The Mage's Daughter (14 page)

But on the off chance that it wouldn't convince him, Miach decided that lingering in the area wouldn't be wise. He would plunge Searbhe into peaceful insensibility and then he and Morgan would be on their way.

Searbhe started toward them with his sword raised, bellowing a cry that bespoke serious business.

“Can you ride?” Miach said over his shoulder.

“A horse?” Morgan asked.

“Actually, I was thinking about a dragon.”

She gasped.
“You?”

He would have been happy to discuss it further, but Searbhe was, after all, not a completely useless swordsman. Miach pushed Morgan behind him.

“Find a part of the path where it's widest and wait for me there,” he said, stepping forward to meet Searbhe.

“I'll kill you this time,” Searbhe panted as he swung wildly.

Miach suspected not. He had little trouble keeping the other man at bay, but that was perhaps due to all the effort Searbhe was pouring into a pitiful spell of fettering. Miach engaged him for a moment, but Searbhe wasn't paying any attention to his swordplay, so Miach sighed lightly and propped his sword up on his shoulder. He took hold of the ends of the spell reaching out toward him and gave them a new direction. He stood there and watched as Searbhe's own spell began to wrap itself around him.

Searbhe cursed viciously and batted at the spell wildly until he realized he could stop its assault himself. He did so with a curse, then looked at Miach, his face purple with rage.

“How did you manage that?” he demanded.

Miach pursed his lips. “Did you think I was a village witch's brat, Searbhe?”

Miach ducked to avoid being decapitated by Searbhe's swing, then punched the other man full in the face. He resheathed his sword, waited until Searbhe had shaken off that assault, then looked coolly at the other man.

“Have you had enough
this
time?” Miach asked pointedly.

Searbhe flung himself forward with a curse. Miach kicked Searbhe's sword out of his hands, then caught him under the chin. Searbhe went sprawling. The sound of his head against a rock was loud in the stillness of the evening.

Miach waited, but the other man only groaned. Alive, but not a threat at present. Miach turned toward Morgan. She was standing some fifty paces back down the trail, watching him.

Well, perhaps it was best she knew from the start what she could expect from him.

He slipped into dragonshape as he ran toward her.

Climb on,
he said, sending his voice whispering across her mind.

She only hesitated briefly before she flung herself onto his back and shrieked as he leapt up into the air. Her arms around his neck made it difficult to breathe, but he decided he would complain later, when he was certain they both wouldn't die.

He beat his wings against the cold evening air and drove himself up above the trees. He wished, absently, that he'd given Morgan reins. She resettled herself several times between his wings and he half feared she would fall off—

“Miach, behind us!” she shouted suddenly.

He looked over his shoulder and swore silently. He vowed to give her a good apology later for the rough ride, then concentrated on seeing that she lived long enough to enjoy it. He turned and faced the dragon following him. Searbhe was no better at shapechanging than he was at his swordplay. Perhaps his head pained him. Miach could understand that, actually, but he had no intention of according Searbhe any mercy because of it.

He stripped Searbhe immediately of his spell of protection, stole his ability to spew out anything but curses, then blasted him with a gust of fire that singed him from nose to tail. Searbhe wheeled away with a cry and descended in a cloud of smoldering ruin.

Miach didn't spare him any more thought. Searbhe would go off and lick his wounds, then no doubt turn for home. Even if he was tenacious enough to want to continue following them, he wouldn't find them. Lord Nicholas had his own spells of concealment, not enough to discourage lads from coming to study there, but enough to leave any ordinary mage feeling as if a visit simply wasn't worth his time. Lismòr would be haven enough for the present.

He drew a spell of invisibility over himself and Morgan, strong enough to completely cover their passing, and swept up into the night.

Are you watching?
he asked Morgan.

“Are you daft?” she exclaimed. “Of course not!”

You should. I daresay you've never seen your island from this vantage point before.

“I pray I never will again!”

He smiled to himself as he flew along the coast where the winds made it easier to keep himself aloft. He would never again take his magic for granted. He would also never take for granted the woman who was clinging to him and praying aloud.

“What was I thinking to come with you, you shapechanging madman!” she shouted at one point.

