The Mage's Daughter (22 page)

She crossed the chamber to stand next to him. “Miach?”

He looked at her and blinked. “I'm fine.”

“I didn't ask that. What is it?”

He considered for quite some time before he finally sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. “I'm not certain. Something is off. Not in the spells of defense along Neroche's border. Something else. Or perhaps I'm merely thinking too much.” He looked at her. “We need to go.”

“I'll get my cloak—”

He caught her by the arm before she pulled away. “Nay, gel, not tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow is soon enough. Perhaps after sunset, when we can travel under cover of darkness.”

She took a deep breath. “As you will, Miach. If you're certain you want me to come—”

“Well, of course I want you to come,” he said, looking surprised. “How will I woo you if you're not with me? Or best you in cards? Or thrash you in the lists—”

“Enough,” she said with a scowl. “I understand.”

He smiled, embraced her briefly, then allowed her to escape his arms. She stepped away and had to take several deep breaths. It was one thing to talk about going with him all over the Nine Kingdoms; it was another thing entirely to actually do it.

Especially now she knew things about herself she couldn't deny.

She suddenly didn't want to think about what anyone would say about that, or how she would now have to introduce herself, or in which ways her life had just changed irrevocably in the past twelve hours.

“Morgan?”

She backed him up to his chair, put her hand in the middle of his chest, and shoved. “Give me your boots.”

He looked up at her in astonishment. “My what?”

“Boots. Blades. I'll see to them.”

He looked at her, openmouthed, then pulled a knife from one of his boots. He handed it to her, then took off his boots and set them by the chair.

Morgan pulled the knife free of the sheath and looked at it, then at Miach. “Beautiful but unmagical,” she noted approvingly. “Did Weger give it to you?”

“Aye. 'Tis covered with runes of the house of Neroche. It will send Adhémar into a rage.”

“Making it all the more desirable. Get to work, lad. I'm anxious for that tale you promised me.”

He caught her hand before she could pick up his boots. “Don't bolt on me, Morgan.”

She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “I won't.”

He looked at her for another long moment, then nodded. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

She waited until she could see that he was deeply involved in his spells before she took off her own boots, gathered all their blades together and laid them out on the carpet, then fetched gear from a trunk near the door for polishing and sharpening.

She had to keep busy. It made her feel like herself.

She was very afraid that if she stopped, she would find herself falling deeply into a past that would drag her into a darkness she hadn't asked for and didn't want. At least Miach wanted to leave on the morrow. Surely there would be much to do on that journey, many ways to keep herself occupied, and many more opportunities to simply ignore what she'd learned that day. She would be well if she could simply survive the night.

She sat down on the floor in front of the fire and set to work on Miach's boots.

M
iach walked through the passageways of Lismòr, on the hunt for a particular gel that he'd somehow lost during the night. That didn't surprise him. Morgan had still been sharpening her sword when he'd finished with his work. He'd understood it; keeping busy kept the demons at bay. But sleep was also a necessity after a certain point, so he'd begged her to lie down next to him and at least try to sleep a little. She had, but reluctantly. He'd begun the tale of Tharra of Fearann Fàs, but had apparently fallen asleep himself before he'd finished it. He had woken to find his blades placed next to him and Morgan gone. He could still sense her within Lismòr's walls, though, so he knew she'd kept her promise.

He wondered how much it had cost her.

Which he would go find out once he'd made another turn about the courtyard and rid himself of his own unease. He blew out his breath. If the assault on his spells in the fall had been a light rain, what was happening presently was a downpour. Only half of what he'd repaired the previous night had still been sound last night.

And still there was something that was covering the kingdom, something that was subtle, but so insidiously evil that even he had to shudder a bit when he faced it.

He dragged his hand through his hair. They would go that night and see what he could discover. It bothered him not to have any sense of the creatures that seemed to stalk Morgan, but perhaps he could do so if he tried a bit harder. It was—or had been—the burden of Adhémar's kingship to sense fully what went on in the realm, though his brother had never been very good at it. Miach had always had a very clear awareness of his spells and what might have been attacking them, but the other…nay, he hadn't had that gift.

Unless it was used to sense Morgan.

Perhaps he would be wise to stretch himself and see if he couldn't acquire an impression of what hunted them. He certainly couldn't go all over the realm himself and kill things that he couldn't sense until they were upon him.

