The Mage's Daughter (16 page)

He looked up and found Morgan arguing in hushed tones with Master Dominicus. She seemed to be enjoying herself, so he took the opportunity to glance briefly at what Nicholas had given him. He was somehow unsurprised to find that the first name that his glance fell upon was Gair of Ceangail.

Miach let out his breath slowly. Poor Sarait. What a terrible position she had found herself in. He wasn't surprised to learn her father had opposed the marriage. To say Sìle of Tòrr Dòrainn didn't care for mages didn't begin to address his disdain. Weger would have found a friend in that one.

He refused to think about what that might potentially mean for him.

He continued to read, though he already knew what had happened next.

Miach blinked. Disappeared? He'd always heard that the eldest lad, Keir, had died. And what was that about Gair's kin? He was the son of Eulasaid of Camanaë and Sgath of Ainneamh, though neither the mages of Camanaë nor the elves of Ainneamh would claim him. How had Gair become part of Ceangail?

He sighed and turned pages on either side of the tale, wondering if he might find anything useful. His gaze fell upon a passage that made him frown in surprise.

Surrendered his throne? Miach stared down at the words for a handful of moments, trying to come to terms with them. He could not imagine Sìle, for any reason, giving up his throne. He imagined that Làidir would only have the crown if he pried it from his father's dead fingers.

He flipped through the pages surrounding that brief mention, but saw nothing more about it. He considered the dates. Sìle was now in the 976th year of his reign…

And twenty-six years earlier, Sarait had given birth to her only daughter, Mhorghain.

Had the birth of that wee granddaughter put him in such a state that he would make a piece of magic
that
taxing? He wondered if he might be looking at it awrong, but the dates couldn't be coincidence. Mhorghain had been born and Sìle had set to work. But what would a grandfather make for his grandchild that would cost him so much? And why would his granddaughter require anything so formidable?

Unless that granddaughter had needed protecting.

Miach felt a chill run down his spine. Of course that small gel would have needed protecting. Her sire was Gair of Ceangail.

But fashioning something to protect a small girl when her six brothers were equally in danger from their father's arrogance made no sense. Perhaps the magic had been wrought to guard one of Sìle's own children.

Miach considered them in turn. Sìle's sons, Làidir and Sosar, needed no aid, for they were very powerful and very shrewd. By then, Lismòrian had been dead for almost two centuries. That left Sìle's other four daughters, but Miach dismissed them in turn. Ciatach was wed to Sgur of Ainneamh, Sona was wed to her distant cousin Dileabach, and Alainne had been wed for a thousand years to Murdoch of Meith. That left only Sarait.

Had Sìle made something for Sarait that had put him in bed for a year?

“Finished yet?”

Miach shut the book with a snap and looked at Morgan. “Aye. Just now.”

She was watching him with a frown. “You look a little green, my lord.”

“I need air,” he said, rising. He threw his cloak over his shoulder, picked up Nicholas's book, then pulled Morgan out of the library behind him. He shut the door, took a deep breath, then started up the stairs.

He had to know more about what Sìle had been doing and exactly what it was the elven king had made. The dates simply couldn't be coincidence.

“Miach?”

He paused and turned to look at Morgan as she stood on the step below him. “Aye?”

“Where are you going?”

“To Nicholas's solar,” he said in surprise. “Does that not suit?”

“Nay,” she said, “I meant when you leave Lismòr. Where are you going then?”

“Oh,” he said, “that. Buidseachd, I think.” He smiled. “The schools of wizardry at Beinn òrain.” He was also beginning to think he should stop in Tòrr Dòrainn, but perhaps he would keep that to himself a bit longer.

“They'll know who you are there, won't they?”

“Of course.” He paused. “Will that bother you?”

“Will I be going with you?” she asked in surprise.

He wasn't sure if she looked pleased or a bit ill. Well, there was no sense in not knowing what she was thinking. “I had hoped you would,” he said slowly.

She looked terribly uncomfortable. “People will wonder what you are doing with an ill-mannered shieldmaiden.”

“You aren't ill-mannered,” he said, “and even if you were, I wouldn't care.”

“I don't know why
I
care,” she said, putting her shoulders back. “After all, it isn't as if there is anything formal or stated or discussed even…um…between…”

He looked at her in surprise. “Do you
want
there to be anything formal, or stated, or discussed—”

She glared at him and brushed past him to hasten up the stairs. She didn't get far, though, before she had to slow down and merely trudge up them.

Miach watched her go, surprised beyond measure. It was true that he'd come south with the hope that he might somehow begin to convince her that she might, at some point,
want
to join her life to his, but in all honesty, he hadn't held out much hope for it.

He looked up after her and considered. Did she actually want to engage in something more
discussed
with him, or would she draw her sword and skewer him if he dared? He suspected that to avoid that skewering, he would have to tread very carefully.

