The Mage's Daughter (31 page)

“Mhorghain?” Morgan felt her grandmother take her hand. “Darling?”

“I'm fine,” Morgan croaked. She looked again at the portrait of Sarait, then looked in the mirror at her own tear-streaked face. Any hope she'd had of denying it was gone.

She was Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn's daughter.

And Gair's.

“My love, what can I do to help you?”

Morgan looked first at Brèagha, then turned to see who else had seen her come undone. The chamber was empty save they two. Sìle had been the one to insist she come see it, but apparently he'd decided at some point that it was safer to depart unnoticed for higher ground. She would have done the same, but she supposed there was no point. It was difficult to outrun herself.

“Mhorghain?”

Morgan focused on Brèagha with an effort. “Your Majesty?”

“Would you like to lie down?” Brèagha asked, her eyes clouded with worry. “Perhaps I should stay with you whilst you do.”

“I'm fine,” Morgan said automatically. “I'm a little overwhelmed, but I'll be fine.”

“Of course, darling,” Brèagha said with a gentle smile. “I never doubted that. I know this all must come as something of a shock.”

Morgan shook her head. “Not entirely. Nicholas—Nicholas of Diarmailt—told me many things. Well, things that Miach hadn't already.” She took a deep breath. “I fell apart in his solar a fortnight ago. But Miach was there then…”

“Shall I fetch the youngest prince of Neroche?” Brèagha asked softly. “Would that ease you?”

A longing for him rose up so sharply, Morgan caught her breath.

But she pushed the thought aside ruthlessly. He was seeing to the realm. Surely she could see to her own affairs for the day.

“I'm fine,” she repeated firmly. “Besides, I've lived all my life I can remember on my own. I can manage this on my own as well.”

“Why is it I imagine that wouldn't be what Prince Mochriadhemiach would suggest?”

“Because he's overprotective.”

“He's delightful,” Brèagha said, with a smile. “I've always thought him to be so.”

Morgan turned to look at her. “Have you indeed?”

“Yes,” Brèagha said. “He has managed his responsibilities without allowing them to crush him or embitter him as other young men might have.”

Morgan thought that learning Brèagha's opinion about a few things other than her own resemblance to Sarait might be a very good distraction. She looked at her mother's mother and could hardly believe that she wasn't looking at a woman her own age. Brèagha's face was unlined, her hair dark, her fingers slender and smooth. The only thing that betrayed her was her eyes. She had seen much, and it showed.

“Mhorghain?”

Morgan focused on her. “Aye, Your Majesty?”

“Grandmother,” Brèagha suggested. “I am your grandmother, darling, and we were talking about Prince Mochriadhemiach. I was telling you that I liked him very much. Not, perhaps, that it matters to you.”

Morgan smiled. “It matters, but I suspect you know that already.”

Brèagha tucked Morgan's hair behind her ear. “Then, since we both seem to find him to our liking and I think you could stand to speak on something perhaps a bit more pleasant than what you've faced so far this morning, I will tell you more. I have known the youngest prince of Neroche, as it happens, since shortly after he was born. His mother, whom I knew very well, would often bring him with her when she came to visit. He has grown into a man who is discreet and responsible, but isn't above a bit of subterfuge—”

“When it comes to spells he shouldn't know?” Morgan interrupted with a smile.

Brèagha laughed softly. “Aye. Sìle has never caught him with his fingers in the pie, as it were, but he roars about it every time he sees him within our borders. Then again, your Miach is only following in his mother's footsteps. She was famous for knowing spells she shouldn't have, but she was more inclined to charm them from her victims than sneak about in their private books.” She smiled wistfully. “You would have liked Desdhemar, I think. She was very powerful, of course, and very lovely. And she loved her boys to distraction, especially her youngest. After all, she gave her life for him, didn't she?”

Morgan managed a nod. “I understand she perished fetching him out of Riamh.”

Brèagha nodded. “'Tis a pity she didn't survive. She could have eventually left Tor Neroche behind and found some small corner of the Nine Kingdoms to call her own with her beloved Anghmar. But she was older when they wed and had already had enough adventures to fill several lifetimes. I'll tell you of them someday when Miach isn't buried in Sìle's library and can listen too. And,” she said, rubbing her hand over Morgan's back, “tales of your love's mother aren't what you need to face today, I fear.”

Morgan nodded. “They were a good diversion, though.” Then she paused. “My love's mother?”

“Isn't that what he is to you?”

Morgan took a deep breath and looked her grandmother in the face. “Aye, he is. And I'll not allow Sìle to tell me differently.”

“Of course you won't,” Brèagha said with a small smile, “though he'll try.”

