The Mage's Daughter

by Lynn Kurland

  “I will,” Miach agreed without hesitation.

  Sìle smiled at them both, then turned and started down the hill.

  Morgan watched her grandfather go, then looked at Miach.

  “Will he find the inn, do you think?”

  “I hope so,” Miach managed. He took a deep breath. “Well.”

  “Well, indeed,” she agreed. She looked up at him. “I don’t think I heard any sort of formal proposal from you in all that. And I’ll also be happy to listen to anything my grandfather suggested you spew out.”

  He laughed and pulled her into his arms. “Too late for the first, I imagine, though I’ll oblige you with the second.”

  She scowled up at him, but he only laughed again, picked her up and twirled her around. By the time he set her on her feet, she couldn’t have cared less if he intended to propose; all she wanted to do was sit down. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close to him.

  “Wed me?” he whispered against her ear.

  She nodded. “I had best say you aye, hadn’t I?”

  He pulled back to smile down at her. “I imagine so.” He shook his head in wonder. “This is unprecedented. The elves of Tòrr Dòrainn do not wed with mortals. Ever.”

  “And my mother?”

  “Gair wasn’t precisely mortal, was he?”

  “And you?”

  He took a deep breath. “I suppose I’m not precisely mortal now either.”

  “Because of your ancestors?” she asked.

  “Partly, aye, but mostly because your grandfather has, through these runes, gifted me the same length of life that he has. So I suppose it makes me less mortal and more elvish.” He shook his head in wonder. “I had hoped he would give me permission to wed you, but I never dreamed that he would go this far.”

  “How far has he gone?”

  He tilted his head. “Did you notice that your grandfather and grandmother bear these, but not all their children?”

  Morgan shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose you’re right. What does it mean?”

  “What it means, Your Highness, is that if something were to happen to Sìle and then to the only other of his line who bears these marks, Làidir, that you would then become the queen of Tòrr Dòrainn.”

  She swayed. Fortunately, he had hold of her. She looked up at him in shock. “And you would be king,” she said slowly.

  “I told you this was unprecedented.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder. “Why us?” she whispered. “Well, I can understand why he would choose you—”

  “And I was going to say the same thing,” he said with a half laugh. “You are his granddaughter. I am—”

  “The man I love—and a very powerful mage,” she said. She shivered violently, once, then took a deep breath. “I think it may take me a bit to accustom myself to it.”

  “I suppose we now have several lifetimes to think about it,” he said quietly. “But for now, let’s find somewhere to sit.”

  Morgan nodded, then watched a bench materialize from the sparkling air under the trees. She looked at Miach. “Camanaë?”

  “Fadaire,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”

  She laughed as she sat down next to him. “It is.”

  He put his arm around her and pulled her close. Morgan took his right hand and trailed her finger over the runes there, comparing them with hers. They were the mirror of each other, faint gold and silver lines that were beautiful and powerful at the same time. “Teach me just one,” she said, looking up at him.

  “I’ll teach you two.” He took her hand and touched the lines that formed a pattern in the precise center of the back of her wrist. “This represents the kingdom of Tòrr Dòrainn. Well, rather the crown of Tòrr Dòrainn and all that entails.” He shot her a quick smile. “Pretend I didn’t tell you that when Sìle explains it to you. You’ll notice whilst yours is on the outer side of your wrist, mine is on the inner.” He shot her a quick smile. “Closest to my heart, you see.”

  “I do see,” she murmured.

  He turned her wrist over. “And this one,” he said, trailing his finger over the one in the precise center of the underside of her wrist, “this one represents the royal lineage of the house of Neroche.” He looked at her from under his eyebrows. “Closest to your heart.”

  She smiled. “I see that as well.”

  He held her hand up and studied it with a frown for a moment. “I think it depicts my position in that house, though the crown is rather robust. He did it, no doubt, to irritate Adhémar.” He brought her hand closer and studied it for another moment. “See here how it is hopelessly intertwined with elven runes of power and might? I think it will take me a year to unravel it all and try to guess the meaning of each thing, then likely several more years to determine how it all fits together.”

  “I think he approves of us,” she said with a smile.

  “I daresay he does,” Miach agreed.

  “There appears to be no going back now,” she said casually. “Do you mind?”

  “Would the trees tell tales if I showed you what I thought?”

  She laughed uneasily. “Is that your answer?”

  “Not by half,” he said purposefully, slipping one arm behind her back and the other under her knees. He pulled her over onto his lap. “Here’s my answer.”

  Morgan supposed, the next chance she had to think clearly, that she didn’t much care what the trees had to say. Well, outside of listening to the song they seemed to have begun just for her and her betrothed.

  She suspected they approved as well.

  It was very late before she walked with Miach into the Uneasy Dragon only to find Turah waiting for them at a table in a darkened corner. He rolled his eyes when he saw them.

  “Finally,” he said. “Where were you?”

  “Trying to stay out of trouble,” Miach said, dropping down on a bench and pulling Morgan down next to him. “Go be a love and fetch us something to drink.”

