The ship moved out into the harbor. Adhémar stood idly by and tried to concentrate on the cries of the seagulls and the slap of the waves against the side of the boat. In time, as the land fell away and the sea became rougher, Paien finally seemed to find his legs. He turned, then sank down against the side of the deck.
He looked at Adhémar blearily. “I don’t sail well.”
Adhémar sighed deeply. He likely should do what he could to aid them. He looked at Glines. “I don’t suppose there is a decent galley on this ship.”
“Why?”
“I need hot water. I have herbs that will ease them, but they must be steeped.”
“Of course.” Glines stopped himself just before he bowed, then he went off in search of what was requested.
Camid moved to stand next to Morgan and do the honors of holding her hair back away from her face. “Herbs?” he said doubtfully.
Adhémar pursed his lips. “My brother procured them for me.” He paused. “Likely from the local village witch.” Adhémar generally didn’t lie well, but he’d told so many over the past two months that he’d become quite proficient at it. And it served Miach right, being reduced to trafficking with local old women. It was Miach’s fault he was where he was and wallowing in his current condition. A slander, even if it could only be enjoyed by him alone, was satisfying.
“Well, I’m not opposed to an herb or two,” Camid said with a nod.
“Aye, what you can put in your pipe and smoke,” Paien said hoarsely. “Adhémar, brew ’em up quick as may be. I think I’m—”
He leaped to his feet and turned just in time. Camid shifted against the railing, Morgan’s hair still in his hand, and looked at Adhémar placidly.
“Let’s hope the galley lads are quick.”
Adhémar grunted in answer, then rummaged about in his pack and unearthed the herbs Miach had sent with him. He pulled things out of the large pouch, sniffing until he found something that smelled soothing. Adhémar supposed it was laced with magic, but neither Morgan nor Paien would be the wiser and he certainly couldn’t tell himself. He would just use a little and hope for the best.
Glines returned with a large mug. Adhémar accepted it, sloshed a bit on his leg and bellowed until he realized the water wasn’t nearly as hot as he would have liked, then dropped the herbs into it anyway and stirred with his dagger. Straining it properly was out of the question, so he scooped out what he could and flung that dross over the railing. He knelt next to Paien, who had resumed his place on the deck.
“Drink,” Adhémar commanded.
Paien did, a healthy swig. He pushed the cup away, frowned, tested his stomach’s resolve, then smiled. His eyes grew suddenly heavy, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Better,” he said happily, then tipped over and landed with his head on his own pack.
He began to snore.
Glines looked at Adhémar in admiration. “Well done.”
“One down, the wench to go. Camid?”
Camid turned Morgan around and bodily put her down in a sitting position on the deck. Adhémar put his hand behind her head and the cup to her lips.
“Drink,” he commanded.
She did, a large gulp that she couldn’t seem to help. Adhémar held her nose until she swallowed. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that she spewed out what she hadn’t managed to get down. He looked with irritation at the front of his tunic. He started to censure her for it, but her words stopped him.
“Magic,” she gasped.
Adhémar looked at her in astonishment. How in the bloody hell could she tell that? She was a shieldmaiden whose only magic came from the fairness of her face. That she should be able to sense Miach’s spells when he couldn’t even detect the faintest hint of them—
Morgan groped for what Adhémar could only surmise was a weapon. Camid managed to relieve her of several knives as she produced them from various places upon her person. “Damn you,” she slurred, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped over, using Paien as a pillow.
Camid organized her various knives and dirks, then paused, considered, and then did her the favor of stowing them in her pack. Adhémar frowned at him.
“Don’t you want to help yourself to any of those?” he asked.
Camid almost looked startled, if such a thing was possible for the dwarf who looked as if nothing came as a surprise. “I suppose I could try, but I would pay for it later, when she’s more herself.” He looked at Adhémar evenly. “If you knew her as I do, you would treat her differently.”
“More kindly?” Adhémar asked sourly.
“With more respect,” Camid said. He arranged Morgan’s pack on the deck, then beckoned to Glines.
Adhémar moved out of the way as they situated Morgan so she was as comfortable as possible. Well, perhaps familiarity bred fondness and for that he couldn’t blame them.
But for himself, he could only judge her by what he’d seen of her. She had stolen his extra pair of socks, the ones he was wearing had holes, and she was carrying on her person the bulk of his funds.
He paused. He supposed that might be a boon. Less to lose to Glines.
At least she hadn’t stolen his sword. Though given the number of weapons Camid had packed away for her, she likely had no need for it.
He sighed and looked at Camid. “We’ll watch in shifts.”
Camid only nodded, apparently not questioning the decision or the fact that Adhémar was making it. Adhémar took that as his due, then looked at Glines.
“I have a mystery to solve. Did you see the lad who followed us on board?”
“I did.”
“Let us be about discovering his identity. I’ve no mind to find out who he is as he plunges a knife into my back.”
“I know him,” Glines said. “He’s Fletcher of Harding. Why he is following us is worthy of our time, though.”
“Then let us be about it.”
It took little time to find young Fletcher and even less to intimidate his entire tale from him. Apparently he was an eavesdropper extraordinaire who had decided to follow Glines from a siege his father had been paying for.
