The Mage's Daughter (12 page)

“I have no idea,” Morgan said with a snort.

“Don't you?”

Morgan didn't answer. Miach supposed that if she had nothing to say, then his work was most certainly not done.

But that work had to be done soon. He didn't relish the idea of forcing Morgan's hand, but he had no choice. Even if his duty didn't call, he suspected that he was nearing the end of whatever training Weger was willing to give him. He had to talk to Morgan before Weger threw him out the front gates.

He would take another few days, spend as much time with her as possible, then tell her what he'd come to say. That he didn't give a damn if she ever picked up another sword, magical or not. He wanted her just for herself.

And then he supposed she would have to choose between him and Weger.

He couldn't say that he was looking forward to knowing what that choice would be.

A
se'nnight later, on a cold, crisp morning, Morgan sat on the ground with her back against the wall in the sunny lower courtyard. She suspected that she had napped, though she couldn't be certain. Things looked no different from how they had the last time she'd managed to peer at what was going on in front of her. She had to admit, just watching it made her want to close her eyes and go back to sleep.

Miach and Weger were training. She supposed that it might have been called instruction, but even to her jaundiced eye it appeared that Miach was more than holding his own. He and Weger were of a height, quite similar in build, and actually quite evenly matched. They almost looked to be of an age, though she tried not to notice that Miach was as desperately handsome as Weger was not. Then again, for a man who was almost seven centuries old, Weger was actually quite well preserved.

As it were.

She shook her head and wondered if there would ever come a time when she would cease to be surprised by those she kept company with. It never would have occurred to her to think that Weger might have possessed magic, though looking back on it now, she could see how it made sense. His hatred for mages was obviously directed at Lothar, who had amply committed acts to deserve it. It was astonishing to think, though, that she had spent so much of her life in the same castle with Lothar's kin.

Things were indeed not as they seemed.

She had passed most of the evenings during the past se'nnight listening to Weger and Miach talk about characters from legend as easily as if they knew them personally—which she supposed they did. She'd learned more about the Nine Kingdoms and their inhabitants than she'd ever wanted to know.

Those evenings had been rather pleasant, truth be told.

She had to admit, quickly lest she be forced to think on it overmuch, that it warmed her heart to watch Weger treat Miach as an equal. Weger seemed to genuinely like him, though there was a strange undercurrent that ran between the two of them—as if there was an unresolved irritation that vexed them equally.

They seemed to be less troubled by it during the days. Perhaps they were distracted by their determination to shadow her at all costs. She would have insisted that they leave her alone, but she couldn't deny that she was more unsettled than she should have been. She would be long in forgetting the terror she'd felt as she'd watched Searbhe fling Miach off those dreadful mountainside steps. It had taken a great deal out of her, both emotionally and physically.

And so she had acquired two sword-bearing nursemaids. She slept in the courtyard during the daytime whilst Miach and Weger trained and guarded Miach with Weger during the evenings whilst he was at his spells. After another pair of pleasant hours spent in the hall, she forced Miach to sleep a few hours in her bed whilst she and Weger sat outside the door.

She suspected that Weger never slept.

He didn't complain about it, though. Miach complained loudly, but only about her guarding him at night. He didn't want her to watch over him whilst he snoozed comfortably in her bed—his words, not hers—and after the first night, he had flatly refused to do so. She'd finally resorted to tendering a forgiveness for each night that he conceded the battle.

It was a terrible bargain, to be sure.

Especially since she realized that somewhere over the past se'nnight, she had forgiven him all.

It had been impossible not to. Whatever else his faults might have been, he was relentless when he was determined. She still wasn't completely sure why her forgiveness had been so important to him, or what he wanted now that he had it, or why he hadn't left through the front gates. Perhaps he merely remained to see if he could earn Weger's mark.

She couldn't bring herself to even begin to entertain any of the more ridiculous thoughts she'd had in the fall—thoughts of him perhaps having less comradely and more romantic feelings for her.

