The Mage's Daughter (9 page)

He would repay Lothar for that, when he had the chance.

For now, perhaps the best thing he could do was see Morgan to bed. He would do so quickly, before Weger had the chance. He put his hands over hers gently. She sat up with a start, then focused on him.

She looked at him, mute, for quite some time. That she did so, instead of leaping to her feet and drawing her sword, gave him more hope than he'd had in weeks.

“Thank you,” he said, the wind blowing his words away as if they'd been nothing.

She struggled to her feet, then clutched the rock until she was steady. “'Tis for the good of the realm,” she said, pushing past him.

He wasn't surprised by that. He had fully expected that winning her forgiveness would be difficult. But the fact that she'd come to guard him—even if it was just for the sake of the realm—was a promising sign, to his mind. Perhaps he might even manage part of an apology before she bolted herself inside her bedchamber.

He caught up with her in a single stride, then walked next to her without saying anything else. He would have offered her his arm, but he knew she wouldn't take it. He did, however, manage to reach the gate first and open it for her. She didn't look at him as she shuffled through it. Miach pulled the gate to behind him and walked with her across the courtyard. He waited until they were in the shelter of a passageway and the wind had died down far enough for him to be heard before he caught her sleeve.

“Morgan—”

She turned on him. “Why are you here?”

That seemed to be a popular question that night.

He drew her gently under a torch. “I came to talk to you.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Then talk. Briefly. I'm cold and I want to go to bed.”

She was shivering. He wished he had another cloak to put around her. He wished for a hot fire, sweet wine, and hours to explain himself and yet more hours to tell her all the things about her that delighted him and amused him and led him to the realization that he couldn't live without her. Unfortunately, he had none of those things and a very impatient woman standing in front of him.

He reached out and tugged the edges of both their cloaks up closer to her chin. “How are you?” he asked quietly.

“I'm alive,” she said flatly. “And surely you didn't come all this way to find that out.”

“Not entirely, though that was something I wanted to know.” He took a deep breath. “I mostly came to apologize.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You?”

“Surprisingly enough,” he said dryly.

“To whom?”

“To you, of course.”

Her eyes narrowed. “About what?”

“I have a list.”

She leaned against the wall as if she settled in for a lengthy conversation. “Where are you going to start?” she asked in a rather chilly tone. “At the point where you first lied to me?”

He looked at her in surprise. “I never lied.”

“You never lied,” she repeated incredulously. “And allowing me to believe you were someone you were not, telling me that your kin were always angling for a peep inside the palace as if they were peasants, passing yourself off as a simple farmer: all those things were just bits of truth I couldn't recognize?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. “I don't suppose that could be termed hedging,” he said finally.

“I don't suppose it could,” she said stiffly.

He sighed. “You're right. I allowed you to believe I was someone I wasn't and I didn't give you the truth when I should have. I apologize for it. I planned to tell you—”

“When? After I'd put my hand to the damned Sword of Angesand and had it blaze with magelight? After you'd used me till there was nothing left?” She looked up at him furiously. “Was that what you planned for me, Miach?”

He realized at that moment that hearing his name from her lips was something he'd missed greatly. He also realized that despite all the thinking he'd done about what he could say to her, there were no easy answers for what he'd done in the fall, no easy way to apologize for not having told her things he should have. He wished, quite intensely, that he'd told her who he was the moment he'd met her.

But if he had, she wouldn't have spoken to him further, so perhaps he couldn't have done anything differently. He could only do his best to make amends at present.

“I wanted to tell you before you saw the Sword of Angesand,” he said. “And if you want the entire truth, I didn't want you to wield it at all—”

“Liar,” she spat. “Of course you did!”

“I wanted a wielder,” he conceded, “but that was before I knew the wielder was
you
. And after I knew that was your destiny, I wanted you anywhere but near that sword.”

“I don't believe you,” she said bitterly.

