Star of the Morning

  But it would have been a mighty spell and anyone with any magic in their veins would have felt tremors from it and known he was responsible for it.

  It also might have put him in bed for a week.

  And that would have meant he couldn’t drag out those days that led to nights sleeping—and generally not sleeping—next to a woman whom he couldn’t seem to stop looking at even when the light was so poor it was painful to attempt.

  “I’ll manage it,” he said roughly.

  “You’re fretting overmuch,” she said, peering at him. “Your eyes are quite red. Are you not sleeping?”

  “I’m sleeping.” And he was. After he had spent most of each night filling in the breaching of his spells.

  “Stop worrying,” she said. “Do your best. I’ll expend more effort in the lists and woo Hearn with the improvement in his garrison.”

  “If you expend more effort in the lists,” Miach said faintly, “you’ll kill his garrison and then he most certainly will not give us any horses.”

  She looked at him in shock, then a faint smile crossed her features.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “It might be.”

  She frowned. “Your brother is not so free with them. Did your mother teach him nothing?”

  “My brother is not a good learner,” Miach said, still struggling with the sight of Morgan’s smile.

  She yawned. “Perhaps you can advise him.”

  To what? Fall upon his sword? Return home by the swiftest route? Hold his breath while Miach turned him into a mushroom? The possibilities were so endless and so appealing to contemplate that he hadn’t finished examining but the beginning of them before he realized that Morgan had put her head down on her cloak as her pillow and fallen asleep.

  A clear conscience aided one in that endeavor, obviously.

  Miach spread his cloak over her, then sat and watched her in the faintness of the light from below. He wondered why in the world he was bothering to work for a horse for himself. He had no intention of remaining with the company. There was no reason to do so, certainly no reason that might include a fierce shieldmaiden with eyes as green as Lake Camanaë and a smile as rare and lovely as the kíla who sang only in the bows of the rowans that encircled the elven palace of Ainneamh.

  He was the Archmage of Tor Neroche; she was a shieldmaiden. If ever there were two souls who were not at all suited for each other, it was they two.

  He had told Adhémar to go and look for the unlikely; how ironic was it that he should be felled by what he’d told his brother to find?

  He would go. Soon.

  Because his duty was in the north. Because she was unsuitable. Because he was the archmage and his duty was to wed someone with magic.

  Damn it anyway.

  He eased over to the ladder and climbed down. He passed through the stables quietly and walked out into the night. He cast a veil of illusion over himself that no one might mark him.

  He began to run.

  It was almost without thought that the spell of shapechanging whispered through his mind. Soon he was beating his wings against the chill of the night air, lifting himself over the castle walls and high into the starlit sky.

  He quite happily lost himself in thoughts of flight.

  Dawn was still an hour or two off when he climbed back up the ladder and cast himself down on the hay next to Morgan.

  She stirred.

  Miach froze.

  “You smell like the wind,” she said with a yawn.

  “A night on the battlements,” he lied.

  “Hmmm,” she said, then she rolled over and fell back asleep.

  Miach would have pitied himself, but it was his own fault. He should have left that night, that first night before he sat five paces from her bed and watched her sleep. He should have gone home before he spoke with her, before he had watched her wield her sword with the flashing gems, before he watched her look at Hearn’s horses with a longing that smote him in the heart.

  Aye, he should have gone.

  More the fool was he for not having done so.

  Twelve

  Morgan walked through the lists. The garrison had already been exercised that morning and had begged, in not so many words, for a respite. Morgan had obliged them, though it had left her without anything to do but wander aimlessly about, trying not to look as if she wandered aimlessly about.

  Lest Hearn of Angesand think her efforts were less than sufficient for one of his magnificent horses.

  Her wanderings left her standing in the humans’ inner courtyard. The well stood in a corner of this courtyard and upon the edge of that well sat a man who looked as if he’d passed the last four days with the garrison, not waggling his fingers in a more unmanly pursuit.

  Morgan crossed over and sat down next to him, but he did not move. Surely this business of magic could not be this taxing. Unless he was that unskilled and even a task that looked as simple as this was beyond the extent of his art. Was he sleeping? In the middle of a spell? Wondering how he might flee the keep with his pride intact and his torso unpierced by her disappointed sword?

  Miach rubbed his face and sighed. “Finished with the men so soon?” he asked.

  “They needed a rest,” she said gravely. “It does me no good to grind them so far into the dust that they cannot recover.”

  “True enough.”

  “So I came to see about you. Do you need aid?”

  He reached behind him and drew out a dipper of water. He handed it to her and watched expectantly.

  Morgan tasted. She froze, unsure if she was tasting water or dew from heaven. She sipped again, hesitantly. Nay, she had not been mistaken. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d drunk something that tasted as if it had been made with sunshine and green things and clear blue skies. She looked at Miach in astonishment.

  “It is ...” She struggled for the right word.

  “Adequate?”

  “Oh, nay. It is worth at least four horses.”

  He smiled. “Generous of you.”

  “There is no shame in admitting that you have done the greater part of the work.” She dipped more water for herself, drank, and shook her head in wonder. “I can scarce believe this came from a well. Honestly, I don’t know how you managed it. I didn’t think farmers had spells of this potency.”

