The Mage's Daughter (6 page)

None of that mattered at Gobhann, obviously. He suspected that Weger was serious: either he would take away a mark or he would find himself flung off the walls.

All the more reason to work on his swordplay.

And perhaps whilst he was doing that, he might actually manage to find the woman he hoped was within Gobhann's dreadful walls.

He walked through the gate and across Weger's uppermost courtyard. He was so intent on reaching his bed that he almost ploughed a lad over before he realized what he was doing. He grasped the boy by the arms to steady him.

“Sorry,” he said automatically.

The lad jerked himself away and almost went sprawling. The hood fell back away from his face as he struggled to keep his feet.

Or her feet, rather.

Miach closed his eyes briefly, then reached out again to take Morgan by the arms. She held him off, swayed for a moment or two, then stumbled away.

“Morgan,” he said, “wait.”

He started after her only to find someone else in the way.

“I'll see to her,” Weger said.

Miach stepped back. He was so astonished by how frail Morgan was, he could do nothing but watch as Weger took her by the arm and walked her off into the shadows.

“Why are you out of bed, woman?” Weger growled. “I told you to stay there until I gave you leave to move.”

“I can decide when I'll leave my own bed, thank you very much,” Morgan snapped.

Miach started to follow them, then caught a full view of the warning look Weger threw him. He stopped immediately, then merely stood there and watched them walk away together. Weger was clucking over Morgan like an anxious hen and Morgan was, unsurprisingly, having none of it. He would have smiled at the thought of someone else being subjected to her stubbornness, but he was suddenly far too envious of Weger's position in Morgan's life to smile. He was no nursemaid, to be sure, but he would have given much to have been the one to tend her.

He was giving much, as it happened.

He looked thoughtfully after them and considered the look Weger had given him. Rather too possessive for a man whose only interest in Morgan was her sword skill, to his mind.

Damnation, what next?

He watched until he could see them no longer, then turned and made his way back down to his frigid cell. Dawn would come sooner than he cared for and there would be the task of swordplay to keep him from thinking too much. He felt a little unsteady as he walked into his chamber and shut the door behind him.

Morgan was alive and he had seen her with his own eyes. It was a start.

A pity she was just as displeased to see him as he'd feared she would be.

M
organ dreamed.

She stood in the great hall of Tor Neroche and stared up at the Sword of Angesand hanging over the fireplace. It sang a song of Camanaë, a beautiful song that wove itself in and out of her thoughts until she became part of it. She reached up and the sword leapt off the wall and into her hand as if it had been waiting for her to come call it.

And then someone spoke her name.

She turned around. There on the other side of the table stood Mochriadhemiach of Neroche. She wanted to walk around and throw herself into his arms, then she remembered that he had lied to her about who he was and what he wanted from her
—
which was, as it happened, her hand on the sword she held.

A great anger welled up in her. It raged through her with a sound of rushing wind, white hot in its fierceness, leaving her blind to all but her fury. Miach had lied to her. He had called her
love.

She lifted the sword
—

And brought it down with all her strength against the lord's table before her.

The blade splintered, shattered, sparked as it disintegrated into thousands of shards and bits that floated through the air before her like snow.

Morgan stared at the haft of the sword, that beautiful hilt that was worked with a tracery of leaves and flowers, and could not believe what she had just done. She looked over the table, but Miach no longer stood there.

In his place was Gair of Ceangail, the black mage who had slain his entire family with a single act of arrogance…

 

M
organ woke with a gasp. She wasn't supposed to dream inside Gobhann. She certainly wasn't supposed to dream about black mages and other mages and swords she had once held that were now no more.

She forced herself out of bed, shaking as she did so. She dressed, but it took her far longer than it should have. Her hands trembled so badly when she tried to drink tea that it splashed all over the floor. She set the cup down and sat on the edge of her bed until she thought she could get herself across the room. She would drink later, when she'd regained control of her frenzied imagination.

Her dream was an aberration. Gobhann was a safe place for her. As long as she was within its walls she had no magic, no terrible dreams, nothing to fear. Her unwelcome and hopefully solitary nightmare had no doubt come because she'd been in bed too long.

