Star of the Morning

  “Do you want to win?” she asked.

  “Not really,” he said, and he laughed again. “I think I would very much like to lose, that you might have the prize of that very useful spell for speeding the growing of a nasty herb or two.”

  Morgan smiled as well. In truth, she wanted no more of magic and spells, but the thought of a little something to give Adhémar a rash to concentrate on was welcome indeed.

  Besides, Miach’s mirth kept the darkness at bay yet a little longer.

  She was very grateful for it.

  Twenty-one

  Miach stood in the pale morning sunlight and watched Adhémar train with Morgan. That did not trouble him. Morgan could have cut Adhémar to ribbons without an effort, but she seemed to be humoring him. Sadly enough, Adhémar had no idea. Miach enjoyed that. He shouldn’t have, but he did.

  It wasn’t even what his brother was saying that troubled him. It would appear that Adhémar had finally become convinced, by some unfathomable leap of logic that Miach had been certain his brother could never make, that Morgan was indeed the wielder. Miach had warned him repeatedly not to overwhelm her with too many spells or she would bolt. Besides, how was he to explain to Morgan that a mere landholder such as Adhémar was purported to be should know so much about magic?

  Adhémar ignored him.

  Adhémar was also, predictably, suffering from a rather nasty rash. Nettles would do that to a body. Morgan had won the first hand of cards and proved to be quite adept at his nettle-growing spell.

  Nay, it wasn’t any of those things that troubled him.

  It was that he loved her.

  Miach paced, smiling, then found that his smile was fading. It was easy enough to consider Morgan, viewed by the light of the fire, and think of her as nothing more than a beautiful, if deadly, shieldmaiden. It was easy enough to look at Morgan, the pale winter sunlight shining down on her dark hair, and think of her as a beautiful woman. It was easy to think of her as a perfect comrade with a smile that would have made a lesser man’s knees a little unsteady beneath him.

  It was not so easy to think of her as the wielder.

  Miach wondered when he’d first known—that he loved her, not that he might have found the answer to the kingdom’s troubles. He cast back over the recent past and suspected that it might have been from that first night, when he had caught her in his arms and carried her back to the inn. She’d been lovely and remote, the image of a queen of old.

  Then she had woken and looked at him.

  Somewhere, somehow during the past endless succession of days, he’d lost his heart for good. His mother had warned him there would be peril in his future. Why hadn’t she warned him of the potential for peril to his heart?

  “Another spell,” Adhémar commanded, shifting uncomfortably as the aftereffects of his sitting apparently caught up with him again. “I’m sure you’ll find it useful.”

  Morgan yawned. “When you can best me,” she said, “then I will think on it.”

  Miach watched his brother throw himself back into the fray with all his strength and force. Even Miach had to credit him with a valiant effort.

  Unfortunately for him, king of Neroche or not, he was simply not Morgan’s equal. Morgan finally rid him of his sword in disgust.

  “I’m finished,” she said, resheathing her sword with a scowl. “You be finished too.”

  “A spell, just the same,” Adhémar cajoled.

  Miach was on the verge of telling him to just be silent or he would find himself helped to silence when he caught wind of a change in the air. He turned and looked behind him to see the rest of their company riding as if the very demons of hell were after them. Morgan walked over to him.

  “They look unsettled,” she remarked.

  “Is it Glines outrunning a disgruntled gambler?” Miach asked, trying for levity.

  “I wonder,” Morgan murmured.

  Paien thundered up and jumped down off his horse with the energy of a man half his age. He ran up to Miach, panting hard.

  “We must away.”

  Miach looked at him in surprise. “Why?” What had he missed? He’d been concentrating on the border, true, but surely he would have sensed something coming toward them with evil intent. Then again, given his experience near Chagailt, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised by anything. Apparently, there were things going on in the realm that he was not marking.

  An unsettling trend, to be sure.

  “Ghouls,” Paien said succinctly. “Tales of them everywhere. We heard they were searching for something.”

