The Mage's Daughter by Lynn Kurland Page A

days were spent seeing to nothing but the defenses of the realm, an endlessly grinding task that left him with no time to do anything but eat when he remembered to, train with his sword when he dared, and snatch a few short hours of sleep each night when he could stay awake no longer.
    He shut his mouth and started across the courtyard. The brisk wind blew some bit of perspective back into his poor, fogged mind. Perhaps there was some truth to Weger’s charge after all. He remembered vividly Morgan’s reaction to her first sight of Tor Neroche. It had been clear to him at that moment how accustomed he was to the immensity and grandeur of the palace, a place he had taken for granted from birth. He had lived his entire life, save a year he preferred not to think on overmuch, dividing his time between the grandeur of Tor Neroche and the sweeping beauty of the palace of Chagailt. He worked hard, true, but he did it in spectacular surroundings.
    None of that mattered at Gobhann, obviously. He suspected that Weger was serious: either he would take away a mark or he would find himself flung off the walls.
    All the more reason to work on his swordplay.
    And perhaps whilst he was doing that, he might actually manage to find the woman he hoped was within Gobhann’s dreadful walls.
    He walked through the gate and across Weger’s uppermost courtyard. He was so intent on reaching his bed that he almost ploughed a lad over before he realized what he was doing. He grasped the boy by the arms to steady him.
    â€œSorry,” he said automatically.
    The lad jerked himself away and almost went sprawling. The hood fell back away from his face as he struggled to keep his feet.
    Or her feet, rather.
    Miach closed his eyes briefly, then reached out again to take Morgan by the arms. She held him off, swayed for a moment or two, then stumbled away.
    â€œMorgan,” he said, “wait.”
    He started after her only to find someone else in the way.
    â€œI’ll see to her,” Weger said.
    Miach stepped back. He was so astonished by how frail Morgan was, he could do nothing but watch as Weger took her by the arm and walked her off into the shadows.
    â€œWhy are you out of bed, woman?” Weger growled. “I told you to stay there until I gave you leave to move.”
    â€œI can decide when I’ll leave my own bed, thank you very much,” Morgan snapped.
    Miach started to follow them, then caught a full view of the warning look Weger threw him. He stopped immediately, then merely stood there and watched them walk away together. Weger was clucking over Morgan like an anxious hen and Morgan was, unsurprisingly, having none of it. He would have smiled at the thought of someone else being subjected to her stubbornness, but he was suddenly far too envious of Weger’s position in Morgan’s life to smile. He was no nursemaid, to be sure, but he would have given much to have been the one to tend her.
    He was giving much, as it happened.
    He looked thoughtfully after them and considered the look Weger had given him. Rather too possessive for a man whose only interest in Morgan was her sword skill, to his mind.
    Damnation, what next?
    He watched until he could see them no longer, then turned and made his way back down to his frigid cell. Dawn would come sooner than he cared for and there would be the task of swordplay to keep him from thinking too much. He felt a little unsteady as he walked into his chamber and shut the door behind him.
    Morgan was alive and he had seen her with his own eyes. It was a start.
    A pity she was just as displeased to see him as he’d feared she would be.

Four
    M organ dreamed.
    She stood in the great hall of Tor Neroche and stared up at the Sword of Angesand hanging over the fireplace. It sang a song of Camanaë, a beautiful song that wove itself in and out of her thoughts until she became part of it. She reached up and the sword leapt off the wall and into her hand as if