The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  She looked up at him. “I am able, you know. It’s what I’ve been doing whilst you were sitting in comfort with your nose buried in a book.” She smiled up at him. “I did it for you, so I wouldn’t shame you at Tor Neroche.”

  He stumbled, then had to pause and catch his breath. “Any more of these kinds of revelations? I think I need to get them all over with now so I won’t land on my arse in front of your grandfather later.”

  “Nay,” she lied cheerfully, “that’s all. Unless you’d care to share any of the delicious gossip you’ve been gleaning from the books behind the silken rope. Or anything about your recent journey.”

  “I had a hunch about something unimportant,” he said, apparently struggling to find a casual tone. “It turned out to be, um, not what I thought it might be.”

  She didn’t press him. Mochriadhemiach of Neroche might have been many things, but a good liar he was not.

  Somehow, she liked that about him.

  “Put it aside tonight,” she advised. “I want your full attention.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “Heaven help me.”

  “You’ll survive it well enough, I imagine. Let’s go find supper.”

  Sìle met them at the door to the dining hall. Before he had his mouth fully open to protest, Morgan shot him a steely look.

  “How kind of you to allow Prince Mochriadhemiach to be my escort tonight, my liege,” she said, in a tone that told him he would be wise not to gainsay her. “In repayment for his having brought me home to you, of course.”

  Sìle glared at Miach. “One night, boy,” he said sharply. “You’d best enjoy it.”

  Miach bowed low. “Your generosity, Your Majesty, knows no bounds.”

  Sìle growled at him, kissed Morgan’s hands roughly, then turned and barked for Làidir to vacate his seat. He then rearranged everyone so there were two seats on his right. Morgan stole a look at Miach. He was watching her with a very small smile.

  “Very well played, princess,” he murmured.

  “There’s a stricture for it somewhere, I’m sure.”

  Miach put his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the table. “It wouldn’t surprise me. I suggest we sit before he changes his mind. You sit between us, though.”

  “Coward.”

  “Realist,” he said dryly.

  Morgan sat next to her grandfather and found that if she scooted her chair just the right way, she could hold Miach’s hand under the table. She smiled at him, then steeled herself for the lengthy business of supper.

  She supposed she ate, but she didn’t remember any of it. All she knew was that after almost a se’nnight without Miach sitting next to her, she was undeniably and unreasonably happy to have him there. She looked at him often only to find him each time leaning back in his chair, nursing a goblet of wine, watching her with a small smile.

  “Eat,” she said.

  He shook his head. “A waste of time that could be better spent looking at you.”

  She squeezed his hand, then set to filling a plate for him. She handed him a fork.

  “You’ll need your strength.”

  He sighed lightly, then set to his meal without his customary enthusiasm.

  Troubled by a guilty conscience, no doubt.

  She did take the opportunity to watch him whilst he was otherwise occupied. He looked tired, which led her to suspect that he had indeed been up for several days doing things he shouldn’t have been. She reached up and smoothed his bangs out of his eyes before she thought better of it. He smiled.

  “Aye, my love?”

  “I’ve missed you,” she said simply. “I missed you today especially. I wished we had been sitting in the library before the fire in that chair that’s almost large enough for two. Shall we tomorrow?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head before he slipped his hand under her hair and pulled her close. “I love you,” he whispered against her ear. “I never want to be without you.”

  Morgan smiled at the words, but couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t answered her question. Perhaps he’d decided that hedging was better than attempting an outright lie. She wondered absently if he’d done the same thing in the fall, but she honestly couldn’t remember. She’d been too distracted by her dreams and the way he’d held her hand. Perhaps she would think on it later, when she’d finished with her plans for the night.

  Sìle cleared his throat pointedly. Miach smiled at Morgan, then sat back.

  “I understand, Your Majesty,” he said idly, “that you have a gift for Mhorghain.”

  The look Sìle shot him should have felled him on the spot. Morgan sincerely hoped they wouldn’t begin a battle over her. Sìle finally sighed heavily, then pulled something from a pocket and handed it to her.

  “I made this for your mother,” he said in a very low voice. He paused for quite some time. “That mage there demanded it for you, though I don’t know why. It won’t protect you against him.”

  “I need no protection against him,” Morgan said quietly.

  “So said your mother.”

  Morgan turned to face him. “Grandfather, I wish you would cease comparing Miach to Gair. That is not who he is. He did bring me here, after all. I don’t imagine he did it for any other reason than to ease your heart.”

  Sìle grunted. “I daresay.”

  Morgan pursed her lips at him, then felt Miach take the necklace from her. Morgan watched him examine it and leaned close to see what he was looking at.

  It was quite lovely, with a single diamond set in a circle of gold and silver. It was surrounded by all sorts of runes she couldn’t decipher. What she could say for certain was that it was simply drenched in power. She could feel it from where she sat.

  Miach studied it for another moment or two, then looked at her.

  “Hold your hair up, love, if you will.”

  She did so and shivered as he fastened the chain about her neck. He sat back and looked at it silently for several minutes. Then he met her eyes.

  “Pretty,” he said casually.