That he might even venture such a thing was more than he'd hoped for.

Perhaps he would see how much of his attentions she would tolerate, venture a bit of romance, then hope he still had his belly free of any artistically arranged daggers. It might be pleasant for once to attempt to woo a woman who didn't run screaming the other way once she realized exactly who and what he was.

He paused.

He supposed Morgan had already done that.

But she'd come back, in a sense, so perhaps he could indeed venture a few things he might not have dared in the fall. He took the stairs three at a time until he'd caught up with her, then climbed the rest of the stairs at her pace. Perhaps he would talk to her later, when she wasn't ignoring him so thoroughly.

He followed her all the way to Nicholas's solar. She threw him another glare, then opened the door. Miach peered over her shoulder and saw that the lads were gathered for their evening tale. He hardly had a chance to determine what it was before Morgan had shut the door and turned around.

“Let's go to the buttery.”

“Why—”

“Because Nicholas is telling the Tale of the Two Swords. If I must hear it again, I will scream.”

“What is wrong with the Two Swords?” he asked, even more surprised. “Don't you care for it?”

“There is too bloody much romance in it,” she said curtly.

Ah, well, here was the crux of it, apparently. “Don't you like romance?” he ventured.

She looked as though she were trying to decide if she should weep or, as he had earlier predicted, stick him with whatever blade she could lay her hand on. “I don't know,” she said briskly.

“I see,” he said, though he didn't. He wished, absently, that he'd had at least one sister. He was very well versed in what constituted courtly behavior and appropriate formal wooing practices, thanks to his father's insistence on many such lectures delivered by a dour man whose only acquaintance with women had likely come from reading about them in a book, but he had absolutely no idea how to proceed with a woman whose first instinct when faced with something that made her uncomfortable was to draw her sword.

Or walk away from him, as she was doing now. “Supper,” she said over her shoulder.

Miach caught up to her in one stride, then walked alongside her with his hands clasped behind his back. “So,” he began, drawing the word out as long as possible, “what would you think if someone wanted to ply a bit of romance on you?”

She stopped still and looked up at him in astonishment. “On
me
?”

“Of course, on you.”

She blinked. “What the hell for?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “For the usual reasons, I imagine.”

“Who would be that daft?”

He took a deep breath, then let it out silently. “Well, I would, actually.”

Her mouth fell open.
“You?”

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was a prince of Neroche and that there might actually be a woman in the realm who would like to have something formal, or stated, or even discussed with him.

“Aye,” he said.

She looked at him for another moment or two in surprise, then sighed and bowed her head. “Miach…”

He smiled, though it cost him quite a bit. “A few games of cards,” he said. “A bit of time in the lists. A few escapes from dragons bent on incinerating us. Actually, I'm not very good at romance. But I could try. For you.” He paused for quite some time. “Unless that doesn't suit.”

There, that would do it. She could say him nay, leave with her pride intact, and he would be the one with his heart in shreds. Though he'd already rent his heart when he'd left Gobhann. He wondered, absently, if he'd recently acquired a taste for self-torment. First Gobhann, then Morgan. Where would it end?

Morgan looked down for so long, he began to wonder if she was trying to think of a way to say him nay without humiliating him. Then again, this was Morgan. She would have humiliated him without thought if he'd merited it.

“Will you sleep in my doorway tonight?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “Is that your answer?”

She shrugged and looked away. “It seems as good as any.”

He shut his mouth when he realized it was hanging open. Well, that settled that, he supposed. Perhaps he couldn't have asked for anything else. She wanted him to guard her back, just as she'd offered to do for him. Comrade-in-arms. Nothing more. He took a deep breath.

“Of course I will,” he said. “If it will ease you.”

“Aye,” she said, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.

“Supper first?”

She nodded. He walked down the passageway with her and cursed silently. Obviously, he'd grossly overestimated his appeal. Perhaps he should have taken her at her word in Gobhann when she'd reminded him that she had no use for mages. Perhaps he should have realized sooner that she—

Had reached behind his back and taken his hand.

He held his breath as she laced her fingers with his. He was almost cowardly enough not to look at her, but he supposed that whatever he saw in her expression couldn't be any worse than what he'd been through in the past month. He steeled himself for something truly dreadful, then looked at her.

She was watching him gravely.

“What?” he said, a little less enthusiastically than he might have otherwise.

“Aye.”

“Aye?” he echoed. “Aye to what? Supper? My sleeping in your doorway? Swords in the lists tomorrow?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nay. Aye, to that other business. Aye to that, damn it.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling a little like she had just kicked him in the gut. “Romance?”

She glared at him. “I just want it noted that this is
your
idea.”

“At the moment, love,” he said faintly, “I think I'm quite willing to note anything you'd like me to.”