She'd been there since she'd seen Miach in the upper courtyard a se'nnight ago. She'd had too much time to think about things she should have avoided, too much time to listen to her blood sloshing languidly through her veins, and far too much time to wonder how it was that Miach of Neroche managed to say her name differently from anyone else.

In a small, private way that made her want to curl up next to him as if he were a merry fire and she in desperate need of his warmth.

She would have given herself a good shake, but she feared that would land her back in bed, so she contented herself with a selection of curses chosen for their ability to drive foolish thoughts from her head. She shut her door behind her with a bang, then squeaked in surprise as something slid along the wall toward her.

She had to take several deep breaths when she realized it had only been a sword to tip her way. She picked it up and looked at it.

It was plain and unadorned, but light—obviously made for her strength of arm. She drew it partway from the sheath. It was lethally sharp and obviously freshly forged. She would have wept, but she was too tired. Truly Weger had done more for her than she deserved.

She resheathed the sword and considered briefly using it as a cane, but that was an appalling thought, so she carried it and vowed to not use it that way unless she simply had no other choice.

She made her way out to the courtyard, assuming that since Weger had left a sword for her, he intended that she use it. She paused on the edge of his training circle. He was working with someone she would have found nothing more than a marginally worthy opponent two months ago, but now found simply exhausting to watch. She wondered, briefly, if she would ever regain her strength enough to be what she once was.

Weger noticed her and held off his student. He resheathed his sword and strode across the courtyard to her.

“You found your new blade.”

“I did, my lord,” she said with a nod. “It was very generous and I thank you for it.”

He nodded toward the stairs. “Come with me. You'll train someone today.”

“A novice?” she asked, following him with as much spring in her step as she could muster—which wasn't much. She was better than she had been, though. Perhaps lying abed had been more useful than she'd thought.

“Nay, he's not a novice,” Weger said. “He's passed the first four levels, and quickly too. In fact, only one other soul has ever progressed at such a pace.”

Morgan watched her feet so she wouldn't trip and land upon her lovely sword. “Who was that?”

“You, of course,” Weger said. “You don't think I'd completely insult you, do you?”

“You'd be justified in it.”

“Nay, gel, you can still best half the lads in the keep even now. But try not to indulge in any womanly swooning whilst you're about this labor. It wouldn't be good for morale.”

She nodded and followed him to the next courtyard down. It was, as it happened, the one with the most sunshine. It was also the most protected, sheltered as it was from the sea air by the upper levels of the castle. She was unwholesomely grateful for the warmth—she who in another life had preferred the cold, cruel wind that drove all but the most hardy indoors. But now she was not herself and the wind threatened to steal not only her breath but her strength as well. A bit of light exercise in the sunshine was welcome indeed.

“As I said before, this lad has some skill, but nothing to match yours,” Weger said. “Even in your weak condition, you should be able to keep the upper hand easily.”

Morgan nodded, let him take her cloak and scabbard, then took her sword in her hand and moved out from behind him to face her student.

It was Miach.

“Begin,” Weger commanded.

Morgan raised her sword only because Weger had trained her too well to obey without question. “We'll s-start with ri…right-handed sweeps,” she said automatically, stammering in spite of herself.

But she swung amiss on the first attempt. Miach's reflexes were, fortunately for him, far quicker than hers. He caught her blade with his and stopped it from slicing across his face. She was so startled by that, she almost dropped her sword.

Weger made a sound of disgust.

Morgan took a better grip on her sword, then began again. Miach did nothing more than follow her movements faithfully, as if he truly sought to learn something new. She remembered suddenly a conversation she'd overheard in a tavern near Tor Neroche. The men behind her had been discussing the archmage of Neroche.

He can outride the king, outfight Cathar the Fierce, weave melodies in the
wind that would shame Nemed the Fair, and do all these other things that normal men couldn't do even if they had magic
—
and the archmage can do all these things in spite of his magic
.

She realized that though she had fought alongside Miach in a skirmish or two, she had never fought against him. It was obvious by the way he was engaging her that he was far beyond needing to learn what she was supposed to be teaching him.

Why was he in Gobhann?

“Come on, woman,” Weger said impatiently, “pour some energy into seeing to this whelp.”

