Star of the Morning (23 page)

“Aye, we are,” she said.

“Have you traveled together long?”

“A pair of years,” she said. “Fletcher is a more recent acquisition.”

“And Adhémar?”

“He follows us like a bad smell,” she said without hesitation. “I would rid myself of him, but he seems determined to follow along.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps I shouldn't have said that, him being your kin and all.”

“I am not blind to his faults.”

“I don't know how you could be.”

Miach laughed and wondered to himself if she was this cheeky with Adhémar. He suspected she was and the thought of it amused him greatly.

“I will admit, though it pains me to do this,” she said slowly, “that he is quite a showy, attractive sort of man.” She paused and looked at him. “Don't you think?”

What he thought wasn't fit to say. He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but when I first saw him, I thought him terribly handsome. I could not bring myself to look away. He was a bit like a bright sword that you cannot resist. Like a handful of gems that blind you with their beauty.”

Like a shovelful of dung you find suddenly tossed upon your boots,
Miach thought sourly. Boots. He should have known it would end there.

“And then?” Miach asked, against his better judgment.

“He came to and opened his mouth.”

Miach laughed in spite of himself. “I understand, believe me.”

Morgan made herself more comfortable on the hay and began to examine one of her daggers. “Have you ever found yourself in those straits? Seeing something you know you shouldn't want and cannot have, but yet finding that you are powerless to resist it?”

“Oh, aye,” Miach said, with feeling. And that something was sitting not two paces from him.

“It was a most unsettling bit of weakness on my part,” she said, sticking her dagger into the hay. “I may have to fight three at a time tomorrow. If the lads can bear it.”

“You could help me if you'd rather,” he said, listening to the words come out of his mouth and wondering what in the hell he was thinking. Oh, aye, that was what he wanted—to be close to this woman during the day as well. Was the nighttime not torture enough?

She looked at him pityingly. “Trouble?”

“The well is a difficult case.”

Her look of pity turned to one of faint alarm. “Will you manage it, or do you lack the skill?”

“Ah—”

“We can find other horses,” she said, though it sounded as if that might be a last resort in her mind. “We must have steeds, I daresay, but perhaps these are too far above us.”

Miach wanted to tell her that he could have sweetened every spring within a hundred leagues of Angesand with a single spell, sweetened them so that everyone would look for bitter greens to soak in their cups before they dared sip the water. All it would have taken was one spell.

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.