He had no good answer for that. All he knew was that she was holding on to him and not chopping at him with her sword, so perhaps she didn't have all that many regrets.

In time, he saw the faint twinkles of lights at the university.

Pry your eyelids apart, woman, and look where we're going.

Her grip didn't loosen, but he supposed she braved a look. She was silent, except for a few more shrieking curses, as he spiraled downward and landed in the courtyard.

He resumed his proper form and turned around to catch her by the arms before she landed in an undignified sprawl.

And he stared evenly at the archers in the shadows until they lowered their bows and walked away. Perhaps there would even come a day when he arrived and they only yawned. A body could hope.

He conjured up another cloak and put it around Morgan's shoulders, then hesitated. What he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and keep her there for a handful of lifetimes. He decided, though, that considering he'd just forced her to participate in shapechanging—never mind that the change had been limited to his own shape—anything besides a comradely pat on the shoulders might be daring too much.

He arranged the cloak over her shoulders for a moment or two, then clasped his hands behind his back. Safer there, no doubt.

“I'm sorry I didn't give you much time to think about that,” he said quietly.

“Is this what traveling with you will entail?” she said unsteadily. “These appalling dips into magic at every turn?”

He smiled. He was almost certain she'd said the words
traveling with you
. Those words were, to his mind, some of the sweetest he'd ever heard. If Morgan could complain about the possibility of facing his magic quite often, it might mean that she intended to be near him quite often.

“I suppose 'tis possible,” he conceded. “Will you survive it?”

“Now is not the time to be asking me that, I daresay,” she said crisply. “Not after that last bit of business.”

He laughed softly. “It will all seem more palatable when you're sitting next to Lord Nicholas's fire.”

“All right,” she said, then she looked up at him with a frown as he started across the courtyard. “You know where you're going. Have you been here before?”

“Once,” he said. “When I lost my sense of you, I came to ask Nicholas what had happened to you.”

“How did you know I would be here?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. There was no possible way to tell her that without revealing things he wasn't ready to tell her yet. “I just did,” he said, finally.

“Then you didn't bring me here at first?” she asked in surprise. “After I…drank…”

He shook his head. “I didn't, but I beg you not to ask me any more about it. I will tell you everything you want to know, but not tonight. Tonight we need a hot fire, a decent meal, then sleep.”

“And Searbhe?”

“He won't find us,” he said. “I covered our tracks, so we'll be safe enough here for the moment. He'll lose interest in us long before he manages to stumble upon our whereabouts.”

“Safe,” she repeated quietly.

He nodded. “I cannot always promise you that, but tonight I think I can. Now,” he said with deliberate cheerfulness, “I've gotten us here. It is your duty to win us entry. Let us see if Lismòr's cook can possibly best what delicate edibles I would have found under the snow to put in my stew pot.”

She nodded, but said nothing as they walked through the courtyard. She was silent until they reached the heavy wooden door that kept the night and the cold out of Nicholas's solar, then she turned toward him.

“Thank you,” she said, looking at his chin.

“For what?” he asked with a smile. “Dragonshape? Providing you with a decent dinner? Singeing Searbhe from stem to stern?”

She smiled faintly. “Nay, not for any of that.” She was silent for a few moments, then she took a deep breath and looked up at him. “Peace and safety are uninteresting.”

He smiled and took her hand in both his. “I will do my best for those as well, love. And I will compliment you on your bravery—”

“Nay, it wasn't that,” she said quickly. “'Twas cowardly, rather. I couldn't go on without…well, never mind that.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you for coming to fetch me.”

Miach desperately wanted to know what she couldn't go on without, but for all he knew, it was his ability to tell her tales at night to keep her from dreaming.

That was, he supposed, a start.

“Miach?”

“It was my pleasure,” he said promptly. He smiled at her. “Truly. Now, see what you can do about supper, would you?”

She nodded, then turned toward the door.

Miach closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, hoping she wouldn't notice the sigh of relief that went along with it.

It didn't matter why she had left Gobhann, what she planned for the future, or if she planned to leave him behind at first light. Well, that would matter a great deal, that last bit, but he wouldn't think about it. He would merely be grateful for the sight of her in some other locale than a cheerless courtyard at Gobhann.

