The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  “You underestimate Mhorghain—”

  “And you underestimate your peril,” Làidir snapped. He shoved his chair out of the way and strode angrily from the kitchens.

  Miach looked at his cup of ale and considered. He couldn’t imagine Sìle actually doing him in, or being able to. He supposed he wouldn’t have put it past Làidir to try. Làidir seemed to be nurturing an especially virulent hatred for Gair in particular and mages in general. It was an intense hatred indeed, if it had been burning this brightly for twenty years.

  He pushed away his cup, thanked the cook for a memorable meal, then made his way from the kitchens. A page was waiting at the bottom of the steps to show him to his accommodations. He wondered if he might be sleeping in the dungeon after all.

  He was slightly relieved to be shown a chamber not in the cellar. It had to have been Queen Brèagha’s doing. She, at least, didn’t seem to mind him. Of course, that had been before he had arrived with her granddaughter’s name on his lips, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

  His gear was there, as well as water for washing and clean clothes. He desperately wanted to cast himself down and sleep for a se’nnight, but he had things to see to before he could. He had to check on his spells, and he needed to know how Morgan was faring.

  He unbuckled his swordbelt, laid his sword on the bed, and left the chamber. He wandered through passageways briefly, but saw nothing of Morgan. Well, it was still early and he suspected she was still being interrogated over supper. He would see to his business, then venture to the dining hall. Perhaps Sìle would be more reasonable after he’d had something to eat.

  He continued to wander until he found himself in an enormous private garden. He walked through it until it flowed into the forest. There was a bench there, in a little corner that seemed to be free of the full strength of Sìle’s glamour. Miach sat with a sigh, closed his eyes, and set to work.

  Things were not so dire as they had been, though perhaps it only seemed thus because he was bone weary. He patched until he simply could do no more. It cost him much to hide his tracks, but he didn’t hurry that along. He would be more thorough in the morning. If he didn’t sleep for a few hours, he wouldn’t manage even that.

  He opened his eyes, then started in surprise.

  Morgan was leaning against a tree not ten paces away, watching him. Actually, she was glaring at him.

  He rose and walked over to her. “Morgan, my love,” he said, reaching out to pull her into his arms, “what a pleasure.”

  “Ha,” she said with a snort. “Don’t you Morgan, my love me, you coward. You threw me to the wolves!”

  “I was being unobtrusive.”

  “So unobtrusive that you were invisible?” she said tartly.

  “I thought it wise. Actually, I had supper with Sìle’s heir.” He smiled down at her. “It never hurts to flatter the relatives, you know.”

  She didn’t answer. She only put her arms around him and held on tightly. “It will not matter,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “The king doesn’t like mages.”

  “Then you should get on quite well with him, shouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve changed my mind—at least about a few mages. I don’t think he ever will.” She looked up at him. “He spent most of the evening warning me about you. I didn’t like it.”

  He smiled. “Then I suggest you distract yourself by remembering the look on the king of Tòrr Dòrainn’s face when he first saw you. You have brought him—and the rest of his court—great joy today. His desire to take over your life will ease as time passes.”

  “Ha,” she said crossly. “You didn’t hear him. He plans on remedying my lack of proper education, disabusing me of the notion that swords are an acceptable weapon for elvish princesses, and preventing me from gallivanting any farther through the Nine Kingdoms with the youngest prince of Neroche. His words, not mine. I don’t think he has any intention of listening to anything you might want to say to him.”

  Miach smiled ruefully. “Nay, I imagine he doesn’t.”

  “Tell me again why we are here?” she said sternly.

  “Because I thought it wise to give your grandfather a chance to have you near him for a day or two before I tell him I plan to take you from him.”

  “See?” she said in irritation. “There it is again. A grandfather I never knew trying to dictate to me what I can and cannot do. I am not his to give or take.”

  He took her hand and led her along the paths that led under Sìle’s most beautiful trees. “Morgan, you deserve to be courted and won as befits a princess of Tòrr Dòrainn. A prince of the house of Neroche does not—”

  “You’d best not be inventing this on the spot,” she warned.

  He smiled. “In this case, I’m not. A prince does not wed a princess without observing certain formalities.”

  “Rubbish,” she said with a snort. “What formalities?”

  He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I have a list, but you may not want to hear it now, especially since I haven’t done so well with formalities so far. Aside from the fact that we didn’t have a proper introduction, I haven’t sent you gifts, or composed poems and lays to your beauty—”

  “Nay, you lied to me about who you were, beguiled me with spells in your tower at Gobhann, then convinced me to shapechange. I will admit that you did give me quite a lovely silver cup at Lismòr, but then you took it away moments later.”

  He took her face in his hands and smiled at her. “See? I’ve much to remedy.”

  “Miach—”

  He kissed her softly. “Part of my wooing you properly involves my presenting my suit formally to your grandfather. I think before I do that, you should let Sìle shower you with all the affection he was never able to before. Enjoy the company of Queen Brèagha and your aunts. Give me time to nose about in his library, then I’ll talk to him. I don’t imagine he’ll have any illusions about what I want. And when he says me nay, then you’ll decide what to do.”