“So Miach said,” Morgan admitted. “And just so you know, that is one of the reasons we came. So Miach could ask for Sìle's permission.”

Brèagha put her arms around Morgan and hugged her briefly. “The youngest prince of Neroche honors you, as he should. Sìle will say him nay, of course, then you'll do what you must. I will tell you, however, that Desdhemar would have been very pleased with her son's choice. I know I am. And now, before I wax rhapsodic about the charms of your young man, I will go and let you rest. Stay here as long as you like.”

“You don't mind?”

Brèagha looked at her in surprise for a moment, then took Morgan's hands in both her own. “I didn't keep this chamber untouched as a shrine, darling; I kept it for you. I always held out hope that you had somehow survived. These things are now yours.”

Morgan closed her eyes briefly, then looked at Brèagha. “Thank you.”

Brèagha kissed her on both cheeks, then rose. “Of course, darling. And if you want Prince Mochriadhemiach fetched, that can be done.”

Morgan nodded and watched her grandmother walk out of the chamber. Then she turned and stared at herself in Sarait's mirror. She almost didn't recognize herself. She looked so much like Sarait, it was almost difficult to decide whom she was looking at. There was a woman in that mirror, dressed in a gown that shimmered white and silver, with bright green eyes and dark hair that had been somehow convinced to hang almost to her waist in sweeping, lovely curls.

There wasn't a speck of mud in sight.

Morgan rose and started to explore before she had to look at herself any longer. She touched the crown that Sìle had left her and remembered that he'd asked her to wear it to dinner because there were new guests he wanted her to meet. She could only imagine and she hoped it wouldn't include long lines of elves whose names she wouldn't remember past the hearing of them.

She continued to pace around the room, touching things on dressers and tables, opening closet doors and dresser drawers. She found a trunk with treasures of a less-than-perfect nature, treasures obviously fashioned by children. There were rocks and pine cones and things carved from wood. She started to look further, but found that she couldn't. She didn't want to find something that she might have made.

Not today.

She closed the lid and rested her hands on its top until she thought she could manage a decent breath.

She could be Mhorghain. Indeed, she could see that she had no choice but to admit that she was Sarait's daughter.

But she didn't have to be Gair's.

She could still be mostly Morgan, live her life mostly by her sword, still comport herself mostly as Weger's apprentice. She could even marry Miach and pretend to be a princess of Tòrr Dòrainn if something at Tor Neroche demanded it. And when that courtly bit of misery was behind her, she could return to just being herself.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and focused on breathing in and out. In time, she thought she might like to lie down, so she did. She stared up at the ceiling of her mother's chamber and let the tears leak out and wet the hair at her temples. She supposed the curl would come out now. She wasn't all that sure she cared.

She closed her eyes. In a few minutes she would get up and look through some of her mother's less private things.

And then she would find the archmage of Neroche and tell him they were leaving.

M
iach stood in Seanagarra's library and wondered if the pounding headache he had came from too many days without sleep, or too many hours spent reading. Surely it hadn't come from all the arguing he'd already done with the fool in front of him. He took a deep breath.

“You've given me several things already,” he said, quite reasonably to his mind. “Why not this? What harm can it do?”

The librarian looked down his nose. “I can't imagine His Majesty would be pleased to know I allowed a mage to poke about in the manuscripts kept for him privately.”

“Has His Majesty expressly forbidden it?”

“He didn't have to,” the other said stiffly. “Your reputation, Prince Mochriadhemiach, is not one that persuades me to trust you with anything important.”

Miach didn't often lose his patience. It was a testimony to how desperate he was to satisfy his curiosity that he found his hand on his sword without quite knowing how it had gotten there. He had barely begun to determine how he might explain that when someone leaned on the table to his right.

“Give him what he wants, Leabhrach.”

Miach looked to find Sosar, Sìle's youngest, scowling at the librarian.

Leabhrach pulled himself up. “I think not—”

“You think too much,” Sosar said bluntly. “Give him exactly what he's asked for and do it now, whilst I'm watching you.”

“King Sìle told me to be careful with him,” Leabhrach said haughtily, “and even if His Majesty hadn't, I would—”

“Still be a fool,” Sosar finished for him. “Oblige our young friend here. Once you've done so, you can scamper straight to my father and snivel out the whole pitiful tale.”

Leabhrach looked at them both, then spun on his heel and went to search about in racks of books behind a silken rope. Miach turned to Sosar.

“A friendly face.”

Sosar smiled. “So said your lady when I saw her earlier.”

“I envy you the pleasure,” Miach said.