She turned away from those thoughts with a ruthlessness that made her feel a bit like her old self. Cheered by that, she contented herself with watching Miach execute a very vicious attack. Obviously he had not learned swordplay from Adhémar. Had he been this proficient when he'd come inside Weger's gates, or had he actually increased his skill? If that was the case, then he was formidable indeed. She couldn't think of another soul, save herself of course, who had been taken under Weger's wing so quickly.

She watched them for quite some time before she realized she wasn't the only soul taking an interest in their swordplay. Searbhe was standing in the shadows of the wall, watching Weger and Miach coldly. She studied him dispassionately, trying to reconcile his features with Lothar's. In all honesty, she couldn't say they were similar. Then again, when she'd encountered Lothar, she hadn't been at her best, so perhaps she wasn't in a position to judge.

All she knew was that he had no idea they had discussed him in such detail and that he continually hovered at the edge of her field of vision, apparently waiting for a chance to do damage to Miach. That wouldn't happen that day, not with Weger right there. Morgan found that thought somewhat comforting.

She watched Miach for quite a while before she couldn't help but close her eyes. The last thing she remembered was hearing Weger insult Miach in a particularly vile way. Miach's laughter was like sunlight.

She fell asleep smiling.

 

S
he woke, stiff and cold. The sun had disappeared behind clouds and it was starting to rain. She would have considered suggesting a retreat, but she saw that was unnecessary. Miach and Weger had put up their swords.

She would have tried to get to her feet on her own, but Miach was there first, holding down his hands to her. Morgan let him pull her up, but she refused to take his hand.

“I'm not an invalid,” she said tartly, clutching her blankets to her chest. “My former state aside.”

He smiled. “I know you can walk on your own. I was just looking for an excuse to hold your hand.”

“Inside,” Weger announced loudly, “before Morgan catches her death from the downpour.”

Miach winked at her. “We'd best go before I irritate him so much that he locks us out in the rain.”

Weger pursed his lips. “I would let Morgan in. You, however, I would gladly ban from the upper hall if I could. A pity your swordplay is so much improved.”

“What you really value me for is my ability to gossip like a lady's maid,” Miach remarked, “which needed no improving.”

“Aye, well, that too,” Weger agreed.

Morgan snorted and walked away from them both. She was concentrating so hard on escaping them and not limping whilst she did so that she didn't realize that she'd run into someone until she looked up and saw Searbhe blocking her way. She stared at him dispassionately.

“You're in my way,” she said.

“You're in mine,” he returned. “Move.”

She started to, then gave him a hearty shove. She had flung off her cloak and reached for her sword only to realize it wasn't there. She would have dodged his descending blade but Miach's was suddenly there in front of her. Searbhe's blade screeched along the length of it, coming to rest at the hilt, uncomfortably close to Miach's face. Miach only shoved Searbhe back and elbowed Morgan out of the way.

“Move,” he insisted. He faced Searbhe. “I believe your quarrel is with me.”

“So it is,” Searbhe said.

“But…” Morgan began, but the men ignored her. She found herself hauled backward by Weger. She glared up at him, but he only shook his head sharply.

“Leave it,” he commanded.

“He challenged
me
.”

“You were in his way,” Weger said, then he dropped his voice. “I suspect that what he truly wants is to slay the archmage of Neroche. Let us see if the archmage has learned enough in the past few se'nnights to avoid it.”

Morgan knew there was no point in arguing. Besides, Miach wasn't doing poorly. Indeed, she could admit that not only was he holding his own against Searbhe, he was the far superior swordsman. She was unsurprised to watch him pretend otherwise.

“What is the fool doing?” Weger complained. “Hasn't he paid
any
attention to what I've taught him?”

“He's allowing himself to be underestimated,” Morgan said quietly. “He does it constantly.”

Weger rolled his eyes. “Ridiculous.”