  “He won’t say you nay.”

  “Oh, he will,” Miach said. “He will tell you, no doubt, that the house of Neroche is not as distinguished as the house of Tòrr Dòrainn. Then he will point out that I am but the youngest of that house.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re the bloody archmage of Neroche, for pity’s sake!”

  “That is not an asset in your grandfather’s eyes.”

  “Miach, he will not tell me where I will wed,” she said. “And I don’t care about any of that courtly business.” She opened her mouth to say more, then apparently thought better of it. She looked up at him. “Does it matter to you?”

  He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “What matters to me is that when you come to live with me in Tor Neroche, you feel as though I had the wit to earn the approval of your family. If some asp-tongued countess taunts you with a list of a score of things her lord did to win her, I’d like you to have an even longer list to give back. You are Sìle’s granddaughter and because of that, you deserve to be properly courted.”

  “I don’t suppose tossing me in the hay counts.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think it does. I’ll think of a few more appropriate activities.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder. “All right. How long must we stay?”

  “Another pair of days,” he said. “I’ll make good use of the time. Sìle’s library is extensive and I’ll find plenty to do there.”

  She sighed. “Will you at least kiss me good night every evening?”

  He smiled. “I think that’s a requirement.”

  She put her arms around his neck. “Then do it properly, won’t you?”

  He bent his head to do just that, but found himself interrupted by a noise. It wasn’t precisely a roar, but it was close.

  “What are you doing?” a voice thundered from their left.

  Miach stepped away from Morgan in spite of himself. He turned and made Sìle a low bow.

 
“Nothing,” he said, feeling as guilty as a lad of ten summers who’d been caught with his hand in his father’s coffers.

  “Why are you here instead of the stables where I ordered you to be put?”

  “He was seeing to his spells,” Morgan said. “Spells that keep Lothar at bay, as it happens.”

  Sìle looked at her from under bushy eyebrows. “We wouldn’t need to worry about Lothar if it hadn’t been for Yngerame of Wychweald siring him. The same Yngerame that this whelp claims as sire generations ago.”

  Miach clasped his hands behind his back and decided that it would be unwise to remind Sìle that Yngerame was his grandson-in-law.

  “Actually, I believe he was seeing to far more than his spells,” Sìle continued, sounding highly displeased.

  “He was walking me to my chamber—”

  “’Tisn’t his place,” Sìle growled. “In fact, I daresay his place is anywhere you aren’t.” He took her by the arm and pulled her away. “Come away before he feels too comfortable near you.”

  Morgan dug her heels in. “Your Majesty, I am very grateful for your hospitality and your kindness to me tonight. That said, I will not listen to you disparage a man who has never been anything but kind to me.”

  Sìle paused, then tugged at her again. “I’ll thank the youngest prince of Neroche properly tomorrow and send him on his way with fine gifts.”

  “Nay—”

  “Aye—”

  “Your Majesty, I insist—”

  “Mhorghain, you need someone to help you make these sorts of distinctions. We never, ever have dealings with mages. They’re not our sort of people.”

  Miach watched Morgan shoot him a glare over her shoulder. He held up his hands in surrender. She cursed him rather thoroughly, which seemed to please Sìle, then allowed the king of Tòrr Dòrainn to escort her from the garden.

  Miach could hear her cursing all the way back to the house.

  He bowed his head and laughed, then shook his head as his mirth faded. She’d have more to say to him on the morrow, no doubt.

  He made his way back to the very luxurious chamber he’d been given, stripped, then crawled between the silken sheets. He looked up at the ceiling and considered.

  He would spend the morning in Sìle’s library and see if he couldn’t discover the truth about the talisman he suspected Sìle had made for Sarait. Perhaps he would also stumble upon something that might help him in his current quest.

  Aye, he would do what he could, give Morgan a day or two to come to know her family, then they would be on their way.

  He touched the mark on his forehead and reminded himself he was indeed not the least of the sons of Anghmar of Neroche, though that was surely not a sentiment Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn would agree with. It wouldn’t matter to Morgan, perhaps.

  But it mattered to him.

  He had been serious about Morgan having a very long list of things he had done to properly win her—and that list couldn’t include swords, or perilous journeys into darkness, or marks over the brow. It was a little late for formal introductions and handsome gifts and long, drawn-out negotiations between royal houses, but he would, at some point, see what he could do about a few more traditional things.

  Perhaps when he was certain he would have a kingdom to take her back to.

  He spared a final thought for his spells, then checked the spell of un-noticing he’d woven beneath Sìle’s own spells of protection. It would serve for the next few hours.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again. He considered for quite some time, then drew a spiderweb-like spell over himself. It would wake him if anyone came or if anyone tried to lay a spell on him.

  He felt for Morgan’s bedchamber, then laid the same sort of spell across her door. It would disappear when she woke, so she wouldn’t know it had been there.

  But he would.

  Just in case.