  “Or someone,” Glines said, coming to stand next to Paien. He looked at Miach seriously. “We saw a few. Not many, but terrifying just the same. We outrode them easily, but that safety will not last. I daresay we would do well not to camp in the open unless we are prepared to be assaulted.”

  Miach nodded, considering furiously. Someone was being stalked. He could only assume it was Adhémar. Lothar couldn’t possibly know anything about Morgan. It was he and Adhémar who drew the evil to them. The sooner that they were away, the better it would be for Morgan.

  The safer for Morgan.

  The truth of it sank into his heart and refused to move. He tried to turn away, but found he couldn’t. He wanted to walk away, but his feet remained rooted to the ground. The reality of it was as bracing as a blow across the face.

  The farther north they rode, the more danger Morgan unwittingly rode into.

  Perhaps Lothar did not seek him; it was a certainty Lothar sought Adhémar. That did not begin to reckon anything about the magic Miach still couldn’t identify. It was a treacherous mire of danger Morgan walked into without any idea of what she faced. She thought she simply carried a blade to the king of Neroche.

  Miach knew better.

  He wrenched himself away from where his body seemed to want to remain and started to pace. Perhaps he was wrong about her, about all of it. Just because she had dreamed once of the Sword of Angesand didn’t mean that she was destined to be the wielder of it. Just because she dreamed dreams of Gair of Ceangail that were so detailed she could repeat while awake the spells she’d heard while asleep did not mean she possessed magic enough to wield the Sword of Angesand. Just because he was certain that she was Gair’s daughter didn’t mean she was destined to wield that sword.

  He could take Nicholas’s knife for her.

  He could send her far away from Tor Neroche.

  What he could not do was send her to her death.

  “Let us ride, then,” Morgan was saying to Paien.

  Paien didn’t move. “Morgan, lass, you know I’ll follow you anywhere, but don’t you think ’tis time you told us where we’re going?”

  Morgan bowed her head for a moment, then lifted it and looked at him. “I’m going to the palace of Tor Neroche.” She paused. “I can say no more.”

  Paien did not look all that surprised. The man was canny indeed. “No more needs to be said,” he said briskly. “Let us be off.”

  “Are you too weary to ride?” Morgan asked.

  “We aren’t. And the horses will do as we ask.” He shook his head in wonder. “Magnificent beasts.”

  “Great-hearted,” Morgan agreed. “We’ll break camp and be ready to ride immediately. Miach?”

  Miach felt her touch on his arm. “Aye?” he croaked.

  “Come,” she said simply. “We must away.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. He looked down at her and would have liked nothing more than to have taught her a spell of shapechanging and bid her fly off to safety with him.

  Unfortunately, he was no place of refuge. He would have to send her off on her own. He would, however, need to find the proper time to do it. Perhaps when Adhémar wasn’t looking. Perhaps when the rest of the company was asleep. Perhaps when they had ridden far enough from the danger Paien had spoken of for him to feel certain Morgan wouldn’t encounter it on her way back to Melksham.

  He nodded briskly and went to saddle his horse.


  They rode north, the miles being consumed by the hooves of the marvelous Angesand horses. Miach finally forced the company to stop at an inn. He dismounted and waited for the rest of the company to do so as well. Miach studied the inn. He wasn’t pleased with the look of it, and he wasn’t without the resilience and stamina to keep going, but he had to stop. He was certain that they had far outridden whatever Paien had caught sight of. It would do no harm to rest here. Indeed, Miach suspected this might be a good place to stop for the night.

  Giving him the perfect opportunity to convince Morgan that she should return home by the most direct route possible.

  “I’ll watch first,” Camid offered. “Go ahead inside and eat. Just save me something.”

  “I’ll stay as well,” Paien said. “Glines, take Fletcher with you and make certain Morgan doesn’t eat everything.”

