The Mage's Daughter (2 page)

W
inter's chill hung in the air like thousands of polished silver shards, poised to fall soundlessly to the ground.

A young woman stood in the midst of that chill, heedless of its potential to harm her, and motionless, as if simply breathing in and out was all she could manage. She remained there for quite some time, fighting visibly to keep herself upright. In time, she took a careful step forward, only to rest again, still breathing raggedly, still adding to the frost.

Nicholas, lord of Lismòr, stood at the edge of the enclosed courtyard and shivered in the brutal cold. He spared a fond thought for the hot fire that burned in his solar not fifty paces behind him but knew there was no hope of enjoying it anytime soon. The fire would burn itself out before the young woman before him agreed to give up her current pursuit and come inside.

It had taken her the whole of the morning to get herself dressed and out of her bedchamber. The remainder of the day had been spent shuffling step by painful step out to the courtyard. She had refused a crutch of any sort, vowing that she would keep herself on her feet without aid or not at all. That she had managed it for any length of time said much about her strength of will. Nicholas suspected, however, that her will would not—no matter its strength—be able to see her across the distance left before her. Enough was enough. He strode out into the courtyard and stopped next to her.

“Morgan,” he said quietly, “you must come in.”

She didn't answer him. Perhaps she didn't have the strength for it.

“Please, my dear,” he added.

She bowed her head. For several moments, she simply stood there and trembled. Then she held out her hand.

It trembled as well.

Nicholas ignored it and lifted her easily in his arms.

“You'll drop me, old man,” she gasped weakly.

“I might, if you weighed as much as a half-empty sack of flour,” Nicholas said grimly. “But as you do not, I'll manage, despite my creaking knees.”

He carried her easily out of the courtyard and back along the cloister until he reached his solar. His page opened the door as he approached. He walked inside and crossed the chamber to set Morgan down in a chair near the hearth. He put more wood on the fire, then turned to look at his charge.

She clutched her cloak tightly to her throat and stared unseeing into the distance.

“Run and fetch wine, William,” Nicholas said quietly to his serving lad. “And whatever sort of soup Cook has on the fire.”

“Of course, my lord,” William said and ran off quickly.

Nicholas took off his cloak and cast himself down in the chair facing Morgan. He leaned back and watched as she stared at horrors he could not see. He supposed he had some idea of what they were, for he had seen the shadows of them. They had been dreams of darkness and evil.

He did not envy her those dreams.

He looked up as William brought a tray of food and set it on a small table in front of Morgan. Nicholas dismissed the lad to a comfortable stool in the corner, then reached for wine. He poured it into the rustic pewter cups he'd begun to use after Morgan had dropped one too many of his glass goblets and refused to drink from them further. He hadn't cared about the glass, of course, but she had, so he'd humored her.

“Morgan,” he said, “have some wine.” He paused. “Morgan?”

She turned her head to look at him, but it was several moments before he could tell that she saw him.

“My lord?” she rasped.

“Drink, my dear,” he said, reaching over and pressing the cup into her hands. “It will do you good.”

She looked down at the cup as if she'd never seen one before and had no idea what to do with it. Finally, she seemed to come to terms with what it was. She bent her head and managed to bring the cup up far enough to drink from it. She set it down carefully on the tray, then leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. Within moments, she was asleep.

Nicholas sipped his own wine as he watched her. Her weariness was to be expected. Poisons fashioned by the black mage of Wychweald were generally fatal, and Morgan had ingested more than was polite. It had taken all his skill as a healer, and all his strength as something more than a healer, to counteract the poison's effect. Even then, he hadn't been completely certain that she would survive—no matter what he had hoped at first.

She had, though she'd remained abed for over a fortnight, too weak to move. She had spoken to him eventually, but not past conversing on the most rudimentary of subjects. She hadn't asked him why she found herself at Lismòr, not hundreds of leagues away at the palace of Tor Neroche where she'd been attacked. She hadn't asked him who had healed her. She hadn't expressed any interest at all in what she was going to do in the future.

