The Mage's Daughter (38 page)

Miach wouldn't have blamed him.

He turned and surveyed the countryside before him. He walked about the place for quite some time, examining it from all angles until he was satisfied that he could carry out the pretense he planned. He found an old tree stump and sat down.

Then he began his magic.

He created an enormous fire in front of him that burned without heat but rose hundreds of feet into the sky. He wrapped his name in the flames so it would be clear to any soul with magic in his blood who had created it.

He sat and watched it burn.

It would be only a matter of time now.

 

T
hey came at noon.

There were so many of them, they looked like a wave sweeping over the plain from the northwest. He stood and drew his sword, more to give himself something to do than from a desire to use it. Magic would be his weapon, not steel.

He began to lay snares for the faster trolls, spells meant to entrap, then engulf in flame. He waited until the first one reached the first trap.

And he stared in horror as the creature shook it off and continued on.

He realized with a sickening feeling that it was going to take much more than simple spells to counteract what he would face—and that he should have realized that far sooner than he had.

He killed the first troll with a quick and brutal spell of Wexham that fell upon the creature like a hammer. The troll dropped with a hoarse shout, stunned, then shook its head and continued forward on its hands and knees.

Miach swore viciously. He threw another spell of the same sort at another troll, but this one was of Olc. The creature screamed and fell dead. That would have been a relief—for the spell was unsettlingly easy to use—except now he had scores of the creatures to deal with and they were, quite suddenly, hard upon him.

With Searbhe riding on a scruffy steed, leading the charge.

Miach quickly wove the most extensive spell of death he'd ever used. He put his fire behind him, kept his eyes fixed on the creatures rushing at him from the north, and forced himself to speak the words slowly and clearly. He supposed that if he had to, he could leap up into the air and leave them all behind.

In fact, he was beginning to think that might be the best idea.

He had almost finished when Searbhe reached him. Miach leapt up, but Searbhe caught him before he could finish the change and flung him to the ground. Miach cursed and heaved himself to his feet. He continued with the spell of death, fought off Searbhe's clumsy attempts at his own killing magic, then found himself needing his blade after all.

He built a perimeter around himself with a single word, a shield that the creatures could not penetrate, then concentrated on Searbhe. The howls of outrage from Searbhe's companions were terrifying, but Miach forced himself not to heed them. He kept Searbhe at bay and put the finishing touches on his spell. It lacked but a trio of words and then he could be on his way.

Searbhe began to smile. “Go ahead and finish,” he goaded. “I only wish I could see your face when you realize all you've killed.”

“I'll weave a special dispensation in it so you will,” Miach assured him. He did, then opened his mouth to speak the final words—

“Miach, don't!”

Miach whipped around to find Morgan standing just outside his spell. She held the amulet in her hand, though it was still on its chain about her neck. Miach wasn't sure what surprised him more: that she had broken through what he'd used to put her into a dreamless sleep for a se'nnight or that the amulet worked as it should. The trolls avoided her completely. That was a great relief.

Or at least it was until he saw a troll outside his spell change himself into a man.

Or elf, rather.

Miach reached out and jerked Morgan through the spell before Cruadal reached for her, then spun her around so her back was against his. He raised his sword as Cruadal slipped inside his protective net.

“You won't survive the day,” Cruadal said in a flat, expressionless voice. “I'll see to that.”

Miach didn't waste time arguing. He had stopped himself from killing Cruadal within Sìle's borders and he had shown him mercy in Slighe, but he labored under no such constraints here. He fought against the elf ruthlessly with sword and magic, holding on to the threads of his spell of death and trying to separate Morgan's essence from it at the same time. It wouldn't have been difficult if he hadn't been distracted by the noise the trolls were making and Cruadal's very vile spells. He was very grateful to have Morgan standing at his back so he didn't have to try to fight Searbhe at the same time.

It probably would be what saved his life.

Cruadal tore a hole in his perimeter suddenly, sending trolls rushing in. Miach crushed three trolls with a spell of Olc, but the surge continued. He sealed the rent with a single word, then smashed the hilt of his sword into Cruadal's face, sending him sprawling. He concentrated on the creatures Cruadal had allowed inside, slew them ruthlessly, then spun around to see how Morgan fared.

She leapt aside to avoid Searbhe's thrusting blade. Miach didn't pause to consider, he merely took his sword and plunged it into Searbhe's belly. Searbhe fell forward, grasping for Morgan as he did so. Miach yanked her out of the way, then watched grimly as Searbhe crashed to the ground and was still. He sighed deeply. One less thing hunting them now, at least.

Morgan dragged her sleeve across her forehead. “Don't regret that,” she said, panting. “He would have killed you if you hadn't finished him first.”