“I can't blame you, but it is the truth.” He looked at her for a moment or two, then sighed deeply. “Perhaps it won't make my actions in the fall any more palatable to you, but I'd like to explain them if you would humor me by listening.”

She glared at him, but she wasn't moving. He took that as tacit agreement.

“I have, whether it is convenient or not, a duty to protect the realm of Neroche,” he began slowly. “I found myself in the fall believing that I needed aid in fulfilling that duty. Neroche is under a slow but calculating assault by some species of magic I can't identify. Adhémar has no magic, the Sword of Neroche is nothing but dull steel, and I'm pushed to the limit. I thought if I could find someone to wield the Sword of Angesand, even just to call to its power and add that power to mine, I might purchase myself a bit of time to determine what's undermining my spells.”

“Can you not use the Sword of Angesand yourself?” she asked coolly. “Do you lack the power?”

“The sword does not call to me,” he said carefully, “and so there is no point in my trying to use it. It doesn't matter how much power I might or might not have. I cannot force the sword to respond to me.”

She didn't answer. She wouldn't meet his eyes, but then again, she wasn't walking away or reaching for her sword.

It was progress.

“If Neroche falls,” he continued quietly, “there will be nothing standing between Lothar and the rest of the Nine Kingdoms.”

“And you're holding the line, is that it?” she asked unwillingly.

“Aye,” he said, “I am. And I will not be able to do so indefinitely.”

She pursed her lips, but said nothing.

“I think you should also know,” he began, “that if the wielder of the Sword of Angesand had been some lad I'd found in a mercenary camp, I would have strapped him to my horse and carried him back to Tor Neroche without a second thought. But the wielder was you, and I knew I couldn't—didn't want to—force you into a destiny you might not want.”

“Yet you took me to Tor Neroche just the same.”

He met her eyes. “After being attacked twice by the same sort of creatures, I thought that the safest place for you would be within the palace walls. Only the palace didn't turn out to be a safe place at all.” He reached out and put his hand on her crossed arms. “I'm sorry, Morgan. I can only tell you that I wanted to talk to you before you saw the sword. Before you fell asleep, didn't I tell you that I had aught to tell you first thing in the morning?”

“Aye,” she agreed unwillingly.

“I had planned to tell you everything, but I spent the night and the next day working and lost track of time. You found the sword before I could stop you. I would go back and do that day over again if I could.” He took a deep breath. “I would do many days over again, if I could.”

She bowed her head and was still for so long, he wondered if she had forgotten he was there.

Then she turned and walked away without saying anything.

Miach leaned against the wall and watched her flee. Well, she didn't flee. She only walked, but it was faster than he'd seen her move in days. Perhaps there was healing happening after all.

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. He'd made a beginning at least and she had been willing to listen. She could have simply stuck him and been done with it. His belly was, as it happened, un-pierced. He supposed that could be considered a good thing.

His arm pained him suddenly. It pained him almost as much as did his heart.

Regret was a miserable thing.

 

S
crymgeour Weger watched from the shadows as Morgan walked slowly and unsteadily toward her chamber and the archmage of Neroche turned and walked with equal unsteadiness toward the stairs that led down. He wasn't one to eavesdrop, but he'd found himself trapped without an escape. He'd merely followed the pair across the courtyard so he could brush the mage off and escort Morgan to her chamber himself. He hadn't expected to hear so much, and he was heartily sorry he had.

He leaned back against the wall and considered several things he hadn't before. It was obvious that Morgan knew Neroche's most powerful finger-waggler far better than she had admitted. That Prince Mochriadhemiach should have wanted to keep company with her was understandable. Not only was Morgan lethal, she was exceptionally beautiful and had wit to match any man Weger had ever met. But magic as well?

Interesting.

And what was that business about the Sword of Angesand? If the Neroche lads thought she was destined to wield it, then her power must be staggering. He couldn't imagine it, though he supposed he wasn't one to judge. It wasn't as if she could have used it within his walls.

