Star of the Morning (19 page)

“He doesn't know you,” Glines said quietly.

“I'm not offended,” Morgan said.

He looked at her in astonishment. “You would have destroyed any other man for saying such a thing.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. She shook her head slowly. Her wits were returning, but not swiftly enough. She looked up at Glines. “I will be more myself tomorrow.”

“One can hope,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

She elbowed him sharply in the ribs and he laughed with a gasp.

“Better already, I see,” he said with a grin.

“I was never
that
indisposed,” she returned. But she did not feel totally herself either. There was something about looking over that lifeless brown plain that woke a terrible sense of foreboding in her.

“I am well,” she said aloud, but Glines had already walked away.

Horses it would have to be, before it was too late. The knife in her pack seemed to concur because it whispered its assent.

She reshouldered her pack and followed her companions.

 

 

That night she dreamed.

Nine

Miach stood on the edge of camp, looking north as the sun began to set to his left. It had been a very long day so far and he suspected he would not go to his rest anytime soon. He stared, unseeing, into the distance and began to methodically test his spells for weakness.

Fortunately, or perhaps not, there was no change in what he'd become accustomed to as a normal level of erosion. That he had grown used to it was unsettling. That the deterioration continued despite his renewing and reweaving was perhaps even more disturbing. Was this truly part of a larger plan of attack, or was it nothing more than a concentrated effort by some evil mage to drive him mad?

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

But what he did want to know was more about the circumstances surrounding the awakening of Adhémar's sword. Was it the sword itself that had decided to spring to life for that instant, or had Morgan called to the magic? Interesting questions, both of them, but ones he feared he would never have an answer to. He knew Adhémar wouldn't allow him to have a decent look at his sword and he suspected Morgan would likely skewer him if he suggested she had called any magic. If five days spent traveling with her had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that she despised magic in all its forms.

“Idle thoughts?”

Miach came back to himself with a snap that sounded audible even to his ears. He turned to find Morgan standing next to him. He focused on her with difficulty, then shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I was just thinking about home.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “And where would home be for you?”

“North.”

“How far north?” She looked at him suspiciously. “
Very
far north?”

He smiled. “I thank you for the vote of confidence in my mighty power, but nay. I am not of Lothar's ilk.”

“I was not suggesting that. I daresay you have delusions of grandeur enough on your own. But, now we come to it. I have something to discuss with you, something about our last morning at the inn—”

“I think I hear Adhémar calling me.”

She grabbed him by the arm. Miach watched her frown as she felt around a bit. “You're not as weak as you look.”

Miach had to laugh. “Thank you, I think.”

“This is not the arm of a man who is unaccustomed to swordplay, yet you seem so incapable of it.”

“Well—”

“No matter,” she said briskly. “Now that I have you here, I have several questions to ask you. Actually, just a single question.”

He could just imagine. He looked around him and wondered where he might escape, but she had a very firm grip on him. It was a not unpleasant sensation and he vowed to bear up bravely for another moment or two.

“That last morning at the inn,” she began, “you were sitting in the corner. Why could I see you when no one else could?”

“Was I sitting in the corner?”

She shot him a look of impatience. “You know you were.”

“Perhaps you were imagining it,” he said.

“Perhaps I wasn't.”

“Perhaps you just have very clear sight.”

“Was it a spell?” she asked severely.

“Ah—”

“The truth, Miach.”

He smiled to himself. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had spoken to him so impertinently. Well, other than Adhémar, but that was to be expected. It was astonishingly refreshing. He tried to muster an appropriately contrite expression.

“Well,” he admitted, “I might know a spell or two. Why you saw through that one I don't know—”

“I'm also not convinced I didn't see you shapechange,” she added. “That night before.”

He should have been more careful. That he hadn't been said much about his worry and weariness. “Do I look like a shapechanger?” he asked mildly.

“I've never met one, so I wouldn't know.”

“If I were you,” he said, “I would blame it on a fever and let that be that.”

She frowned. “Aye, or I could blame it on bad herbs. Adhémar gave me some that were positively vile. You should have him throw them out.”

“Why did you not care for them? I can't imagine there was anything truly odious about them, save their taste.”

“They were drenched in magic,” Morgan said, “and I'm not one for noticing magic. I couldn't help it with those.” She shivered. “I vow I'm still feeling the ill effects.”

Miach wanted to feel surprised, but somehow he just wasn't. This was part of what had kept him with the company for five days of stopping at inns and farmhouses and finding naught but nags and ancient plough horses. She had sensed the magic in the herbs Adhémar had given her. She had wielded the Sword of Neroche when his brother the king had been unable to. She had seen through his spell of concealment at the inn. His spells were not weak, yet there she stood, a shieldmaiden from a back-woods island where magic was shunned and strength of arm prized, and she had managed those feats?

“I don't care for it,” she added suddenly.