  “A farmer has to drink too,” he said.

  “Then I envy your family if this is what you’ve done at home.” She looked up to see Hearn striding toward them, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “I wonder what he will think?”

  “We’ll soon know,” Miach murmured.

  Hearn came to a halt before them. “Well?”

  “It’s drinkable,” Miach said blandly.

  Morgan refrained from comment, but she did stand up and move out of Hearn’s way. There was no sense in preventing the man from tasting the purchase price of his steeds.

  Hearn dipped, tasted, then froze. He tasted again, then shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Morgan looked at Miach and nodded knowingly. Miach only smiled faintly and continued to watch Hearn drink his fill.

  The man set the dipper down on the rock of the well, folded his arms over his chest and stood there for a moment or two, then looked at Miach.

  “My horses will enjoy that,” he said finally.

  Miach smiled. “I sense a shifting of your courtyards.”

  Hearn snorted. “ ’Tis for damned sure my men won’t be drinking this elixir.” He reached out and clapped a hand on Miach’s shoulder. “Well done, my little friend. Well done indeed.” He looked at Morgan. “And my garrison overwhelmed as well. Is there any other miracle you two wish to fashion before I send you off?”

  Morgan looked back at him unflinchingly. “I suppose that depends on whether or not we’ll be leaving on our feet.”

  Hearn laughed. “Oh, nay, missy, you’ll be riding.” He had himself another long drink, dragged his sleeve across his mouth with a smack of satisfaction, then
walked away. “Meet me in the lists.”

  Morgan felt an overwhelming sense of relief course through her. Had she been a lesser woman, she might have been forced to sit down. She settled for another drink and a gusty sigh.

  “Let’s make for the lists,” Miach said, “before he changes his mind.”

  Morgan strode after him. “Miach?”

  “Aye?”

  “What kind of spell was that?”

  He looked at her with faint amusement. “Just a little something I picked up somewhere. Water can be quite nasty when it comes from the wrong source.”

  “That tasted like sunshine.”

  He laughed and reached out to tug on her braid. “Thoughts of an Angesand steed have gone to your head, gel, and rendered you a poet. It was just water.”

  “Damned tasty, though.”

  “Perhaps,” he said modestly. “It served our purpose and I cannot ask for more than that. Let’s try not to look too eager to get our hands on that horseflesh. It might frighten Hearn.”

  Morgan nodded and walked with him out to the lists. She struggled not to look overly interested in the beasts that were being brought out before them.

  “You’re gaping,” Miach murmured.

  “I can’t help myself,” she managed. And she couldn’t. A selection of the most amazing horses she had ever seen were being placed in a line before them.

  “The number and kind of your riders,” Hearn said, coming to stand next to Miach. “I will select the proper mount for each.”

  Miach nodded. “We are seven, including Morgan and me. My elder brother Adhémar rides with us as well.” He looked quickly at Hearn. “He’s a fair rider.”

  Hearn called out to one of his lads who brought forward a horse that even Morgan had to judge as superior. She looked at Hearn with a frown.

  “ ’Tis fit for a king. Adhémar is a bumbling oaf. I would settle him on something less fine, were I you, and save this for someone who can ride.”

  Hearn choked. He finally had to lean over with his hands on his thighs and cough until he had apparently recovered from some sort of fit. He straightened eventually, put a hand on Miach’s shoulder to steady himself, then he laughed heartily. “Well, Mistress Morgan, I just might. Or perhaps I’ll make certain that young Buck here can teach his brother what he needs to know to ride such a beast.” He drew his sleeve across his tearing eyes and chuckled a final time. “Ah, me. Oaf, indeed. Now, Buck, continue on with your company and we’ll see what suits.”

  Morgan allowed Miach to discuss the needs of the rest; she spent her time admiring a line of horseflesh that men likely would have killed for. She suspected murder might have been the least of what a man might have done to have an Angesand steed. To think something of this quality might be hers . . .

  Hearn put his hand on her shoulder in a friendly fashion. “Well, we’ve settled the rest of the company. What of you, missy? Is there something there that catches your eye?”

  Morgan didn’t dare say. There was a beautiful horse standing there, somewhat apart, of a mahogany color with a streak of white down his nose and little white socks on his feet. He stood next to a horse that matched him except that he was black. Both beasts seemed to be flying even as they stood there, perfectly still and perfectly mannered. Outside of the flashy horse that Morgan couldn’t imagine Adhémar managing to ride, those looked to be the finest of the lot.

  And that was saying a great deal.

  But she didn’t dare voice her desire. Miach’s water had been sweet and her swordplay superior, but even those things could not possibly manage to win what stood before her.

  Hearn studied her for a moment or two, then motioned to one of his lads. Morgan watched in astonishment as the mahogany horse was brought forward. To her everlasting horror, she felt her eyes begin to burn.

  Hearn met his lad halfway and brought the horse back to Morgan. “His name is Reannag,” he said. He held out the reins. “He’s yours.”

  She looked up at him. She could hardly see for the tears in her eyes. “How did you know?”

  “Some things are destined to be, my girl,” he said with a grave smile.

