The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  Miach groaned silently.

  “What?” Morgan asked.

  He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  “And Prince Sosar,” another voice said incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

  Sosar leaned forward. “We’re the escort.”

  “For whom?”

  Sosar stepped aside. Miach sighed and pulled Morgan along with him as he went to present himself to the gaping fools, Turah and Rigaud of Neroche, who were standing in front of Sìle.

  “What are you two doing here?” Miach asked.

  Turah shut his mouth, then shrugged. “Rigaud was fresh out of purple silks and demanded that I accompany him whilst he was shopping. I didn’t want to come, but he was afraid to be on his own—”

  A fight ensued. Miach sighed, looked at Morgan, who was gaping at his brawling brothers, then took Sìle’s elbow and steered him around the madness. He himself stepped over his brothers, watched Sosar help Morgan step around them, then continued on.

  His reprieve didn’t last long. His brothers soon caught up with him. Turah slung his arm around Miach’s shoulders. “Why is the king of Tòrr Dòrainn following you?”

  “Because I want to wed his granddaughter,” Miach said calmly. “He doesn’t trust me with her.”

  Rigaud leaned around Turah. “But all his granddaughters are already wed. Even if they weren’t, surely none of them has so little wit as to look twice at you.” He looked at Morgan. “You’re Morgan, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” she agreed.

  Turah leapt ahead of them to turn around and walk backward in front of them. “I’m confused,” he said, scratching his head.

  “Your usual condition,” Rigaud said, shoving him out of the way. He looked at Morgan. “If you’re just Morgan, and Miach wants to wed King Sìle’s granddaughter, then why is he holding your hand?” He frowned. “Who else are you?”

  “Mhorghain of Tòrr Dòrainn,” she said gravely. “And Ceangail, if you want to be completely accurate.”

  Miach felt his heart lurch just a bit at the look in her eye as she glanced at him. He squeezed her hand gently, felt her do the same in return, then he watched both his brothers gape at her. Rigaud recovered first.

  “Are you Sarait’s daughter?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “And you’re the granddaughter my bumbling brother thinks to wed?” Turah asked, surprised.

  “That too,” Morgan agreed.

  “Then how fortunate that we arrived just in time to save you from that horrible fate,” Rigaud said, making her a low bow. He took up the place on her right. “Miach, where are we going?”

  “The Uneasy Dragon,” Miach began, “but—”

  Turah pushed Miach out of the way and presented himself to Morgan on her left. “In this, I agree with Rigaud. You don’t want Miach. He’s messy, ill-humored, and I think he snores.”

  Miach would have protested further, but Sosar pushed him aside to catch up with his brothers. Miach found himself standing with Sìle, watching three very handsome lads abscond with the woman he loved.

  “Pitiful,” Sìle said.

  Miach looked at him in surprise. “What?”

  “You,” Sìle said. “Bested by two empty-headed womanizers. Do you actually think I would give her to you when this is the care you’ll take of her?”

  “I plan to kill them both at my first opportunity,” Miach grumbled. “Perhaps Sosar too. It will look like an accident, I assure you.”

  “Promising,” Sìle said approvingly. “If you manage it, I’ll think about permitting you the occasional dance with her.”

  “I appreciate that, Your Grace.”

  Sìle hesitated, then he sighed deeply. “I’m well aware that you’re humoring me by allowing me to remain with you, Miach. I’ve had her such a short time.” He smiled, and his eyes were rather moist. “I can’t bear to lose her as I lost her mother. I just wanted you to know I appreciate the concession.”

  Miach decided that it was only his vast amounts of self-control that prevented him from tearing up as Morgan’s grandfather was doing. He put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “’Tis no concession, Your Majesty. Mhorghain loves you. I wouldn’t think to come between you.”

  “Though you intend to take her away to Tor Neroche,” Sìle said pointedly.

  Miach smiled. “I’ll bring her to Seanagarra often, Your Majesty. If you give me leave to wed her.”

