The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  Nicholas smiled. “Such disrespect, my dear. And after all he went through to bring you home.”

  “He teases me overmuch. He knows I don’t like it, yet he persists.” She looked at Miach coolly. “He deserves whatever he has in return.”

  Miach sat with his ankle propped up on his other knee, looking completely unoffended—and unrepentant. “It is worth all the effort just to watch you pat yourself for whatever dagger you might have to hand. And aye, I likely deserve whatever you toss back my way.” He smiled at Nicholas. “Thank you, my lord, for a comfortable place to torment Morgan and an excellent supper to enjoy whilst I was about it.”

  Nicholas laughed. “Of course, lad. My pleasure.” He studied them for a moment or two. “The journey here must not have been overly hard. You don’t look particularly weary.”

  “Actually, we left Gobhann this afternoon,” Morgan admitted.

  “How did you come so quickly, then?” Nicholas asked in surprise. “Did you run?”

  Morgan swallowed with difficulty. “We flew. Well, Miach flew. I…didn’t.”

  Nicholas laughed. “Ah, the indignities, Morgan. ’Tis nothing more than you can expect, though, when you travel with a mage.”

  “I’m beginning to think Miach was repaying me for a month at Gobhann,” Morgan said darkly.

  “No doubt,” Nicholas agreed. He looked at Miach. “So, lad, how did you find Weger’s hovel? I won’t bother asking Morgan; she’ll only enumerate its finer qualities.”

  Morgan sat back and listened as Miach described for Nicholas in the most unvarnished terms just how dreadful the food was and how brutal the training. He didn’t seem overly troubled by any of it, though, nor sorry that he’d been there.

  Perhaps it had been worth it to him.

  “How did you escape the tower in the end?” Nicholas asked. “Did Morgan open the gate for you or did you fly off the walls?”

  “Neither,” Miach said slowly.

  Morgan waited. She actually hadn’t had a chance to think about how Miach had earned his release. Weger had been so busy shoving him out of the gathering room that morning, she had supposed Weger had merely wanted to be rid of him and was letting him leave unharmed and unflung.

  Miach looked at her, sighed deeply, then brushed the hair back from his forehead.

  There, just above his eyebrow was a bright red sword.

  Morgan gaped at it in surprise. It was the very copy of hers, turned just so. She met his eyes, startled. “When did he give you that?”

  “Last night. Sometime after we bored you to sleep with a discussion of the trade policies between the dwarves of Durial and the wizards of Beinn òrain.”

  Morgan reached up to carefully move a stray lock of hair away from the angry wound. “It was fairly given,” she said quietly. “You were, and I can say this without reservation, his equal when you left.”

  He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “We could debate that, I imagine. All I know is that it’s over, and for that I am very grateful. Now stop watching me, woman, lest I blush.”

  Morgan opened her mouth to comment that his suddenly red eyes left him looking more likely to weep, but he put his hand on her head and turned her to face Nicholas. She looked at Nicholas and shrugged.

  “Miach earned that mark,” she said quietly. “There is no doubt about that.”

  Nicholas rubbed his finger over his mouth. “The king of Neroche will have fits over it, I imagine.”

  Miach grunted. “I’m thinking I’ll just keep it to myself.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “I daresay that is wise. Now, tell me about the rest of your business. Did Weger know who you were?”

  “Immediately,” Miach admitted, “though he did me the favor of keeping it to himself. He also presented me with a key to a tower just outside his walls where magic is possible.”

  “Fortunate for you, then,” Nicholas said, sounding very surprised.

  “Critical,” Miach corrected. “It allowed me the luxury of time to convince a certain gel that she was meant for more than a life within those walls.”

  Morgan felt him tucking hair into her braid. She looked at him and found him watching her with a small smile. She had to look away, before she started up with her cursed tears again.

  “And soon you must turn your thoughts to the future,” Nicholas said, “but perhaps you could first take a day or two and rest from your labors. Why don’t we make it an early night? I’ll walk with you to your bedchambers—”

  “I imagine Miach has things to see to first,” Morgan interrupted. “Is there a quiet spot where he might retreat to work on his spells?”

  “Of course,” Nicholas said with a smile. “Pull a chair in front of the fire, Mochriadhemiach, and be comfortable. I’ll send someone along with something sweet and more wine, lest the labors become too heavy. Morgan, your bedchamber is as it always is. Put your lad in the one down the hall, won’t you?”

  Morgan nodded, then stood when Nicholas did. “Thank you, my lord, for the safe haven.”

  He took her face in his hands and smiled at her. “My dear, it doesn’t seem like much at all. Just food and a bed. But I’m pleased to be able to provide it.” He kissed her cheeks, clapped Miach on the shoulder in passing, then left the solar.

  Morgan watched him go, then felt the chamber begin to grow cold as silence descended. She was fine if she was talking, or fighting, or about some other noble labor. It was merely standing and thinking that gave her trouble. She wrapped her arms around herself, then looked at Miach who was still sitting on the sofa.

  “I’m cold,” she said.

  “I’ll go build you a fire in your bedchamber—”

  “Nay,” she said quickly, then she took a deep breath. “Please, Miach. Not yet. Let me stay with you whilst you work.”

