The Mage's Daughter (28 page)

“Because you're as intelligent as you are beautiful. Just trust me.”

It was too late to do anything else. She tried to take his hand but he shot her a warning look. She scowled at him, but she supposed he knew best. She suspected she would have something to say about it later, though, when they weren't being observed so intently.

The day marched on. They were allowed to drink from streams as they crossed them, permitted to forage in their saddlebags for the last crusts of bread they possessed, then led ever farther into a pine forest.

A forest like unto nothing she'd ever seen before.

She was beginning to feel even more like a provincial miss than she had when she'd first caught sight of Tor Neroche, terrible and impenetrable, so many months ago. As with that palace, here all she could do was stare, openmouthed, at what she saw.

The trees were laden with sparkling snow, the ground covered in a soft blanket of white that was clearer and more beautiful than she'd ever seen. The path was a dark brown, bare and easily trod, as if something otherworldly kept the snow away from it. She'd seen snow before, and walked in forests before, but here somehow everything was draped in some sort of shimmering magic that made it appear as if it had somehow just been thought of. The colors of needle and bark were so rich, she was tempted to just stand still and drink them in until she'd satisfied herself. The magic that made them so was exquisite.

It was also unsettlingly familiar.

In time, the deep pine-filled woods gave way to leafier, more musical trees. Morgan had scarce managed to decide if she understood the song or not before the trees parted and she saw the palace of Seanagarra.

She stumbled.

Miach caught her, steadied her, then released her. They continued on. At least Morgan thought she continued on. She felt like she was walking into a dream. It reminded her more of Chagailt than Tor Neroche, but even then, the comparison did not do Seanagarra justice. It shimmered with an enchantment that was so beautiful, so mesmerizing, so bewitching that she could not look away. She tried to find Miach's hand, but he wouldn't take hers. She tried to look at him, but she couldn't see him for the haze clouding her vision.

“Miach, please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I can't wake up.”

She felt his arm go around her shoulders immediately. He pulled her close.

“'Tis Sìle's glamour,” he whispered in her ear.

“Do you see it?”

“Oh, aye,” he said ruefully. “Try not to heed it. It will pass once we reach his hall.”

Morgan nodded. She closed her eyes and let Miach keep her from falling on her face. It was better that way. She could still hear the shimmer of magic singing around her, but at least she didn't have to look at it anymore.

It seemed to her that a great deal of time had passed, but perhaps not before Miach squeezed her shoulders, then released her. Morgan looked around her and found that they were inside the gates of the palace and it was sunset.

She walked with Miach over polished stone floors, through hallways covered with beautiful murals of gardens and forests, and finally to a set of heavy wooden doors that soared up into darkness above them that seemed to go forever and be filled with twinkling stars.

The doors opened. Morgan took a deep breath, then continued on with Miach into what she assumed was Sìle's formal audience chamber. The floor was a pale marble, as were the pillars holding up an intricately carved ceiling. Morgan looked down to the end of the hall and saw the enormous throne there, carved of burnished dark wood.

A man, white-haired and majestic, sat on that throne. Morgan saw the substantial gold crown upon his head and supposed that it could only be Sìle. He was leaning back on his seat, tapping his foot impatiently, as if he'd been interrupted on his way to supper and wanted to have his duty over with so he might continue on to it.

The guards stopped them some twenty paces away from where the king sat, then stepped away, leaving her to stand there with just Miach. Miach made Sìle a very low bow. Morgan curtseyed awkwardly, just because she thought she should. She wished, absently, that she'd made a better job of it. The king's expression was thunderous.

“Well?” he demanded. “What do
you
want?”

Miach bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for allowing us to come so far with such a distinguished guard. As always, your graciousness is legend—”

“Oh, be done with that,” Sìle snapped. “I don't like mages, which you well know, Prince Mochriadhemiach, and I don't like unexpected guests. Why are you here? Tell me quickly before my soup grows cold.”

Miach bowed yet again. Morgan was tempted to tell him to stop, but she knew nothing of the niceties that elves required. Perhaps Miach would have a backache before the audience was finished. He started to speak, but he was interrupted.

“He says he brought you something you lost, Your Grace,” Dionadair put in loudly. “I can't imagine what that would be.”

“Neither can I,” Sìle growled. “Well? What is it? And who is that filthy urchin you have there?”

Morgan ran into Miach's hand before she realized he had put it out to stop her. She supposed it wouldn't serve her to fling her knife at the king, and she also suspected that she did look like a filthy urchin. She took a step backward and watched as Miach clasped his hands behind his back and made Sìle yet another low bow. He straightened.

“Your Grace,” he said slowly, “there is no easy way to prepare you for this.”

“Prepare me for what?” Sìle demanded. “If you've wasted my time,
boy
, I vow you'll suffer for it.”

Morgan watched Miach as he turned to stand in front of her.

“Ready?” he whispered.

She closed her eyes briefly. “Don't leave me.”

“I won't. Here we go.” He carefully lifted her hood away from her face and set it back off her head onto her shoulders. Then he stepped aside.

Sìle's gasp echoed in the hall.

Morgan watched as the king shot to his feet, then stumbled down the handful of steps from the dais to the floor. She was tempted to turn and flee, but she had passed much sterner tests than this.

And she supposed Miach might just catch her before she gained the hall doors. He was rather fast, all things considered.

She watched Sìle as he came to stand next to Miach, his face full of astonishment and disbelief. She kept her back straight, her chin raised, and let him look his fill.