She had come.

He smiled to himself. It was enough for the moment.

M
organ stood in front of Nicholas's door and lifted her hand to knock. It was an unconscious motion, one she had repeated hundreds of times during her days at Lismòr as a girl and young woman, then dozens more times after she'd left to seek her fortune. She had never, in all those years, dreamed that she would find herself preparing to request entry with a man at her heels.

She had to put her hands on the door to keep herself on her feet. She could safely say that it had been one of the most traumatic days of her life—and it had little to do with the absolute terror of being higher off the ground than a woman could reasonably be expected to find herself.

She'd known Miach would ask her to leave Gobhann with him, known that going with him would mean walking open-eyed into the darkness, known that being too afraid to do the second would leave her watching him walk away from her.

What had surprised her, though, had been to discover that when a heart broke, it actually made a sound.

It had been her heart to break. It had broken as she'd watched Miach leave and found herself too cowardly to stop him. She'd known immediately that she'd made an enormous mistake. It hadn't taken long thereafter for Weger to express the opinion that she really should go follow him.

Of course, Weger had said as much as she'd been halfway out the door, but it had been endorsement enough.

But the relief at catching Miach before he disappeared and the terror of traveling to Lismòr had faded and now she was left with the reality of her life. She was back in a world where nothing was as it had been and she had no idea how to proceed.

She was no longer Morgan the mercenary famous for a disgust of magic and mages that was almost as impressive as her reputation for bringing men to their knees merely by drawing her sword. She was no longer Morgan who dreamed of battles and sieges and Scrymgeour Weger's strictures. She was no longer Morgan who had never intended to become so fond of a man that the mere thought of being without him made it difficult to breathe.

“Fire, Morgan,” Miach prompted. “Food. Sleep. In that order.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Bossy, aren't you?”

He smiled. She almost had to close her eyes against the sight of it. It would have been misery to stay at Gobhann without him; she couldn't say that being away from Gobhann
with
him wouldn't be just as ruinous to her heart. Things were so much simpler in Weger's tower.

Though somewhat less comfortable.

And lacking a certain archmage.

“You think too much.” He reached over her shoulder and rapped smartly. “There, I've started you on the right path. The rest is up to you.”

She nodded with a jerk. He was right. They were cold, hungry, and tired. Those things could be seen to easily enough.

Besides, he was just Miach; she was just Morgan. He was a decent traveling companion and she was very good with a sword. She could guard his back as he went on whatever business he was about. She could ignore what had gone on between them in another place and time, ignore his magic, ignore hers.

The door was answered by William, Nicholas's page, before she could think any more on it. She peeked inside the solar and found it full of lads sprawled on various rugs and reclining comfortably on luxurious bits of furniture. Nicholas himself was sitting in his accustomed chair, reading from a large manuscript. He looked up, blinked in surprise, then smiled at her.

“Morgan,” he said happily. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in, my dear. And I see you've brought a friend.”

“Friend?” Miach echoed under his breath.

Morgan elbowed him in the ribs, earned a grunt in response, then turned her attentions back to what was in front of her. “I'm sorry, my lord,” she said quickly. “I didn't realize what time it was. We can come back—”

“Of course you won't,” Nicholas said, beckoning to her. “William, run and fetch our guests a hearty meal. I imagine they've been traveling for quite some time.”

Miach ruffled William's hair as he passed, then nudged her inside. “Don't argue us out of dinner, wench,” he whispered.

Morgan glared at him out of habit, but decided he had a point. She propped her sword up in the corner with Miach's, then allowed him to take both cloaks she was wearing and hang them up. She made her way with a minimum of fuss to one of the stools near the hearth and sat down with a grateful sigh. Miach sat down on the stool next to her, so close to her that their knees almost touched. She looked at him quickly, but he only winked at her and held his hands to the fire.

“Better?”

“Much,” she agreed.

“Was it worth braving the skies?”

“I'm not sure I can answer that yet in a way you'd want to hear.”

He smiled. “I'll provide you with reins the next time.”

“Do you actually think there will be a next time?” she asked with a snort.

“I don't know,” he said. “Will there?”

