The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  “You have quite a bit of explaining to do, old man.”

  “Good heavens, Morgan,” Miach said, with an uncomfortable laugh. “Show some respect.”

  Nicholas only smiled, looking equal parts pleased and relieved. “Nay, this tells me that she has survived the tidings. And as for why I didn’t tell you sooner, Morgan, my dear, there are several reasons. Your magic was dormant and I didn’t want it awakened until I knew you would have the strength to manage it. And given your legendary distaste for mages, let me also say that if I’d ever told you who I was, you would have locked yourself inside Weger’s hall and I never would have seen you again.”

  “As if Weger can even be trusted now,” Morgan said darkly. She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “I don’t doubt that you are who you say you are, or Miach, or Weger.” She looked down at her hands. “I can hardly believe it of myself, though,” she said quietly. “It is difficult to find that what I thought was my life has been nothing but a sham.”

  “Not a sham,” Nicholas said gravely. “A preparation.” He considered her for a moment. “Would you care for proof?”

  She looked up. “What sort?”

  Nicholas looked at her for several minutes in silence, then he opened a box on the table at his right and drew out something.

  Morgan had no idea what happened to her. One minute she was sitting comfortably on the sofa and the next she was standing in the corner of Nicholas’s solar with Miach’s arms around her. He held her to him, burying her screams against his shoulder.

  In time, she realized that he was singing to her. She had no idea what the words were, but she recognized the tune. Then she realized that she understood the words as well. She stood there for what seemed like hours, listening to him sing against her ear, hearing his voice echoing in his chest, feeling his warmth sink into her darkness.

  When she thought she wouldn’t shatter, she pulled back and looked up at him.

  “What is that song?” she whispered.

  “A lullaby of Camanaë,” he said, his eyes full of tears. “My mother sang it to me when I would have nightmares as a child.”

  “Nightmares?” she asked. “What sort?”

  “Oh, just your garden variety,” he said with half a smile. “Lothar. Dark magic. Creatures from hell chasing me through the passageways of Tor Neroche.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Is that so?”

  “It is,” he said, smoothing her hair back from her face. “Once my mother was gone, I sang that song quite often to myself.”

  Morgan closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t know how you survived that.”

  “The same way you’ll survive this. You’ll run, you’ll fly, and you’ll weep. And if you want me to, I’ll do all three with you.”

  She nodded, but found she couldn’t release him. She was afraid if she did, she would come undone again. It was a truly alarming turn of events. She was a hardened, seasoned mercenary with scores of sieges and battles under her belt, yet all she seemed to be able to do of late was weep and cling to a man as if she couldn’t stand up on her own.

  Though she had to concede that she had been in truly unprecedented circumstances, so perhaps she could be forgiven that weakness.

  “Morgan?”

  She shivered. “Aye?”

  “Come and sit. Nicholas has put away the ring.”

  It took quite a while longer, but she finally managed to nod. She let Miach lead her back over to the sofa. She sat down nearest Nicholas and felt Miach settle in next to her. She looked at Nicholas.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Nicholas looked at her gravely. “Nay, my dear, ’tis I who should apologize. I should have warned you. When the mercenaries left you here, they left me the ring as well, but warned me not to show it to you.” He paused. “They said it upset you too much.”

  Morgan took a deep breath. “I think I can bear it now,” she said finally.

  Nicholas hesitated, then removed the ring from the box and slowly handed it to her.

  Morgan took it. It was a flat, square, onyx stone set in a silver metal she supposed was whitened gold or silver. Not silver, perhaps, for it was not tarnished. She took a deep breath. She knew the ring.

  She had seen it countless times on her…father’s hand.

  She put her face in her hands and shuddered.

  “Morgan?” Nicholas asked quietly.

  “I’m fine,” she said raggedly. She straightened and blew out what breath she’d managed to suck in. “I’m fine. I think I need to go to bed.”

  She saw the look Nicholas shot Miach and could imagine the look he received in return.

  She handed the ring to Miach. “You keep this.”

  He blanched. “You want me to wear it?”

  “Of course not, but someone has to keep it and it’s too big for me.” She paused. “Would it bother you?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll put it in a pocket.”

  “Do you have the other ring?” she asked. “The one that matches Mehar’s knife? I’d like to have it.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. She was starting to shake. She wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t going to be ill very soon. “I think I’m starting a collection.”

  Miach looked rather alarmed. “I think I should keep it for you a bit longer. Why don’t we go for a little walk instead? I think the fresh air might do you some—”

  She jumped to her feet before he finished, gave Nicholas the same sort of unremarkable kiss on the cheek she’d given him for years, then bolted for the door. She jerked it open and ran out into the night.

  She ran for quite a while, actually.

  She came back to herself eventually to find she was running around the perimeter of the outer courtyard, just as she’d done countless times in her youth. Then she’d been running toward her future.

  Now she was running from her past.