  Morgan had no idea what the amulet’s true purpose was, but she could feel the magic that had enveloped her the moment it had touched her skin.

  Pretty, indeed.

  Well, she would discover the truth of it all later. For now, she had more beguiling to do. She took Miach’s hand and smiled. “I hear the musicians tuning up. Shall we?”

  “Please.”

  She found as the evening wore on that she was rather glad she’d bothered with the reams of dances her grandmother had wanted her to learn. She was surprised Miach knew them as well, but realized she shouldn’t have been. He had no doubt spent his own tortured hours learning courtly comportment.

  “You’re smiling,” he said.

  “I’m imagining you in some dreadfully boring session with your dancing master,” she admitted.

  “Boring, but brief,” he assured her. “I learned quickly, so I could pull off my court clothes and go tramp about in the mud.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” She smiled at him. “I keep forgetting who you are and where you grew up.”

  “Obviously, I spent too much time with you at Gobhann,” he said wryly.

  “And in Hearn’s hayloft.”

  He laughed. “Please let’s not talk about that whilst Sìle’s nearby. He will hear, then he truly will thrust me outside his gates.”

  “Are there gates at Seanagarra?” she asked.

  “I imagine he’ll conjure some up, just for me,” Miach said, but he didn’t sound particularly worried.

  Neither was she, for she knew he had no plans to be there long enough for Sìle to begin to contemplate gates. It didn’t matter, though, for neither did she.

  She would tell him as much when he tried to leave her at her bedchamber.

  The evening was magical. The music was glorious, the wine delicate and sweet, and the dancing actually quite enjoyable. Miach watched her closely, as if he couldn’t look at her enough to suit himself. Perha
ps he thought to save his memories against a time when she wouldn’t be near.

  Foolish man.

  It was very late when she bid good night to the souls in the hall and walked with Miach out into the passageway.

  “It was a perfect evening,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

  “It was perfect,” he agreed, “but you made it so.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Let me walk you to your chamber. You look a little tired.”

  “I’m exhausted,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth to cover her yawn. “Why aren’t you sleepy?”

  “I was too busy worrying about Sìle possibly flinging a knife at my back,” he said ruefully. “That sort of concern tends to drive off weariness.”

  Morgan put her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. She could have perhaps benefited from that kind of worry. She was so sleepy, she could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

  And then she realized, quite suddenly, that it was more than dancing that made her so. Miach had woven some sort of dastardly spell over her!

  He swept her up into his arms and continued to walk.

  “Damn you,” she spat. “I’ll see you repaid, you…honorless…”

  She would have said more, but she was slipping toward blackness and couldn’t stop the slide. She felt her bed suddenly beneath her back and Miach’s lips on hers.

  “I love you,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “Damn you…to…”

  Blackness descended and she knew no more.

  Twenty-five

  Miach gently unpinned Morgan’s crown and took it off. He removed his own and looked at them together in his hands. Doubting himself wasn’t in his nature, but he couldn’t help a brief moment of it. It was tempting to undo his spell, tell her to dress in traveling clothes, then fly off with her into the night.

  But he couldn’t. He had a duty to the realm of Neroche; she did not. That duty would lead him along a very dark road, one Morgan had already been down on the day her family had died. He could not ask her to walk it again.

  But he thought it just might kill him to leave her.

  He set his jaw and put the crowns down on the table next to her bed. He took off her shoes, then covered her with a blanket. Then he sat down next to her for a few minutes and simply watched her. He looked at the peace that rested on her features and knew he was making the right decision. Perhaps she had seen much of the horrors of battle, but they paled in comparison to the horrors of Gair’s well. He simply couldn’t subject her to them when he could see to them himself.

  He took off his boot, shook Mehar’s ring into his hand, then pulled his boot back on. He looked at the ring for several moments, considered leaving it with a note, then discarded the idea. Morgan wouldn’t need an explanation.

  He set the ring in the midst of the crowns, then rose. He started to leave, but found he couldn’t. He leaned over her with a hand on either side of her, then bent and kissed her softly. He pulled back and stared down at her. Who would have thought that sending Adhémar off on a quest to find a wielder for the Sword of Angesand would have resulted in his giving his heart to the woman lying before him?

  Or that leaving her was shredding his heart into great, tattered pieces?

  He bowed his head. He couldn’t ask her to come. He just couldn’t.

  Besides, he wouldn’t be gone long. For all he knew, he would finish his business before she managed to shake off his spell. With any luck at all, she wouldn’t have to watch what he would need to do to best Lothar.

  He looked at her one last time, then straightened and walked out of her bedchamber before he thought better of his decision.

  He jumped a little in surprise to find Sìle leaning against a pillar opposite the door, waiting for him. The king of Tòrr Dòrainn straightened and frowned.

  “You’re making the right choice, I see.”

  “I can do nothing less.”

  Sìle studied him for quite some time in silence, then nodded shortly. “I will do everything in my power to keep her safe.”

  “And I will return.”

  Sìle looked down his nose. “You may return, but you will not have the prize you seek.”

  “I imagine Princess Mhorghain will have something to say about it.”

