Star of the Morning (37 page)

“And how would you know that?” Camid asked.

“They're still speaking of it,” Paien said. “At least they were the last time I was here, oh, ten years ago. Deeds worthy of song, my friend. I vow I might be able to find the precise tavern where I first heard the most impressive tale. Shall we search for it?”

Camid stroked his beard and chortled modestly. “How could I refuse? They might want me to scratch out my mark for them. On the wall, or a table, or some such place.”

“The keg behind the bar, no doubt,” Glines said. “And after that tavern, we'll search out a more respectable part of town where I might replenish my funds. My purse is feeling quite light.”

“How could that possibly be the case?” Adhémar asked crossly. “Given that so much of my gold finds home in it?”

“Some day I may find myself unable to game properly,” Glines said earnestly. “I'm seeking to put a little away against such a time.”

Morgan snorted. She hadn't meant to be involved in this conversation, but the thought of Glines not being able to lighten any and all purses within a five-league radius of himself at any moment and leave those bearing the lightened purses feeling as if they'd had a wonderful time at cards was almost more than she could bear.

“Glines,” she said, “you could be drooling into your cups and still manage to pay for your ale. But go if you will and be quick about it. I, for one, grow weary of listening to the three of you complain.” She looked at Miach. “What do you think?”

“I think we should continue on our road,” Miach said quietly. “I do not like the feeling here—”

“You worry overmuch,” Adhémar said. “Let us be about a bit of a lark. Penrhyn is a fine place and I've a mind for a little visit as well.”

“Absolutely not,” Miach said curtly.

Adhémar drew himself up and glared at his brother. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” he demanded.

“I am apparently the only one who is thinking clearly,” Miach said patiently. “You shouldn't go to Penrhyn, brother, and you know why not.”

“Trouble last time?” Camid asked. “Give us the tale, Adhémar, and we'll see if it matches any of my exploits.”

“It won't,” Miach said firmly. “Let the lads go, Adhémar. You remain behind with us.”

Morgan watched Adhémar consider that. She could almost see his thoughts flitting across his face. They ended with something that she couldn't call anything but calculation.

“I suppose,” he said, drawing his words out to an excessive length. “Who knows that Morgan might need protection while you take time to recover from that cut in your arm that still seems to pain you.”

Morgan would have reminded him that she most definitely did not need any protection he could provide, but he looked at her and winked.

She recoiled as if she'd been struck. She looked swiftly at Miach. “Let him go. I'll protect you.”

“Nay, I will remain,” Adhémar said, smoothing the front of his tunic down over his chest. “Lads, you go on. Have your amusements then meet us a day's ride down this left-hand road. We'll dawdle. Besides,” he added, “I was recently in Penrhyn and took care of my business there.”

Morgan caught the smirk Adhémar threw Miach's way, but didn't bother to pursue what it might mean. She had enough to think on already. She would have much preferred to have seen Adhémar go off with the lads, but luck was apparently not with her today.

“We'll be off, then,” Paien said promptly. “You take care, we'll return in three days' time with supplies, and then we'll continue on our way.” He paused. “We might have to have a wee skirmish or two, but that won't add overmuch to the time that we'll be away.”

“Are you taking Fletcher?” Morgan asked.

“He's a lad ready for an adventure,” Paien said, grabbing the boy by the back of the neck and shaking him. “Aren't you?”

Fletcher only gulped.

Morgan understood. Surely he was not up to any of Paien's or Camid's adventures. She looked at Glines. He nodded slightly in response and she relaxed. Whatever mischief they combined, at least Glines would make sure that Harding's son came out of it with his head atop his shoulders.

Besides, what harm could come to any of them in three days? They certainly deserved a bit of their own amusement after having traipsed after her for so long. And as for her, she found the thought of a brief rest to be not unwelcome.

In truth, the farther north she went, the less haste she wanted to employ.

Perhaps if she'd been to Tor Neroche before, she would have ceased to fear the unknown. If she'd had any idea what to say when she met the king, she might have been less troubled. If she'd been confident that he would even see her, she would have ceased to fret.

Unfortunately, she knew none of the three and she was left to her own imaginings.

And those were not pleasant.

The lads soon rode off on their very expensive horses while Morgan watched them go, hoping it didn't turn out to be a foolish idea. She supposed, however, that she was no judge anymore. She could scarce tell daytime from nighttime; all was darkness and evil about her. When Miach suggested they find a more secure location to set up camp and wait, she could do nothing more than nod dumbly. It was pleasant, in a way that made her feel not at all herself, to allow someone else to make plans for her. She followed where Miach led and stopped when he suggested she do so. She dismounted and leaned against her horse's mane. He didn't seem to mind and she was very grateful for the chance to stop moving.

“Shall we train?” Adhémar asked enthusiastically. “I vow I'm in need of a bit of light exercise.”

