Star of the Morning (34 page)

“I'll do my best not to,” he promised, but it was too late for that. He had fallen into an abyss that opened up without warning before him, an abyss named Morgan. He suspected there was no way out. Worse yet, he wasn't certain he wanted to find a way out.

Her words came back to him, but he shook his head. He hadn't truly considered the possibility before, but he did now and without hesitation decided that Morgan could not possibly be the wielder. She had one spell to her credit, a vile dream that haunted her, and a blade that was the twin of the Sword of Angesand. Those things did not a wielder make.

Yet, what if she were?

Miach couldn't stop his poor, overworked mind from considering that. If Morgan was the wielder, then he would have to watch Adhémar take her and do with her as he pleased.

He closed his eyes at the feel of her arms around him. He would wait and see. Maybe she didn't really have any magic. Maybe her dreams were just dreams and not memories. Maybe she dreamed of Mehar of Angesand's sword only because it resembled the knife in her pack.

He wasn't sure what he should hope for.

He was sure what he feared.

Eighteen

Three days later, Morgan rode atop her magnificent Angesand steed and examined her situation. Chagailt and her inhuman attackers were left far behind. Her leg was very much mended and had ceased to pain her. And, finally, Miach was upright in his own saddle. It was an improvement, but he still looked terrible, which was not. She wasn't sure if he had eaten something foul or if the battle with those nightmarish creatures had simply been too much for him. Perhaps she should have tried a few of Adhémar's herbs on him to see if they couldn't have aided him.

Though she had to admit that riding with him for all that time had not been unpleasant. He was good company. There was something about him that was very comfortable.

Far beyond her favorite pair of boots.

She shifted in the saddle, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts. Best she leave those be and concentrate on something less troubling to her heart.

If she could manage it.

The rest of her company seemed happily oblivious to her distress. They were passing the time discussing potential locales they might visit on their way north, locales that might provide a bit of entertainment in what for them had been a rather uneventful journey.

Uneventful? Morgan wished she could agree.

Her unease had grown with every league they traveled north. At first she'd thought it might have been uncertainty over what to expect once she reached Tor Neroche. What was she to do, exactly? Walk up to the king and simply hand the knife to him? What if he would not see her?

She could scarce bear to think about that possibility.

In time, though, she'd come to realize that her unease sprang from a different but unsurprising source. Her dream had not troubled her in a pair of nights, but that didn't matter because now it had begun to haunt all her waking hours. It didn't matter how often she sought distraction, it was still with her.

She could hear the words the mother whispered to the girl. She could hear the words the man shouted at the well. She could hear the names that the man and woman called each other.

Gair.

Sarait.

She knew the number of the children and she knew some of their names. There were seven. Six lads and a wee lass. The eldest son's name was Keir.

The wee lassie's name was Mhorghain.

By now, she knew the way through the woods so well, she supposed she might have been able to walk them herself while awake. She knew the words that the mother had spoken to the little girl.

Words of warning.

A reminder about the spell of un-noticing and another spell of comfort and protection.

Morgan could have said the words aloud if she'd dared—or if she'd had the stomach for them. But she couldn't. Not the second spell. That she'd used the first at all was enough to set her to shivering.

She had come to the point where she wasn't sure anymore sometimes whether she was awake or asleep. She could smell the sweet scent that clung to the mother. It was lavender and a faint hint of rose.

She could feel the mother's hand as well, around the little girl's. The little girl seemed wrapped in a feeling of deep love and great affection. Morgan found herself wrapped in those same feelings—as if she had been that little girl and that woman her mother.

It was, oddly enough, the same feeling she had each time Miach touched her.

She had seen the glade with the well so many times in her dreams, she had no doubt she would recognize it immediately. She had relived the argument between the man and the woman so many times, she could repeat it word for word, though it was in a language she had not learned on Melksham.

She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. It didn't help clear her head, but she hadn't really expected it to. She wasn't quite sure what would. Perhaps a very long, very difficult siege that would require for its ending a piece of daring business that would tax the very limits of what she could do. Or perhaps she could just ask Miach to clunk her over the head with her own sword. That might buy her a few minutes of peace.

She paused. Would Miach know a spell to drive away dreams?

She was almost afraid to ask.

She decided abruptly that she would not, but she would see if he could be prevailed upon for a bit of conversation. He was weary, she was anxious; it might be a good distraction for both of them.

“Miach,” she said.

He seemed to struggle to focus on her. “Aye?”

“Who was Sarait?” was the first thing out of her mouth. She almost swore. Would this damned dream never cease to plague her?

“She was youngest of the five daughters of Sìle, king of Tòrr Dòrainn,” he said with a yawn. “Why?”

“She was Gair's wife, was she not?”

He shut his mouth with a snap and looked at her in surprise. “Aye, she was. How do you know?”

“How do you think I know?” she asked crossly.

A look of profound pity came over his face. “Ah, Morgan,” he said quietly. “Poor gel.”

She cursed. It made her feel a little better. “I'll wager you know more about Gair and his doings than you're telling.”

“I'll wager I don't,” he said with a grave smile. “I've told you everything I've heard, or read.”