But why would an orphaned lass of no consequence find herself in possession of that kind of magic?

She reminded him of someone. He searched back through his memory for quite some time, but decided on nothing useful. She had an elvish look to her, but perhaps that was simply because she was so damned beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. No wonder the archmage of Neroche wanted her and not, as he had put it, for her skill with the sword.

Not that he would have her. Morgan couldn't abide mages.

And since that was the case, Weger supposed it might be wise to keep a few things to himself. She would wonder how he knew so much about anything beyond Gobhann's walls. He would have to tell her why eventually, he supposed, but he would wait for the proper time.

He wasn't surprised, knowing what he knew now, that she had come back to Gobhann. Many came within the gates to escape the magic in their veins. He could remind her of that and offer her the silence of his hall.

He suspected she might be tempted to take it.

He pushed away from the wall and decided to have a final look about. Then he would keep an eye on the mage prince. He hadn't looked particularly steady on his feet, and Weger suspected that had more to do with his arm than with the rejecting blow Morgan had just dealt him.

M
organ paced the length of the library, feeling rather spry, all things considered. She'd just finished climbing from the lowest gates to the uppermost courtyard without stopping. Well, that wasn't precisely true. She'd had to stop at the top of every staircase, but it hadn't been several times on each as she'd been forced to the previous se'nnight. She also ignored the fact that the feat had taken her the better part of the afternoon. She almost believed that she might someday feel again as she had before.

Well, at least her form might feel as it once had. She despaired of her heart ever recovering.

Damn Miach of Neroche to hell and back.

She turned and looked out the window at the roiling sea below her. She wasn't quite sure what she should think about the apology he'd offered the night before. She supposed it wasn't every day that the archmage of Neroche expressed regret to a no-name shieldmaiden—after having come inside Gobhann to do so, no less.

She turned away from the window. Perhaps she would do better not to think on any of it overmuch. It could only lead to thinking on things she couldn't understand…or remedy.

Perhaps that was how Miach felt as well. There were some things that simply couldn't be undone, no matter how many prettily spoken apologies were offered.

“Morgan.”

She looked up to find Weger standing in the doorway. “Aye, my lord?”

“Come with me,” he said urgently. “Now.”

He turned away. Morgan hurried across the chamber, then struggled to keep up with his swift strides. She felt better, but not that much better. She paused first in the middle of the courtyard, then at the gate to catch her breath. Weger cursed her every time she stopped, but she simply couldn't go any faster. He continued on through the gate in the wall and to the stairs that led up to Miach's tower. She had to stop at the bottom of them and lean over until the stitch in her side eased enough to allow her to straighten. Then she looked up at Weger.

“I can't climb these again.”

“You have no choice,” he said. “Hurry.”

She would have told him absolutely not, but there was something in his eye that told her he wouldn't accept anything but her acquiescence. She took a deep breath, put aside her unease, and started to climb. She only managed a handful of stairs before she stumbled and had to clutch the hem of Weger's tunic to keep from falling off the side and plunging to her death. The sun hadn't fully set yet and she could see very well just exactly what lay beneath her. Three hundred feet down and nothing but jagged rocks as a landing place.

Weger cursed and grabbed her hand to pull her along after him. Morgan didn't dare ask what he wanted, nor did she have breath for asking why he was so concerned that she visit a place where magic was possible.

He shoved the key into the lock, then pushed her inside the chamber. She staggered as magic ran through her like a fever. Weger lit a torch and jammed it into a sconce.

“Look,” he said.

Morgan did, then understood why Weger had been in such terrible haste.

Miach was lying on the floor, still as death. He was bare-chested, but not shivering. There were red streaks trailing up his arm toward his shoulder, like claw marks from some terrible beast. She stepped over him, then dropped to her knees next to him and put her hand on his face. He was on fire, the fool. She closed her eyes briefly. What was he thinking?