Miach nodded, then flinched as he felt something slam into his back. He caught his breath at the agony of it. Bloody hell, had one of the trolls broken through his spell with a rock? It was a damned large stone, if that were the case. He looked at Morgan and saw an expression of absolute horror on her face. He looked down and realized why.

There was a sword point coming out of his chest.

It was coming out of the front of him because it had gone into the back of him. He realized that he wasn't making much sense, but it wasn't every day that he found himself impaled by a sword he hadn't expected.

“You bloody whoreson,” Morgan spat.

Miach looked at her quickly, but realized she wasn't talking to him. She threw herself at someone behind him, then she pulled up short and cursed viciously.

“He's gone,” she said, looking around frantically. “Miach, I can't see him anywhere.”

Miach didn't have the energy to look. He found himself on his knees without exactly knowing how he had gotten there. He saw Morgan standing over him with her sword bare in her hand. He reached up and put his hand on her lower back. It was excruciating to do even that, so he sank down on his heels.

Then he realized that he couldn't see anything anymore.

He hunched over and sucked in desperately needed breaths. Perhaps he should have taken Làidir up on his offer of aid. He might have avoided a bit of his present distress if he had.

“Sosar, I've lost Cruadal!” Morgan shouted.

“Forget him,” Sosar called. “See to Miach!”

Miach would have sighed in relief, but it hurt too much, so he merely crouched there and was enormously grateful for aid that was unlooked-for.

He heard the king of Tòrr Dòrainn wiping out evil with words alone. Làidir and Sosar were doing the same thing. He supposed there were others in the party as well, but he didn't mark them. He felt Morgan's hand on his head.

“I've got to pull the sword out,” she said in a low, urgent voice. “It will hurt.”

He nodded. He thought he might have made some sort of noise as she carefully pulled the sword free of him. He hoped it hadn't been a scream. He fell over because he simply couldn't keep himself upright any longer. He felt for Morgan's hand.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.”

“You idiot,” she wept. “You fool. You need me, damn you!”

“I know,” he wheezed.

“Don't leave me,” she pleaded. “Please, Miach. Hold on. I can fix this.”

He didn't think so, but he didn't have the heart to tell her as much. He felt her hand on both sides of the wound, on his chest and on his back. He heard her quickly speak a spell of binding. It did nothing. He could still feel his life ebbing away.

She tried a different spell. And another. She started to repeat them one after another, weeping so hard he could scarce understand her.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“Help!” she shouted. “Someone help me!”

The sounds of battle started to recede a bit. Miach found that pleasing somehow. If he was going to die, he didn't want to have his passing be accompanied by sounds of trolls shrieking. He felt Morgan's hand clasp his and hold on, hard.

“Hang on,” she pleaded. “Please, Miach, hold on.”

“Try this spell, Granddaughter.”

Miach listened to Sìle give her a Fadaire spell of healing. It wouldn't work, of course, but he didn't have the strength to tell Morgan that. He was too close to death, too empty of what he needed to hold his soul in his body. He felt Morgan put her hands on him again, one on his chest, the other on his back, then begin the spell. He felt more pressure. Perhaps Sìle's hands were pressing on top of hers. Well, at least he would slip into the next world with his love's hands on his chest and her words in his ears.

Morgan neared the end of the spell, then Sìle spoke the last word with her.

Miach felt a white-hot magic streak through him.

And then he knew no more.

M
organ swam through deep waters, struggling to surface and finding it impossible. It was a magical sort of lassitude, much like what she'd fought off that morning. Damn that Miach of Neroche—

She opened her eyes with a start, realizing at once where she was and what had happened.

Miach was dead.

She had come too late.

A black pit opened up suddenly in front of her, the same pit that had caught her when she'd learned her father had killed Nicholas's wife and children. To keep from staring into its fathomless depths, she forced herself to look up at the sky above her. Perhaps if she looked at the clouds wafting lazily above her, she could keep herself from falling endlessly into darkness.

It seemed somehow too cheerful a sky to be shining down on a place of such desperate tragedy. She contemplated the shapes of clouds and wondered absently who would be archmage after Miach. She wondered, with substantially less detachment, how she would manage to draw many more breaths without Miach alive in the same world she inhabited.

She had taken too long to realize that she couldn't unravel his sleeping spell. In desperation, she had finally spoken a word of Opening. It had broken the spell—and opened every drawer, door, and box in her chamber. She had ignored the complaints coming from those in chambers surrounding hers who had likely experienced the same thing, flung herself into her clothes, and bolted down the passageway at a dead run.