  She realized, after another long stretch of simply sprinting along the wall in the dark, that she wasn’t alone. Miach kept pace with her, just as he had all the times she’d tried to outrun her dreams whilst she’d been traveling north in the fall. He didn’t complain, didn’t ask her to stop, didn’t tell her that she was mad. He just ran with her.

  And he held her hair when she finally had to stop, turn, and throw up.

  When she’d stopped sobbing and heaving, he put a silver cup in her hand. She rinsed her mouth out with what it contained, spat it out, then looked at the cup he’d given her.

  “Where did this come from?” she asked.

  “I made it for you just now.”

  She handed the goblet back to him and dragged her sleeve across her face. “You’re handy,” she said raggedly.

  “Hmmm,” was all he said.

  She looked at him with the moonlight falling down on him and did what she’d been doing all day. She flung herself at him.

  He caught her and wrapped his arms around her. The only difference was she had no more tears to shed. She simply stood there, breathing in and out, and forcing her mind to be still.

  “I can bear no more today,” she said finally. She looked up at him wearily. “Spell me to sleep?”

  “I don’t think I’ll need to,” he said. “You’re exhausted. Come sit with me whilst I work, then we’ll pretend we’re on the road to Neroche and make camp in front of Nicholas’s fire. I never finished the enormously entertaining tale of Tharra of Fearann Fàs. It isn’t to be missed.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll dream,” she admitted.

  He considered for a moment. “I don’t think you will again, Morgan. Not since you know the truth. But you might freeze, so why don’t you come inside with me.”

  “I may throw up again.”

  “You won’t.”

  She frowned. “What was in the wine?”

  “If you can’t tell, perhaps ’tis better for you not to know,” he said with a smile. “For all you know, it might even help you sleep.”

  She didn’t
think so, but then again, it was Miach making the brew. She watched him toss the cup into thin air and make it disappear. She realized, at that point, that she was no longer startled by anything he did.

  And that was possibly the most startling thing of all.

  “Oh, nay,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Stop thinking, Morgan. It has been an extraordinarily difficult day. I beg you not to add anything more to it.”

  She frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You looked like you wanted to stab me,” he said with a bit of a laugh. “I wasn’t sure I’d rid you of all your blades.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about stabbing you. I was just surprised at how accustomed to your magic I’ve become—and how appallingly wasteful you are. I could have had wine all evening in that cup.”

  He smiled and pulled her along with him toward the inner gates. “I’ll fashion you another later, if you like. Let’s go get warm.”

  She nodded and continued on with him. She found the solar empty when Miach let them in the door and wasn’t sure if she was grateful or disappointed. Nicholas was no doubt giving her time to think. She wandered about the chamber as Miach pulled chairs for them in front of the fire, then stopped in front of Nicholas’s desk.

  Mehar’s knife was there and under it was a brief note.

  Morgan, you’ll need this.

  She looked at it for several minutes, then took it and put it in the corner with her sword. She turned and found Miach standing with his hand on the mantel, staring down into the fire.

  She crossed the chamber to stand next to him. “Miach?”

  He looked at her and blinked. “I’m fine.”

  “I didn’t ask that. What is it?”

  He considered for quite some time before he finally sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. “I’m not certain. Something is off. Not in the spells of defense along Neroche’s border. Something else. Or perhaps I’m merely thinking too much.” He looked at her. “We need to go.”

  “I’ll get my cloak—”

  He caught her by the arm before she pulled away. “Nay, gel, not tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow is soon enough. Perhaps after sunset, when we can travel under cover of darkness.”

  She took a deep breath. “As you will, Miach. If you’re certain you want me to come—”

  “Well, of course I want you to come,” he said, looking surprised. “How will I woo you if you’re not with me? Or best you in cards? Or thrash you in the lists—”

  “Enough,” she said with a scowl. “I understand.”

  He smiled, embraced her briefly, then allowed her to escape his arms. She stepped away and had to take several deep breaths. It was one thing to talk about going with him all over the Nine Kingdoms; it was another thing entirely to actually do it.

  Especially now she knew things about herself she couldn’t deny.

  She suddenly didn’t want to think about what anyone would say about that, or how she would now have to introduce herself, or in which ways her life had just changed irrevocably in the past twelve hours.

  “Morgan?”

  She backed him up to his chair, put her hand in the middle of his chest, and shoved. “Give me your boots.”

  He looked up at her in astonishment. “My what?”

  “Boots. Blades. I’ll see to them.”

  He looked at her, openmouthed, then pulled a knife from one of his boots. He handed it to her, then took off his boots and set them by the chair.

  Morgan pulled the knife free of the sheath and looked at it, then at Miach. “Beautiful but unmagical,” she noted approvingly. “Did Weger give it to you?”

  “Aye. ’Tis covered with runes of the house of Neroche. It will send Adhémar into a rage.”

  “Making it all the more desirable. Get to work, lad. I’m anxious for that tale you promised me.”

  He caught her hand before she could pick up his boots. “Don’t bolt on me, Morgan.”