She started to tell him there most certainly would not, then shut her mouth. It was probably best not to make any of those sorts of vows when she had no idea whether or not she would be able to keep them. “I suppose that depends on how good supper is,” she said weakly.

“I should have let Nicholas know,” he said with half a laugh, “though I don't think I need to worry. I have the feeling this meal will be so good you'll be forced to agree to several things that make you uncomfortable.”

She scowled. And she hadn't done that the moment she walked out Weger's front gates?

She watched as William soon laid a marvelous meal on a low table in front of them. Miach took a plate, filled it, then handed it to her.

“Eat,” he suggested. “Decide about the uncomfortable things later.”

She was grateful for the distraction, though she supposed it wouldn't last nearly long enough to keep her from having to think about a very long list of things she would rather avoid.

She managed some of what was indeed a wonderful meal, but found that, after a time, she couldn't concentrate on it. She wasn't one to be distracted by the fairness of any man's face, but there was something about Miach's that rendered her so. It was no wonder that every tavern wench she'd ever watch serve Miach had been so prone to dropping things. He was ridiculously handsome and perhaps for that alone she could have been forgiven for ignoring her supper in favor of watching him.

He ate with gusto, laughed periodically at Nicholas's tale—which she was relieved to find was
not
the Two Swords—and looked genuinely happy to be where he was. Who would have thought that he'd just spent over a month in Gobhann, driving himself past the endurance of any other man she'd ever met just to…

Well, she wasn't sure exactly why he'd done it—no matter what he'd claimed.

“Morgan?”

She realized he was watching her and blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. Damnable tears. “What?”

“You're not eating.”

She dragged her sleeve across her eyes, then looked at him. “Why did you enter Gobhann?”

“I already told you.”

“I know what you told me,” she said impatiently. “I want to know the real reason.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then reached for her plate. He set it down on the floor with his, then pulled her close and put his mouth against her ear.

“I went inside Gobhann because I wanted you to come out of the dark. With me. Because I love you. Because you were made for more than life in that dreadful place.” He sat back. “There. All the reasons.”

“But the price you paid—”

“Was worth it,” he finished without hesitation. “You, Morgan of Melksham, were worth that price.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don't you think?”

She didn't dare answer for fear what would come out would be something akin to a sob. Miach looked at her in surprise, then put his arm around her and pulled her to him. She suspected she should have protested, but she couldn't bring herself to. All she could do was press her face against his shoulder and weep.

It was the stress of her illness, no doubt. It would pass and then she would resume her life as a sensible, sturdy soldier.

But for the moment, she would allow herself the weakness of tears and the luxury of Miach's hand skimming over her hair.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, weeping silently, drenching him beyond what any man should have had to bear. She didn't pull away and he didn't seem to expect her to. He merely held her close, murmured the occasional soothing word, and stroked her hair.

“Morgan,” he whispered finally, “the lads have gone.”

She sat back and dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “I'm sorry.” She looked at him bleakly. “I'm not a crier.”

“You're allowed,” he said. “You've had a difficult pair of months.”

“I can't carry on like this, though,” she said grimly.

“I certainly wish you wouldn't,” he said solemnly. “Lord Nicholas will think I drove you to it and then I won't have any dessert.”

She looked at him in surprise, then realized he was teasing her. “And here I was going to thank you for your shoulder.”

He smiled as he dried her cheeks with the sleeve of his tunic. “You're welcome.”

She grunted at him, then pushed herself to her feet, pulling him up with her. She dragged him along after her as she negotiated her way through stray bits of furniture. She embraced Nicholas briefly before she sat down with Miach on a very comfortable sofa.

“Many thanks, my lord, for the meal,” she said gratefully. “We needed it.”

“Well, your lad seemed to work his way through it well enough, though I'm not so sure about you,” Nicholas said with a smile. “You do look better, though. I wouldn't have thought Gobhann would have done you this much good, but I see I was wrong.”

“Weger did nothing but feed me and force me to sleep,” she admitted. “And it did help, though I'm not completely myself yet. I think a few mornings spent in the lists grinding my
friend
here into the dust will rid me of any lingering malaise.”

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.”