  “Of course, love,” he said, rising. He stood in front of her and rubbed her arms for a moment or two, then released her and walked over to toss more wood on the fire.

  Morgan walked over unsteadily to sit down in one of the chairs he placed in front of the hearth. Miach sat, then captured one of her feet between his boots. “I’ll hurry.”

  “Take all night if you like. I’d prefer it thus, actually.”

  “Morgan, you have to sleep eventually,” he said.

  “Do I?” she asked, striving for a light tone. “I think I can avoid it if I work at it.”

  He sighed, then leaned forward and took her hands in both of his. “I wish I could spare you what troubles you.”

  “And I wish you could spell me into a dreamless sleep,” she whispered. “I don’t suppose you have that sort of spell to hand, do you?”

  He smiled faintly. “I might.”

  “Have you ever used it?” she asked in surprise.

  “Do you actually want me to admit to that?”

  “Was Adhémar involved?”

  He laughed. “I’ll only say this: there is little point in being a mage if you can’t rid yourself now and again of the torment of your eldest brother blathering on endlessly.”

  “At least you’re using your power for good,” she managed.

  “You cannot pretend not to share the sentiment, if not the execution of the remedy,” he said with a smile.

  “I’ll concede that,” she admitted. “He is irritating in the extreme.” She looked at him and sighed. “Thank you. I needed the distraction.”

  “My pleasure. But I will hurry with my business. Whether you want it or not, sleep is what you need.”

  She nodded, though she didn’t exactly agree. She watched him close his eyes, then felt his stillness become a tangible thing in the chamber—that and the power that flowed from him. She watched him for quite some time, somewhat surprised to find that she didn’t find it at all strange to be sitting across from a mage without reaching for her sword.

  But in time she found that watching his arresting face was no longer enough to block out her unease. It was one thing to say Lismòr was a safe place. It was another thing t
o realize that it was at Lismòr that she had first begun to dream.

  She rose and wandered about Nicholas’s chamber. It occurred to her that it had been here that she’d first read something she wished she hadn’t. She stopped in front of Nicholas’s desk that sat beneath a long, leaded window. She remembered vividly having stood in that exact place in the fall. She’d reached for a book and it had fallen open to a page she hadn’t called.

  It was there that she’d first read about Gair of Ceangail. Her nightmares had begun soon after, nightmares that had led to her discovering she had magic and to a whole host of other things she hadn’t anticipated—

  She wondered if more pacing might keep her from thinking any more.

  It was worth a try.

  She had walked around the room countless times and thrown half a dozen logs on the fire by the time Miach finally opened his eyes and sighed. She could tell immediately that all was not well. She sank down in the chair opposite him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked uneasily.

  He seemed to consider his words carefully. “Nothing that hasn’t been in motion for the past month, but I hear rumors of things that trouble me.” He paused. “Creatures, like the ones we saw near Chagailt and near the inn.”

  “Who is sending them?” she asked. “Who are they coming for?”

  “Good questions, both,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face and wincing. “I keep forgetting about this.”

  She leaned forward and brushed his hair off his forehead. “I would make you a poultice for that, but it would heal it—and that would defeat the purpose.”

  He smiled. “Trust me, the pain is nothing.”

  She looked at his mark for a moment or two, then met his eyes. “You were at Gobhann too long, weren’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing has changed substantially in the realm, Morgan, so don’t burden yourself with the thought. I was able to do at Gobhann exactly what I could do at Tor Neroche.”

  She supposed she had no choice but to believe him. “Well, what will you do now?”

  “First, I’ll see tomorrow what messages Nicholas has for me. I imagine Paien will have sent word. He and the others were anxious to be going even before I left.”

  “Are the lads still at Tor Neroche?” she asked in surprise.

  “Aye,” he said, “I passed many pleasant evenings with them whilst we waited for Adhémar to be about his nuptial madness. We kept ourselves out of his sights by hiding in my tower chamber and discussing your many fine qualities.” He smiled. “They are all terribly fond of you.”

  “They just appreciate my ability to keep them from dying,” she said dismissively. “Where is it they want to go now?”

  He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I asked them to take the shards of the Sword of Angesand to Durial for me.”

  She felt a little faint. “I see.”

  “They wanted to be of some use.”

  Morgan looked down at her hands for quite some time before she thought she might be able to manage to speak. She lifted her head. “I’m sorry I destroyed it.”

  He shook his head. “Swords can be reforged—”

  “It isn’t that,” she protested. “I lost control and destroyed something beautiful.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve never felt such anger. For a moment, I think I almost relished it.”

  “You had cause, Morgan.”

  “I was angry, but not for the reason you think.”

  He put his hands on top of hers. “I can imagine the reason, Morgan. Or at least I flatter myself I can. If the places had been reversed, I wouldn’t have been particularly happy to think you wanted me only for my skill with a blade and not for my sweet self. True enough?”

  She nodded, but found to her horror that tears were falling on his hands. Her tears. She looked at him miserably.

  “I keep telling myself these tears are but the aftereffects of Lothar’s poison, but I fear it’s just me, turning slowly and inexorably into a tavern wench.”