She supposed that while he was about it, she might as well have her own look. He was no less handsome than any other elf she'd ever seen, though his face was lined slightly and his hair was white as snow. His eyes were green, the color of hers actually, and currently wide with shock. He gaped at her and fumbled for something to lean on. Miach put his shoulder conveniently within reach and Sìle clamped a hand on it.

“It can't be…it isn't…” Sìle looked at Miach, apparently at a loss for words.

“It's not Sarait,” Miach said quietly.

Sìle took a ragged breath. “Then who?”

“'Tis Mhorghain, Your Majesty,” Miach said quietly.

“Mhorghain,” Sìle repeated, almost soundlessly. “Little Mhorghain.” He looked at Miach. “But how is that possible? Keir had said no one survived.”

Miach shrugged just the slightest bit. “Either Keir didn't see her, or he didn't want anyone to know she had escaped. But this
is
Mhorghain, Your Majesty. Beyond all doubt.”

Morgan listened to them call her a name that she'd never had used on her and found that somehow, she didn't mind it. Especially the way Miach said it—as if her name was a treasure he only shared with those who might appreciate it. She looked at Sìle and saw, to her complete surprise, that his eyes were welling up with tears.

“You look so much like Sarait,” he said in disbelief. “For a moment there, I thought you
were
Sarait.”

She cleared her throat. “Is that so, my liege?”

Sìle took a hesitant step toward her. He wasn't quite as tall as Miach so she wasn't forced to look up as far. He stopped a handsbreadth away and stared at her in amazement. Then he hesitantly reached out and touched her face.

“Mhorghain,” he whispered in awe.

Morgan couldn't find anything useful to say, so she remained silent.

“Dionadair,” Sìle said, not taking his eyes from her, “go fetch the queen. Make haste, lad!”

Morgan looked at Miach, but he only shook his head just the slightest bit and took several steps backward. She had just begun to consider how she might protest that when she was distracted by the arrival of several more elves inside the hall. She was accustomed to immediately assessing the number and kind of potential enemies, but her skills were seemingly out of reach at present. She supposed there might have been fifteen elves; there might have been more. All she knew was that the sight of so many of them was almost too much for her.

Sìle reached for a woman whose hair was as dark as his was white and pulled her close to him. “Are you seeing what I'm seeing, Brèagha?” he asked.

The woman looked at Morgan and her eyes filled with tears. “I am, husband.”

Morgan would have smiled or attempted to dredge up her very rusty manners and use them, but she wasn't feeling precisely herself at the moment. She would have given anything to have clapped Sìle on the back in a friendly gesture of camaraderie, nodded briskly to the rest, and bolted for the door.

And damn that Miach of Neroche if he wasn't standing well away from the press, looking perfectly at ease.

She glared at him, then turned back to the dozen—she found the wit to manage that tally after all—souls who seemed determined to greet her as if she were long-lost kin they had despaired of ever seeing again.

Which she now supposed she might well be.

They were touchy, these elves. They seemed determined to embrace her and pat her and press her hand. She did her best to be polite, but after the journey she'd had and all the worry she'd endured, she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep a pleasant expression on her face.

“Come,” Sìle boomed suddenly, “you'll sit next to me and eat. You're terribly thin. You'll tell me where you've been hiding—who hid you, by the way?”

“Nicholas of…Diarmailt,” she managed. Even saying it sounded strange. She wanted him to be just Nicholas of Lismòr. She wanted Miach to be just that handsome lad with the mark on his brow and the unwholesome habit of muttering spells at the odd moment. She didn't want anyone to be who they weren't supposed to be.

She didn't want to be Mhorghain.

She was beginning to suspect she'd made a terrible mistake.

“Those damned mages,” Sìle grumbled, drawing her hand through his arm and pulling her toward the open doors to the right of his throne. “He should have sent word.”

“He was trying to keep me safe,” Morgan protested. “As was my lord Mochriadhemiach, whom we're leaving behind.”

“Eh?” Sìle said, pausing. “Oh, the mage. He can eat with the garrison.”

Morgan dug her heels in. “But you can't—”

“Husband,” Brèagha said, stopping Sìle at the door, “offer the young prince of Neroche your hospitality.”

Sìle scowled. “I don't like him.”

“You would like it even less if he were to seek refuge with Ehrne because you were rude to him.”

Morgan watched Sìle consider that, then nod to his wife. “He may stay the night. But he'll still eat with the garrison.”

Morgan looked frantically for Miach, but he was only leaning negligently against Sìle's throne, watching her with a grave smile. She shot him a look that bespoke significant retribution, then found herself suddenly besieged on all sides by elves wanting to see to her comfort. Before she could send them all off to do something more constructive, she was taken over by her grandmother and a pair of aunts. She was led into what she supposed was the dining hall and a place was made for her on Sìle's right, a place liberated because a tall, very handsome elf was displaced.

Morgan looked up at him as he pulled out her chair. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Làidir,” he said with a low bow. “I'm Sìle's eldest.”

“I didn't know Sìle had sons,” she managed.

He smiled. “No one ever talks about us. We're not nearly as pretty as the girls.”

“But you're beautiful,” Morgan blurted out.

He put his hand briefly on her shoulder. “You've a discriminating eye, obviously.” He looked at her for a minute, then smiled. “You look so much like your mother, 'tis almost a little unsettling. But it eases my heart. Now, sit, niece, and enjoy your meal. I'll go see to your escort.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. She sat down next to the king of Tòrr Dòrainn and felt more uncomfortable and conspicuous than she ever had before in her life. She wondered if she should kill Miach sooner rather than later for having handed her over without protest.