingers with hers. “Where’s your bedchamber, gel?”

  She nodded toward her right and led him down another passageway to a chamber on a far more lofty level than his own. Sh
e stopped at the door, cursed for a moment or two, then looked up at him.

  Her expression was very bleak. “I don’t want to know anything else about anyone else,” she said, her voice catching. “No more souls who should be just soldiers turning into mages.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, love. I wish I could change things for you.”

  She pressed her fingers against her eyes. “I can bear no more, Miach. This was too much tonight.”

  “You’ll feel better after a decent night’s sleep,” Miach said. “Now, does your door have a lock on it?”

  “A lock?” she repeated. “Nay, it doesn’t. I’ve never needed one before.”

  “You need one tonight.” He pushed open the door, looked inside, then stepped back. “I’ll keep watch.”

  “You can’t mean to stand out here all night,” she said in surprise.

  “Morgan, there isn’t all that much left of the night,” he said with a smile. “I’ll manage.”

  “But you’ll never be able to stand against Weger if you don’t rest.”

  He turned her around, pushed her inside, then shut the door behind her. He held on to the latch until she stopped tugging and continued to hold on to it until she stopped cursing. Once he was convinced she had conceded the battle, he merely leaned against the door frame and watched the shadows.

  He was unsurprised to find Weger emerging from them only moments later. Weger leaned against the opposite side of Morgan’s door.

  “I want more details,” he said without hesitation.

  “I imagined you would.”

  Weger shot him a disgruntled look, then folded his arms over his chest. “How is it possible that an obviously intelligent but apparently very unmagical girl like Morgan can suddenly destroy a sword forged by Mehar of Angesand—who likely had Gilraehen the Fey standing at her side pouring his own magic into that forging? I would accuse you of lying, but Morgan admitted to it, and I know she doesn’t lie.”

  Miach studied Weger for a moment or two in silence, looked up and down the passageway to judge its emptiness. He saw no reason not to give the man the details he wanted. Perhaps it was time to see if what Nicholas had told him a month ago could be verified by someone else.

  “What if her parents were something other than simple, unmagical farmers?” he asked quietly.

  Weger frowned deeply. “What do you mean?”

  “Does she bear any resemblance to anyone you might have known?” Miach asked.

  Weger thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ve always thought her to look a bit elvish, but perhaps that’s just my imagination.”

  “Is it?”

  Weger shot him a sharp look, then considered a bit longer. He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe something, then looked at Miach. “She reminds me of Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn.”

  Miach forced himself not to react to that. “Did you know Sarait?”

  Weger lifted one eyebrow briefly. “As you might imagine, I didn’t dine with them often, but I did see her a handful of times. I was with Gair once when we came upon her traveling with her sister Lismòrian.” He went suddenly still, then his mouth fell slowly open. “That isn’t possible.”

  Miach waited and said nothing.

  “Is Morgan…Gair’s daughter? Mhorghain?” He pulled back, as if he’d encountered something poisonous right in front of him. “That isn’t possible. All the children died at the well.”

  “So the tale goes,” Miach agreed, “but tales are ofttimes wrong.”

  “What proof do you have?” Weger demanded.

  “Nicholas of Diarmailt told me as much. He’s been watching over her since Gair opened the well. Or, rather, since the mercenaries who originally took Morgan in left her at his door.”

  “Nicholas…” Weger coughed. “Nicholas of Lismòr? He’s the finger-waggler from Diarmailt?”

  “The very same.”

  Weger swore softly. “Does Morgan know?”

  “She dreams of Gair, but she clings to the hope that they’re naught but nightmares. She doesn’t know that I’m sure beyond all doubt.”

  “The poor gel,” Weger said grimly. He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at Miach. “So, if she chooses you, she faces the burden of her blood and a lifetime of danger because of that blood. If she chooses me, she has peace.”

  “That sums it up quite well, actually,” Miach said.

  “I wouldn’t raise my hopes overmuch, were I you.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I can’t stop you from leaving on your own, you know,” Weger said conversationally, “right out the front gates.”

  “In truth?” Miach asked, surprised.

  “I wouldn’t, usually, but I do have a use for you alive in the north. Consider it my gift.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’d prefer to leave having accomplished what I came to.”

  “What, winning Morgan or my mark?”

  “Both.”

  Weger snorted. “Adhémar will howl if you manage either.”

  “All the more reason to succeed.”

