The Mage's Daughter (26 page)

Perhaps he did love her after all. She supposed stranger things had happened. Mages earning Weger's mark. Shieldmaidens finding out they were actually elves. That sort of thing. Perhaps it wasn't unthinkable to find that a man could love her.

She reached for the other blanket, spread it over him, then hesitated. She considered kissing him, then decided against it. It was too tempting, he was too tired, and she supposed if she started, she might not be able to stop.

Weger would have been appalled.

She crawled over to the edge of the hayloft and sat where she could swing her legs off the edge. She tried, rather unsuccessfully, to think about something besides the man behind her. It was terrible, actually, to think on how much she'd come to depend on him. She couldn't bring herself to think about how much she loved him. And whilst she was about the labor of trying to avoid thinking about either of those two things, a thought came at her from out of nowhere.

What if something happened to him?

She was rather grateful to be sitting down, all things considered, though that didn't help with her inability to catch her breath. She recited handfuls of Weger's strictures, but found no comfort in them. She bowed her head.

Love was a terrible thing.

She hoped she wasn't making a terrible mistake indulging in it.

M
iach woke and instantly knew that he'd slept longer than he should have. The shadows were different in the loft. He also felt almost human instead of being pushed so hard and so long that he hardly recognized himself. He enjoyed the sensation for a moment or two before he sat up and saw Morgan sitting next to him, watching him silently.

“You let me sleep too much,” he chided gently.

“You needed it,” she said. “And it wasn't that much. Well,” she amended, “it was, but you looked so tired I didn't have the heart to wake you.”

He dragged his hands through his hair. “I'll admit I appreciate it. How have you wiled away the hours?”

“Watching you. Talking to Hearn. Watching you a bit more.”

“And what did you think?”

“Hearn was very interesting.”

He blinked, then laughed. “You're a heartless wench.”

“Hmmm,” was all she said.

He looked at her and saw immediately that something was amiss. Her expression was very grave. And she was sitting rather far away from him, all things considered. She made no move to come any closer.

He found himself, suddenly, rather unwilling to ask her why—on the off chance she'd changed her mind for some reason.

A coward, that's what he was.

But he'd known that before, so it came as no great surprise to him at the moment. He took a deep breath. “We should go,” he said.

She nodded and went to gather up her gear. He collected his own things, then followed her down the ladder. He was relieved to see that it wasn't as late as he'd thought it to be. They would still have time to have something to eat, then be on their way before much more of the day passed. He turned around and found Morgan standing there in the passageway between the rows of stalls, wearing the most unsure expression he'd ever seen on her face.

“What is it?” he asked in surprise.

A single tear trailed down her cheek. “I don't know if I can do this.”

He found that apparently there was enough of his heart to still be shredded. He took a deep breath. “What do you mean?”

“I've never cared what happened to anyone else,” she said grimly. “It wouldn't have bothered me if they died. And now…now, look at me!”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Is it not what you want?” he asked. He paused. “Am I not what you want?”

Her eyes widened. “I never said that.”

“Then what are you saying?” he ventured.

She glared at him. “I'm saying that if you take foolish chances with your life and leave me alone as a result of them, I'll…well, I'll take my blade to you myself and finish anything anyone else leaves of you!”

Miach found it in him to smile.

“This isn't amusing,” she snapped.

He looked at her for a moment in silence, then he slowly held open his arms. She cursed, then took two steps forward and flung herself against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tightly.

“Of course you're what I want,” she whispered fiercely. “Just be careful with yourself, damn it.”

He held her close and closed his eyes. It was unwholesome, that sense of relief that rushed over him. “I will be,” he promised.

“I've never cared about anyone like this before,” she said, her voice catching. “It's worse than any magic ever could be.”

“Is it worth it?” he asked carefully.

“I don't know,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Her answer might have worried him if she hadn't been holding on to him so tightly. He supposed he could safely assume she didn't mean what she was saying.

“I think you love me,” he murmured.