Morgan had to rest for a moment. “I'm trying.”

“Try harder,” Weger growled. “Dredge up your irritation for something. Perhaps pampered lads who've never done a decent day's work in their lives. Nay, here's something else: mages. Think on how much you loathe them, those prissy, finger-waggling meddlers who tamper with lives and kingdoms and scores of other things they shouldn't.”

Prissy? Morgan looked at Miach and was forced to admit that of all the things he might be, prissy was not one.

Weger continued on with his list of things mages befouled, but Morgan could hardly pay attention to it, much less muster up any enthusiasm for it. She found that she couldn't look Miach in the eye either. Every time she did, she faltered.

Damn him to hell, why had he come?

“Morgan, be about it!”

She raised her sword and attacked Miach, but she was weak and clumsy. Perhaps Weger was the one who should be damned. Why was he goading her so? It wasn't possible he knew who Miach was.

Was it?

“Bloody hell,” Miach exclaimed, flinching suddenly.

Morgan looked at his arm and saw the rent there in his sleeve—and the slice across his arm under the rent. Her sword fell from her hand and landed with a clang against the stone under her feet. “I'm so sorry,” she said, embarrassed beyond belief.

Miach shook his head. “My fault. I was in your way.”

The arm of his tunic was rapidly growing wet. Weger stepped around her and examined the wound. She watched in consternation as Weger borrowed a marginally clean rag from another student and cinched it tight around Miach's arm.

“Have that seen to,” Weger commanded.

Miach nodded and resheathed his sword. “I'll return as soon as I have.”

“Miach,” Morgan began weakly.

“'Twas an accident, no more.” He smiled at her. “Not to worry.”

She would have tried to apologize again, but he shook his head quickly. He put his hand briefly on her shoulder as he passed her. She turned and watched him walk across the courtyard and lope easily down the stairs.

Weger picked up her sword, resheathed it, and handed it to his page.

“Stephen, take that back to her chamber and see food provided for her.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Weger draped her cloak around her shoulders. “I provoked you prematurely,” was all he said before he turned and walked away.

Morgan watched numbly as the handful of other men who had been watching followed Weger up the stairs. She stood there and blinked against the faint light from the winter sun. She had never once in her long and illustrious career at Gobhann cut another soul accidentally. She had never, as it happened, cut someone intentionally. It had been a matter of pride with her, that she should be careful and skilled enough to have full control over her blade at all times.

She turned and made her way slowly over to the wall, leaned on it until she'd caught her breath, then started to shuffle along it, using it like a cane to steady herself.

She wished she'd had her sword.

 

S
he spent the evening in front of the fire in Weger's gathering chamber. She couldn't bring herself to go to bed. She'd slept the afternoon away and found herself troubled not by dreams of destroying legendary swords, but by dreams of bad swordplay. She had fought opponent after opponent but managed to cut every last bloody one of them.

Sleep, apparently, was not what she needed at present.

She excused herself to escape the food Weger was trying to force on her and managed to walk all the way to the door and out into the passageway without stopping. She wasn't going to examine how long it took to catch her breath after she'd closed the door behind her.

She was, she supposed, very fortunate to be alive.

She made her way out to the courtyard, then stood on the edge of it and let the wind blow across her face. She stood there for quite some time, grateful for an empty place where she could wheeze with abandon. Unfortunately, it wasn't empty for long. She pulled back into the shadows at the sight of someone striding across the courtyard with a truly appalling display of energy.

She realized immediately that it was Miach. And just where did he think he was off to at this time of night in such haste?

Before she could think better of it, she followed him across the upper yard and through the gate set into the far wall—though she did it at a much slower pace. She came out eventually into a smallish, flat place that was even more inhospitable than the courtyard inside the walls. The wind was blowing a gale and it cut through her as if she wore nothing at all. The only means of escape was a staircase, cut into the side of the mountain. She looked up and saw a black figure near its top.

What was he doing up there?

She supposed that if she'd had any sense at all, she would have turned around and gone straight to bed. No doubt Stephen had left some species of delicate tea there by her bedside to tempt her. It might actually still be warm if she hurried.