  He rolled over and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Twenty

  Morgan stood in the chamber she’d been given and looked down at herself. She had been scrubbed from head to toe, dressed in clothing so fine she hardly dared move, and coiffed so her hair somehow fell over her shoulders and down her back in fat, loose curls. She would have preferred to have had her hair braided so it didn’t get in her way, but she hadn’t dared say anything to the serving girl whilst she’d been about her work and she hadn’t dared touch the miracle that girl had wrought after the girl had finished.

  Her gown was no less awe-inspiring than her hair. It was a long, flowing bit of business in white with pointed sleeves hanging down to the tips of her fingers. The fabric whispered something magical as she moved, but she couldn’t understand what that something was and she feared to inquire too closely. She held up her hand to see if the material would sing a bit more, then caught sight of her nails. They’d been trimmed and buffed and polished until they resembled something that might have belonged to a woman whose most taxing endeavor was stitchery, not swordplay.

  Astonishing.

  She turned and looked at her bed. Her sword lay there alongside Mehar’s knife. Well, she obviously couldn’t take it with her, but she hesitated to leave it behind. She looked around her, then shrugged and slid the blade under the bed. Perhaps only the serving girls would look there and they would have no use for what they found.

  She fingered Mehar’s knife for quite some time. There certainly wasn’t a good place for that on her person. Instead of her sturdy boots, she was wearing dainty shoes that should have been placed on someone truly delicate—which she most certainly was not. Even if that point could be argued, it couldn’t be argued that her shoes were completely inadequate for concealing weapons.

  She considered taking a ribbon and tying the sheath to her leg, but she feared the ribbon would come untied at an inopportune moment and embarrass her. She finally took the knife and slid it under her pillow. She took a step back, started to weave a spell of un-noticing over it, then realized what she was doing.

  She’d forgotten, in the excitement, just what she was running from.

  It was also a little unsettling to think that instead of looking for a decent place to stash something, her first instinct was to look for a decent spell.

  She finally plumped her pillow, arranged it so it looked as it should, then hoped that Mehar’s knife would be safe enough underneath it. She pulled a shawl of some sort of other flimsy, exceedingly fine stuff around her shoulders, then turned and faced her doorway—such as it was. She recited a handful of Weger’s strictures, then put her shoulders back and left her bedchamber.

  She looked for Miach but couldn’t see him in the passageway. Perhaps he had spent the morning in Sìle’s library, then decided that lunch was in order. She could slip unnoticed to a spot next to him and convince him that they should change their minds and go. She had the feeling that staying much longer would result in finding out things about her past she wouldn’t want to know and wouldn’t be able to deny. Well, more than she had the night before. Her grandparents certainly seemed to have no doubt that she was who Nicholas and Miach said she was.

  She paused on the edge of the cloister-like passageway and had a look at the garden. It was full of noonish winter sun, but quite empty of a certain archmage, so she turned and started off purposefully back the way she’d come from the night before.

  She found, to her extreme discomfort, that everyone she encountered bowed to her. She couldn’t manage to do more than stare in consternation at the first few because she had no idea what she should do. Was she to bow in return? Wave them off with an imperious gesture? Turn and flee? After a bit, she simply took to scooting by those she passed before they could begin their bobbing.

  Finally, she decided she’d had enough for a bit and ducked into a doorway to rest only to find that the alcove was already occupied. She jumped back and started to blurt out an apology, but before she could, the tall elf standing there made her a low bow.

  “There. Now you’ve been genuflected to by eve
ryone you’ve seen this morning. I daresay you could retreat to your bed and consider your duty done for the day.”

  He was teasing her. It reminded her happily of Miach, so she favored him with a smile. “I saw you last night.”

  “You did, indeed,” he agreed. “I’m Sosar, the youngest of Sìle’s children save Sarait. Your uncle, as it happens.”

  “Oh,” she said faintly.

  “I know where lunch is,” he said. “And your mage.”

  “Oh,” she said quite a bit more enthusiastically. “I’d like both, if you please. Can I hope they’re in the same place?”

  “Unfortunately not. I understand from my brother the spy that Prince Mochriadhemiach has braved the bowels of my father’s library, but I suspect that won’t surprise you.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “I imagine, as you no doubt do, that we won’t see him anytime soon unless we go search for him. And I fear that once you appear at lunch, you won’t be released to do that.”

  “Released?” Morgan said with a frown.

  Sosar only smiled. “A poor choice of words. Let me choose others. I fear once you present yourself to the king, he will take you in hand and pepper you with so many questions that you won’t have the breath for doing anything but answering them. That will leave you so weary that by the time he toddles off to supper, you’ll be too tired to do aught but stumble back to your bed, cast yourself upon it, and pray he eats something that doesn’t agree with him so you need not endure the same on the following day.”

  Morgan almost smiled. “Indeed.”

  “Indeed,” Sosar said pleasantly. “But if it eases you any, let me tell you that last night was the first time in years I’ve seen my father smile with true happiness. You’ve given him back something he lost.”

  Morgan sighed. Miach had been right after all. Perhaps she should just allow Sìle time to ease his heart. It wouldn’t vex her overmuch to be polite.

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll go eat with the king. But would you do me a favor?”