  Morgan watched Turah flick his brother’s ear, then wink at her before he rose and walked over to the bar. She leaned back against the wall with Miach’s arm around her shoulders. She closed her eyes and smiled.

  “Happy?”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Very.”

  “You know, I fully intended to wed you in the chapel at Tor Neroche with all the trappings requisite for an elven princess, but I had assumed I would be doing that only after I’d stolen you out from underneath Sìle’s nose. I fear now my concern is how to stop Adhémar from offending everyone in sight when he comes to Seanagarra for the wedding.”

  “Well, at least all your brothers are not so objectionable,” she offered. “And speaking of those brothers, why did these two come to find you, do you think?”

  “To be chaperons.”

  She laughed softly. “I would accuse you of jesting, but I think you might be right—and I think we need them.”

  “So said the trees as we left Gearrannan. At least they won’t be watching now,” he said as he tipped her face up and kissed her.

  “Oh, hell, is this what I have to look forward to?”

  Miach sighed. “Told you so,” he said against her mouth.

  Morgan smiled into his eyes, then smiled again as he pulled away and thoroughly cursed his brother. Turah pushed two glasses of ale toward them, then sat with an easy smile.

  “I promise not to come along on your honeymoon if you manage to wed that lovely maid there, though I’m not convinced she wouldn’t prefer me if she thought about it long enough.”

  “She doesn’t need to think about it,” Morgan said pleasantly, “though she appreciates the offer.”

  Miach snorted. “She’s being polite. What she really means is cease pestering her or she’ll stick you with whatever blade she has to hand. Now, before you tempt her overmuch to do just that, tell me why you’re here.”

  Turah looked about him as if he wanted to assure himself they wo
uld have privacy, then he leaned in close and motioned for them to do the same thing.

  Morgan looked at Miach’s brother and had to admit, objectively, that he was rather easy on the eye himself. He shared Miach’s dark hair and blue eyes, though his eyes were a darker blue. She supposed that if she had seen him first, she might have thought him handsome enough.

  “She’s watching me,” Turah said in a loud whisper. He nodded knowingly. “Very promising.”

  Miach looked at her. “Changed your mind, did you?” he asked with a smile.

  She pursed her lips at him. “I will admit the sight of both of you together makes me wonder how any of the serving wenches at Tor Neroche manage to do their work, but nay, I have not changed my mind. But you never suspected I would, did you, my love?”

  Miach looked at his brother. “A term of endearment. I must make special note of them.”

  Turah rolled his eyes. “Be brief, then.”

  Morgan found herself properly, if not briefly, rewarded for her efforts. Then she held Miach’s left hand in both her own and leaned her head on his shoulder as he looked at his brother.

  “What’s amiss?” he said without preamble.

  Turah had a very long drink of ale. He set his cup slowly down on the table, then leaned in again and looked at Miach seriously. “Adhémar was out riding—”

  Morgan felt Miach stiffen. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so—”

  “You don’t know?” Miach said incredulously.

  “Would you just let me finish!” Turah exclaimed. He took a deep breath, then leaned closer. “He was out riding with Adaira, along the northern border, with only a pair of guardsmen in tow. He and Adaira were captured and the slain guardsmen left behind.”

  Morgan lifted her head and looked at Miach. He was gaping at his brother.

  “He was captured by Lothar?” Miach said, stunned.

  “Aye.”

  “How do you know this?” Miach asked. “What proof have you?”

  “Lothar sent back the Sword of Neroche with a message that the king wouldn’t be needing it at present.”

  “Has the mantle fallen on any of you?” Miach asked. “And who sent you, by the way? Does the Sword of Neroche still lack its magic?”

  Turah sighed. “To answer your questions in order, nay, the mantle still rests with Adhémar, which is why we know he’s still alive. Cathar sent me, as you likely suspected. He’s holding things together, but he isn’t happy about it. He got your message a fortnight ago, which is how he knew to send us here. We left night before last and flew hard. And for the last, aye, the Sword of Neroche is still naught but ordinary steel.”

  Morgan watched Miach bow his head. He stared at the table for quite some time in silence, though his hands around hers were warm and steady. If he wrestled with something, he didn’t show it.

  Then again, this was his duty, to protect the realm.

  He finally sighed and sat back. “If the mantle still rests with Adhémar, then you’ve no need of me yet.”

  “You’ll leave him there?” Turah asked in astonishment.

  “I have a duty to protect the realm of Neroche,” Miach said grimly, “and the task that Morgan and I must see to is relevant to that duty. If we’re successful, I’ll come home and rescue the fool. If we fail, then it won’t matter where Adhémar is because we’ll all be dead and he’ll die along with us.”

  Turah blanched. “What is it you’re about?”

  “You’re better off not knowing. Go home and tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Morgan watched Turah stroke his chin. “Perhaps for the safety of the princess of Tòrr Dòrainn, I should take her with me.”

  “Morgan is happy where she is,” Miach said.

  “Can’t understand that,” Turah muttered.

  “It is a mystery, isn’t it?” Miach agreed. “Now, shut up and go home. And please take Rigaud with you.”

  “I’ll send Rigaud home,” Turah said easily, “but I think I’ll stay. You might need me.”

