Free The Mage's Daughter by Lynn Kurland Page B

had little to do with sword skill and everything to do with the magic she might or might not possess.
    Nay, Weger wouldn’t understand at all.
    â€œGo to bed,” Weger said, nodding into her chamber, “before your womanly thoughts overwhelm what good sense you used to have. I don’t want to see you tomorrow. Stephen will bring you food.”
    Morgan nodded, went inside, then heard the door close behind her. She went to stand in front of that terribly luxurious fire. It was surely nothing Miach would enjoy. Novices didn’t even have braziers to warm themselves by. She stood in front of her own fire until she was warm enough to take off her cloak. It was only then that she realized she was still wearing Miach’s as well. He would be cold.
    She blew out her breath, then folded his cloak and set it upon a stool near the fire. She drank her tea, then went to bed before she had to think on anything she didn’t care to.
    What man with two wits to rub together wouldn’t want you for his war?
    Weger had a point. After all, wasn’t that why she had spent many years training? She’d fully intended to be the kind of mercenary lords would pay exorbitant sums to have at their disposal. Why wouldn’t the king of Neroche—or his archmage, for that matter—want her to wield a magical sword for him?
    Unfortunately, she hadn’t given a damn what the king of Neroche wanted, but she had found herself caring very much what his archmage had wanted from her.
    And that hadn’t had a bloody thing to do with swords or swordplay.
    She would have thrown up her hands in disgust, but she was too tired. She settled for a weak snort. If she’d had two wits to rub together, she wouldn’t have given Miach another thought, but she would have agreed last fall to wield the Sword of Angesand because it was a very famous sword and any swordsman worth his mettle never passed up the chance to wield a very famous sword.
    A pity she’d smashed it to bits.
    She rolled over with a fierce frown and a vicious curse.
    Miach. Magic. The fate of the realm and her heart.
    Terrible subjects, all.

Five
    M iach sat in the lower dining hall, nursing a mug of ale and trying to look inconspicuous. He couldn’t say there were many who lingered after supper, but there were a few and he thought it best to outlast them before he made for the tower. He hadn’t had anyone mention that it was odd he seemed to enjoy climbing stairs to nowhere, but there was no sense in pressing his luck.
    Another se’nnight had marched on. He had passed four more of Weger’s levels, to the disgust of many of the men there and the outright anger of many more. He supposed he had to admit, with as much objectivity as he could muster, that he had earned his advancements. He’d driven himself into the ground from dawn well past dusk, training with his assigned masters as long as they would humor him, then finding other equally obsessed souls to cross swords with after his masters had gone to supper.
    He had good reason. If he reached the upper levels, he could train where Morgan might be loitering. Not that she would be overfond of seeing him, but perhaps he could wear her down, like the Sruth that was nothing but a modest stream at its head but eventually cut its way through the mountains of Cnàmh-lus.
    Unfortunately, he suspected Morgan was made of sterner stuff than even those granite peaks and it might take more time to cut through her defenses than even he had to hand.
    He turned away from that thought. He had to believe that at some point she would be willing to talk to him. She hadn’t wanted to the week before, but perhaps she’d been feeling particularly ill and had had little patience for pleasantries.
    That, he could believe. He’d been shocked at how frail she’d felt as he’d lifted her onto his back and carried her down the stairs. ’Twas no wonder Weger was forever sending her