Free The Mage's Daughter by Lynn Kurland

possible that he was using enormous amounts of energy to list all the ways he could do damage to the hearts of foolish mercenaries. She wouldn’t have been surprised.
    She studied him as he sat there, and collected her former loathing of him like spoils from a particularly plentiful battlefield.
    First, he’d allowed her to believe he was a simple farmer, not the archmage of the realm. He had also allowed her to believe that his brother was a bumbling oaf, not the king of Neroche—though perhaps she couldn’t lay her eagerness to believe that at Miach’s feet. She’d been more than happy to call Adhémar an insufferable prig. All he had to do was open his mouth to convince everyone within earshot that they were better off far away.
    Miach was nothing like his brother. He was a plainspoken, easily amused man who seemed perfectly content to tromp about in his boots doing good. Who would have thought he was the most powerful mage in Neroche? She certainly hadn’t.
    Not that it excused him. He should have told her who he was and what he was. That he hadn’t was something she thought she might never be able to forgive him for.
    He sighed suddenly, then rubbed his face with his hands. He looked around him blearily and his gaze fell on her. He looked so surprised, she almost smiled.
    Almost.
    She quickly reminded herself that she had good reason to hate him.
    There was a flash of something across his face—relief, perhaps. It was gone as quickly as it had come, and he assumed a more careful expression. He stretched out his legs and rubbed them absently as he looked at her. “Morgan,” he croaked, then he cleared his throat. “Morgan, how long have you been here?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said. “And I didn’t come to visit, I came to see about your arm.”
    â€œOh,” he said, putting his hand over it, “that. ’Tis but a scratch.”
    â€œI doubt that. Let me see it.”
    â€œNay.”
    She patted herself for a knife but found, distressingly, that she still didn’t have one to hand. Her new sword was lying on her bed, else she would have used that. She settled for a fierce frown. “Let me see it, damn you.”
    He smiled at her as if she amused him somehow, then sobered abruptly when he caught sight of her glare. He sighed and pulled up the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a terrible slice across his arm that had been sewn together with ugly, hasty stitches. Morgan swallowed, hard.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” she whispered.
    He shook his head. “It was an accident.”
    Morgan saw the prints of five fingers burned into his flesh above the new cut. Those were prints she was responsible for. She’d given them to him another time when she’d healed his arm with magic of her own.
    She attempted another swallow. She wasn’t entirely successful.
    â€œI could try to see to that,” she ventured.
    He pulled his sleeve back down. “I’m fine. It will heal. Besides, now that you’re here, I’d rather talk—”
    She flung herself to her feet in a sudden panic. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to know what he wanted from her that would have nothing to do with her sword skill and everything to do with her magic. If he wouldn’t let her see to his arm, the most sensible thing she could do was flee.
    â€œI have to go,” she said, holding on to the wall as the chamber spun violently around her.
    His hands were immediately on her arms. She didn’t want to rely on him, but she had no choice. She allowed him to hold on to her until she thought she could step away from him and not land on her face.
    â€œI am well,” she managed.
    He said nothing.
    She realized he was looking at her, but she couldn’t identify the expression. She didn’t want to identify it. Coming to check on him had been monumentally stupid. The farther away from him she managed to get