Star of the Morning (31 page)

“I daresay I should be,” he said, handing the knife back to her.

She wrapped the blade back up and put it back in the bottom of her pack. She paused and looked at the ring sitting on the table. “I wonder whose this is.”

“It seems to match the knife,” Miach said.

“Aye, you're right,” she said, dropping it into her pack. She packed up the rest of her gear, then set her pack beside her.

“Morgan?” Miach said suddenly.

She looked at him. “Aye?”

“Why did Lord Nicholas give you that blade?”

She started to speak, then hesitated. It was one thing to show him a knife and wonder if his apparently vast stores of lore might tell her where it had come from; it was another thing entirely to tell him of her plans. Then again, who better to tell than a farmer from the north? He might be able to aid her in finding the castle.

“I will trust you,” she said slowly.

He nodded solemnly. “Thank you.”

“You will keep my secrets,” she stated.

“I will carry them to my grave.”

She believed him. There was, she decided, much to like about him. She'd never had much use for farmers before, but that was perhaps that she had only known Melksham farmers and they were generally of a more bickering nature, limiting their conversations to who was due what amount of water and how that water was being filched by their neighbors.

She suspected Miach did not allow his water to be stolen, but that he never had to draw a sword to see to that.

Astonishing.

Morgan took a deep breath. Her announcement seemed to merit it. “I am on a quest,” she said.

“I see,” he said. “What sort of quest?”

“I am to carry that blade to the king of Neroche.”

Miach choked.

Morgan frowned and looked about for drink. There was only a little left in the bottle from the night before, but she gave it to him without hesitation. He seemed to need it far more than she did.

“You have a weak constitution,” she said disapprovingly.

“I don't,” he gasped. “I just wasn't expecting to hear that.”

“Why not?” she asked sharply. “Do you think me unequal to the task?”

“Morgan, I don't think you unequal to anything,” he said frankly. “It's just I've never met anyone with that sort of quest before. It isn't something you hear every day.”

“I was equally as surprised,” she admitted.

He frowned thoughtfully. “I still don't understand why Lord Nicholas had this blade.”

“I asked him the same thing, but he told me he had been its keeper for several years and now the time had come for it to go to the king of Neroche. He charged me with the doing of the deed.”

“And you said him aye?”

“Of course,” she returned. “How could I refuse?”

“You couldn't,” he murmured. “He was very much like a father to you, I imagine. I daresay he wouldn't have asked you to do the like without a good reason.”

“I suppose he considered me a fit carrier,” she said. “I was not pleased, as you might imagine, for I felt the magic immediately. I instructed him to put it in my pack or I would not take it otherwise.” She frowned. “You know, it was then that I began to dream. The second night I slept in that damned goose-feather bed.”

“A goose-feather bed?” Miach echoed, his ears perking up. “Did you?”

“It was blissful.”

“I envy you.”

“Aye, well, you shouldn't. I'll likely spend the rest of my life dreaming about it without hope of ever using it again, for there is no way I will force myself on another boat to visit it again.”

Miach smiled. “Poor girl. Well, it will live on as a pleasant memory, at least.” He looked up at her. “What did you dream of that second night?” He raised the bottle of wine to his lips. “Of soft clouds and pleasant sunshine?”

She shook her head. “Nay. I dreamed of a sword that looked just like the knife.”

Miach spewed out the wine—fortunately not all over her. It was a near thing, though. She took the bottle away from him, for all the good it did her being empty.

“Good heavens, Miach, you are excitable. Perhaps you should eschew conversation while you are about eating and drinking.”

“I should,” he agreed fervently, dragging his sleeve across his mouth. “A sword that looked like the knife? How interesting.”

She shrugged. “I only dreamed of it once.” She paused. “I daresay it resembled the ring as well, though the work on the ring is much finer.”

“Aye, it is beautiful.” He rose unsteadily to his feet. “I think we should break our fast and go.”

“But I haven't found what I sought,” she said. “I want to see if there might be a drawing of that blade. Surely there is a book here with that sort of thing.”

“This is a small library,” Miach said. “If I were you, I would search in the vaults at Tor Neroche.”

“Would you?”

He nodded. “I've heard tell of their splendor.”

“You hear tell of much,” she said, looking up at him with a frown.

“My kin are always angling for a look inside the palace,” he said, reaching for her pack and handing it to her. “Word gets round, you know.”

Morgan had to agree that it likely did, but she wasn't ready to give in so easily. “I think I should have another look here.”

He looked at her silently for a moment or two, then nodded. “As you will. I'll go fetch breakfast.”

“Be careful,” she said absently as he made for the door. “I don't want to have to liberate you from any dungeon.”

“You're too kind.”

“Too lazy,” she said, finding that the lighthearted words came easily to her. It was almost as surprising as hearing herself blurt out words of magic. She looked at him in surprise. “I fear I am unwell.”

“Too many dreams of goose feathers,” he said with a smile, then disappeared out the door.

She would have put her hand to her head, but she knew she had no fever. She also, apparently, had no wits either. First she was trusting a complete stranger, next she was coming close to jesting with him. What next? Would she be offering to aid ruffians who sought to harm her instead of braining them as she should?

She shook her head in disgust and set to looking through the manuscripts and scrolls. In truth, she had little idea where to start and nothing she selected seemed to be of any aid. By the time Miach returned, she was cross and beginning to feel caged.

“Food?” he asked politely.

She sighed as she sat down next to him at the table. “Quickly, then we must be away.”

“Did you not find anything useful?”

She shook her head. “I fear the chamber closes in on me in an unwholesome way.”

