Star of the Morning (32 page)

And she liked his laugh.

She caught up to him and found it far too comfortable a thing. Despite the darkness that seemed to be swirling around her, she felt eased in her heart, somehow. It was almost as pleasant a feeling as a se'nnight on that goose-feather mattress at Lismòr.

Almost as much of a feeling of home.

Heaven help her.

Seventeen

Miach continued to walk away from the palace of Chagailt, cursing himself under his breath. What had he been thinking? He'd had almost two days alone with Morgan and what had he done? Had he wooed her? Had he sung lays to her beauty, taken long walks with her in Iolaire's lovely gardens, plied her with delicacies from Finlay's kitchens? Of course not. He'd opened his mouth and suggested an activity during which she could spend vast amounts of time with his brother.

Ha!

It had either been the height of stupidity or a flash of brilliance. He latched on to the latter and examined what the potential benefits of such an arrangement might be.

First, if Adhémar taught her a few spells, she would continue to believe that he, Miach, didn't know them. Given her substantial distaste for all things magical and their dispensers, that could only be good for him and bad for his brother. Second, the more time she spent with Adhémar, the less she would like him. Again, good for him, bad for his brother. Finally, if Adhémar spent time with her, he would no doubt begin to see her finer qualities and when she handed him that bloody knife she carried, he might actually be kind to her.

Miach frowned. That was good for his brother, but he wasn't quite sure what it meant for him.

He blew out his breath and turned his thoughts away from the whole subject. It was certain that he had many more things to think on that were equally as troubling and perhaps more pertinent to the current situation.

He ignored the fact that all those things seemed to have Morgan of Melksham in the center of them.

So, Nicholas of Lismòr had given her a blade, a blade that so greatly resembled the Sword of Angesand that it had to have been made by Queen Mehar herself, to take to the king of Neroche. That was an extraordinary thing alone, but it was made even more so by knowing that Morgan had been dreaming of the sword itself.

When she had never seen it before.

More surprising still were her dreams of a situation that mirrored Gair of Ceangail's demise so perfectly that he could hardly call it dreaming. He revisited his earlier thoughts. Perhaps she wasn't dreaming after all.

Perhaps she was remembering.

Gair of Ceangail, of all people.

Gair of Ceangail, whose daughter had possibly cast a spell of un-noticing over herself and escaped drowning in evil.

But had the little girl escaped nothing more than that first wave of evil? Had she perished in the forest? Or had she been taken in by kindly souls and was now living out her life, blissfully ignorant of her parentage and what she was capable of?

Or was Gair's daughter walking next to him, remembering spells she'd learned as a child and dreaming memories?

There were just too many things that made his mind expand far beyond where it should have. Gair, Morgan, the Sword of Angesand, Weger . . . and he himself, who couldn't seem to stop finding ways to suggest to Morgan that she spend more time with Adhémar.

He wondered if he should just turn and invite Morgan to run him through. At least with the latter, he wouldn't have to watch his brother woo her—

Which he was sure Adhémar would do when he took a long enough look at her.

Miach cursed silently as he walked along. He had ample time to curse because he wasn't walking all that quickly. There was no sense in showing up at camp sooner than he had to. He supposed the others might have continued on their way and perhaps he and Morgan would have some running to do to catch up with them.

Perhaps while they were running, he would cast a spell of ugliness over Morgan that only Adhémar could see. It was possible, of course. After all, he was the bloody archmage of the realm. What good did all that power do him if he couldn't use it for good now and then?

He spent the better part of the morning thinking about that. In fact, the idea was so beguiling and he was concentrating so thoroughly on its implementation that he didn't see the trap laid before them until he'd walked into the middle of it.

Creatures came at them from all sides.

It took him a moment or two to regroup. Before he could manage it completely, Morgan had spun him around so they were standing back to back.

“Draw your sword, you idiot!” she shouted. She paused. “Do you even have a sword? Damnation—”

Miach pulled one out of thin air.

“Where did that come from?” she said, looking briefly over her shoulder.

“Found it on the ground—”

“Good,” Morgan said. “Use it.”

He wasn't a bad swordsman. In fact, if he'd taken the time to judge dispassionately, he would have said that he was a better swordsman than Adhémar and at least Cathar's equal—and that without the benefit of any finger-waggling.

He fought now with all the skill he had and he could hear Morgan behind him doing the same, but he knew almost instantly that it would not be enough. Had it been just men attacking them, aye, but not with these monsters. Miach continued to fight, but while he was doing so, he wove his spell of death.

It wasn't something that he did lightly. Indeed, it was something that he hadn't done since he'd inherited his mother's mantle. He certainly hadn't managed it with any success the one time he'd done it before that, which had been during his extended visit to Lothar's dungeon. There had come a point during that incarceration where he had been so desperate to see light, so desperate to be free, so desperate to be anywhere but where he was, standing in slime and knowing he would die anyway if he didn't act, that he had woven a spell of death to include everything in Lothar's keep save him.

The spell had dropped into the air of Lothar's keep like a coin into a bottomless well, silent and useless.

Fortunately for his sorry, shivering young self, his mother had felt what he hadn't realized had been a tremor in Lothar's fortress and that had been enough to convince her he was still alive.