Morgan stood in the rain and watched the very brutal swordfight going on in front of her and found it less ridiculous than terrifying. She realized, with a start, that she cared quite a bit about the outcome. She had no sword and doubted Weger would allow her to borrow his, which left her able to do nothing but hope Miach was in truth holding himself back.

The fight seemed to go on for hours, though she supposed that was only because she marked every meeting of their blades. She decided at that moment that having Miach of Neroche as an enemy would be a very bad thing. She was unwholesomely grateful he was fighting for her. And she was equally as unsettled to find that she was willing to allow him to do the like.

She looked up at Weger. “I think that poison ruined my wits.”

He grunted. “It wouldn't surprise me.”

Morgan turned back in time to watch Miach catch Searbhe's sword by the hilt and send it flying up in the air. He caught it casually, then pointed both swords at his opponent.

“Are you finished, or would you like a bit more?” Miach asked politely.

“Give me my sword,” Searbhe spat.

“You're dangerous with it,” Miach remarked. “Mostly to yourself, unfortunately.”

Searbhe glared at him, his eyes hot with hate. “I'll see you dead.”

Miach shrugged. “I imagine not, but I suppose you'll continue to try.” He tossed Searbhe his sword. “There you go, lad. Don't cut yourself.”

Searbhe cursed him viciously, then turned and stalked off. Miach stood there with his sword bare in his hand and waited until Searbhe had disappeared up the stairs. Then he turned and came across the courtyard, resheathing his sword as he did so. He pushed his hair back from his face and smiled at Morgan.

“Lunch?”

“You're mad,” she said without hesitation. “You provoked him dreadfully.”

He only smiled. “I'm pushing him to do something stupid. We'll see, I suppose, if it serves me.” He looked at Weger. “My lord?”

“Your swordplay was passable,” Weger conceded, “but your taunts only marginally irritating. I expected better from a lad with six brothers.”

“I'm tired,” Miach conceded.

“It shows. I also think you could have finished him more quickly. Showing off, were you?”

Miach smiled wearily. “Not nearly enough, apparently. I'll work on that as well.” He took Morgan's blankets from her. “Let's get out of the rain, woman.”

Morgan nodded and followed them up stairways and through passageways to Weger's gathering hall. She set her blankets on a chair by the hall door and walked over to sit down yet again on the chair with the cushion. Neither Miach nor Weger paid her any heed when she complained about it, so she'd given up trying to convince them it was unnecessary.

She sat by the fire, but found she couldn't stay awake. Weger shook her when a late lunch came, but she couldn't manage any enthusiasm for that either. Fighting Searbhe the week before had been more difficult than she wanted to admit.

She sincerely hoped it didn't mean she would never again be herself.

With that unhappy thought to keep her company, she had some wine, then put her head back and succumbed again to slumber.

 

S
he woke suddenly, sitting up with a start. The hall was lit only by the fireplace and the chairs near her where Miach and Weger usually sat were empty. At first, she wasn't sure if she was dreaming or awake. Then she looked up and saw Searbhe standing in front of her.

She had the feeling he was all too real.

He drew a knife and leaned closer.

“I see you're alone,” he said with a cold smile.

“So I am,” she managed.

He opened his mouth, then frowned. “You look like someone I used to know.”

“Do I?”

“'Tis impossible, of course, but you look a damn sight like Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn,” he said.

“Interesting,” she said faintly. She looked him in the eye, but she was trying to remember if she had any blade loitering within reach. She saw one stuck in Searbhe's belt and decided that would do, if necessary.

“I tried to steal Sarait once.” He pointed to a large, ugly scar down the side of his neck. “She gave me this and left me for dead. I can't repay her for the slight, but I can repay you in her stead. I think I'll enjoy it quite a bit.”

“Will you indeed,” she said, shifting so she would be able to seize his knife if he struck out at her. She looked up at him. “I'm not surprised she bested you. You're one of Lothar's much lesser sons, aren't you?”