  She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “I won’t.”

  He looked at her for another long moment, then nodded. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  She waited until she could see that he was deeply involved in his spells before she took off her own boots, gathered all their blades together and laid them out on the carpet, then fetched gear from a trunk near the door for polishing and sharpening.

  She had to keep busy. It made her feel like herself.

  She was very afraid that if she stopped, she would find herself falling deeply into a past that would drag her into a darkness she hadn’t asked for and didn’t want. At least Miach wanted to leave on the morrow. Surely there would be much to do on that journey, many ways to keep herself occupied, and many more opportunities to simply ignore what she’d learned that day. She would be well if she could simply survive the night.

  She sat down on the floor in front of the fire and set to work on Miach’s boots.

  Fifteen

  Miach walked through the passageways of Lismòr, on the hunt for a particular gel that he’d somehow lost during the night. That didn’t surprise him. Morgan had still been sharpening her sword when he’d finished with his work. He’d understood it; keeping busy kept the demons at bay. But sleep was also a necessity after a certain point, so he’d begged her to lie down next to him and at least try to sleep a little. She had, but reluctantly. He’d begun the tale of Tharra of Fearann Fàs, but had apparently fallen asleep himself before he’d finished it. He had woken to find his blades placed next to him and Morgan gone. He could still sense her within Lismòr’s walls, though, so he knew she’d kept her promise.

  He wondered how much it had cost her.

  Which he would go find out once he’d made another turn about the courtyard and rid himself of his own unease. He blew out his breath. If the assault on his spells in the fall had been a light rain, what was happening presently was a downpour. Only half of what he’d repaired the previous night had still been sound last night.

  And still there was something that was covering the kingdom, something that was subtle, but so insidiously evil that even he had to shudder a bit when he faced it.

  He dragged his hand through his hair. They would go that night and see what he could discover. It bothered him not to have any sense of the creatures that seemed to stalk Morgan, but perhaps he could do so if he tried a bit harder. It was—or had been—the burden of Adhémar’s kingship to sense fully what went on in the realm, though his brother had never been very good at it. Miach had always had a very clear awareness of his spells and what might have been attacking them, but the other…nay, he hadn’t had that gift.

  Unless it was used to sense Morgan.

  Perhaps he would be wise to stretch himself and see if he couldn’t acquire an impression of what hunted them. He certainly couldn’t go all over the realm himself and kill things that he couldn’t sense until they were upon him.

  He continued to walk until he was standing in front of the doorway of the library. He opened the door, then looked inside.

  Morgan was there, as he had suspected. She was sitting at one of the long tables with books spread out in front of her. Her sword was on that table and she was fingering the hilt of Mehar’s dagger. At least she was holding it without shuddering—something she wouldn’t have done in the fall. That boded well.

  She looked up at the sound of the door shutting behind him.

  And she smiled.

  It winded him. He managed a polite nod to Master Dominicus, then walked over to sit on the corner of her table.

  “Well, don’t you look bright-eyed this morning,” he said. “Been at it long?”

  “Long enough to irritate Master Dominicus.”

  Miach smiled. “Did you make off with a valuable tome or two at some point in the past?”

  She shook her head and caressed the hilt of Mehar’s knife lovingly. “He doesn’t trust soldiers.”

  “He would trust us even less if he knew what we were in addition to that.”


  She went still.

  Ah, so that was it.

  Miach swung his leg back and forth idly and suspected that perhaps yesterday had been too much after all.

  Morgan folded her hands on the table, looked at them for quite a bit longer, then finally sighed and looked up. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful…”

  “Ungrateful?” he echoed, confused. “About what?”

  “About all the time you and Nicholas both spent telling me about…um…”

  “The past?” he offered.

  She nodded. “Aye. And I’m grateful to you for all the spells you taught me. But…” She met his eyes, but seemed unable to speak further.

  “But you’re not ready to be Mhorghain of Ceangail?” he asked softly.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”

  He couldn’t blame her. And the last thing he was going to do was force her to accept something she wasn’t ready to accept.

  He’d learned that lesson already.

  He tilted his head to look at her thoughtfully. “Who is it you want to be today? Just Morgan of Melksham?”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Do you care if I do?”

  She was clasping her hands together so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “I might.”

  He reached out and put his hand over hers. “You’re growing soft, woman. If I’d asked you that question a month ago, you would have stuck me as repayment for the vexation.”

  She linked her fingers with his. “I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

  He tapped her shin gently with his boot. “I do. You look like Morgan to me and considering that I’m rather fond of her, perhaps you should continue on with her awhile longer. Now, what have you got there in that book?” he asked, pretending great interest in what she was reading.

  “Elves,” Morgan said glumly, pulling one of her hands away so she could flip the page. “I had no idea there were so many of them or that they had so many adventures.” She looked down at the book unhappily. “Weger was right: I am very ignorant of events of the world. I think I could read for months and never know it all.”

  “No one knows it all,” he said. “We’ll just muddle through as best we can.”