He continued to walk until he was standing in front of the doorway of the library. He opened the door, then looked inside.

Morgan was there, as he had suspected. She was sitting at one of the long tables with books spread out in front of her. Her sword was on that table and she was fingering the hilt of Mehar's dagger. At least she was holding it without shuddering—something she wouldn't have done in the fall. That boded well.

She looked up at the sound of the door shutting behind him.

And she smiled.

It winded him. He managed a polite nod to Master Dominicus, then walked over to sit on the corner of her table.

“Well, don't you look bright-eyed this morning,” he said. “Been at it long?”

“Long enough to irritate Master Dominicus.”

Miach smiled. “Did you make off with a valuable tome or two at some point in the past?”

She shook her head and caressed the hilt of Mehar's knife lovingly. “He doesn't trust soldiers.”

“He would trust us even less if he knew what we were in addition to that.”

She went still.

Ah, so that was it.

Miach swung his leg back and forth idly and suspected that perhaps yesterday had been too much after all.

Morgan folded her hands on the table, looked at them for quite a bit longer, then finally sighed and looked up. “I don't mean to be ungrateful…”

“Ungrateful?” he echoed, confused. “About what?”

“About all the time you and Nicholas both spent telling me about…um…”

“The past?” he offered.

She nodded. “Aye. And I'm grateful to you for all the spells you taught me. But…” She met his eyes, but seemed unable to speak further.

“But you're not ready to be Mhorghain of Ceangail?” he asked softly.

Her eyes filled with tears. “I'm sorry.”

He couldn't blame her. And the last thing he was going to do was force her to accept something she wasn't ready to accept.

He'd learned that lesson already.

He tilted his head to look at her thoughtfully. “Who is it you want to be today? Just Morgan of Melksham?”

“Would you mind?”

“Do you care if I do?”

She was clasping her hands together so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “I might.”

He reached out and put his hand over hers. “You're growing soft, woman. If I'd asked you that question a month ago, you would have stuck me as repayment for the vexation.”

She linked her fingers with his. “I don't recognize myself anymore.”

He tapped her shin gently with his boot. “I do. You look like Morgan to me and considering that I'm rather fond of her, perhaps you should continue on with her awhile longer. Now, what have you got there in that book?” he asked, pretending great interest in what she was reading.

“Elves,” Morgan said glumly, pulling one of her hands away so she could flip the page. “I had no idea there were so many of them or that they had so many adventures.” She looked down at the book unhappily. “Weger was right: I am very ignorant of events of the world. I think I could read for months and never know it all.”

“No one knows it all,” he said. “We'll just muddle through as best we can.”

She nodded, but she looked unconvinced. She turned the pages of the very thick book for a moment or two more, then glanced up at him. “Are you ready to go?”

“We'll wait until sunset,” he said. “But until then, why don't you put away your books and come train with me? You'll feel more yourself once you've humiliated me in the lists.”

“In truth?” she asked, looking as if he'd offered her the crown of Neroche along with an endless supply of extremely skilled guardsmen to go with it.

Well, perhaps not the crown. But the other, aye, that was conceivable.

“I've missed training from dawn to midnight,” he said dryly.

“So have I,” she said happily, hopping up out of her chair. She stacked the books quickly, shot Master Dominicus a glare, then picked up her sword and smiled. “Let's be about it.”

He had to laugh. “After you, my lady.”

She didn't even protest the term. She only put on her cloak and walked from the library with a spring in her step that had been missing for quite some time. “You know, I think you'll prove to be a rather formidable opponent.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I appreciate the distraction.”

He was more grateful for it than she, no doubt. He wasn't sure why he thought spending a pair of hours in the lists with her was going to be of any help, but he was nothing if not courageous and he needed a few minutes to think on something besides the affairs of the realm.

He stopped at the edge of Nicholas's outer gardens, tossed his cloak onto a handy bench with hers, then followed her out into the middle of the garden.

“I wonder if this might count as a bit of wooing?” he mused.

“It depends on how well you show, I imagine,” she said, loftily.

“Then 'tis a fine line I walk,” he said. “If I best you, you'll not want any of my attentions; if I don't best you, you'll not want any of my attentions.”

She shrugged. “If you bested me, which you most certainly will never do, I might be amenable to quite a few things. Unfortunately, I'm feeling much better today, so I don't think it will go very well for you.”