  Morgan watched Miach start to open his mouth, no doubt to protest, then shut it. He looked at his brother for several moments in silence.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, finally.

  “As if you could tell me what to do,” Turah said, winking at Morgan.

  “Turah,” Miach warned.

  Turah laughed. “So you see how it is, Morgan. Adhémar thinks he rules the realm, but in truth ’tis my little brother here who engineers it all. That is why the king of Neroche never sleeps well. I imagine, though, that he’d be damned happy to see you unlock the door of his dungeon, Miach.”

  “Lothar’s dungeon has no door,” Miach said grimly, then shook his head. “Let’s not speak of that. We’ll retreat to our chamber, and I’ll let Rigaud think ’tis his brilliant idea to hurry home and save the realm.” Miach rose, pulled Morgan up with him, then eased around the table. He put his hand on Turah’s shoulder. “I think we’d be glad to have you.”

  “It helps to have family about when you’re embarking on a dangerous quest,” Turah agreed. He walked off in front of them. “Besides, it will allow me to be the humble and attentive servant of the lovely princess of Tòrr Dòrainn.”

  “Turah!”

  Turah only laughed at Miach over his shoulder and continued on his way toward the stairs.

  An hour later, Morgan sat by the hearth in the very adequate chamber Miach had found for them and watched a rather intense game of cards in progress.

  She thought back to where she’d been but a pair of months earlier: shivering in Weger’s gathering chamber, wondering if she would ever again be whole, and studiously avoiding thinking on the fact that what pained her the most was her heart.

  And now she found herself in the company of five powerful, stalwart men, not a one of whom was cheating in cards. Well, perhaps Rigaud was. He met her eyes periodically and smiled smugly. She returned the smile because she found herself quite unaccountably content. Who would have thought that she would have relatives of this ilk? A king and a chamber full of princes. It was astonishing.

  The prince she was most interested in soon tossed in his cards with a sigh and got up from the table.

  “I told you he’d lose,” Rigaud said pointedly.

  Sosar laughed. “He gave up. I imagine he has more interesting things to do than play cards.”

  “Not while I’m here he doesn’t,” Sìle said sternly. “Boy, don’t you dare maul my granddaughter, or you’ll answer to me.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Miach said, sounding completely unintimidated.

  Morgan smiled at him as he crossed over to her and pulled her up out of her chair. He sat down, then pulled her onto his lap. He leaned his head back against the chair and sighed deeply.

  “I lost on purpose,” he remarked.

  “I imagined you had.” She smiled, then her smile faded. “The tidings about your brother are grave. I am not overfond of him, but I wouldn’t wish this current torment on him.” She paused. “I don’t think he will ever be the same.”

  “I daresay not,” Miach agreed with a sigh. He looked at her casually. “Do you think I’m being cruel?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, I think you’re only doing what your duty demands. Even if this had been a terrible accident instead of your brother being his ridiculous self, you cannot leave the safety of the realm to pursue what your heart might dictate.”

  “But I did,” he said with a weary smile. “I was willing to risk quite a bit in Gobhann.”

  “You did what you had to to fetch the one you needed to wield the Sword of Angesand—and to close a certain well—”

  “But, Morgan,” he interrupted, sounding shocked, “you know I didn’t do it for either. Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” she said with a grave smile, “but it worked out for the best, didn’t it?”

  His eyes were suddenly very red. “I swear I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth next.”
>
  “As many terms of affection as you can possibly bear,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him softly. “Thank you for braving Weger’s gates.”

  “I braved them to fetch out the mage’s daughter,” he said, “but not so I could use her to wield a sword or to close her father’s well. I only went in because my heart couldn’t survive without her.”

  “I know. And that’s made all the difference,” she said. “Just you, loving me for me and waiting for me to find my own way.”

  He pressed her head against his shoulder. “Don’t watch me weep over you yet again,” he said gruffly. “It will completely unman me in front of my brothers, and I will never live that down.”

  Having spent an hour or two in the company of those brothers, she could see where he had a point, so she settled comfortably in his arms and allowed him a bit of peace. She watched her grandfather and uncle and Miach’s brothers continue to play cards, pulled Miach’s arm from behind her back and laid it over her lap. She traced the runes of Neroche and Tòrr Dòrainn that encircled his wrist. They were beautiful, true, but she found that looking at them now, faint in the firelight, caused a flicker of something to spring to life in her heart. It was a fiercely encouraging feeling, as if it had been fire leaping onto the top of the torch at Gobhann when Miach had used the spell of Fadaire.

  She couldn’t say if she and Miach would be successful. Her mother hadn’t been. There was no guarantee that she wouldn’t meet the same fate. There was nothing but darkness in front of her and darkness following.

  But that flame was stubborn and it was beautiful. Morgan found that just concentrating on it made her feel as if she might have the courage to continue on that path she’d begun when she’d taken her first steps as Mhorghain of Tòrr Dòrainn. She let out a deep sigh, then looked at Miach. He was watching her with a smile.

  “Good thoughts?” he asked.

  She put her hand over his wrist. “I feel better when I look at these. As if I might actually manage the task set before me.”