She pulled back far enough to look at him. “What does it matter if I lose you?”

“You're not going to lose me. Why would anything happen to me when I have you to guard my back?”

She sighed. “There is that, I suppose.”

“Would you like a distraction from these troubling thoughts?”

“A distraction?” she echoed. “What sort?”

“This sort.”

He tipped her face up and kissed her. He kissed her for far longer than he should have, but rather chastely, all things considered. By the time he lifted his head, he supposed he would still be able to walk steadily. He wiped away her tears, then kissed her once more.

“Let's go,” he whispered. “We'll beg something quick to eat from Hearn and be on our way.”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “Aye.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the stables. He wasn't going to say as much, but he shared her concern for his safety—and hers. He'd already come far too close to losing her to Lothar, losing her to Searbhe at Gobhann, losing her to creatures he couldn't foresee at Lismòr. That didn't begin to address the magic he might not be there to defend her against.

He wondered briefly if that was what had driven Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn.

He left the stables with Morgan to find Hearn leaning against the wall, looking up at the late-afternoon sky. Hearn saw them, then pushed away from the wall and smiled.

“Finished?”

“With what?” Morgan asked.

“I came to wake you both. I found you, um, otherwise occupied.”

Miach could feel Morgan's blush from where he stood. He smiled. “I can't seem to help myself,” he said easily.

Hearn looked at him sternly from under bushy eyebrows. “I think you'd better help yourself, lad, unless you have something akin to a wedding in mind.”

“I do,” Miach said easily, “if she'll say me aye.”

Hearn looked at Morgan. “Well?”

“I'm thinking about it,” Morgan conceded.

Miach smiled as she slipped her hand into his, then looked at Hearn. “I need a message or two sent. Have you a lad who might be willing?”

“I'll see it done, and I'll see you fed before I send you on your way, but I've also a few tidings for you. I've already given them to Mistress Morgan, but I'll repeat them for you.”

Miach nodded, though he supposed by the grim look Morgan was now wearing, they wouldn't be tidings he would particularly want to hear.

He walked with Morgan into Hearn's hall and found that a meal had already been prepared for them. He ate with Morgan and listened to Hearn tell of what he'd heard. He was unfortunately unsurprised to find the tales revolved around terrible creatures that killed without any reason and moved on to kill again.

“At least that's the rumor,” Hearn added. He looked about him, then leaned in. “I can't speak for every victim, but from what I can gather, those as were killed had magic.” He paused. “Camanaë-style magic.”

Miach heard Morgan gasp. It hid his own quite handily.

“And what do you suspect?” Miach asked.

Hearn shrugged. “I only know tidings from horses that come through my gates. But they're honest animals, for the most part. What they've witnessed distresses them. Those beasts roaming about are nothing like they've witnessed before.”

Miach sighed. “I'm working on discovering who's sending them. I'll see them stopped.”

“If anyone can, 'tis you, lad. Now, something for a message?”

“Please.”

Miach watched Hearn walk off to look for quill and paper, then nursed his ale and considered the messages he needed to send. It took him only a few minutes to scribble down something for Cathar and something else for Paien of Allerdale. His brother would need to know what was happening in the realm, and Paien needed to know 'twas time to take the shards of the Sword of Angesand to Durial. He folded the sheaves, then handed them to Hearn. Hearn frowned.

“Aren't you going to seal them?”

“No one will bother to open them.”

Hearn smiled briefly. “Handy, aren't you?”

“You've no idea,” Morgan said wryly.

Miach smiled at her, then pushed back his ale. “Thank you, my lord, for the refuge. We needed it.”

“'Tis here for you any time you need it,” Hearn said, rising. “I'll walk you to the front gates, then you can be on your way. Unless there's anything else I can do for you?”

Miach shook his head. “We have what we need for the journey, but I appreciate the offer.”

Hearn nodded, then walked through the courtyard and down to the gates with them. Miach thanked him again, watched Morgan embrace him warmly, then he took a deep breath and looked at her.