  Morgan scowled at him before she walked into the inn. Miach followed her over to a table by the fire. He set his pack down, then went to find them something to eat. Once that was seen to, he sat down with her, Adhémar, Glines, and Fletcher, and was unashamedly grateful for a seat that didn’t move.

  It took some time, but soon the conversings of the men around him began to make sense to his ears. Miach suppressed the urge to look over his shoulder when he heard the king’s name being mentioned. He did manage to not look at Glines, though that was something of an effort too.

  “I’ve seen him fight,” said a man behind Morgan. “Remarkable, and make no mistake about that. I’ve never seen a finer.”

  “Ah, but all his brothers are decent men of war,” said another. “Each with his own strengths. ’Tis rumored the next down, Prince Cathar, is an even finer swordsman than the king.”

  “That isn’t possible,” said the first.

  “Aye, it is.”

  An argument ensued. Miach paid little attention to it. Indeed, he could have ignored the rest of the conversation, but then another, more lucid-sounding voice cut through the arguing.

  “But you’ve missed the most interesting of the princes,” that clear voice said. “The Prince Archmage!”

  “His name escapes me,” someone slurred.

  “Not pronounceable,” said another. “And ’tis bad luck to do so.”

  “So I hear as well,” said the strongest voice. “Though I don’t know why. Perhaps it angers him.”

  Adhémar snorted. Miach didn’t dare look at him, so he concentrated on his ale. Morgan looked with interest over her shoulder.

  “You know,” said one, “I’ve heard that the youngest—”

  “The archmage—” put in another.

  “Aye, the archmage,” the man said impatiently. “I’ve heard that all the talents of all the brothers are manifest tenfold in him.”

  “In truth?”

  Adhémar snorted so loudly that he choked. Morgan glared at him and turned her attention back to the conversation going on behind her. Miach exchanged a bland look with Glines.

  Glines only smiled in return.

  “He can outride the king, outfight Cathar the Fierce, weave melodies in the wind that would shame Nemed the Fair, and other things that normal men couldn’t do even if they had magic—and the archmage can do all these things in spite of his magic.”

  “Is that so,” said one of the men. “Then heaven preserve us if he intends to do any of that with his magic.”

  Miach buried his thoughts in his cup. He would have happily continued to do so, but Morgan leaned over toward him. “I wonder what it would be like to cross swords with him.”

  “You would likely leave him on his knees, weeping,” Miach whispered back.

  “There are limits to my skill.”

  “You jest,” he said seriously. “I can’t think of a man who can stand against you. And you need no finger-waggling to improve your swordplay.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if this archmage does either,” Morgan said.

  “Oh, enough,” Adhémar said crossly. He glared at them both, got to his feet with a curse, and walked out of the inn.

  Morgan looked at Miach. “What ails him?”

  “Envy,” Miach said promptly. “No doubt you bested him once too often. Are you finished?”

  “Not by half,” she said, and applied herself to her meal.

  Miach caught Glines still looking at him. Glines winked, then continued on with ingesting a substantial repast. Miach supposed he should probably do the same thing. Who knew when he next would have a decent meal?

  He corrected himself. He might have a decent meal once he reached the castle, but would he manage to eat it?

  He suspected not.

  “How much farther?” Morgan asked, pushing her plate away finally. “Miach? Glines?”

  “Three days, on the outside,” Glines said. “If we ride hard.”

  Morgan leaned forward. “Will we get inside the gates, do you think?”

  Fletcher leaned in as well. “Why wouldn’t we?” he whisper-ed.

  “They’re guarded by magic,” Morgan said seriously. “Didn’t you know?”

  “But, Morgan, you don’t believe in magic,” Fletcher breathed.

  Miach found himself on the receiving end of a very pointed look from Morgan before she turned back to Fletcher.

  “I don’t like magic,” she said, “but I must concede that it exists. Don’t rely on it, though. It is fickle.”

  Fletcher nodded seriously. Miach counted that as one of Weger’s rules that the boy would now emblazon upon his memory and carry with him for the rest of his days.