“He fell senseless earlier,” Weger said grimly. “He was calling for you in his fevered dreams, so I brought him here and came to fetch you.”

Morgan ran her fingers over the red streaks on Miach's arm. She supposed she could open the stitches, draw forth the pus, and then treat him with herbs. She could brew tea, perhaps, and hope that it counteracted the infection. She had learned how in the infirmary below during her first month at Gobhann. But that would take time.

Miach obviously did not have the luxury of time.

“And just what is it, my lord,” she said, her mouth appallingly dry, “that you intend me to do for him that the apothecary cannot?”

“I assume he had good reason to call your name instead of Master John's.”

She closed her eyes briefly. Aye, he'd had good reason, indeed. She knew what would heal Miach, heal him instantly so he would wake to himself, whole. And if she used that knowledge, Weger would know just what she was capable of—and then he would throw her off the walls. But if she didn't do something for Miach quickly, he would die. She couldn't let that happen, no matter the cost to her personally.

She took a deep breath. “I have a little magic,” she said, spitting out the words as quickly as possible. “I never asked for it and I don't want it.” She paused, then looked up at Weger. No sense in not seeing the extent of his disgust.

He was, however, merely leaning back against the door with his arms folded over his chest, watching her without expression. His hand was comfortably far from his sword hilt. “Can you heal him with that magic?”

Morgan felt a little winded. “I think so.”

He studied her for another moment or two. “I daresay you have quite a tale to tell to the right listener.”

“I suspect, my lord, that the right listener would not be you.”

“You might be surprised.” He gestured toward Miach. “Do what you can then, woman. I'll avert my eyes.”

Morgan couldn't even manage a smile. For one thing, she wasn't at all sure that Weger wouldn't finish her off when he saw her use a spell and find it responsive to the magic in her veins. And secondly, she wasn't sure Miach would live.

He burned with a terrible heat, but he didn't thrash about. Perhaps he had no more strength for thrashing. Perhaps he was closer to death than she feared. She took his hand, then reached out to smooth his hair back from his brow.

She searched through dreams and words spoken for anything that might help her. She considered the spell of healing that Adhémar had once given her. She could still see the results of that on Miach's arm: five fingerprints were indelibly burned into his flesh. But that spell had only healed a slice in Miach's flesh; it had done nothing for infection. How was she to see to that?

Before she panicked truly, she began to hear words in her head. She couldn't understand them at first, but once she did, she immediately understood how they might be used in drawing out poisons.

Had Miach used that spell to heal her? That voice was not his, but she had no time to determine whose it was. It was enough to have the words there in her mind, ready for her use. She put her fingers over Miach's wound and repeated the spell faithfully.

She hadn't but breathed the last word when he suddenly jerked his arm away and sat up with a start.

“Ouch, damn you—” he began. Then he apparently realized who was holding on to him. He smiled. “Morgan.”

Then his smile faded and he went very still.

Morgan understood. She watched him look at her for several heartbeats, his eyes wide with surprise. Then he slowly turned his head and looked up at Weger, who was still leaning against the door. Weger's expression was, as usual, inscrutable. He tossed Miach a fresh black tunic and a key.

“There you are,” he said. “Work begins at dawn. You look fit for it now.”

Miach leapt to his feet. “Thank you, my lord.”

Morgan was not so swift to rise. She had to use Miach's freshly healed arm as a means to get up. “My lord—” she began.

Weger turned, his hand on the door latch. “We'll speak later.” He shot Miach a look. “Don't keep her here all evening. She needs sleep.”

And with that, he left the chamber, slamming the door behind him.

Miach looked down at his arm. Morgan looked as well. Five new fingerprints had joined the first set, only the fresh ones were not as angry looking as the others. Miach smiled at her.

“You're improving.”

She ignored that. “Weger brought me here,” she said uneasily. “He knew what I could do.”

“Perhaps I babbled things I shouldn't have.”