  Morgan blinked, hard, then accepted the reins with a gingerliness she might have used with a legendary sword. Reannag didn’t seem to mind, though. He merely stared at her in friendly horse fashion, as if he waited for her to come to terms with the magnitude of his splendidness.

  Morgan thought that might take quite some time.

  Hearn turned to Miach. “You’ll have the black next to him, won’t you?”

  “Gratefully,” Miach said. “What is he called?”

  “Rèaltan. Do you care to try him?”

  “Desperately,” Miach said frankly.

  Hearn laughed. “Saddle or none?”

  “I’ll manage without, thank you.”

  Morgan stood next to Hearn and watched with concern. “Are you certain he shouldn’t have a lesson or two?”

  Hearn shrugged. “If he’s bucked off and breaks his neck, you may have his horse.”

  “Well, that’s fair enough, I suppose,” she conceded.

  But to her surprise, Miach swung up onto that horse as if he’d done it all his life. Then again, he was a farmer. That would explain his proficiency on horseback, which even she could see was considerable. He rode the horse around the lists several times, then slid off its back in front of Hearn. He made Hearn a very low bow.

  “My gratitude. He is a magnificent beast.”

  “Keep him well.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll know if you do not.”

  Miach smiled. “I imagine you will.” He looked at Morgan. “What of you? Saddle or not?”

  Morgan shifted. It wasn’t in her nature to shift, or to display discomfort, or to doubt herself. Then again, everything that had happened to her in the past month had been out of the ordinary, so perhaps this was not unexpected. She looked at Hearn.

  “Perhaps a saddle,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

  “Perhaps a gentler mount,” Hearn offered. “Just until you feel secure.”

  Morgan chewed on her next words for a moment or two. “For me to feel secure might take longer than a pair of circles around your lists.”

  Hearn studied her for a moment, then turned and called for another of his lads. A sturdier-looking beast was brought in, saddled and apparently ready for a lesson.

  Not a lesson for him, but a lesson for her.

  Hearn took Reannag’s reins from her. “You’ll learn quickly,” he stated.

  “I had better.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” Hearn said with a twinkle in his eye, “but that would be best. Here, lass, come over here and I’ll give you a leg up.”

  Morgan took a deep breath, then considered her weapons. She decided finally that perhaps it was best not to bring them all on board at first. She handed off her sword and a clutch of daggers to Miach, then walked over and let Hearn boost her up into the saddle.

  The horse only shifted slightly.

  She took a moment or two to get used to the idea, then smiled. Perhaps it would not be as difficult as she feared—

  The horse, unaccountably, reared as if he realized he had something atop his back he did not care for. Before she could find the words to convince him that she meant him no harm, he was bucking wildly beneath her. She was not graceless, but this was completely beyond her experience.

  She fell off, but landed on one leg, feeling quite confident that she would manage to at least hop briefly in an undignified fashion before she got both feet back under her.

  There was a horrendously loud crack.

  Morgan only realized that it had been her leg to make that sound the moment before her world went black.

  She felt as if she were swimming in deep water. It was similar to the feeling she’d had during her time aboard the ship, but this was easier. Perhaps she was not seasick. Perhaps there was no magic involved.

  Perhaps she’
d landed finally on her head and lost all sense.

  She kept her eyes closed and tried to understand where she was. She smelled hay and horse. She sensed Miach nearby and heard Hearn making noises of concern and worry.

  “At least the stable is cleaner than the house,” Hearn said gruffly. “Smells better too.”

  “She will be well.”

  “I’ve never seen a break this severe.”

  “My lord Hearn, she will be well.”

  Hearn sighed. “I feel responsible.”

  “I daresay she won’t hold you so. Now, if you would be so good as to let me think for a minute.”

  “I suppose there is no need to call in a physick, is there, with you about—”

  Miach must have glared at him, for Hearn sighed.

  “I’ll say no more.”

  “Thank you. That would be quite helpful.”

  Morgan felt Miach put his hand on her leg. Both hands. Then he began to speak. She didn’t recognize the language, but even so, somehow the words seemed to sink into her very flesh and become part of her.

  Then the words started to sound familiar. She puzzled mightily as to how that might be so, but before she could begin to figure it out, a strange, sweet sleep crept over her.

  She allowed it.

  She dreamed.

  She watched a mother with her child. The mother kept the child close, speaking to her in the same words that Miach used. A strange, sweet peace surrounded the pair; it was strong enough that it enveloped Morgan as well.

  Morgan followed the pair as they wandered through the forest. The underbrush didn’t tear at her skin this time. The little girl was with her mother and all was well.

  The mother left the girl at the edge of a clearing. Morgan didn’t care for this, and neither did the girl, but the child didn’t protest. The mother walked out from under the trees and approached a man. Morgan tried to see more clearly, but she couldn’t tell in the end if the man was dressed in black or if it was that he was simply so dark in his soul that he appeared that way.

  It didn’t matter, though, because he began to speak in some horrible tongue that sounded dark and void. He stood over a well, raising his hands and speaking loudly and quickly. The longer he went on, the more nervous Morgan became. She wanted to leap forward and stop him, but she could not.