She'd made it almost to the great hall before she ran, bodily, into her grandfather. He'd folded his arms over his chest and said four words to her.

The mage, or me
.

He'd likely said the same thing to Sarait. Morgan had ignored the chill that had gone down her spine at the thought, then thanked him politely for his hospitality before pushing past him and continuing on her way.

Sosar had been waiting for her in the stables. The only thing she had wanted to hear from him had been directions to where Miach had gone. He'd considered, then sighed and told her that he wasn't exactly sure, but he had the feeling she wouldn't have much trouble finding out.

She had raced out of the stables, turned east, then seen the enormous stream of fire that reached into the sky and announced in runes that even she could decipher that Miach was there.

She'd wanted to kill him.

Her fury had lasted a handful of leagues before something resembling common sense had returned. Miach wouldn't have left her behind because he didn't love her, he would have left her behind because he was an idiot and thought she would be safer out of harm's way.

How unrelentingly unforgiving that decision had to have been for him.

Luath had raced toward the fire without her having asked it of him. Eagles had flown over her head soon after, reaching the scene of the battle just as she did. Those eagles had changed themselves into her grandfather, her uncles, and two score elves with very sharp swords and useful spells. They had fought valiantly, but it hadn't been enough. Not for Miach.

She closed her eyes because she couldn't bear to look up into the sky anymore. Of course, darkness didn't help either. All she could see was Miach standing there with Cruadal's sword sticking out of his chest, all she could hear was the sound it made as she had pulled it from him, all she could feel was his blood on her hands and the way his breathing had grown more shallow every time he sighed.

She remembered Sìle's hands over hers, the pain of his immeasurable power rushing through her hands and into Miach's chest. If the sword hadn't killed him, that likely had.

She held her hands up where she could see them. They were covered in blood, but other than that they didn't look any different. The only thing that was different was the fact that she was wearing Mehar's ring on the middle finger of her left hand. It had been sitting in the middle of Miach's crown that had been intertwined with hers on her bedside table. It hadn't been placed there by accident, that much she knew.

A pity it was nothing more than a memento now.

She felt next to her with her hands that were still a little scorched and found that her sword and Mehar's knife were lying beside her. She put her hand on the cold steel and struggled to take even breaths. Well, if nothing else, she could return to Melksham and take up her life again as a mercenary. This time she could even fly and avoid having to take a boat. She would fly one last time, then put it all behind her…

Except for the fact that turning her back on what she could do wouldn't do anything for the number of monsters that would still come hunt her.

Tears leaked out of her eyes and trailed down her temples to dampen her hair. How could she possibly face the sunrise each day knowing that she would never again share another one with Mochriadhemiach of Neroche? She would never again feel his hand on her hair, hear her name from his lips, watch him smile that grave smile he wore when she suspected he was thinking how much he loved her.

She wept for quite a long time.

The clouds continued to drift by and the sun turned toward the west. Morgan sat up finally, dragged her bloody hands through her hair, then waited until her head stopped spinning before she staggered to her feet. She resheathed her sword and stuck Mehar's knife back down her boot. She would have to face life sooner or later. Perhaps if she got the pain over with quickly, it wouldn't be so terrible. She took a deep breath, then looked around her to get her bearings.

Searbhe was lying quite a distance away from her. She couldn't find Miach, though, which left her a little breathless. Was he so gory, then, that they wouldn't allow her to see him?

She saw her grandfather's elves busily dragging trolls into piles. Sosar and Làidir were bending over to study a corpse lying at their feet. Sìle was standing several feet away, arguing fiercely with a tall, dark-haired man who was covered in blood. Morgan could hardly believe her eyes.

That was Miach.

A sound escaped her. She was sure it hadn't been a pleasant sound, and it had Miach immediately turning to look at her. She ran toward him, but tripped and went sprawling. She found herself caught in strong arms and clutched tightly against a chest that was no longer sporting an enormous hole.

She burst into tears.

It was loud, uncontrollable, and messy weeping, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. She'd never been so completely undone in her entire life.

“I'm all right,” Miach said soothingly. “Morgan, I'm all right.”

She would have cursed him, but what came out of her mouth was another noise of agony so terrible that it frightened her.

Miach swung her up into his arms and carried her over to a tree stump, away from the field of battle. Morgan felt him sit, settle her more comfortably on his lap, then begin to rock her as if she were a child who needed comfort. She didn't protest.

Losing him had been every bit as awful as she'd feared it would be that afternoon in Hearn's hayloft when she'd first considered it. But having his arms around her, his hand smoothing over her hair, his chest rising and falling against hers with each breath he took—that was even more devastating than having thought she'd lost him. She wondered, absently, if she would ever be able to release him.

