The Mage's Daughter Page 7

  He bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck. There was nothing to be done about it at present. He hadn’t seen Morgan since the night in the tower chamber, which worried him. Had the exertion of the climb set her back in her recovery? He supposed that if something truly dire had happened to her, Weger would have summoned him. Perhaps someone had had the good sense to shackle her to her bed where she might rest.

  Weger didn’t seem to need any, though. Miach had found him at the bottom of the steps every night, standing in what poor shelter the mountain provided. Weger had consistently brushed off his thanks. Miach had wondered, in the odd moment when he’d been free of some physical task, why it was that Weger had aided him by means of the tower chamber key. Surely he had to know that Miach was there for more than just sword skill. Perhaps he merely thought it would be good sport to watch Miach try to convince Morgan to leave with him…and fail repeatedly.

  He pulled himself away from his unproductive speculation. He had no idea what Weger thought and no desire to find out. His task was to gain access to the upper courtyard where he could see Morgan. Now, what he needed to do was see to his spells so he could go to bed.

  He looked about the dining hall to judge its emptiness. It was free of diners save a lone man sitting at a table in a darkened corner, watching him.

  Miach sighed lightly. That was Searbhe, another in a rather substantial string of enemies he’d managed to make over the past fortnight. There had been abundant grumbling over his progress from many and outright cursing from many more when he was within earshot. Searbhe was one of the more vocal of the lot. He let no opportunity pass to complain about the obvious partiality Miach seemed to enjoy from Weger. Miach never dignified that accusation with a reply. It was ridiculous, especially since Weger had nothing at all to do with his progress; any advancements he made were determined by the men who trained him.

  Miach would have ignored Searbhe entirely, but there was something about him that just wasn’t right. He claimed to be from Iomallach, which Miach knew was a lie. Miach knew the ambassador from Iomallach well; Searbhe did not have his accent.

  He supposed if he were to choose a far-flung locale that would be unfamiliar to most, he would have chosen such a place, but why did Searbhe find that necessary? It was odd to make such a point of feigning to be from an area he wasn’t.

  Unless he had something quite significant to hide.

  Miach considered it for a moment or two, then shook his head and drained his ale. Searbhe was irritating simply because he made a point of heckling Miach every chance he had. Miach could shrug that aside easily enough. Growing up with six brothers had made him impervious to needling. Whatever other mischief Searbhe was about just couldn’t be all that interesting.

  Miach set his cup aside and rose. He couldn’t wait the other man out and he doubted Searbhe had the wherewithal to be interested in what Miach did at night. He left the dining hall and wandered the passageways briefly before he started up the stairs toward the upper levels.

  He heard the sound of a footfall behind him and stopped. He continued on, then stopped again. Perhaps he had been too hasty in dismissing Searbhe’s interest in him. He pretended to fix something in his boot, then continued on, running up the stairs. He burst out onto the uppermost courtyard and turned, pulling his sword free of its sheath as he did so.

  He managed to meet Searbhe’s blade before it cleaved his head in twain, but it was a near thing. He fought off the man’s assault, though, with more ease than he would have expected. Perhaps his time at Gobhann had not been wasted.

  And then Searbhe struck him suddenly with the flat of his blade directly over the slice on his arm. Pain flashed through him and his left arm went numb.

  “Damn you,” Miach gasped.

  Searbhe said nothing but continued a very brutal assault. Miach wished absently that he hadn’t spent most of the day training. He was tired and tiring more by the moment. He kept his left arm close to his body and fought with his right hand alone. Searbhe, of course, continued with two-handed swings, relentlessly pushing Miach back across the courtyard.

  Miach fought until he was so weary, he wondered how he might lift his arm again. He knew that Searbhe had struck him twice more on the arm, but he honestly couldn’t remember at what point during the skirmish that had happened. He realized, though, that if he didn’t do something soon, he wouldn’t be walking away in one piece.

  He feinted to one side, then knocked the sword of out Searbhe’s hands when he let his guard down. He put the point of his sword to Searbhe’s throat before the other man could lean down and snatch up his sword.

  “Be done,” Miach suggested, his chest heaving.

  “I’m not finished with you,” Searbhe spat.

  Miach tapped Searbhe under the chin. “You should be.”

  “You won’t leave here alive, whoreson,” Searbhe hissed.

  “We’ll see, I suppose,” Miach said with a shrug. He removed his sword from Searbhe’s throat and kicked the man’s sword over to him.

  Searbhe bent to retrieve it, then flung himself at Miach, the knife in his hand flashing in the moonlight. Miach caught Searbhe’s wrist and saved himself a skewering.

  “Enough,” Weger commanded, stepping out from the shadows behind them.