  Sìle looked at him, then snorted. “You’d damn well better wait for my permission, boy, or you’ll find yourself loitering in my dungeon. And don’t think I can’t put you there.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Sìle pursed his lips. “We’d best follow those rapscallions you call brothers before neither of us sees her again. And speaking of revenge on men who take treasures they shouldn’t, you should know that I plan to kill Nicholas of Diarmailt next time we meet.”

  Miach smiled. “I imagined you might.”

  “I don’t like mages.” He shot Miach a sideways look. “And you aren’t even a mage king. Just a mage. And a young one, at that.”

  “Your granddaughter is a mage.”

  “She isn’t. She’s an elven princess of rare beauty. You’re damned lucky she looks at you at all.” He paused. “I suppose she might find someone more suitable.”

  “I suppose you could hope for that,” Miach offered.

  Sìle grunted at him, then strode forward and elbowed Rigaud out of the way. Miach continued along behind them, then looked at Turah, who had dropped back to walk next to him.

  “She told Rigaud to go to hell,” Turah said with wide eyes. “That you’d already claimed her.”

  “Did she, indeed?” Miach asked with a smile.

  “King Sìle said it was not at all decided yet and that Rigaud was even less suitable than you were.”

  “Unsurprising.”

  “How in the hell did you manage to win her?”

  “Dumb luck,” Miach said.

  “It has to be.” Turah started to walk away, then he froze. He turned back to Miach and stared at him in astonishment for a moment or two, then reached over and pushed his hair back from his face.

  “Bloody hell,” he said faintly. “How’d you get that?”

  Miach pulled back from his brother and shook his bangs back down over his forehead. “In the usual way, I imagine.”

  “I want details.”

  “I’ll think about it—later. But I’ll know now why you’re here.”

  Turah looked at him, then shook his head. “Oh, nay. I have much more interesting things to do than talk to you.”

  Miach watched him catch up to Morgan and elbow Sosar out of the way. There was a bit of jostling, but finally Sìle came away with the coveted spot on Morgan’s left whilst Turah managed to secure the spot on her right. Rigaud and Sosar followed, chatting about how far they could go in removing Sìle from his place without offending him. Turah, apparently, didn’t merit any of that sort of consideration.

  Miach followed them and realized, with a start, how pleasant it was to have kin about him—even if two of them were rather removed from his generation. They were on his side, and that counted for a great deal.

  Of course, the soul who mattered the most to him was enclosed in their protective circle, that astonishingly resilient, courageous, stubborn woman he loved more than his own life.

  She looked over her shoulder, found him with her gaze, then smiled.

  “Hell,” Turah said in disgust.

  Miach smiled and quickened his pace to catch up with them.

  Twenty-eight

  Morgan sat on a bale of hay and watched as Miach checked the horses. Perhaps doing so hadn’t been necessary, but it had been a chance to escape all their chaperons and she had agreed to it without hesitation. She supposed Miach wasn’t particularly happy with the entourage he seemed to have acquired, but she suspected that entourage couldn’t help itself. There was something about
Miach that drew others into his circle.

  She understood that very well, actually.

  She realized that he had stopped with his business and was now leaning back against the stall door, watching her with that small smile she loved so much. Fleòd leaned his head over the stall door and bumped Miach companionably. Miach reached up, stroked the horse’s nose, then looked back at her.

  “How are you?” he asked with a smile.

  “Tired,” she admitted. “Very uneasy.” That was an understatement, but perhaps she was better off not examining it too closely. “I’m happy to be with you, though.”

  He crossed over to her and pulled her up. “I will stop telling you how much it worries me—”

  The stable door opened. Morgan found herself standing behind Miach and he with his sword drawn in front of her before she thought to move on her own. Miach didn’t relax any when the door shut, so she wondered who might have entered.

  “Your Majesty,” Miach said quietly.

  Morgan looked around him to find her grandfather standing just inside the door. She slipped her hand into Miach’s left and moved to stand next to him. “My liege?”