“Care for what?” he asked, wrenching his thoughts away from those compelling observations.

“Magic,” she said promptly. “In any form. I avoid it at all costs.”

“You have none of your own?” he asked.

She looked at him as if he'd given mortal offense. “Death first,” she said, quite seriously. “I would not wish such a fate on my worst enemy.”

Interesting. Perhaps she had an ancestor at some point in her lineage who'd had a bit of magic and passed it on. Her sight might be clearer than most because of it. She might possess just enough to have awakened the sleeping sword of Neroche. It might be nothing more than that.

Or it might be something else entirely.

Finding out the truth of that was reason enough to remain with the company longer than was sensible. Because his magic was very strong and no one saw through his spells unless he wished it. Because the Sword of Neroche had been dead steel when he'd touched it last.

Because she was frowning at him as if she would have preferred to be getting her answers by means of a sword pointed threateningly at his gut.

Aye, he would stay a bit longer. If nothing else, he would solve the mystery of Morgan of Melksham and her brushes with several things magical.

She turned suddenly toward the darkening plain. “This is so much more vast than I imagined.” She looked at him. “I have never been very good with maps.”

“How have you gotten around Melksham?”

“Camid navigates for us,” she admitted. “He's fond of a good map.”

“Dwarves generally are,” Miach said. “There is no shame in allowing him his enjoyment of it.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “I should have asked his opinion on this matter, but ...”

“But?”

She looked up at him. “My errand is private.”

“And urgent?”

“That too.”

“Then you'll need horses, and ones built for speed.”

She sighed. “I know nothing of Angesand and his horses save vague rumor.”

“Do you not ride?”

“It isn't a quiet way of traveling.”

“But it is swift.”

“Melksham is not overly large,” she said, “and I never had need of haste before.” She looked at him. “Can you bargain with this Hearn of Angesand? You and Glines?”

“Why me?” he asked, turning to look at her with his arms folded over his chest. “Why not Adhémar?”

“We want horses, don't we? Forgive me since he is your kin, bastard brother perhaps, but he has not a sweet word in his mouth. He will flatter this lord of Angesand with his pretty face, then open his mouth and ruin the bargain.”

Miach put his hand over his mouth to cover his smile. Poor Adhémar. “He is not overly diplomatic,” he conceded.

“But you are,” she said. “At least you do not bray on like the jackass who is your brother. Can you not take Glines and speak sweetly to this lord of Angesand and win us steeds? If nothing else, Glines can gamble for them and leave this Hearn feeling as if he'd had a fair bargain.”

“I daresay he couldn't. Hearn loves his horses more than his children.”

“Then what will we do?”

Miach looked off into the distance and gave it thought for several minutes. He could, of course, walk into Hearn's keep and trade magic for all sorts of things. After all, Hearn was his cousin, several times removed.

Then another idea struck him. He smiled at Morgan.

“We will attempt a bargain,” he said.

“We?”

“You and I.”

Both of her eyebrows went up. “You and I?”

It was terribly selfish, but Miach didn't care. He would have a handful of days with a woman he couldn't look away from and in return she would perhaps win a useful horse or two. Perhaps it wasn't all that selfish after all.

He smiled. “You have sword skill. Hearn will value that. I know a charm or two. I'll see if he has a patch of nettles he wants gone, or an ugly serving maid made beautiful.” He shrugged. “Something small.”

Morgan looked north, then turned back to him. “I fear I have no choice.”

Not a stunning endorsement of his company, but it would do for now. “We should leave before dawn,” he said, “on the morrow. We'll catch the man before his morning stables. He'll have a full belly and be thinking of what all those oats cost him.”

She pursed her lips. “Are you any less devious than Glines?”

“I will win the horses fairly, if that's what you're asking. If we manage to win them at all.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I daresay Glines has a bit of magecraft at his disposal, at least when it comes to cards.”

“Has he bested you yet?”

“No, indeed,” Miach said with a half laugh, “but I see very clearly.”

“Aye, but you cast a spell very poorly. If it was a spell you cast over yourself,” she added under her breath.

Miach let that pass. “I wouldn't think on it overmuch.”

She pursed her lips. “I will go fix our plans with Paien and discuss a meeting place. He won't want to remain in the area overlong.”

“I imagine he won't,” he agreed.

“Before first light, then,” she said, then walked away.

Miach watched her go, then turned himself back to the north. Aye, his spells would do for another few days. He would aid Morgan in getting her horses from Hearn of Angesand and see if an opportunity to speak to her about Adhémar's sword arose. His spells would hold that long.

“Miach, supper! Morgan, where is that dratted boy? Go find him, will you, before this goes cold.”

Miach smiled at Paien's bellows and turned away from his contemplation of the north before Morgan was forced to come and fetch him. Though he supposed if he'd had any sense, he would have waited for her.