He put on a good face whilst she was awake, but now that she slept, he could admit to himself what he'd been unwilling to before: she was terribly hurt. She was infirm, brittle, almost transparent. He wondered if she would ever completely heal.

He sighed deeply. There was no more he could do for her that night. He put his hands on his knees. “William,” he called softly, “help me with the doors, won't you?”

The lad jumped up and opened the door. Nicholas set aside the table, then lifted Morgan into his arms. She didn't stir as he carried her out of the solar into the frigid night air, nor did she rouse when he and William took off her cloak and boots and put her to bed.

“More herbs, my lord?” William asked uneasily.

Nicholas shook his head. “We're past herbs now, lad. Light the fire, would you? I'll sit with her yet awhile. You go on to bed.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Nicholas sat in a chair at the foot of Morgan's bed and watched her by the glow of hearthfire and candles. Either she would draw on her own strength to heal or she wouldn't. All he could do was watch and hope.

There was nothing else to try.

T
or Neroche was under siege.

Miach of Neroche stood at his window and stared down into the courtyard below, contemplating the truth of that. It had been a brutal, unrelenting assault on the front gates for the previous fortnight. Now, though, it was only the latecomers who were rushing into the courtyard, come in their finery to witness the nuptials of Adhémar, king of Neroche, to the lovely and very demanding Adaira of Penrhyn.

The inside of the palace showed just how thorough the onslaught had been. There was hardly a scrap of floor within that was not covered by some sort of servant, pile of luggage, or minor noble wishing he had either come sooner or with more money to bribe the Mistress of the Wardrobe into giving him a decent place to sleep. Miach had found himself grateful for a change that he was Adhémar's brother; at least he had a bed.

Unfortunately, even with his ties to the throne, he didn't completely escape Mistress Wardrobe's forbidding frowns or her charms of ward made against him when she thought he couldn't see her. Obviously he had alarmed her at some point in the past. But he alarmed most of the servants simply by virtue of who he was and what he did, so perhaps there was no point in trying to determine where he had run afoul of her ire. For all he knew, she was unsatisfied with the deference he showed the king.

Adhémar no doubt shared that sentiment.

Miach sighed deeply, then turned away from the spectacle below. He was heartily sick of watching his brother prepare to wed when he had other things to be doing and other places to be going.

He sat down in front of his fire and closed his eyes. At least he could be seeing to his business whilst he waited for Adhémar to see to his. He stilled his mind and briefly examined his spells of defense on the northern border. Finding them unchanged from earlier that morning, he hesitated, then decided there was no harm in seeing to something of a more personal nature. He cast his mind farther in search of the essence of a certain woman. It was something he'd discovered he could do during the past month whilst he'd been about the taxing business of ignoring the wedding preparations going on downstairs.

He mentally roamed over the mountains, down and across the vast plains of Neroche to the south, then farther still across the sea to the Island of Melksham.

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Morgan was still alive on that island, just as she had been for the past month. He was tempted to see if he couldn't have a more complete idea of how she fared, what she was doing, what she was thinking, but that seemed too invasive somehow. It was enough to know that she lived still.

He'd had moments when he feared she wouldn't.

He opened his eyes, then jumped a little in surprise. His brother Cathar sat across from him, watching him gravely. Miach rubbed his hands over his face.

“How long have you been there?” he asked.

“About an hour,” Cathar said, holding out a mug of ale. “You were very far away.”

“I was working,” Miach said. “Mostly.” He accepted the ale and downed it gratefully. “Is there something useful happening downstairs, or just more of the same?”

“The ceremony should begin soon, actually,” Cathar said. “I came to fetch you.”

“Finally,” Miach said in disgust.

“Well, you know Adhémar couldn't resist delaying things a bit longer, just to see how many people he could annoy.”

“He's succeeded, at least with me. I'm ready to have the torture over with so I can go.”

“Go?” Cathar echoed, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Go where?”

Miach eyed his brother. “You know where.”

“To Melksham, to see about Morgan,” Cathar said. “Aye, I knew. I'm just wondering if Adhémar will allow you to.”