She suspected not.

She had no sense of how much time passed as she sat with her arms around his neck, her face pressed against his hair. When she thought she could open her mouth without shrieking, she pulled back and looked at him.

“You idiot,” she croaked. “What in the
hell
were you thinking?”

“A worthy sentiment,” Sìle put in from behind her.

Morgan heard her grandfather's voice and realized that behind her lay the first matter she should address. She shot Miach a warning look. “I need to talk to my grandfather, but don't go. I'm not finished with you.”

He only smiled gravely. His eyes were, as it happened, quite full of something that might have passed for tears. “I'm thankful for that,” he murmured.

She glared at him, just so he wouldn't think she planned on giving him any flowery sentiments, then pushed herself up off his lap. She turned and threw her arms around her grandfather. “Thank you,” she said, unable to fight the catch in her voice. “I would have lost him if I had been alone. Anything I can do to repay you, I will do.”

He hesitated only slightly before he returned the embrace. “It was nothing, Mhorghain,” he said gruffly.

“You know it wasn't,” she said quietly, pulling away and looking at him. “You have given me back my life. I am in your debt.”

He looked at her, startled, then looked around her, presumably at Miach. He embraced her again, made a few gruff noises, then set her back with an awkward pat on her shoulder. “I'll remember that.”

“I imagine you will,” Morgan said with a smile. Then she turned and looked at Miach. “I find, however, that I have a very different list of things to say to you.”

He only looked up at her, clear-eyed. “I imagine you do.”

“Would you like my grandfather to enjoy them with you, or shall I take you off and flay you alive in private?”

He managed a smile. “I'll leave that choice to you. But first perhaps you would care to have my apology.”

“Your apology?” she echoed in disbelief. “Why in the
hell
would you bother with that, you treacherous bastard—especially when I have no doubt you'll leave me behind again the first chance you have!”

Sìle grunted and walked away.

Morgan found that her mouth was hanging open. It matched Miach's perfectly. She'd never seen him look quite so startled. She shut her mouth with a snap.

“I meant to say—”

“Precisely that,” he said, reaching out and jerking her down onto his lap, “which I deserved.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. “I almost woke you and told you to get dressed and come with me.”

“Why didn't you?” she asked, pained.

“Because I cannot take you where I'm going.”

“Why not?” she asked in surprise.

He started to speak, then shut his mouth into a grim line and shook his head.

“Do you want me to guess?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Please don't.”

“Do you think I'm afraid?”

He shook his head slowly. “And that is what makes
me
afraid.”

She crawled ungracefully off his lap, then wrapped her arms around herself. “I am not going to marry you, Miach, if you're planning on leaving me behind every time you suspect a small bump in the road.”

“This is not a small bump, Morgan.”

“Tell me what it is and let me decide that for myself.”

He looked up at her for a moment or two in silence, then sighed. “I will later. I need to go clean up first.”

She watched him heave himself unsteadily to his feet. He swayed, then steadied. She took the hand he offered instead of throwing herself in his arms again, which was what she would rather have been doing. Perhaps he was afraid if she got too close, she would stab him.

She was tempted.

But since he'd just been through that, she supposed it would be cruel to put him through it again. She walked with him silently over to where her grandfather and uncles were studying what was left on the ground.

Làidir looked up as they approached. “I've never seen anything like this.”

“Aye, you have,” Sosar said. “Remember Cruadal?”

Làidir shot Miach a look. “We didn't find him amongst the dead, you know.”

Miach sighed deeply. “I don't imagine you did. I also don't think it will serve us to go look for him. I can almost guarantee he will either remain close to us or run to Riamh. All we can do is keep our eyes open and wait to see which it is.” He looked at Sosar. “I'm not certain where he saw the creatures before he arrived in Seanagarra.” He started to speak, then shook his head again and said no more.

Morgan decided that perhaps there would come a time later that day when she would draw her sword and pin him against a tree with it and prod a few answers from him.

It was a certainty that she would have no answers from the men in front of her. Miach was exchanging meaningful looks with her uncles, but nothing else useful was being said.

She supposed it would have gone on for the remainder of the afternoon if she'd allowed it. Her only option was to force their hands. She turned and looked at Miach coolly.

“Perhaps instead of looking them over, we should see to the corpses. You and I need to be going soon—”

“Absolutely not!” Sìle roared. “I'll not have it!”

Morgan looked at her grandfather. “It is
my
choice to go with him, Grandfather,” she said calmly.

“Which choice you wouldn't have even thought of if this mage here hadn't suggested it to you. I
knew
he wasn't to be trusted.” Sìle shot Miach a glare. “And here I was prepared to suffer you—”