Those were memories perhaps left for a better time.

He wove his spell of death now over the hearts of all who lay within the scope of the battle, taking care to make certain it didn't include him or Morgan. He also took care to make certain there were no others within the reach of the darkness he created who might innocently fall to his power.

He quietly spoke the final word.

All but three of the remaining creatures fell to the earth.

Miach staggered as his spell rebounded off the remaining three. He gathered it to himself and dissolved it, managing at the same time to kill one of the last three with his sword. What were these creatures covered with? It was a spell, surely, and one that seemed faintly familiar.

He realized why. It was the same magic Adhémar had smelled of after the battle in which he'd lost his power.

Miach promised himself a good moment of being startled later, when their lives were no longer in peril. He heard one of their remaining two foes bellow in fury. He would have turned to aid Morgan but he saw that she didn't need it. Sword skill alone would win the day with her, apparently. That left him with the final creature, a drooling troll who laughed maniacally as he strode across the glade.

Miach focused all the rest of his power at the creature, smashed through the spell that had been woven over him, and crushed his body with a single command.

The creature crumpled like a length of rough cloth.

Miach dropped to his knees, feeling half dead himself.

“Miach!”

He could only manage to shake his head. He felt Morgan's hands on his shoulders and found himself wrenched upright.

“Are you wounded?” she asked.

Miach knelt there, sucking in breath in an alarming fashion. He shook his head again, the only answer he could make. He was almost certain Morgan looked worried. Or he could have just been imagining that. He couldn't actually see her face anymore for all the spots dancing in front of his eyes.

“You don't appear to be bleeding,” she said with a frown.

“I'm not,” he managed. “Just spent.”

“Miach, there weren't that many of them,” she chided. “And look you there; it would appear that many of them simply died on their own.”

Miach would have snorted out a laugh at that, but he was too busy trying to catch his breath.

She took hold of the sword at his side. “Where did you find this? Is it yours?”

“Nay,” he gasped. “Leave it behind.”

She rose easily and jammed it into the ground. “Have you ever been in a battle before, Miach?”

“Once or twice.”

“Do you always react this way?” She looked down at him narrowly. “You aren't going to puke, are you?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Don't. Or if you're going to, don't do it on me.”

“Won't,” he agreed.

“Don't move.”

“If you say so,” he said faintly.

She shot him another look of thinly veiled concern, then cleaned her sword and resheathed it. She walked around the glade for several moments, looking down at the creatures slain there and shaking her head slowly.

Miach understood completely. He knelt there, wheezing, and managed to get his head upright where he could at least see what he'd killed. He wasn't surprised to see spells hanging in tatters around the trolls. Miach renewed his determination to have a closer look at Adhémar's sword. He suspected he might find the same thing there.

Morgan came to the last troll, the one he had felled with his magic. She stopped, looked at the creature for a moment or two in silence, then turned and strode over to Miach.

“Come,” she said, hauling him to his feet. “I do not like this at all.”

“Did you see something?” he asked.

“That creature,” she said, shivering. “He is much like the one that came at Adhémar. If his sword hadn't come to life—” She stopped speaking. She looked at Miach with wide eyes. “I mean—”

“I already know,” Miach said, struggling to get his feet under him.

“Who told you?” she demanded.

“Fletcher,” Miach said. “Accidentally. Kill him later.”

“I just might,” she said, reaching out to steady him. “I suppose I will have to trust you with that secret as well. After the past two days, I daresay there are few still left between us.”

Miach grunted. It was all he could do. Heaven help him if she found out any of his real secrets.

Morgan drew his arm over her shoulders. She was surprisingly strong for a woman. He was not given to fat, but he was tall and solid. He did, however, find it somewhat satisfying that she staggered just a bit while trying to keep him there. She looked about them once more, then shivered.

Miach understood. The stench of evil was overpowering.

“I don't like this,” she said quietly. “There are three times the number who came against us at Istaur.”

Miach nodded. Only this time, they had come against just him and Morgan.

Something foul was afoot.

He hated appearing weak, but he was desperately tempted to ask Morgan to either stop or carry him on her back. There was magic, of course, and then there was magic. Killing magic did not come without a desperately high cost, both in its execution and in the price it exacted from his soul. It was one thing to face an opponent with a sword and give him a fair chance. It was another thing to take his powers and destroy life when that life had no chance to defend itself.

Though he supposed Lothar's creatures, if these were actually Lothar's creatures, were better off being free of Lothar's influence.

It was cold comfort, indeed.

He stumbled along for miles, waiting for some of his strength to return to him. He finally pulled Morgan to a stop, leaned over, and took several deep breaths. Then he heaved himself upright.

“Let's run,” he said.

Morgan opened her mouth, no doubt to ask him if he was up to the challenge, but then she shut it and nodded.

She made him run in front of her, which he supposed said quite a bit about her opinion of his recovery, but he didn't object. It took all his strength and determination just to put one foot in front of the other and fling himself forward.

It was afternoon before they could see the others and their camp. Morgan caught him and pulled him back. She motioned for him to follow her as she walked carefully and silently through the woods.