“No doubt you do,” Sosar agreed pleasantly. “She asked me to find you, make sure you were being treated well, and see if you'd eaten. If it eases your mind any, I'll do the same for you.”

Miach sighed deeply. “It would ease me, actually. I don't think she's having an easy time of this. Thank you for seeing to what I dare not.”

Sosar shrugged. “She always has been my favorite niece. And Sarait was my favorite sister. I think I can't, in good conscience, do anything less. So, to fulfill my promise, I'll ask if you've had anything to eat.”

“I'm not sure,” Miach admitted.

“Then I'll remedy that first. But before I go, tell me what you're looking for. I'm curious.”

Miach considered, then decided there was no reason to be anything but honest. Perhaps he might find aid where he hadn't expected it.

“I want details about Gair's well,” he said carefully. He didn't imagine Gair's name was spoken very easily inside Seanagarra's walls, and he wasn't going to be the first to break with tradition. “I'd also like to know about the spells involved in opening that well and perhaps even a bit more about the events of that day.” He paused. “And I'd like to know about the talisman your father made for Sarait.”

Sosar's mouth fell open. He stared at Miach in astonishment for a moment or two, then shut his mouth and smiled. “My father underestimates you. How did you know about the amulet?”

Miach smiled, relieved to know he'd been right. “I read something at Lismòr about your father giving up his crown for a year in consequence of his labors on it. I assumed he had made something to protect Sarait.”

Sosar studied him silently for a moment or two, then smiled. “I'll help you. What did you ask for?”

“The history of your father's reign, volume nine hundred fifty.”

“You won't want that,” Sosar said cheerfully. “I'll go get you something far more interesting.”

Miach watched as Sosar hopped over the desk, then continued on back into forbidden territory. There was a loud squawk, a few minutes of loud arguing, then more squawking. Sosar walked out of the rows of shelves with two books in his hands. He vaulted back over the restraining rope, then handed his finds to Miach.

“Start with these.”

Miach accepted them gratefully. “You've saved me time.”

“I imagine I have. And I give you permission to threaten Leabhrach with your sword if he becomes feisty. I'll come back with food so you don't starve—and to make sure you haven't been tossed in the dungeon.”

Miach smiled deprecatingly. “I suppose it's a concern, isn't it?” He started to walk away, then paused and looked at Morgan's uncle. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell me that I won't read here?”

Sosar leaned back against the table and shrugged. “It is entirely possible that I might know where a few more interesting things are hiding. I suppose it would be impolite to point out that you've never asked for my aid before, wouldn't it?”

“It would be nothing more than I deserve,” Miach agreed, “though you'll have to concede that I haven't been rummaging about in your private books, won't you?”

Sosar laughed. “You're shameless, lad. At least your mother paid me a compliment or two before she wrestled spells out of my numb fingers.”

“I don't have her charm,” Miach admitted. “I just muddle through as best I can.”

“How many of my spells did she teach you?” Sosar asked, studying him with a faint smile. “Just out of curiosity.”

“More than you would remember giving her.”

Sosar blinked, then laughed out loud. “I daresay.” He looked at Miach, then laughed again. “Read that business, then I'll see if I can find you other things.” He pushed away from the table. “For now, I'll find you something to eat.”

“I appreciate your help, Your Highness.”

Sosar smiled. “It's Sosar, Prince Mochriadhemiach.”

“It's Miach, Sosar.”

Sosar extended his hand and shook Miach's. “An ally in the court. What legendary feat will you accomplish next?”

“The Fates are breathlessly awaiting it.”

Sosar laughed again, then walked away. “No doubt.”

Miach carried his treasures over to a cushioned chair next to a roaring fire, laid his sword on the floor, and sat down. Well, the first thing he would admit was that Sìle's library was by far the most comfortable he'd ever been in. He could only hope the quality of information he would glean would be equally as magnificent.

He sat and opened the first book. It was a detailed court history and he did as Sosar had suggested and skimmed it. It was interesting, but not overly enlightening. He had just flipped past the last page when he looked up to find Sosar walking toward him bearing a tray.

“Strength for your labors,” he said, setting it down on the table near Miach's chair.

“Thank you,” Miach said, with feeling.

Sosar filched an apple and tossed it up in the air. “My pleasure. And just so you know, Mhorghain has been in Sarait's chamber most of the afternoon.”

Miach closed his eyes briefly. “Poor gel.”

“Aye,” Sosar agreed. “I fear things will only get worse. I heard that my sire is planning a formal ball tomorrow night. I suspect he'll have an elvish prince or two to present to your lady.”

“Perfect,” Miach muttered.

