The Mage's Daughter (21 page)

“Do you think so?” she whispered.

“I do.” He smiled, then very deliberately leaned forward and kissed the end of her nose.

“You're trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

She couldn't smile. “Nay.”

He pulled her close again. “The last lad is leaving, love. What can I do?”

“Stay with me.”

“You know I will.”

She pulled back. “Nicholas brought me here after I fell, didn't he?”

“Aye. He was, if I might say it, a most impressive dragon. He fair blinded me with all the gems encrusting his breast.”

She wanted to smile, but she couldn't. She heard the door close. She waited until she heard Nicholas settle into his chair before she forced herself to her feet. She waited until Miach had risen as well, then took his hand and a deep breath at the same time.

Her feet were suddenly leaden and it took most of her strength just to force herself to walk across the chamber. She clutched Miach's fingers, then came to an ungainly stop in front of Nicholas.

He didn't look any different. She studied his face, his bright blue eyes, his crown of white hair, and wondered how in the world she ever would have guessed he was who Miach said he was. She tried to swallow, but it didn't help her suddenly parched throat. She felt Miach's other hand come to unobtrusively join the other that she held. His hands were warm, comfortable,
known
.

She took a deep breath. “Are you,” she said, her voice breaking. She didn't bother to wipe away the tears that were streaming down her face. “Are you Nicholas of Diarmailt?”

Nicholas only looked up at her gravely. “Aye, Morgan, I am.”

“And who am I?” she managed.

“Mhorghain of Ceangail,” he said quietly.

A sob escaped her before she could stop it. It shouldn't have. After all, she'd already heard that from Miach. But somehow there was something final about hearing the same from the man sitting in front of her, the man who had taken her in as a girl and sent her off to Gobhann with tears in his eyes, that made it seem real past any means of denying it.

She felt her way down onto the sofa, then buried her face in her hands and wept. She had assumed she had cried out all her tears, but there was another batch right there for her use.

She wept for the girl who'd been orphaned at six, for her mother who was dead, for the brothers she hadn't had protecting her. She wept for all the nights of bitter chill she'd passed in Weger's tower, trying to dull the pain of no family to call her own.

She wept for Nicholas's kindnesses to her that she'd never been able to accept. She even wept a bit for Miach, who loved her when she did not deserve it and apparently had an inexhaustible supply of patience. She supposed it would serve him well and keep him warm until she had the courage to give him the words he deserved in return.

When she finally came back to herself, she found Nicholas's hand on her head and heard him making soothing noises. Miach's hand was on her back and his foot was resting securely against hers. She dragged her sleeve across her face, then felt a cloth be pressed into her hands. She worked a bit on her face, blew her nose, then took several deep, bracing breaths. She shot Miach a grateful smile, then turned and mustered up a glare for Nicholas.

“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.