Miach opened his mouth to protest, but Cathar interrupted him with a laugh.

“I'm provoking you,” he said. “I know 'tis only good taste that has kept you here this long.” He finished his ale and set the cup down. “Is your lady well?”

“She lives still,” Miach said. “I can tell nothing more than that.”

“No word from her?”

“I didn't expect any, actually.”

“At least none you'd want to hear,” Cathar agreed. He put his hands on his knees and rose. “So, you'll be polite during the wedding, then be off to Melksham. Do you have a plan for when you arrive?”

Miach set his cup aside, then rose and followed his brother across the chamber. “I thought I would just fall on my knees and blurt out an apology.”

Cathar whistled softly. “I imagine you'll need to get past the point where she wants to arrange all of her blades artistically in your gut before you attempt that.”

Miach would have argued, but he feared Cathar was right. He would be fortunate indeed if Morgan ever spoke to him again.

“What of what you'll leave behind?” Cathar asked as they made their way down the twisting tower stairs. “What of the realm's defenses?”

“I don't have to be here to see to them,” Miach said, “but you knew that already. As for anything else—” He shrugged. “I'm working on it.”

Cathar only grunted.

Miach walked with his brother through the marble-paved hallways, lit by dozens of glittering lamps and flanked, of course, by piles of luggage that hadn't found homes yet. At least he wouldn't have to trip over those much longer. A few more hours, then he would be on his way.

He paused at the doors to the great hall. They were open and the tables laid for the wedding feast. Miach looked above the massive hearth at the back of the hall. In times past, the Sword of Angesand had hung there, protected from theft by its own magic, waiting for the right hand to come wield it.

The sword was no longer there.

Miach didn't particularly like to think on why not.

The Wielders of the Sword of Angesand will come, out of magic, out of obscurity, and out of darkness…

He dragged his hand through his hair as he turned away from the hall and those words. He had thought, half a year earlier, that he might need the power of the Sword of Angesand to aid him in besting Lothar of Wychweald, the black mage to the north. He'd sent Adhémar off on a search for a wielder for that sword, then followed along a pair of months later to find out why his brother hadn't returned. It had been then, on the day when he'd found his brother, that he'd first laid eyes on Morgan of Melksham.

And lost his heart.

He had traveled with her for a month, come to love her more with each day that passed, and dreaded with equal fervor the moment when he would have to admit to her that he wasn't Miach the simple farmer, as he had led her to believe, but Mochriadhemiach, the archmage of Neroche. It might not have mattered so much who he was except for her loathing of magic in general and mages in particular.

She'd discovered his identity—and that he believed her to be one of the prophesied wielders of the Sword of Angesand—at a most inopportune moment. Her anger had been so great, she had taken that magical sword, brought it down against that very table at the back of the hall, and splintered it into a thousand pieces. She'd fled, encountered Lothar of Wychweald, then drunk poison he'd given her before Miach had been able to catch up with her. He had had no choice but to send her unconscious self back to Melksham to heal whilst he remained behind and attempted to see to the tatters of the realm.

But the tatters were mended, for the moment, and he would make do without the Sword of Angesand. He would also allow himself a pair of days to travel south and attend to the matters of his heart.

“Miach, should you have changed clothes, perhaps?”

Miach looked at Cathar, trussed up uncomfortably in his finest court clothes, and shrugged. “Adhémar told me not to stand out.”

“But black, Miach,” Cathar protested. “Could you not have donned something less forbidding? You have six brothers, you know. Surely you could have found something in one of our closets.”

“The rest of you don't dress any better than I do,” Miach said, “save Rigaud, and I wouldn't wear anything he owns. This way I'll fade into the background, which will please Adhémar the most.”

Cathar frowned thoughtfully. “Can't say I wouldn't rather be less conspicuous myself. All right, let's be about it.”

Miach took a fortifying breath, then followed his brother into the chapel.