“I doubt you'll be invited,” Sosar continued, his eyes twinkling, “but never fear. I'll go and take copious notes on everything that happens. Every glance, every compliment, every kiss—dutifully recorded for your pleasure.”

Miach gave him a baleful look. “Are you being helpful?”

Sosar grinned. “Of course not, but you couldn't expect anything else. Actually, I imagine you'll be too busy reading all the deliciously forbidden things I find for you to think about who might be wooing your lady. I might even find a book or two of spells for you.”

“I'd rather dance with your niece.”

Sosar straightened and laughed. “You are a besotted pup. Enjoy your reading, Miach. I'll keep you apprised of the madness above.”

Miach watched him go, then poured himself wine. He flipped open the cover of the second book. He set his wine down carefully and stared in amazement at what he was holding in his hands.

It was Làidir's private journal.

Miach supposed he really shouldn't be reading it, but it was too great a gift not to. He turned pages gingerly, trying not to pay heed to more than he had to.

And then he saw Gair's name.

He closed his eyes briefly, then began to read.

He was immediately drawn into Làidir's world. However prickly the eldest prince of Tòrr Dòrainn might have been in person, he was, in his writing, rather likeable. He recorded all he saw and felt with an unvarnished honesty that was engrossing.

Miach watched events unfold from Làidir's eyes and saw Gair from an entirely different perspective, the perspective of a man who had been befriended by Gair, then watched him destroy Sarait's life. He read of attempts to take the children away, to take Sarait and the children away, to make a magic that would render Gair powerless. He read with a sickening feeling just how powerful Gair had been—powerful enough to leave the elves of Tòrr Dòrainn believing that they could not stop him.

He watched, with Làidir, as Sìle held Mhorghain in his arms and vowed on his life that he would see Sarait and the children protected. He listened in on conversations between Làidir and Sìle concerning how best to see that done. He watched them finally decide on an amulet that Sarait could claim was a simple gift from her father. He stood at Sìle's elbow over the course of months and read the spells that were used in the amulet's fashioning.

He memorized those, of course, without hesitation.

He read of Sìle's fury at Sarait's refusal to accept his talisman, then his anguish once the fury had dissipated. Làidir had supposed that Sarait had been afraid Gair would sense the amulet's power, then her plan would have been ruined. She had been determined to kill Gair herself and confident she could manage it without help.

Miach took a deep breath, then continued to watch with Làidir as events marched relentlessly on toward their disastrous conclusion. He saw the events of the year Sìle had spent recovering from his magic, watched Sarait visit often and spend most of her time in the library searching for spells to help her. He read them one by one, then sat for a minute and contemplated them.

At first blush, they seemed more than adequate for her purposes. He rubbed his finger over his lips thoughtfully. Truly, Sarait had been powerful. There was no reason she shouldn't have succeeded. He was missing something, obviously.

Perhaps it was the same thing Sarait had missed.

He ignored the chill that ran down his spine at that thought. He continued on with Làidir as Làidir watched Sarait come for a final visit. Sìle pleaded with her to remain. She vowed she could not; she would destroy Gair and free herself and her children. She'd had no choice. Gair had become increasingly irrational and had begun to accuse the children of plotting to steal his magic.

Miach paused and considered that for quite some time. He had wondered, over the past pair of months, why Sarait had allowed her children anywhere near the well. He realized now, as he continued on, that she had feared for their lives.

Besides, her children hadn't been all that young. Morgan had been six, true, but the eldest, Keir, had been a score and eight.

His own age, actually.

He ignored the shiver that crawled up his spine, then turned back to the diary. Once the children had known what Sarait intended, the older lads had insisted they come along, determined to add their magic to their mother's when the time came. As for the younger lads and Morgan, Sarait hadn't dared let them out of her sight, lest Gair make good on his threats.

What a terrible choice. Miach pitied her for finding herself needing to make it.

Sìle raged in such a frenzied fashion after she left that final time that they all despaired of him ever finding his wits again.

Làidir followed to gather tidings. By the time he'd reached the well, Gair, Sarait, and the children were dead. The destruction had been so complete that not even all the bodies had remained. Sarait had been lying next to the well, her hands on it as if she'd been in the middle of a spell when she'd been slain.

Làidir had then found a woman who claimed to have sheltered Keir, but she'd been so terrified of things she wouldn't name that Làidir hadn't managed to pry any but the barest of details from her. She'd said that Keir had indeed come to her, he'd died in her house, then others of Ceangail had come to take him away and cremate him.

Miach looked into the fire. First Keir had died, then he had disappeared, and now he had died again. He wanted to believe there was something to the discrepancies, but he dared not. Contradictions in differing versions of the same tale were legion. It was interesting, but not unusual.