The Mage's Daughter Read Free Page B

because Weger shunned anything to do with magic or mages.
    â€œDid you bring anything to eat?”
    Miach looked at his next eldest brother, Turah, who was standing on his left. “What?”
    â€œI’m hungry and I suspect this will take all day,” Turah said with a gusty sigh. “I should have brought a stone. I could have at least been sharpening my knife.”
    Miach held out his hand and a sharpening stone appeared. Turah looked at it, then laughed.
    â€œI don’t dare. But,” he said, taking the stone and tucking it into a pocket, “I’ll use it later. You couldn’t conjure up a chair for me as well, could you?”
    â€œToo conspicuous,” Miach said, though he supposed there might come a time when he would wish for the same thing.
    He waited for the proceedings to begin, but apparently the heralds were waiting for Adhémar to see one last time to his hair. He clasped his hands behind his back and silently recited all the shapechanging spells he knew. He knew scores, which passed the time pleasantly, but he finished and still nothing was happening save guests shifting in their seats and a few unfortunate souls succumbing to fits of coughing.
    He turned his mind to reciting silently spells of reconstruction, where a change could be made and fixed for a predetermined amount of time. That took quite some time as well, for he knew many. He was then forced to move on to changes of essence, where a thing’s true nature was affected in a way that rendered it permanently transformed. Those spells were few and immensely complicated. Though reciting them mentally kept him awake, it didn’t hurry Adhémar along.
    He had finally resorted to inventing new ways to induce warts and other disfigurements upon his brother the king when the heralds and musicians finally arrived to trumpet the impending arrival of that king and his bride. After another handful of minutes, Adhémar finally came ambling down the aisle, resplendent in his finest court clothes and wearing a very large hat with an even larger plume of feathers. Miach thought the toes of his brother’s shoes were overlong and curled overmuch, but what did he know? If he ever managed to wed, he would wear boots.
    Adaira, the eldest princess of Penrhyn, swept down the aisle a few minutes later in her own bit of finery, sporting an even taller plume on her hat than Adhémar’s. There was a bit of jostling between bride and groom as they attempted to find the best spot for being seen there in front of the priest, then they settled down for what would no doubt be a very lengthy and detailed recounting of dowries, exploits, and other flattering items necessary for the occasion.
    â€œYou’re yawning.”
    He looked at Turah, who was watching him with a smirk. “It’s keeping me awake.”
    Turah smiled and elbowed him companionably, then turned back to watch the spectacle. Miach did as well, but he suspected that given the fact that the priest was still heaping praise upon Adhémar’s already swelled head and hadn’t even managed to mention the word marriage, he was going to be there awhile. Perhaps no one would notice if he let his mind continue to wander.
    He wandered mentally down that well-worn track across the plains of Neroche, and over the sea to Melksham. This time, he thought that perhaps it wasn’t inappropriate to be a bit more thorough in his search. He could at least see what Morgan was doing. He let his mind brush over the walls of the university at Lismòr and seek out where she was no doubt walking in the morning sunshine—
    Except she wasn’t.
    He froze, his breath catching. He searched through all the buildings that made up the university and orphanage, but found nothing.
    But it couldn’t be. He was certain she’d been on Melksham Island that morning. He’d felt her presence, faint but definite. Of course he hadn’t tried to determine the