The Mage's Daughter by Lynn Kurland Page B

it had been waiting for her to come call it.
    And then someone spoke her name.
    She turned around. There on the other side of the table stood Mochriadhemiach of Neroche. She wanted to walk around and throw herself into his arms, then she remembered that he had lied to her about who he was and what he wanted from her — which was, as it happened, her hand on the sword she held.
    A great anger welled up in her. It raged through her with a sound of rushing wind, white hot in its fierceness, leaving her blind to all but her fury. Miach had lied to her. He had called her love.
    She lifted the sword —
    And brought it down with all her strength against the lord’s table before her.
    The blade splintered, shattered, sparked as it disintegrated into thousands of shards and bits that floated through the air before her like snow.
    Morgan stared at the haft of the sword, that beautiful hilt that was worked with a tracery of leaves and flowers, and could not believe what she had just done. She looked over the table, but Miach no longer stood there.
    In his place was Gair of Ceangail, the black mage who had slain his entire family with a single act of arrogance…
    Â 
    M organ woke with a gasp. She wasn’t supposed to dream inside Gobhann. She certainly wasn’t supposed to dream about black mages and other mages and swords she had once held that were now no more.
    She forced herself out of bed, shaking as she did so. She dressed, but it took her far longer than it should have. Her hands trembled so badly when she tried to drink tea that it splashed all over the floor. She set the cup down and sat on the edge of her bed until she thought she could get herself across the room. She would drink later, when she’d regained control of her frenzied imagination.
    Her dream was an aberration. Gobhann was a safe place for her. As long as she was within its walls she had no magic, no terrible dreams, nothing to fear. Her unwelcome and hopefully solitary nightmare had no doubt come because she’d been in bed too long.
    She’d been there since she’d seen Miach in the upper courtyard a se’nnight ago. She’d had too much time to think about things she should have avoided, too much time to listen to her blood sloshing languidly through her veins, and far too much time to wonder how it was that Miach of Neroche managed to say her name differently from anyone else.
    In a small, private way that made her want to curl up next to him as if he were a merry fire and she in desperate need of his warmth.
    She would have given herself a good shake, but she feared that would land her back in bed, so she contented herself with a selection of curses chosen for their ability to drive foolish thoughts from her head. She shut her door behind her with a bang, then squeaked in surprise as something slid along the wall toward her.
    She had to take several deep breaths when she realized it had only been a sword to tip her way. She picked it up and looked at it.
    It was plain and unadorned, but light—obviously made for her strength of arm. She drew it partway from the sheath. It was lethally sharp and obviously freshly forged. She would have wept, but she was too tired. Truly Weger had done more for her than she deserved.
    She resheathed the sword and considered briefly using it as a cane, but that was an appalling thought, so she carried it and vowed to not use it that way unless she simply had no other choice.
    She made her way out to the courtyard, assuming that since Weger had left a sword for her, he intended that she use it. She paused on the edge of his training circle. He was working with someone she would have found nothing more than a marginally worthy opponent two months ago, but now found simply exhausting to watch. She wondered, briefly, if she would ever regain her strength enough to be what she once was.
    Weger noticed her and held off his student. He resheathed his sword and strode across the courtyard to