There were so many people inside, there was scarce room for him to squeeze through them to reach the front. He looked over the company as he did so. There was the usual royalty from neighboring nations, ambassadors where the royalty could not be troubled, as well as the odd assortment of dwarves, wizards, and an adventurous elf or two. And a quartet of mercenaries.

Miach smiled at those last lads as he took his place at the end of the line of his brothers. They were Morgan's companions; two men, a dwarf, and a lad who had hoped for adventure but gotten quite a bit more than he'd bargained for. They had remained at the palace as his guests over the past month, waiting with him for tidings of Morgan's condition.

Could he be blamed if he'd asked more than a respectable amount of questions about their dealings with her? He'd had her company for less than a month, long enough to learn to love her, but not nearly long enough to know her as he would have liked. Their tales of her everyday doings had been a balm to his heart. He'd been equally willing to listen to tales of her skill with a sword; those had come as no surprise to him. After all, she had studied with Scrymgeour Weger.

Weger's fame as a swordmaster was widespread and sobering. Graduates of his tower at Gobhann couldn't be called assassins, but they were certainly men for whom anything but swords had ceased to exist. Ostensibly Morgan had gone there to improve her swordplay, but Miach suspected the true reason she'd sought the solace of Weger's tower was because Weger shunned anything to do with magic or mages.

“Did you bring anything to eat?”

Miach looked at his next eldest brother, Turah, who was standing on his left. “What?”

“I'm hungry and I suspect this will take all day,” Turah said with a gusty sigh. “I should have brought a stone. I could have at least been sharpening my knife.”

Miach held out his hand and a sharpening stone appeared. Turah looked at it, then laughed.

“I don't dare. But,” he said, taking the stone and tucking it into a pocket, “I'll use it later. You couldn't conjure up a chair for me as well, could you?”

“Too conspicuous,” Miach said, though he supposed there might come a time when he would wish for the same thing.

He waited for the proceedings to begin, but apparently the heralds were waiting for Adhémar to see one last time to his hair. He clasped his hands behind his back and silently recited all the shapechanging spells he knew. He knew scores, which passed the time pleasantly, but he finished and still nothing was happening save guests shifting in their seats and a few unfortunate souls succumbing to fits of coughing.

He turned his mind to reciting silently spells of reconstruction, where a change could be made and fixed for a predetermined amount of time. That took quite some time as well, for he knew many. He was then forced to move on to changes of essence, where a thing's true nature was affected in a way that rendered it permanently transformed. Those spells were few and immensely complicated. Though reciting them mentally kept him awake, it didn't hurry Adhémar along.

He had finally resorted to inventing new ways to induce warts and other disfigurements upon his brother the king when the heralds and musicians finally arrived to trumpet the impending arrival of that king and his bride. After another handful of minutes, Adhémar finally came ambling down the aisle, resplendent in his finest court clothes and wearing a very large hat with an even larger plume of feathers. Miach thought the toes of his brother's shoes were overlong and curled overmuch, but what did he know? If he ever managed to wed, he would wear boots.

Adaira, the eldest princess of Penrhyn, swept down the aisle a few minutes later in her own bit of finery, sporting an even taller plume on her hat than Adhémar's. There was a bit of jostling between bride and groom as they attempted to find the best spot for being seen there in front of the priest, then they settled down for what would no doubt be a very lengthy and detailed recounting of dowries, exploits, and other flattering items necessary for the occasion.

“You're yawning.”

He looked at Turah, who was watching him with a smirk. “It's keeping me awake.”

Turah smiled and elbowed him companionably, then turned back to watch the spectacle. Miach did as well, but he suspected that given the fact that the priest was still heaping praise upon Adhémar's already swelled head and hadn't even managed to mention the word marriage, he was going to be there awhile. Perhaps no one would notice if he let his mind continue to wander.

He wandered mentally down that well-worn track across the plains of Neroche, and over the sea to Melksham. This time, he thought that perhaps it wasn't inappropriate to be a bit more thorough in his search. He could at least see what Morgan was doing. He let his mind brush over the walls of the university at Lismòr and seek out where she was no doubt walking in the morning sunshine—