Star of the Morning (17 page)

Miach was tempted to get up and leave them to their snores, but he made the mistake of looking at Morgan again.

And once he looked, he found he couldn't look away.

He stared at her by the light of a pair of candles in the chamber and nodded to himself. Aye, it would be sensible to remain nearby for a while.

To make certain Adhémar didn't lose his way.

To see to Morgan if she needed aid.

To find the answers to his riddles.

“She's a vile wench.”

Miach blinked and looked at the doorway. Adhémar stood there, scowling.

“I wonder how vile can she be with that visage,” Miach mused.

“Aye, well, don't wonder too closely or she'll give
you
a lump on your head you won't soon forget.”

“Interesting.” He looked at his brother casually. “I believe I'll travel with her for a bit, just to make certain she's well.”

“Why?” Adhémar demanded.

“Chivalric duty. Mother would have approved.”

“I was going to travel with them too,” Adhémar said with a grumble. “At least for a bit. I think, however, that
you
should return home as the crow flies.”

“I don't like crows.”

“I don't care. Go home. Morgan will be fine. I'll look for your wielder for another fortnight, then I'm for home as well.” Adhémar looked down at him archly. “I, at least, am staying on task.”

“And if she is y—” He shut his mouth before he said any more, but it was likely too late.
And if she is your task?
Miach watched the idea as it hung there in the stillness of the chilly air, brittle and fragile, so fragile that a single sigh would have shattered it beyond repair.

And then Adhémar snorted. “Impossible.”

“Quite right,” Miach said promptly, quickly waving the words away and leaving no trace of their passing. “I don't think I can take any shape but my own for a bit.” He shivered. “Too much raw meat, you know.”

Adhémar shivered in distaste. “Stay, then, but not overlong. I'm going to find a bed and sleep off my headache. I have another lump, but I can't fathom where I earned it.”

He turned and walked off, gingerly touching the back of his head.

Miach looked at his companions. They were still snoring in a duet that he was certain would eventually give
him
a headache. He sighed and rose, collected all Morgan's weapons and piled them into a corner, then removed his stool from between his sleeping companions. He wrapped himself in the cloak Cathar had pressed upon him, sent a happy thought his brother's way, and sat down in a corner to try to find his own rest.

He found it difficult. Too many questions, too many possibilities, too much noise.

And too much beauty lying before him.

He supposed it would be a very long night.

Eight

Morgan woke. She shifted, and a thrill went through her, as if she'd had a great sickness and its vestiges were still coursing through her veins. It was not unlike what she'd felt after the sea journey from Bere. Magic? Not unless Adhémar had been pouring his foul brew down her; she suspected she would have remembered that.

Well, whatever it was, it would no doubt fade in time. The best thing for it would be to sit up and face the day. She managed to get herself upright with a minimum of effort, dragged her hand through her hair, then froze.

There was a man sitting on a stool in the corner of the chamber, watching her.

She reached for her sword, and found nothing. She could tell without moving that the rest of her daggers were missing as well. She glanced about her casually but with deadly purpose for the rest of her weapons. They were, as fate would have it, all propped up about the man who was sitting on the stool in the corner, watching her.

He looked briefly at her gear, then back at her. “Everything is here,” he said calmly. “I kept watch.”

“Good of you,” she said. She could defend herself with her hands alone, but that was generally a messy business and she was resting on a quite nice mattress in what looked to be a decent chamber. It would be a pity to ruin all that. But she would, if she had to. She suspected by the way the man did not move that he realized the same thing.

Then she remembered who he was.

He was the man from the night before, the one who had flown into the clearing as a hawk, spewed forth fire, then changed himself into himself.

Hadn't he?

She frowned, then rubbed the spot between her eyes that had begun to pound. Sea travel was harder on the body than she had feared. First it was magical herbs, now it was shapechanging men. What next? Swords that sprang to life with magelight—

Oh. But that had already happened.

Heaven help her.

Morgan immediately shunned that memory and swung her legs to the floor. She waited until the tingling subsided, then forced herself to attempt a bit of politeness.

“Thank you for guarding my gear ...” She reached for his name, but found she did not know it.

“Miach,” he supplied helpfully.

“Miach,” she repeated.

“Aye.”

She looked at him. Once she managed to get her eyes uncrossed and could actually see him, she felt her jaw drop.

Nay, not another one!

He had to be Adhémar's brother. Indeed, he might have been Adhémar's twin, but he was obviously several years younger. And, she had to admit, he was handsome in a different way. He had the same dark hair, the same handsome features, but a leaner build. He was also not sitting there, puffing out his chest, demanding by his very presence that any and all in the area drop to their knees and shower him with accolades. Could it be that he was actually tolerable?

Well, the only way to know for sure was to listen to him talk.

“Are you his brother? Adhémar's?”

“So my mother claimed.”

Morgan lifted one eyebrow. “And how does that set with you?”

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and smiled a very small smile. “A bit like a rash that I cannot scratch but that burns like hellfire just the same and never goes away.”

Morgan almost smiled. “That I can understand—”

“Morgan! You're awake!”

She whipped her head around to see Glines standing just inside the doorway. She had to put her hands over her eyes to make the chamber cease with its spinning as Glines leaped into the chamber. He put his hand on her forehead.