“Tor Neroche,” he advised. “A body can likely find just about anything there.”

“You hesitate,” she noted. “Why?”

He shook his head. “ 'Tis nothing.” He smiled gravely. “The journey north is perilous, but you are not afraid.”

“Are you?”

“Quite,” he said frankly.

“Then stay nearby,” she advised. “I imagine I can see to you and Fletcher both.”

He smiled, more sincerely this time. “I appreciate that.”

They ate without haste, but without lingering. Morgan helped Miach put the chamber to rights, then made certain the fire was completely out. She turned away from the hearth to find Miach standing near the door, a ball of werelight floating gently above his head. Morgan gaped at him.

“How did you do that?”

“A spell,” he said easily.

“How do you know so many spells?”

He only hesitated slightly. “I know many things. Knowing how to light things and hide them is very useful.”

Morgan shouldered her pack and walked toward him. “Aye, I suppose so. It would be a poor thing indeed to stomp through the mire in the dark.”

He snorted and shut the door behind her. “Indeed.” He shifted his pack and led her up the stairs, the little ball of light bouncing up high to light the stairs as they ascended them.

“Have you ever been in Tor Neroche?” she asked as she followed him out into the hallway of the palace.

“Aye,” he said simply.

But he didn't seem inclined to say more, so she didn't ask. Perhaps it was a poor memory for him. Perhaps it was so glorious that he couldn't bear to think on it for it compared poorly with his own life.

Perhaps she had spent far too much of the past fortnight dreaming and it had wrought a foul work upon her own poor thoughts.

She paused with him as he peeked out into the hallway. The light above his head vanished without his having to say anything. She did, however, hear him murmur a spell of un-noticing before he turned and looked at her.

“Shall we?”

“How did you make the light go out without saying anything?” she asked.

“Years of practice. You know, not wanting to stomp through the pigsty in the dark.”

“Hmmm,” she said, following him out into the passageway.

He looked at her. “Would you care to learn a few?”

“Learn a few whats?”

“Spells.”

She knew what he'd been going to say and had wished to avoid hearing it. It was quite some time before she could say anything. She took a cautious breath. “Spells?”

He nodded.

“I loathe magic,” she whispered.

“I know.” He paused. “But a spell or two is never a bad thing.”

“I have a sword.”

“So do I.”

“I know how to use mine.”

He laughed a little. “You have little faith in my skill.”

“Miach, I've watched you train. If training it could be called—and with someone else's sword, no less.”

“I'm fiercer in battle.”

She snorted. She would have to see that.

“You know,” he said slowly, “Adhémar could teach you a spell or two.”

She looked at him in astonishment.

Oddly enough, he was looking at her in the same manner, as if he couldn't believe what he'd said.

“Did I say that?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

“Aye. Does he know any spells?”

“Not any interesting ones,” Miach said. “But perhaps a useful one or two.”

Morgan took him by the arm and started down the passageway. “I'll think on it,” she said again. And unfortunately, she suspected she just might. She loathed magic, 'twas true, though she was beginning to find that spell of concealment tripping far too easily from her tongue. The werelight, as well, was something quite useful she couldn't create with her sword.

But anything else?

If it were taught by Adhémar?

She wondered if she would manage to listen to more than one spell before she grew so irritated with him that she would skewer him on the end of her sword. She likely should have done that the first time she'd seen him. She had been prepared to do damage to him without regret, but his visage had stopped her.

Was it a weakness that would be her downfall now?

She examined that as she allowed Miach to make a diversion to get them out the front door. Even Weger had been known on occasion to comment on the fairness of a wench's face.

Never hers, of course, but perhaps he had considered her unhandsome.

She walked down the palace's front steps, then stopped Miach at the bottom of those stairs.

“Am I fair to look upon?” she asked bluntly.

His eyes widened and a look of astonishment came upon his features.

She scowled at him. “You wear that look often.”

“You catch me unawares often.”

“Is the question so difficult, then?” she asked tartly.

He looked at her darkly, then turned and walked away, muttering under his breath. Morgan followed him, unsure why she felt so not herself. Indeed, her eyes began to burn and she suspected that had she had any feelings, they might be smarting as well.

“It was a ridiculous question,” she announced, to save her pride.

Miach whirled on her. “You're bloody beautiful,” he snarled. “Satisfied?”

Admittedly she hadn't known him very long, but she had never seen him so undone. Confused, aye; baffled, aye to that as well; astonished, aye, more than once. But angry?

It was her turn to be astonished.

“It was a simple question,” she managed.

“And a simple answer. Let's go.”

He strode away. Morgan followed him a little unsteadily. Well, it hadn't been very politely said, but the words were somewhat pleasing. Whether Weger had ever stopped to consider anything about her besides her sword skill was really beside the point. It wasn't Weger she was interested in. It was for damned sure she wasn't interested in Adhémar.

She was fairly certain she wasn't interested in Miach, either.

Fairly.

Paien would have waggled his brows at this point and begun to list all Miach's finer qualities. She would have, at that same point, reminded him that her quest, aye, her very choice of professions demanded that she not be interested in anyone.

Perhaps it was time she reminded herself yet again that she was most certainly not interested in anyone who had truck with magic.

Never mind that such a plague haunted her.

Miach looked over his shoulder, glared at her again, then strode swiftly ahead.

Still, there was much to like about Miach. He was frank and clear-eyed. He was seemingly unafraid to acknowledge his limitations, he agreed with her that Nicholas's knife was unsettling, and he seemed as troubled by her dreams as she did.