  Sìle looked at them both for a moment in silence, then turned and opened the stable door.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  Morgan exchanged a quick look with Miach, but he only shrugged and resheathed his sword. He led her out of the barn, shut the door behind him, then followed Sìle down the street. Sìle said nothing, not even to her. Miach surreptitiously loosened his sword in its sheath.

  “Miach,” she whispered, aghast.

  He shot her a look.

  “You won’t need your sword, lad,” Sìle threw over his shoulder.

  Morgan felt a little faint. She couldn’t imagine that Sìle had plans to do Miach in. He didn’t look upset, or angry, or as if he were executing some nefarious plot. He merely walked in front of them silently, looking over his shoulder now and again as if he wanted to make sure they still followed him.

  Morgan looked at Miach and saw that he was marking their surroundings. He reached over casually and pulled her hood up over her face, then did the same for himself.

  “Your Majesty,” he said quietly.

  “Eh?” Sìle said, looking back. “Oh.” He pulled his own hood up around his face, tucked his hands in his sleeves, and continued on.

  Morgan felt Miach squeeze her hand. It didn’t comfort her overmuch, but she wasn’t particularly fond of surprises, so perhaps nothing would have eased her.

  They walked away from the university and through the center of town. Morgan saw two small hills in front of them. One was covered in terraced houses that she could see thanks to the lights that glowed in the windows. The other hill was dark, though she could see the faint outline of trees all the way up to the top.

  Sìle led them to the darkened hill and paused at the gate. Morgan listened as he murmured a spell. His glamour sprang up over the place and covered it, much as Sosar’s spell had covered Seanagarra’s lists. The gate swung open soundlessly and Sìle led them inside. The gate shut behind them with a soft click.

  Lights began to glow softly along a path that wound its way upward into the dark. The light was so mesmerizing that Morgan had difficulty remembering she was supposed to be walking. The light cast itself against the trees above and along flowerbeds full of roses that shouldn’t have been blooming so soon in the year.

  She looked up at Miach, but he only shrugged, appearing as surprised as she. They followed Sìle up a winding path that led from the gate below to a bower on the top of the hill. The trees grew together there, rowan trees that whispered a song of Fadaire as Sìle walked under them. Light sprang to life in their branches, werelight that danced and shimmered as if it were pleased to be of use to the king of the elves and his guests.

  Sìle led them into the middle of the bower, then turned and faced them.

  “This is the garden of Gearrannan, which my grandfather gifted to the city of Beinn òrain in the days when we had dealings with the masters of Buidseachd. I came here often in my youth, before the world grew unruly and we began to disagree with the wizards.” He looked about him for a moment, then looked at them with a grave smile. “It was here that I plighted my troth with Queen Brèagha. Only after a lengthy and strenuous amount of convincing her father, Beusach of An Cèin, that I might someday hope to be worthy of her,” he added, shooting Miach a look.

  Miach managed a nod. “Of course,” he said faintly. “Queen Brèagha is a treasure beyond price.”

  “As is my granddaughter.”

  “Aye, Your Grace, she is.”

  Morgan was almost certain she’d heard Sìle say the word troth in conjunction with plighting it. He hadn’t used it whilst talking about her or Miach, but she also supposed he wouldn’t have brought them this far just to plunge a sword into Miach’s chest.

  Then again, she didn’t actually know her grandfather well enough to know what he would do.

  “You do love the youngest prince of Neroche, don’t you, Granddaughter?” Sìle asked, turning to her.

  “Well, aye, I do,” she said, surprised that he would ask without snarling.

  He looked at Miach. “And you give me your solemn vow you will protect my Mhorghain with your life?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” Miach said quietly.

  “And love her?”

  “Aye,” Miach said. “With all my heart.”

  Sìle considered for another very long moment, then nodded. “Very well, then. Kneel, children.”

  Morgan looked at him in surprise. “Kneel?”

  Miach squeezed her hand sharply, so she shut her mouth and decided that perhaps when it came to Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn, it was just better not to ask too many questions.