“Siege?” Adhémar echoed, looking at Glines. “Over what?”
“Water rights,” Glines said with a faint smile.
Of course. Water, sheep, and bickering farmers. Was there anything else on Melksham? Adhémar had wondered, over the years, why Neroche had never gone so far during any of her king’s reigns to claim the island and its rich farmland.
Now, he understood.
“And what did you plan to do once you reached Istaur?” Glines asked the boy sternly.
“Follow you,” Fletcher said, his teeth chattering. “I heard that Lord Nicholas of Lismòr had sent you on a quest.” He attempted to puff out his chest. “I happened to be looking for a quest myself and thought I would see if yours suited me.”
Glines snorted. “Fletcher, my lad, your quest will be to survive the journey to Istaur, then return home again before your father discovers you’ve gone and disinherits you. Go have a seat over there. I’ll help you book your return passage once we dock at Istaur.”
The lad looked primed to argue, but Glines shot him a look that had him backing down immediately. He gave in and went to sit down against a wall in the common room below.
Adhémar followed Glines back onto the upper deck. “The boy did not agree.”
“We’ll give him no choice,” Glines said. “He would be a burden on the journey and Morgan will have no patience for it.”
“What journey is she making, do you suppose?” Adhémar asked. “Not that I care, of course.”
Glines gave him a look Adhémar couldn’t quite decipher, then shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough, I suppose. North is a very large place.” He nodded politely, then turned and walked across the deck.
Adhémar frowned and wondered if that blow Morgan had dealt to the side of his head had rendered him witless as well as unconscious. Why he should care about the destination of one feisty shieldmaide
n was beyond him. Shieldmaidens did not interest him, either for themselves or their skill. His mother had been a powerful mage, but she tended to cut herself even whilst laboring in the kitchen with any sort of blade. Swords were man’s work and he had no interest in a woman wielding them.
But he was not beyond rendering aid where necessary, so he crossed the deck as well to see how things were progressing with the incapacitated ones.
Paien was still snoring peacefully. Morgan was heaving, even in her sleep. Adhémar looked at Camid.
“More brew,” he said with a sigh.
Camid studied him for a moment or two. “You know,” he said finally, “she cannot bear magic.”
“I’m quite certain these are just plain herbs,” Adhémar said. “If there is any magic involved, I certainly can’t feel it.” And that was the truth.
“We’ll try mine this time,” Camid said, then rose and patted a little pouch at his belt. He went in search of more hot water, then returned with something in a cup that smelled simply vile.
He managed to get it in Morgan’s mouth by force. Adhémar was slightly satisfied to see that in the end it didn’t do any more good than Miach’s brew had. The only improvement was that Camid was wearing it, not him.
“We’ll try mine again,” Adhémar said, sending Camid off for another cup of hot water. He tossed in a few extra things and managed to get Morgan to drink most of it.
She fell immediately into a deep, if not restless, sleep.
He waited and watched with Camid, but the invalids seemed to be resting comfortably. Adhémar considered supper, then declined. There was no sense in tempting fate.
He went to stand against the railing, facing away from the sun sinking behind them into the west. He blew out his breath and examined the unhappy results of his journey so far.
He’d started in Ainneamh, despite Miach’s warning, and had had absolutely no success. Miach was far better suited to treating with elves than he himself was. He hadn’t purposely set out to offend King Ehrne. To be sure, Erhne had spent enough of his centuries dealing with mortals that he should have been less prickly, but somehow that had not been the case.
He would send Miach to do repairs after he returned to Tor Neroche. Perhaps he would send Nemed along as well, and between the two of them they could soothe the delicate, affronted elvish feelings.
But really, what else could he have said? Telling Ehrne that Ainneamh was the last place on earth he’d expected to find someone to wield the Sword of Angesand had been meant as a compliment, not an insult.
Elves.
Impossible creatures.
He had then worked his way south. Melksham had been his last resort and he had hoped to find something useful there. All he’d come away with was a sore head and an irritating shieldmaiden. He grunted. She would have made a perfect match for Cathar. He was half tempted to take her home and introduce her to him, but that would potentially put her in line for a seat next to the throne and he didn’t think he could bring himself to subject his land to her bad temper.
He drew his sword. He looked at the runes of power and might that had been carved upon it centuries ago. It was still bright, that sword, as if it had been newly forged.
Unfortunately it was bright with nothing but a bit of daylight. There was nothing in him that called to the power within the blade. He resheathed the sword with a curse and shoved away from himself the despair that threatened to engulf him. He was a man full grown and past that sort of self-doubt. Even though he was forced to admit that he never could have, at any point, claimed Miach’s power, he did claim his sword and there was power in that.
He could not say how it had been done, or by whom, but his magecraft was gone, and he suspected it would not return to him until Lothar was dead and his spells unraveled. Perhaps it was for the best. The Sword of Angesand had been weighing on his mind. He was not anxious to admit to bullheadedness, but it was possible that he might not have done anything about it if he had been in full control of his powers.