  Miach sat back and looked at his companions sitting around that table. He was a little surprised by how much affection he’d grown to feel toward them in such a short time. They were good souls. Honest. Trustworthy.

  And, in Morgan’s case, too dear for his peace of mind.

  He was tempted, almost beyond his ability to resist, to remain at the table and bask in the warmth of the fire and in the radiance that was Morgan of Melksham, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to put his plan in action.

  He had no choice.

  “I think,” he said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him, “that we should stay the night.”

  Morgan looked at him in surprise. “Think you?”

  “I do,” he said firmly. “Rest the horses, and all that.”

  “But Miach,” she said slowly, “what of those creatures? What of the rumors of them?”

  He would see to them after she was safely away, but he didn’t dare say as much. “I think we have lost them. After all, we will be safely ensconced in the inn. I imagine we won’t have any trouble with them.”

  “If you say so,” she said doubtfully.

  Miach watched her exchange a look with Glines, who shrugged, then she nodded.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let us go guard the horses while the others eat, then we’ll come back and inquire about chambers.”

  Miach rose when the rest of his dinner companions did, paid the serving girl extra, then left the common room. He waited with Morgan, Glines, and Fletcher as Paien and Camid had their turn. Of Adhémar, there was nothing to be seen. Miach didn’t worry. He couldn’t have been so fortunate as to have had his brother go ahead without them.

  Time proved him right. Adhémar returned as Camid and Paien came outside. They gathered together for a moment to review their plans for traveling farther that night. Miach was just preparing to inform the others of his plan before the peace of the evening and the comfort of their full bellies was disturbed.

  Hell broke loose.

  Miach watched in astonishment as a half dozen creatures of the kind he had grown accustomed to seeing sprang out from the shadows of the inn. He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised that he hadn’t noticed them, or that they made straight for Morgan.

  Morgan jerked Fletcher behind her and dispatched two with only a slight bit of effort. Miach didn’t even have a chance to draw his sword before the others were seen to.

  Morgan?

  They had come for Mo
rgan.

  He could hardly believe it, but he knew he had to. It proved to him beyond doubt that he had to act.

  “Convinced?” Adhémar panted, sheathing his sword and glaring at him. “There is no safety on the road.”

  “I never disagreed with that,” Miach said. “I was thinking we should pass the night here—”

  “You’re mad,” Adhémar said. “We must make for Tor Neroche as quickly as possible. It is our only hope of safety.”

  “And speaking of safety, there is something we must discuss.” Miach nodded curtly at his companions, then took his brother by the arm. “Excuse us.”

  Adhémar tried to pull his arm away. “What do you mean, excuse us? I’ve business—”

  “With me,” Miach said shortly. He dragged the very resistive king of Neroche out of earshot, then turned on him. “I’m sending her home,” he began without preamble.

  “You’re sending who home?” Adhémar said, jerking his arm away and rubbing it in annoyance.

  “I’m sending Morgan home.”

  “You’re what?” Adhémar said incredulously.

  “I’m sending her back to Melksham. She’ll be safe there.”

  Adhémar looked at him as if he’d never seen him before. “But she’s the wielder!”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “You convinced me.”

  “My mistake,” Miach said shortly. “I don’t care what she’s capable of. She’s a target and I won’t be responsible for putting her life in jeopardy.”

  “And I don’t want to lose what might turn the tide,” Adhémar snarled. “I want her in Tor Neroche and I want her hand on that blade. If it calls her name, I fully intend to use her to win the war.”

  “Adhémar, you fool, she might die!”

  “And I don’t take that risk with every sortie?” Adhémar retorted. “Perhaps you have yourself safely tucked inside your tower, but I do not enjoy such luxury—”

  Miach punched his brother in the mouth before he thought better of it.

  Matters did not improve from there.

  When they finally pulled themselves apart, Miach was rapidly losing sight from one swollen eye and Adhémar was clutching his nose with his hand as blood gushed from it. Miach glared at his brother.