  Aye, and that something would be peppered with many, many things he was certain he wouldn’t want to hear—if she deigned to ever speak to him again.

  “She will follow my instructions,” Sìle announced.

  “My liege,” Miach began patiently, “you do not know your granddaughter at all if you think that to be the case. And I warn you, if you force her to choose, you won’t like the choice she makes.”

  Sìle glared at him, but said nothing else.

  Miach made the king of Tòrr Dòrainn a low bow, then turned and walked away. It didn’t serve him to argue with the king. It served him even less to think about wedding Morgan until he had accomplished what he needed to. The sooner that was done, the sooner he could be about a more pleasant bit of business.

  He continued along at a brisk pace, then slowed as he reached his bedchamber. He wondered if this was the night for callers because both Sosar and Làidir were waiting for him in front of his door. He stopped and looked at them in surprise.

  “Isn’t it a bit late for a visit?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it a bit unwise to be going off on a quest by yourself?” Sosar asked pointedly.

  “Very unwise,” Làidir agreed. “Which is why we’re here, though my brother refuses to tell me what sort of quest it is you’re contemplating.”

  “Nothing particularly interesting,” Miach said.

  Sosar gaped at him. “Miach, I sat with you in that library for three bloody days.”

  Làidir frowned fiercely. “I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you such free rein.”

  Sosar shot him a look. “Nitpick later, brother, when we’re certain the archmage of Neroche isn’t going to go do something stupid and leave us with Mhorghain to comfort for the next thousand years. Now, Miach, give us the details we want before we’re forced to beat them from you.”

  Miach folded his arms over his chest and looked at them both. “Do you two join forces often?”

  “Never,” Sosar said with a smile. “But tonight, aye, we thought it best. So, save us all time and dispense with trying to hedge your way out of telling us where you’re going. In fact, I’ll help you. You’ve been to Gair’s well—”

  “Has he?” Làidir asked in surprise. He looked at Miach. “Have you?”

  Miach decided that perhaps silence was the best course of action.

  “You tried to shut it and failed,” Sosar continued. “Now, you believe that you’ll track down the complete spell, try again, and this time you’ll succeed because you have enough power—even though my sister failed using that same logic. How close am I?”

  Miach dragged his hands through his hair, then rubbed his face. “And what would you do in my place?” he asked wearily.

  “I would ask for aid,” Làidir said simply.

  “Would you?” Miach asked, turning to look at him. “Would you, the crown prince of Tòrr Dòrainn, actually present yourself at my door and ask me, the youngest prince of the house of Neroche, for aid in ridding the kingdom of Tòrr Dòrainn of an evil you thought you should be seeing to yourself?”

  Làidir looked at him, openmouthed, then shut his mouth with a snap. “I see your point.” He considered for quite some time, then took a deep breath. “I give you my word that if there comes a day when I need your aid, I will bend my knee to you and ask for it. If you will ask me now. And,” he added with the faintest of smiles, “I don’t require bended knee.”

  It was Miach’s turn to gape at him. “Why would you help me?”

  “Because you love my niece,” Làidir said quietly. “And because I’ve seen what you are made of. I will aid you in whatsoever thing you ask me.”

  Miach stared at the two elvish princes standing in front
of him, men who were centuries older than he was, men whose magic and power ran far back into the reaches of legend, and found himself too surprised to speak.

  When will things stop being something other than what I thought they were? Morgan had once asked him.

  Death is the final surprise, he’d answered.

  He’d been right. He’d just never thought that answer would apply to him.

  He took a deep breath, then smiled at Làidir. “I appreciate that, Your Highness. I appreciate it more than I can say. And perhaps there is something you can do for me. I have sent your father into a frenzy by setting my own spells of ward and defense along his borders, but they will hold when his fail. If you want to help me, keep Mhorghain inside those spells. That is what I need from you.”

  “Sosar can see to Mhorghain,” Làidir said without hesitation. “I will come with you and offer my sword, at least. You don’t know that you won’t need someone to watch your back.”

  Miach wished he had a scribe such as Adhémar did, some quick-scribbling lad whose only task was to record every word and deed of his life for posterity’s sake. Truly, no one would have believed what he’d just heard otherwise.

  “Coward,” Sosar said, shooting his brother a look. “You just don’t want to face Mhorghain when she wakes and finds out what Miach has done.” He rubbed his neck absently. “I’ve felt her anger. I think I would be safer with our young mage here.”

  Miach shook his head. “You must both keep her here. She cannot be with me whilst I’m seeing to the dirty business of black magic. And believe me when I say that Gair’s well is still spewing the very blackest of magic.”

  “Necessitating at least one companion on your journey,” Sosar said pointedly. “Làidir can stay behind to watch after our niece and catch Father’s crown if it happens to fall off his head. I, on the other hand, am eager for a tramp through unpleasant territory. Now, shut up and fetch your gear. I’ll meet you in the stables.”

  Miach blew out his breath. “Sosar, nay. A thousand times nay. I must go alone.”

  Sosar opened his mouth, no doubt to argue, then shut it with a snap. Làidir reached out and put his hand on Miach’s shoulder.