“You're not feverish,” he said, sounding vastly relieved.

It was testimony enough of her weakness of form that she allowed it without thinking. It was obvious Glines had done the like before. Perhaps she had been out of her head with fever. She brushed Glines's hand away in annoyance. “I am well.”

“We worried. You've slept for two days.”

Morgan scowled at Glines. “Did Adhémar give me more herbs? I daresay I feel as if he did.”

“Nay,” Glines said. He shot Miach an uncomfortable look. “At least I don't think so.”

Morgan frowned at Miach. So, he was not without his faults. “
You
didn't give me any of Adhémar's brew, did you?”

He shook his head slowly. “I didn't.”

“Fortunately for you,” Morgan said. She studied him for another moment or two. “You poor man. I vow you are the mirror of Adhémar.”

“Morgan,” Glines said, sounding slightly aghast. He looked at Miach. “I'm sure she meant no offense.”

“Of course I meant offense,” Morgan said. “Adhémar is a dolt and every time he opens his mouth, he confirms it. I'll reserve judgment on this brother until I've seen him with a sword in his hands. A sword of his
own
,” she said, casting a pointed look at the collection of her weapons he was surrounded by.

“Oh, Morgan, please stop,” Glines said miserably.

Morgan was on the verge of telling Glines to go soak his head until it became useful to him again, but she was interrupted in giving that instruction by the arrival of Paien, Camid, and Fletcher. Even Adhémar came to stand in the doorway. Her comrades seemed very interested in making certain that she was well, which was cheering, but it got in the way of her comparing Miach to his elder brother. Not that she didn't have better things to do, but she wasn't feeling fully herself. An excuse for a little extra time to get her feet under her was a welcome thing.

“She looks well, doesn't she?” Paien was saying. “Much better than last night.”

“Or the night before that,” Camid added. “There was an unwholesome pallor to her face then.”

“A gel with a weaker constitution might still be senseless,” Paien said, “but not this one. Glines, go fetch her something to eat. She could use it.”

Morgan thought that while there might be many things she could use, food was likely not one of them.

Then again, perhaps she was being too hasty. She shifted on the bed. Her stomach remained quite steady. She frowned thoughtfully. She did not feel any overwhelming evidence of magic in her system, but she also did not feel completely herself. Perhaps a meal would serve her well.

“We'll wait for you in the great room,” Camid said, shoving Adhémar out of the chamber before him. The rest of the men followed, dragging Fletcher with them. Morgan opened her mouth to thank Miach for tending to her blades, while of course taking the opportunity to chastise him for apparently removing them from her person, but the chamber was empty. She looked over at the corner. At least nothing appeared to have been filched.

But what of Nicholas's blade?

Her heart beat with uncomfortable swiftness and she found herself on her feet without really knowing how she'd gotten there. She crossed the chamber in two quick strides, grabbed her pack, and opened it with hands that shook far more than she would have liked.

It was unnecessary.

The blade still whispered to her.

She set her pack down with trembling hands and cursed softly. She could not continue this way, unsure of her next step, faced at every turn with magic and creatures from nightmares—

No more boats. They were just too hard on her.

“Morgan? Breakfast.”

Morgan looked over at Glines. “I thought it was supper.”

“It's morning.”

Morgan nodded as if she'd known it all along, then began to methodically replace her weapons. Once they were all residing where they should have been, she buckled her sword about her hips and shouldered her pack. That Glines only waited and didn't offer to help was reassuring. Perhaps she looked more herself than she dared hope.

She followed him out of the chamber and into the gathering room, realizing as she did so that she had no memory of ever coming through there in the first place.

That was not a pleasant realization.

She continued to follow Glines over to a table where a place had been saved for her. She sat, applied herself briskly to her breakfast, and hoped it would remain where it was supposed to. It was only after she held a mug of ale in her hand and sat back to test her stomach's resiliency that she looked around her. She blinked in surprise to see that Miach was indeed still with the company. He sat over in a corner, very far apart from them, staring off into the distance as if he saw something no one else did.

“Adhémar,” Paien said, tapping his fingers in an annoying fashion on the table, “where is your brother? I thought he would remain for a day or two.”

Adhémar shrugged. “I told him to go home, but unfortunately I imagine he's somewhere hereabouts.”

“Of course he is,” Morgan said. “He's sitting over there.”

Her companions looked to where she was pointing, then began to shift uncomfortably. All save Fletcher, who looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.

She frowned. “What?”

“Morgan,” Glines said carefully, “there's no one over there.”

“Of course there is, you fool,” she said. “I can see him as plainly as I can see you.”

Glines and Paien exchanged a look. The look was then exchanged between Paien and Camid. Then Paien turned back to her. “Let's have a bit of fresh air, shall we? It will clear our heads.”

“I'm telling you, he's right there,” she said, pointing toward the corner. “I'll go get him.”

She got up, only to find that the corner was now empty. She came to a stumbling halt and rubbed her eyes. There was indeed no one sitting at that little table there.

But there had been a moment ago.

She would have sworn it.

The front door opened and she spun around to see who it was. She was somehow quite unsurprised to find it was Miach. Had he snuck out the back and come around to the front? She was certain, quite certain, that she had seen him in the darkened corner.