“Ready?”

“Aye.”

He thanked Hearn one last time, then took Morgan's hand and walked through the gates with her. The sun was setting, which troubled him somehow. It bothered him enough to not be able to sense what was coming at them; not being able to see it either was doubly unsettling.

“Miach, you didn't send that missive to Adhémar,” Morgan said quietly.

He dragged his attention back to her. “I wanted the tidings reported accurately,” he said.

She looked at him in shock. “But surely Adhémar wouldn't stoop so low.”

“He has before. 'Tis better this way. Cathar will pretend he heard tidings in the lists and Adhémar will believe him.”

“I knew there was a reason I didn't like him,” she muttered.

He smiled grimly, but said no more. It was a sorry state of affairs when king and archmage couldn't meet on common ground. Part of it was his fault; he had no patience for idiocy and his brother the king was full of that. The rest of it was Adhémar's fault for not treating him like a man full grown and trusting him with anything serious. So, they didn't speak of demanding things and the realm marched on as best it could.

Actually not, at present, but that wasn't Adhémar's doing.

He paused after they had left the last house in the village behind them, then looked over the plain.

“I think we should cross this,” he said slowly, “then take wing in the forest.”

“How far is it to Tòrr Dòrainn?”

“At least a fortnight on horseback,” Miach said. “The road leads past Ainneamh and up into the mountains. It is not difficult for the first se'nnight, but it is as it progresses. I think it better not to attempt to run. It will take too long and leave us too exposed. We'll take wing in that far forest there.”

“As you will, Miach.”

He squeezed her hand and walked into the twilight.

And into the middle of hell.

They were suddenly surrounded by a score of the creatures he had come to expect. He was so shocked, he almost lost his head before he managed to draw his sword. Damn it, it just wasn't possible that they could have sensed him and Morgan. He'd hidden their tracks completely. Not even Lothar would have been able to find them.

Unless they were coming for Morgan and he should have been hiding her very essence instead of her magic.

He fought, heard Morgan fighting behind him, and considered what sort of spell he dared use. He didn't want to draw every fiend in Neroche down to Angesand, yet he saw no way to prevail without aid.

Before he could give it the thought it deserved, horsemen poured out from the village. They encircled the trolls, then attacked. He backed up against Morgan, hard.

“No magic,” he said quickly.

“Aye,” she said, then she swore.

Miach saw her fighting a hideous creature that was half again as tall as she was. Miach pulled Weger's knife from his boot and flung it into the creature's eye. It paused, shook its head, then slowly fell backward and crashed to the ground.

The remainder of the battle was bloody, but mercifully brief. It wasn't a quarter of an hour later that all their enemies lay lifeless on the ground. Miach hunched over with his hands on his thighs and sucked in ragged breaths until he thought he could straighten and not puke. He heaved himself upright and stumbled over to where Morgan was looking at the carnage, breathing equally as raggedly.

“How did they find us?” she asked him.

He wanted to tell her that it was their shapechanging magic. After all, it was the only magic they'd used in the past twelve hours. Well, save that spell of insignificance he'd put on those missives, but surely that hadn't called to them so quickly.

He looked at Morgan helplessly. “I don't like not to have all the answers, but in this instance, I seem to have none. I've snuck into Riamh and walked past Lothar himself without being noticed. I have no idea why these creatures see through the way I'm hiding us. Unless there is something in our blood that draws them. I haven't hid that.”

She looked at him for quite a while in silence. “Is it me…” She cleared her throat. “Do I attract them? Because of…”

“Merely who you are?” he asked very quietly. “I will admit that the thought has occurred to me. You've been at every attack except the one on Adhémar before I sent him south. Those creatures had the same stench of evil about them, but they were not so gruesome looking as these lads. As for the rest of the attacks—” He shrugged. “I think there is something to them searching out Camanaë blood, but I fear there is more to it than that, for I bear that blood as well.” He paused. “I just don't know.”