She shook her head. “He said you had called for me, nothing more.” She paused. “You worried him.”

“He only wants me for my magecraft,” Miach said lightly. “Because I keep him from being overrun by Lothar's minions.”

“How could he not?” she said. She realized, with a start, that she was standing far too close to him for her peace of mind. She backed away and sat down against the wall whilst she could still manage it.

Miach pulled the tunic over his head, then went to lock the door. He returned to sit facing her. “Thank you for my life,” he said quietly.

“Aye, well, it was a close thing,” she said, far more casually than she felt. “You idiot,” she added before she could help herself.

“I beg your pardon?” he said with half a laugh.

“You should have let me see to your arm sooner. You're the bloody archmage of the realm. You have business to see to, business that you can't see to if you're dead!” She glared at him. “Why don't you be about that business so I can go to bed?”

He didn't reply. He simply watched her with a look a duller wench might have termed affection.

“What?” she snapped.

He smiled gravely. “I thought I might try a few more apologies since I have you here.”

“What for this time? That you dragged me away from a warm fire?” she asked, desperate to avoid anything more serious. “Aye, you should be sorry for that.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry that you had to find out who I was the way you did—”

“What, with that bloody Sword of Angesand singing in my ears? And the ring? And the knife? You left me there,” she said, blurting out what pained her the most. “You left me alone.”

She found, to her horror, that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Miach walked over to her on his knees and reached for her hands. He held them tightly with his. “Morgan, I'm sorry.”

She wanted to wipe her face, but he wouldn't release her hands. She settled for trying to rub her eyes against her shoulder. “It doesn't matter now,” she managed.

He put a hand under her chin and turned her face toward him. “It
does
matter,” he said seriously. “I wish that it had all come about differently.” He took her hands with his again. “If I could go back and change things, believe me, I would.”

“Why didn't you tell me who you were from the start?” she whispered, looking at him miserably. “In truth?”

“In truth?” He looked down at her hands and rubbed his thumbs over the back of them. “I knew how you felt about mages and I didn't want you to hate me.” He looked up. “I suppose it didn't serve me, did it?”

“I don't hate you,” was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

She wanted to take back her words, or add to them, or toss off some sharp remark that would make him rethink his plans to stay at Gobhann, but all she could do was sit there and look at him like the witless tavern wench she had obviously become. Witless and ill. She wondered if she would ever be herself again.

“Well,” he said, with a smile, “that's something, at least.”

She wanted to run, but she couldn't. She wanted to drive him away, but she couldn't bring herself to do that either. She wished, suddenly, that he was not the archmage and she was not a shieldmaiden full of magic she did not want. If she had met him at a tavern, perhaps things would have been different.

But things were as they were. He was trapped as much by his duty as she was by the nightmares that awaited her outside Weger's gates.

“I'm tired,” she said suddenly, pulling her hands away from his. “Please just do what you do so we can be out of this horrible place.”

“Morgan—”

“Please, Miach.”

He sighed deeply. “As you will.” He rose and paced about the chamber for a moment or two, put his hand briefly on the door, then sighed and came to sit down cross-legged in the middle of the chamber. He looked at her once more for a long moment, then bowed his head.

Morgan looked away as his stillness filled the chamber. Tears coursed down her cheeks until the edge of her cloak was damp. She finally dragged her sleeve across her face and thought surly thoughts until she felt a little more herself.

And then she engaged in much less useful activities. She pulled her cloak and Miach's more closely about her and watched him by the soft light of the torch on the wall. It was foolish, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Never mind that he was not for her. How often did she have the chance to observe him while he was otherwise occupied?

She realized, as she watched him, that she had become far more accustomed to him than she wanted to admit. She knew what the touch of his hand on hers felt like. She knew the music of his laugh and the warmth of his smile. She knew how it felt to be the recipient of his small kindnesses, his gentle teasing, his companionship.