“Know you nothing of his children?” she asked, pained.

“I don't,” he said. “But we'll find the answers. Perhaps when we reach your destination.”

“Will you come that far?” she asked in surprise.

He seemed to consider for a minute or two. “I will, if you like,” he said quietly.

She found she could do nothing but nod. Her relief was so great, she almost cried. She didn't dare look at Miach for fear she would weep in truth, so she put her face forward and continued on.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Miach hold out his hand. She took it without thinking. He squeezed once, hard, then let go.

“Dreams are frightening, Morgan,” he said. “Full of things we cannot understand.”

She nodded as if she agreed, but she did not. Her dreams were full of things she understood all too clearly.

And she was beginning to suspect she was not dreaming.

 

They paused briefly for a meal, then continued on. Morgan couldn't decide if the pace was too swift, or if it chafed. What she did know was that she could not bear for night to come.

But it came anyway. There was no inn, no deserted out-buildings for them to borrow, only the sky above with its bitter stars shining coldly down upon them. Morgan volunteered for the first watch. She was more than happy to stand in the shadows and try to become invisible.

It did not help.

She heard Gair's words in her head, over and over again. She heard Sarait's spell of un-noticing, the one she had used a handful of times already.

Then she heard other words. It seemed that they came from other dreams that she could not quite remember. But the words were good ones and she wished they had been hers to use. She wondered if the words might have belonged to Sarait.

She was certain they were not Gair's.

It was well into the next watch when she realized she was not alone. She turned to slip back into the shadows only to find Miach not ten paces from her, leaning against a tree, watching her. She would have squeaked in surprise, but she never squeaked.

“How long have you been there?” she demanded.

“About an hour.”

“I was concentrating,” she lied.

He grunted, pushed off from the tree, and took her by the arm. “Come back to camp.”

She dug her heels in and gave him no choice but to stop. She looked up at him seriously. “I cannot.”

“Morgan, you cannot remain awake for the rest of your life. You must sleep.”

“I daren't,” she said.

“Then perhaps a pinch of herb in wine to help you along?”

She scowled. “Don't tell me you use those for the pigs as well.”

“You would be surprised,” he said dryly. “It would help you, I think.”

“Miach, I don't think anything will help me sleep.”

“You haven't tasted my brew.”

“If it contains a magic spell, then no matter how lovely your pigs might find it, I will not enjoy it.”

He smiled. “I should suggest a run, but I fear tonight you would soon leave me far behind.”

“You are not fully yourself yet,” she agreed.

He took her hand in both of his. Morgan suspected she should have pulled away, but it was so soothing she just couldn't bring herself to. It was something Nicholas would have done.

But Miach was not Nicholas.

Not at all.

“I could tell you a tale about something,” Miach offered, rubbing her hand absently. “If you like.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “What sort of something?”

“Something that would soothe you,” he promised. “I'm sure there would be swords involved. Bloodshed. Peril. That kind of thing.”

“Romance?” she asked skeptically.

“Do you
want
romance?”

She snorted. “I daresay it would ruin my sleep.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and started back toward camp. “I know just the thing. I'll tell you of Catrìona of Croxteth. She was an ordinary gel, you know, who found herself thrust into quite extraordinary circumstances.”

“Is there magic involved?” Morgan asked, putting her arm around Miach's waist when he stumbled.

“Only to make her sword sharper,” he said. “A pity she died so long ago. You would have liked her very much, I think.”

“Miach, how do you know all these tales?”

“I—”

“Never mind,” Morgan interrupted. “I remember now. Too much time at the fire; not enough time in the lists.”

“Something like that,” he agreed.

Morgan walked with him back to the fire, nudged Glines ungently with her foot to wake him for his watch, then made herself a place by the fire and rolled up in her blanket. Miach did the same, stretching out with his head near hers. Morgan rolled onto her belly and rested her chin upon her folded hands.

“Well?” she said expectantly.

“It is a very
long
tale,” he said, “but very necessary for those who might want to spend a great deal of their time not sleeping.”

“That would be me,” she said gratefully.

“So I suspected. Now, make yourself comfortable and give heed to the interesting facts I plan to lay out for you. The manner of Catrìona's birth is on this wise ...”

Morgan watched him as he spoke, the firelight flickering softly on his face, his eyes alight with the enjoyment he obviously took in his words. And he did spin a fine tale, reminiscent of Nicholas, and Morgan listened with pleasure. She remembered finally having to rest her head on her pack because she grew sleepy. The singing of the blade did not trouble her, for a change. Catrìona of Croxteth had put a spell on her blade so it would sing to her in a different scale depending on what sort of trouble was near. Morgan wondered if she could teach her knife the same thing, then she remembered that it was the king's blade, not hers.

Perhaps after her task was done, she would take her marvelous horse and ride across the mountains to Durial where she might learn from the dwarves there the art of forging. Then she would make her own blade. And she just might teach it to sing as well.

The thought was pleasing and quite comforting. She fell asleep, to her great surprise, with the touch of Miach's hand on her hair and his voice whispering in her ear.