The Mage's Daughter by Lynn Kurland

Neroche lads. Miach is quite a bit closer to Mochriadhemiach than it is to Cathar now, isn’t it?”
    Miach nodded, acknowledging the point. “I usually give that name accompanied by a little spell of insignificance. Not possible here, though, is it?”
    â€œApparently not. Now, take the bloody key and go do what you do so I can sleep peacefully at night.”
    â€œDo you ever go up there?” Miach asked.
    The look Weger shot him made him smile in spite of himself.
    â€œI suppose not,” he said. He inclined his head. “My thanks, my lord.”
    Weger walked away. “Training begins at dawn,” he threw over his shoulder. “Don’t be late.”
    Miach supposed he didn’t dare. He watched Weger go, then turned to look at the stairs. He allowed himself a moment of profound relief before he climbed up them, ignoring the sheer drop to his right. He did look a time or two, simply because the moon was out and he couldn’t help himself. A man would fall off the steps and land hundreds of feet down on rocks that would break him instantly into innumerable pieces. And he had the sinking feeling that the air was just as dead magically there on those rocks as it was where he stood.
    Best to be careful, then.
    He finally reached a doorway cut into the rock. He fitted the key into the lock and entered the chamber. He staggered as his magic returned to him with a rush. It took a moment or two before he managed to lock the door behind him. He leaned back against it and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.
    He closed his eyes and set to work checking the spells of defense that he had set all along the borders of Neroche. They were all intact save for the strange erosion he had noticed several months earlier, as if their underpinnings were being washed away by a tide he could not see. It was the usual amount of damage, though, and he corrected it without complaint.
    As an afterthought, he examined the borders of Riamh, Lothar’s land to the north. He set spells of ward along Riamh’s border with Wychweald, promising himself a good apology to his cousin King Stefan later, when he had the time for it.
    He came back to himself to find the chamber just as dark as it had been when he’d entered it and bitterly cold. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it had to have been a decent amount because he was stiff. He rose with a groan and stretched out his back.
    He was, again, considerably grateful for the key.
    He wrapped his cloak around himself, then let himself out of the chamber. The wind hit him so hard, he staggered and caught himself against the rock face to his right. He took a moment to accustom himself to his lack of magic and the howling wind, then locked the tower chamber door, pocketed the key, and went down the stairs.
    If Weger had any idea of the gift he’d given away…
    He froze on the bottom step as he realized that the shadows to his right contained more than a body might reasonably expect. A dark shape detached itself from the overhang and walked out into the courtyard. Miach looked at Weger in surprise.
    â€œDid I need a guard?”
    â€œKeeper, more like,” Weger said. “I’ll lose interest soon, no doubt. You keep that bastard from Wychweald at bay, though, so consider this repayment.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œBut don’t think it will win you any lenience during the days,” Weger said, frowning fiercely. “You’re naught but flesh here, mage. My sword is sharp and my patience for pampered princes nonexistent. You’ll earn whatever you take away: a mark or your final resting place on the rocks below.”
    And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away. Miach watched him, openmouthed. He stood there for several minutes until the preposterousness of the slander dissipated enough for him to move. Pampered? It was so far from the reality of his life, he could scarce begin to address it. His