  “Kneel on his right, Mhorghain.”

  Morgan did so without comment. She shot Miach a look, but he said nothing. He looked rather overwhelmed, truth be told.

  “Your right hand, Mochriadhemiach,” he said quietly. “Your left hand, Mhorghain.”

  Morgan felt Miach stiffen next to her, then he very slowly extended his right arm. Morgan looked at him, but he shook his head very slightly. Morgan shrugged. Some elvish rite, obviously. Well, Miach seemed to know what he was doing, so she would go along with it. She stretched out her left arm.

  Sìle took their hands and put them close together with their palms facing the ground. He pulled silver thread out of the air and wrapped it first around Miach’s wrist, then around hers. He continued to wind spun silver around their wrists, first Miach’s, then hers, until there was no pulling their wrists apart. He then plucked gold thread out of thin air and wove it with the silver. Morgan watched as gold and silver threads bound her wrist together with Miach’s, over and over again. She looked quickly at Miach.

  He only smiled. “Do you understand what he’s saying?”

  She shook her head.

  “Listen harder.”

  She looked up at her grandfather and tried to make sense of his words. She’d thought that perhaps he was simply grousing in his own tongue over the fact that he’d apparently relented and given his permission for her to wed with Miach, then she realized, as she began to understand his words, that she was gravely mistaken.

  He was joining them together with a bond that could not be broken.

  But that was only the beginning of what he was gifting them. He bound other things upon them: courage, strength, elven magic…and his own length of life.

  She would have let her jaw drop, but she didn’t think it would be a particularly attractive way to plight her troth with the man kneeling next to her.

  Or accept the gifts her grandfather was giving them.

  Sìle continued to speak, but she lost track of all the things he settled upon them: wisdom, peace, joy, endurance for their labors, steadfastness, children to carry on their magic…the list lengthened as the strands continued to wrap around their wrists and join them together.

  Finally, Sìle put one hand
on Miach’s wrist and the other on hers. He spoke a final word and the gold and silver sank painlessly into their flesh, becoming thin spiderwebs that formed themselves into runes.

  Sìle took her hand and put it in Miach’s. He looked at her with a grave smile.

  “These are runes of the house of Neroche, which your lad there will teach you, and runes of the house of Tòrr Dòrainn, which he likely already knows but will accord me the courtesy of teaching to you.”

  Morgan found that she had absolutely nothing to say. She could only look up at her grandfather in astonished silence.

  “You are now betrothed, Mhorghain, to Mochriadhemiach, a prince of Neroche. You are not wed”—he shot Miach a look—“so you will both comport yourselves accordingly. But you are betrothed, and nothing will break this bond.” He lifted her to her feet. “He will care for you well. And given that he’s always angling for a look at books in my library he shouldn’t be reading, I imagine he’ll see you home often enough to suit me.” He held out a hand to raise Miach to his feet. “You’ll come to Seanagarra for the wedding. After you’re done with this business.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Miach said gravely. “I am…well, I think I’m speechless.”

  “I should stay just to enjoy that,” Sìle said with a bit of a smile, “but I imagine you’ll find your tongue soon enough. I’m sure you two will want to discuss this, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  Morgan let go of Miach’s hand and threw her arms around her grandfather’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for the gift I wanted most.”

  He hugged her tightly for a moment, then pulled away and looked at her with a smile. “You are now in my debt twice, missy. Don’t think I’ll forget it.”

  “I’ll pay gladly,” Morgan said with feeling.

  Sìle started to walk away, but Miach turned to him. “Your Majesty?”

  Sìle stopped and looked at him. “What is it, lad?”

  “Why now?”

  Sìle smiled. “Because you died for her and it fair killed her to heal you. That proved to me that your love for each other was strong enough to bear these runes. And you’ll need those,” he added with a nod at their wrists. “The strength they’ll bring. I wouldn’t think on that overmuch now, though. If I were you, Miach my boy, I’d spend a few minutes telling my betrothed how damned fortunate I was to have her.”