  Weger smiled faintly. “I like you. A pity I must hate you for what you want to take from me.”

  “Is Morgan yours for me to take?” Miach asked mildly.

  Weger opened his mouth, but shut it suddenly as Morgan’s door opened. She pointed the end of her very sharp sword at Miach.

  “Go sleep,” she said, gesturing with that sword to the bed.

  “With you?” Weger asked in astonishment.

  She shot him a glare. “Well, of course not with me. But he thinks to guard me all night, then attempt to train with you on the morrow. He shut me in my bedchamber!” She shot Miach a glare. “I should stick you for that alone, but I’ll accord you the courtesy of a few hours’ sleep before I reward you as you deserve.”

  Miach would have protested, but her hand was trembling badly as she held her sword to his throat, and he supposed discretion suggested that he acquiesce to her demands. Besides, he suspected that if he didn’t do what she wanted, she would put him to bed with her sword in his back, then tuck the covers up to his chin. He couldn’t deny that the thought of even an hour of sleep was too tempting to resist.

  “Besides,” Morgan continued, “I was growing increasingly frustrated, being, as I was, locked inside my chamber. It was giving me a headache trying to eavesdrop through the door, and my efforts didn’t yield a single bloody thing. I’m sure I’ll be more successful when I’m out here in the passageway.”

  Miach exchanged a look with Gobhann’s lord over Morgan’s head, though he supposed it had been unnecessary. Weger, of all people, wasn’t going to talk to Morgan about magic.

  He sighed, then went to strip the blankets off Morgan’s bed. He returned to the door and wrapped them around her. She looked up at him with wide, haunted eyes, then shut the door in his face.

  Miach shucked off his boots and lay down on her bed. He had no trouble hearing the low voices outside Morgan’s door. Perhaps he had the advantage of not having to listen to his own cursing whilst he was about it.

  “Why is he here, do you suppose?” That was Weger, asking loudly the same bloody question he never seemed to want the answer for.

  “I have no idea,” Morgan said with a snort.

  “Don’t you?”

  Morgan didn’t answer. Miach supposed that if she had nothing to say, then his work was most certainly not done.

  But that work had to be done soon. He didn’t relish the idea of forcing Morgan’s hand, but he had no choice. Even if his duty didn’t call, he suspected that he was nearing the end of whatever training Weger was willing to give him. He had to talk to Morgan before Weger threw him out the front gates.

  He would take another few days, spend as much time with her as possible, then tell her what he’d come to say. That he didn’t give a damn if she ever picked up another sword, magical or not. He wanted her just for herself.

  And then he supposed she would have to choose between him
and Weger.

  He couldn’t say that he was looking forward to knowing what that choice would be.

  Eight

  A se’nnight later, on a cold, crisp morning, Morgan sat on the ground with her back against the wall in the sunny lower courtyard. She suspected that she had napped, though she couldn’t be certain. Things looked no different from how they had the last time she’d managed to peer at what was going on in front of her. She had to admit, just watching it made her want to close her eyes and go back to sleep.

  Miach and Weger were training. She supposed that it might have been called instruction, but even to her jaundiced eye it appeared that Miach was more than holding his own. He and Weger were of a height, quite similar in build, and actually quite evenly matched. They almost looked to be of an age, though she tried not to notice that Miach was as desperately handsome as Weger was not. Then again, for a man who was almost seven centuries old, Weger was actually quite well preserved.

  As it were.

  She shook her head and wondered if there would ever come a time when she would cease to be surprised by those she kept company with. It never would have occurred to her to think that Weger might have possessed magic, though looking back on it now, she could see how it made sense. His hatred for mages was obviously directed at Lothar, who had amply committed acts to deserve it. It was astonishing to think, though, that she had spent so much of her life in the same castle with Lothar’s kin.

  Things were indeed not as they seemed.

  She had passed most of the evenings during the past se’nnight listening to Weger and Miach talk about characters from legend as easily as if they knew them personally—which she supposed they did. She’d learned more about the Nine Kingdoms and their inhabitants than she’d ever wanted to know.

  Those evenings had been rather pleasant, truth be told.

  She had to admit, quickly lest she be forced to think on it overmuch, that it warmed her heart to watch Weger treat Miach as an equal. Weger seemed to genuinely like him, though there was a strange undercurrent that ran between the two of them—as if there was an unresolved irritation that vexed them equally.