“Your arrogance, woman, is breathtaking.”

“So is my swordplay.”

He laughed, “I can hardly wait to see it.”

Morgan paused and frowned. “Do you have a ribbon?”

“What color?”

She thought for a moment. “Black,” she said finally. “In honor of you.”

He produced one from out of the air. She walked over to him and turned around.

“Braid my hair?”

“Unfair,” he said, stabbing his sword into the ground. “You're trying to distract me with something I enjoy so I'll be easier on you.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Do you honestly think I need to resort to that?”

He put his hand on the top of her head and turned her face forward. “I'm teasing you.”

“I know.”

He braided her hair deftly, tied it at the bottom with his silk ribbon, then turned her around and put his hands on her shoulders.

“And when I best you,” he said, fighting his smile, “what prize will I have? Shall you dance with me?”

She blanched. “Dance?”

“Aye. Or perhaps another of any number of other horrifying courtly activities?”

“Do you know any other horrifying courtly activities?” she asked.

He pursed his lips. “Surprisingly enough, I just might. Now, are you woman enough to agree to that, or not?”

She took a deep breath. “Very well.”

“And if you best me?”

“I'll think on it.” She took several paces backward, unbuckled her swordbelt, then drew her sword and tossed the scabbard aside. “Let's begin.”

He smiled at the first crossing of their blades. “You're feeling better.”

“Decent food helps. And sleep.”

“And the company?”

“Aye. I've always loved Nicholas.”

He scowled. “That wasn't who I was talking about.”

“I know,” she said pleasantly.

She attacked him unmercifully, forcing him back. Then before he could stop her, she had captured his sword between her blade and Mehar's knife.

“I'm happy you're here,” she said with a hesitant smile.

It took him a moment or two to recover from that. “You're using your womanly wiles,” he protested. “Unfair.”

She gave him a mighty shove that sent him stumbling backward. He barely had time to gather his wits about him before she was following that up with yet another ruthless attack.

“Ignore them,” she advised.

“That's difficult.”

“Be a man.”

“That's part of the problem.”

She laughed, which undid him almost as much as her admittedly spectacular swordplay. He was forced to work very hard to keep her from completely thrashing him. He had to admit that he was better than he had been and Morgan was not quite where she had been. He supposed that she would recover completely at some point and then he truly would be digging deep for skill that he might not have.

It was a very long morning.

It was well past noon before he finally held up his hand and called peace.

“Do you yield?” she demanded.

“Completely.”

“Done, then,” she said.

He looked at her and found himself somewhat gratified to find she was breathing as rapidly as he was. He resheathed his sword and walked over to take hers.

“How are you?”

“Wonderful,” she said, dragging her sleeve across her forehead. “Thank you for a decent bit of sport. I didn't even have to recite Weger's strictures to keep myself awake.”

“I didn't learn any of those,” he said with a frown.

“He probably thought you had enough things rattling about in your poor head without his adding to the chaos,” she said, sliding Mehar's knife into her boot. “Besides, most of them have to do with spotting mages at great distances so you can avoid them. The rest have to do with how to kill them quickly lest you find yourself unhappily trapped with them.”

He smiled wryly. “I'd like to accuse you of exaggerating, but I'm quite sure you aren't.”

“'Tis Weger at the helm, after all,” she agreed. “I suppose there might be a handful about swordplay tucked in amongst the others.”

“I'll ask him to give those to me another time,” Miach said. “It likely won't take me very long to learn them.”

“Likely not,” she said. “What now, my lord?”

“I'll see you fed,” Miach said, “then I think it would serve you to have another nap in Nicholas's solar. I'll hold your feet, if you like.”

She smiled wearily. “I'll never refuse that offer. I'd also have a bit more of that brew you made me last night. I didn't dream of anything. What was in it?”

He reached out to tug on her braid. “Love and a bit of lavender. A very potent combination.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You're daft.”

He laughed and took her hand. “Besotted, more like. Now, let's be off to the buttery before you think on that overmuch.”

Twenty minutes later he was sitting next to her at a long, rough table, tucking into a lovely bit of stew. He ate heartily, wondering in the back of his mind when they might eat so well again.

He realized, after a time, that Morgan was watching him instead of eating. He turned and smiled at her.