The Mage's Daughter by Lynn Kurland

believed that she might someday feel again as she had before.
    Well, at least her form might feel as it once had. She despaired of her heart ever recovering.
    Damn Miach of Neroche to hell and back.
    She turned and looked out the window at the roiling sea below her. She wasn’t quite sure what she should think about the apology he’d offered the night before. She supposed it wasn’t every day that the archmage of Neroche expressed regret to a no-name shieldmaiden—after having come inside Gobhann to do so, no less.
    She turned away from the window. Perhaps she would do better not to think on any of it overmuch. It could only lead to thinking on things she couldn’t understand…or remedy.
    Perhaps that was how Miach felt as well. There were some things that simply couldn’t be undone, no matter how many prettily spoken apologies were offered.
    â€œMorgan.”
    She looked up to find Weger standing in the doorway. “Aye, my lord?”
    â€œCome with me,” he said urgently. “Now.”
    He turned away. Morgan hurried across the chamber, then struggled to keep up with his swift strides. She felt better, but not that much better. She paused first in the middle of the courtyard, then at the gate to catch her breath. Weger cursed her every time she stopped, but she simply couldn’t go any faster. He continued on through the gate in the wall and to the stairs that led up to Miach’s tower. She had to stop at the bottom of them and lean over until the stitch in her side eased enough to allow her to straighten. Then she looked up at Weger.
    â€œI can’t climb these again.”
    â€œYou have no choice,” he said. “Hurry.”
    She would have told him absolutely not, but there was something in his eye that told her he wouldn’t accept anything but her acquiescence. She took a deep breath, put aside her unease, and started to climb. She only managed a handful of stairs before she stumbled and had to clutch the hem of Weger’s tunic to keep from falling off the side and plunging to her death. The sun hadn’t fully set yet and she could see very well just exactly what lay beneath her. Three hundred feet down and nothing but jagged rocks as a landing place.
    Weger cursed and grabbed her hand to pull her along after him. Morgan didn’t dare ask what he wanted, nor did she have breath for asking why he was so concerned that she visit a place where magic was possible.
    He shoved the key into the lock, then pushed her inside the chamber. She staggered as magic ran through her like a fever. Weger lit a torch and jammed it into a sconce.
    â€œLook,” he said.
    Morgan did, then understood why Weger had been in such terrible haste.
    Miach was lying on the floor, still as death. He was bare-chested, but not shivering. There were red streaks trailing up his arm toward his shoulder, like claw marks from some terrible beast. She stepped over him, then dropped to her knees next to him and put her hand on his face. He was on fire, the fool. She closed her eyes briefly. What was he thinking?
    â€œHe fell senseless earlier,” Weger said grimly. “He was calling for you in his fevered dreams, so I brought him here and came to fetch you.”
    Morgan ran her fingers over the red streaks on Miach’s arm. She supposed she could open the stitches, draw forth the pus, and then treat him with herbs. She could brew tea, perhaps, and hope that it counteracted the infection. She had learned how in the infirmary below during her first month at Gobhann. But that would take time.
    Miach obviously did not have the luxury of time.
    â€œAnd just what is it, my lord,” she said, her mouth appallingly dry, “that you intend me to do for him that the apothecary cannot?”
    â€œI assume he had good reason to call your name instead of Master John’s.”
    She closed her eyes briefly. Aye, he’d had good reason, indeed. She knew what would heal