But where to go now? He’d looked in the unlikely places. Perhaps now it was his task to look for unlikely souls in likely places. He cursed as he considered. Angesand, aye; or perhaps a less social visit to Penrhyn. There was nothing in him that whispered of a direction except home and that was not useful.
He cast his mind in farther circles than he had before. The schools of wizardry? He stepped back from that thought as if it stood to bite him. He hadn’t been able to bear it there longer than necessary when he’d been a lad, and his sojourn had been cut mercifully short by his father’s death. The wizards could likely be grateful for that, for if he’d had to listen to them pontificate one more time on the proper way to weave a spell, there would have been bloodshed.
Morgan stirred. He watched but saw that she only shifted, then passed into a deep, more peaceful slumber. Miach’s brew seemed to work.
A pity Miach hadn’t had an herb to restore Adhémar’s magic.
Adhémar set his face forward and considered his route. He would perhaps travel with Morgan’s company for a bit and continue north. After all, who knew but keeping company with unlikely souls might lead to the unlikeliest soul of all.
He had no other choice.
Six
Morgan woke. The deck was no longer heaving beneath her. She was no longer heaving either, which she took to be a very promising sign. She was somewhere that smelled of rich earth and a smoking fire. She remained still, trying to work out where that somewhere might be and where her weapons were. She had no knives up her sleeves, which was disconcerting, but the usual suspects were still stuck down her boots. The comforting coldness against her anklebones told her that much. Well, no matter. If she had to do damage, she could do so with her hands alone. That was assuming, however, that she could get to her feet and stay there long enough to do so.
She was having grave and unwholesome doubts on that score.
Twigs snapped and popped near her ear. She opened one eye a slit and saw that it was night; stars were clear in the sky above her. She was lying in a glade surrounded by trees. She was on bare ground, save that uncomfortable rock near her lower spine, and she was not alone.
“I’m running perilously short on gold,” Adhémar was saying with a grumble.
“Then cease passing the time with Glines and his cards,” Camid suggested.
“I cannot believe there won’t come a time when I won’t win,” Adhémar returned.
Camid chuckled. “So say all his victims.”
“I’m convinced the wench poached much of my coin,” Adhémar said pointedly. “I should go through her pack whilst she sleeps.”
“She’s not sleeping,” Glines said absently, shuffling his cards. “And, no disrespect intended, you wouldn’t have been able to go through her pack.”
“Why is it you are so protective of her and so unfeeling about my purse?” Adhémar groused.
“Save our lives a time or two as she has, then we’ll think about it,” Camid said.
“Don’t bother about his gold,” Morgan croaked, turning her head. She had to wait several minutes until the world stopped spinning and she could focus on the little group sitting on the far side of the fire. “He’ll just spend it unwisely.”
“Unwisely?” Adhémar said sharply. “How so?”
“Those herbs,” she said, clearing her throat. “Where did you get them?”
“Here and there.”
She closed her eyes. It was better that way, for then the world ceased to spin quite so violently. “Then it was either here or there where you were robbed. Some village witch slipped some of her wares into what you bought.”
Adhémar snorted. “Your imagination has gotten the better of you.”
Morgan let that pass. She was far more concerned with getting herself to her feet where she could argue more persuasively. Perhaps she would even have a look at those herbs and see if they looked as disgusting as they tasted.
She sat up slowly, appalled at how unstable
she was. She looked briefly at Camid. His axe was lying next to him on the ground and he was sharpening his favorite dagger with a slow, careful motion. He looked at her and winked. Well, at least someone was concentrating on their safety.
She frowned. “Where’s Paien?”
Camid pointed to her right with his dagger.
Morgan looked next to her. Paien was snoring in an alarmingly loud manner. He sounded dreadful. “Is he dying?” she asked in surprise.
“He likely wishes it so,” Camid said with a small smile, “but nay, he’s merely weary. We carried you both here, but with him it was a most unpleasant journey. I suppose he will remember bits and pieces of it in time.”
“Likely all the times we dropped him,” Glines remarked as he studied his cards.
Camid snorted out a small laugh. “One would think a few days without food would have lightened his bulk, but it was not so.” He stood. “I’ll stand watch. Glines, tend Morgan. We’ll set off at first light.” He looked at her. “Where are we going again?”
She closed her eyes briefly to recover from the sight of Camid leaping so spryly to his feet. “North,” she managed thickly.
“That north?” he asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Wouldn’t that look fine on my list of conquests? Let us go very far north and see what sort of sport we find—”
“Not that north,” Morgan said, sounding appallingly weak even to her own ears. “Souther north.”
“On foot?”
“How else?” she said, gritting her teeth.
“Not by boat, I suppose,” he said, sounding rather disappointed.
Glines laughed. “Leave her be. We’ll go on foot and be pleased with the journey.”
Camid made sounds of disgust and tromped off.
Morgan didn’t dare watch him go, but she determined that she would have speech with him, Paien, and Glines later, when Adhémar was not about. They would discuss their direction and she would tell them . . . well, she would tell them nothing. How could she reveal that she was carrying a weapon that was so slathered with magic that she could hear it singing from the depths of her pack?