  Miach shoved Searbhe backward. “You’ll find I don’t take kindly to threats.”

  “And you’ll find I mean mine,” Searbhe warned.

  Miach rested his sword against his shoulder and stared at Searbhe until he turned away with a curse and walked off.

  Miach watched him go, then looked at Weger. “An interesting lad, that one.”

  “We have all sorts of rabble come through here,” Weger said offhandedly. “You’re proof enough of that, I suppose.”

  Miach only smiled, unoffended. “No doubt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’m off to see to some business.” He made Weger a bow and walked away.

  Weger caught up with him immediately. “I wonder,” he said, “given the nature of your business, why you’re here and not closer to home.”

  “I’m looking for something.”

  “So you said, but I’m wondering what the truth is.”

  “I didn’t lie before,” Miach said mildly.

  “You weren’t completely frank either, and you’ll regret that cheek when I take over your training,” Weger growled. “Now, give me the truth. What are you here for?”

  Miach supposed there was little reason in denying it any longer, given that Weger likely already had his suspicions. “I’m here for Morgan.”

  Weger nodded knowingly. “I thought so—and I can’t blame you. You couldn’t ask for a better swordsman.”

  “I don’t want her for her sword skill.”

  Weger came to an abrupt halt. He turned to look at Miach with his mouth hanging open. Miach supposed that he wasn’t surprised often, but he looked it then.

  “Then what do you want her for?” Weger asked.

  “With all due respect, my lord, that is none of your business.”

  Weger looked at him in astonishment for another moment or two, then his expression hardened. “I see.”

  “So you do.” Miach smiled wearily. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’ll be about my affairs. Dawn comes early.”

  Weger only grunted at him. Miach continued on his way across the courtyard. He found, to his surprise, that Weger was walking next to him. Well, at least he wasn’t cursing him or sticking him with a handy blade. Perhaps he was simply looking for something appropriately crushing to say.

  Miach paused at the bottom of the mountainside stairs and watched Weger study him for a moment or two.

  “You won’t have her,” Weger said finally.

  And with that, he turned and walked away.

  Miach was tempted to list all the reasons he hoped Weger was wrong, but decided it wasn’t useful. All he could do was see to his business quickly and go to bed so he could pass another level on the morrow. He wouldn’t be able to convinc
e Morgan to come with him until he could see her more often than simply by chance.

  He waited for a bit just to make sure no one else followed him, but saw no one. He turned and took the steps three at a time until he reached the tower chamber. He paused at the door, but couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the ocean below and the shrieking of the wind. Perhaps that was enough for the moment. He locked himself inside and went about his business as quickly as possible.

  He had no idea how much time had passed before he came back to himself, nor did he want to know. He was simply grateful that the damage done to his spells was no worse than usual. He rubbed his hands over his face and fought the urge to simply lie down on the floor and succumb to sleep. His arm was on fire and he felt an unsettling tingle run through him every time he moved.

  Obviously, another trip to the apothecary was called for.

  He left the chamber, locked it behind him, then made his way wearily down the stairs. Perhaps if he managed a cup full of useful herbs and a decent night’s sleep, he might have the energy tomorrow night to do more than just repair what was being damaged on Neroche’s northernmost borders. The slippage of his spells hadn’t increased, but it was steady. That didn’t bother him as much as that the mischief didn’t bear Lothar’s mark.

  What in the hell was going on in the realm?

  He cursed his way down the remainder of the stairs. He was torn, as seemed to be his state of late, between duty and his heart. There would come a time, he feared, when he would not have the luxury of seeing to both. He would have to go—sooner rather than later.

  But he couldn’t leave without Morgan.

  He almost ploughed her over before he realized she was sitting on the bottom step. He came to a teetering halt on the step above her, caught himself on the rock wall, then slipped past her. She was sound asleep, in spite of the bitter cold. He would have put his cloak around her, but she was already wearing it. He wasn’t sure how to take that, so he thought he might do well to not take it at all. She was cold, nothing more.

  She was also guarding the steps.

  Or she would have been if she hadn’t been asleep.

  He squatted down in front of her. A wave of fever again washed over him. He cursed silently. His arm had been better until Searbhe had gone at it. He could feel his fingers again, but the wound throbbed persistently. Damn it anyway. He permitted himself a shiver, then turned his attentions to the sight of the woman sitting in front of him.

  She was no less beautiful than she had ever been, but she was gaunt. Even sleep could not take away the dark smudges under her eyes or the hollows of her cheeks. She had always had slender fingers, but her hands now clasped in her lap were bony. They were the hands of an old woman, sick unto death, not the hands of a woman who had the whole of her life to look forward to.

  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?”