  He laughed and released her. “I imagine it’s nothing so dire as that. You’re tired and you still have healing to accomplish. Let me walk you to your chamber so you can be about it. There will be time enough tomorrow to worry about the rest.”

  She nodded, then moved out of his way so he could bank Nicholas’s fire. He collected their swords and cloaks, then led them out of Nicholas’s solar.

  “Miach?” she asked quietly as they walked through the cloister.

  “Aye, love.”

  “Can I be there?” she asked. “When you reforge the sword?”

  He smiled down at her. “Of course.”

  She chewed on her words for a bit before she managed to spew them out. “Can I teach it to sing?”

  “Like Catrìona of Croxteth?” he asked. “I imagine you could, if you wanted to.”

  “I would like to.”

  “Then you shall.”

  She nodded and continued on with him until they were standing in front of her door. He opened it, then sent a ball of werelight floating toward the ceiling. He pulled back and smiled.

  “All safe.”

  Safe in the chamber, possibly, but not safe in the darkness that awaited her there. She looked up at him. “Spell me to sleep?”

  He winced. “I don’t think you’re quite that desperate yet. Just trust that you’ll be safe enough here. Where is my bedchamber?”

  “’Tis the one at the end of this passageway. That’s where Nicholas usually puts visiting royalty.”

  He blinked, then laughed. “He’s teasing me, apparently.”

  “He’s flattering you.”

  “Perhaps,” Miach said with a smile. He looked down at her. “Whatever the case, at least it puts me close enough to you to suit me tonight. I’ll sleep with my door open so I’ll hear you if you cry out. Unless you’d like me to sleep on your floor.”

  “The lads would never survive the scandal,” she said wearily. “You needn’t worry about me. I will be well.”

  “You will be,” he agreed. He shooed her back inside her bedchamber, then spoke a handful of words.

  A thin blue line appeared on the floor, stretching from one side of her doorway to the other.

  She looked at him. “What is that?”

  “A charm of ward, to protect you from any evil. It will entangle itself around the feet of anyone who crosses your threshold, be he man or mage, and render him immobile. And it will wake me as it does so. Unless,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “you want me to sleep on the floor next to your bed. We could hold hands. Very innocent.”

  She scowled up at him. “Go to bed before the thought overwhelms you.”

  He laughed then took her face in his hands and kissed the end of her nose. “Going to bed irritated with me will be your salvation, I’m sure. Good night, love. Sweet dreams.”

  She took a deep breath, then nodded and shut the door. Miach’s werelight was still there, glowing softly and lighting her way. She pulled off her boots, shucked off her leggings, and dove beneath a goose-feather duvet fit for a queen without a second thought.

  She lay there for quite a while. It helped to look up at the werelight. It reminded her that Miach was watching over her. She didn’t want to find that as comforting as she did, but it was impossible not to. In time, her eyes grew heavy. She forcibly pushed away the darkness and the cold and concentrated on the light above her that Miach had given her.

  It was the only thing that kept the darkness at bay.

  Eleven

  Miach sat in the bowels of the university and rubbed the spot between his eyes that had begun to pound. He supposed it was because of the mark over his brow that still burned like hellfire. He wondered absently what Adhémar would say when he saw it. Likely bellow like a stuck boar and then list all the reasons why it had been the height of foolishness. Miach supposed he would have had a point, though looking back on it presently, he could only count it time well spent.

  He looked around him blearily, wondering what
time it might be, then saw Morgan sitting just around the corner of the worn wooden table from him.

  She had fallen asleep with her head against the back of the chair. Her hair was escaping her braid in places and she was swathed in the fur-lined cloak he had conjured up for her the night before.

  He shut the book he was reading and allowed himself the pleasure of looking his fill. She was remarkably beautiful, and he was unwholesomely grateful to be looking at her in Lismòr’s library.

  A throat cleared itself pointedly.

  Miach looked at the university’s librarian, a dour man named Dominicus, who sat perched like a bird of prey on a tall stool in the corner.

  “Are you not finished yet?” Master Dominicus whispered fiercely.

  Miach took hold of what patience he had left before it disappeared. It wasn’t his habit to be rude to librarians—they did provide him with things he needed after all—but he was tempted. “I am not,” he said as pleasantly as possible. “I’ll let you know when I am.”

  “I can’t imagine what a soldier needs with books,” Master Dominicus added pointedly.

  “He’s not just a soldier,” Morgan said, opening her eyes and turning to look at the man. “He’s a very good soldier with a very sharp blade who I might or might not have seen loitering on the other side of the island. I’d let him look at what he wants, if I were you.”

  Master Dominicus shot Miach a nervous look, then tucked his arms into the sleeves of his robe and remained silent.

  Miach smiled at Morgan. “Thank you.”

  “I live to torment him,” she said, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “In fact, I came down here with the express purpose of rescuing you from him before the sun set completely.”

  “Is it that late?” he asked in surprise.

  She nodded solemnly. “You’ve been down here all day.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t notice you sooner.” It was a wonder he hadn’t found himself stabbed to death long before now by some testy librarian whilst he’d been about a search for some obscure thing or another.