Morgan realized he was speaking to her only because he was bellowing his words into her ear. “Then seek it from your brother, not me,” she said crossly.

“But I need
heavy
exercise,” he amended. “Such as only a swordsman of your skill might provide.”

Morgan sighed. She suspected that he would not give in, so she did with a weary nod.

“Miach, see to the horses,” Adhémar ordered. “Morgan and I are going to train.”

Morgan watched as Adhémar walked off, rolling his shoulders and swinging his arms about as if he prepared for heavy exercise indeed, and wished she had said him nay.

Miach took the reins out of her hands. “You needn't do this, if you'd rather not.”

“I'll humor him,” Morgan said, draping her cloak over her saddle and unfastening her sword from the same. “Perhaps it will shut him up.”

“We couldn't be so fortunate,” Miach muttered. “But if anyone can manage it, it will be you. Go to, gel, and earn us some peace.”

He reached out and patted her shoulder, then led her horse away.

Morgan smiled inside, then turned and walked over to where Adhémar was boasting proudly of his accomplishments with the sword to no one in particular. Morgan couldn't bring herself to sort out truth from wishing anymore with this fool. She let his babbling wash over her and set to her labors.

She fought with him until the sun was well into the afternoon and he determined that to train any longer would put a strain on her. She sent him off, sweating and panting heavily, to find lunch. She went off to find Miach.

He was sitting on a fallen log, staring off into the distance as if he saw something she could not. She had wondered absently if he slept with his eyes open and unseeing. Now, she could see that he was most certainly awake, but very, very far away. She didn't dare disturb him. Something poured off him; the echo of something that she might have called magic if she hadn't known better. Perhaps he
was
dreaming and his nightmares were of the same stuff as hers. Whatever the case, she thought it best to leave him be.

But she couldn't bring herself to move away from him.

So she sat very quietly and found herself unwholesomely glad to have that place. Was it familial affection? She couldn't have said for certain, not having had a brother.

She suspected it was something far different.

She found herself wanting to be near him, to talk to him, to watch him smile to himself when something amused him. She liked it when he put his hand on her hair, or when he pulled her up by her hand and ran with her.

And why not? He was, she could admit quite objectively, rather more handsome than his brother, but in a quieter sort of way. She imagined that Adhémar would eventually go to fat. He would likely sit in his chair in his old age and tell his greatly embellished stories in a very loud voice. Miach would be harvesting turnips or something else useful until the day he died.

Besides, she liked the laughter that seemed to ever run beneath the surface of his eyes, even when they were bloodshot or serious.

“Spells, now?” Adhémar boomed.

Morgan was so startled, she jumped. Miach was so startled, he fell backward off the log and landed with his feet up in the air. Morgan glared at Adhémar but received a conspiratorial wink in return. She found nothing at all amusing or inviting about that wink, so she shot him another glare, then hauled Miach back upright. He looked quite dazed.

“Miach?” she asked. “Are you well?”

“Fine,” he said promptly. “I'm fine. I should go.”

“I'll come with you,” Morgan said.

“But the spells,” Adhémar protested. “Wouldn't you care to have another one or two at your command?”

“Later,” she said, standing up and pulling Miach with her. She looked at him. “Walk or ride?”

“Ride.”

She followed him because she feared not to. He looked almost fey, as if the slightest thing would have plunged him into a world where she would not have been able to call him back. He saddled both their horses before Morgan could gather her wits to help him. He boosted her up into her saddle and swung up into his.

“Where—” she began, but there was apparently no need to ask. Reannag seemed determined to follow his brother, leaving Morgan having nothing to do but hold on and hope she would manage it for as long as was needful.

Miach was, she could admit without shame, the far superior rider. Indeed, it seemed as if horse and rider were one, each knowing what the other intended so there was no need for commands. There came a time when Morgan suspected Miach would have given his horse wings if he'd been able to. Morgan envied him his skill. Perhaps when he was in a less frenzied state, he would be willing to teach her how he rode.

They rode until the sun was setting, though the horses were not winded and seemed fully prepared to continue on. She was, therefore, very grateful when they reached camp again, her horse stopped, and she was able to slide down to the ground. She rested her head against her horse's neck and sucked in great breaths full of horse and sweet night air.

Miach jumped down off his horse and held out his hand for her reins. “I'll walk the horses.”

“So will I,” she said, holding on to her reins. She absolutely refused to be subjected to the companionship of Adhémar alone by the fire. She shooed Miach on ahead. “Reannag and I will follow you. I'll do what you do.”

Miach looked over her head at his brother, then looked at her and smiled faintly. “I see.”

“He's boasting to himself,” she grumbled. “I can hear him from here.”

“You've no stomach for listening?”

“I'd rather listen to you blather on about pigs and magic.”

He paused and looked at her quite seriously for a moment, then smiled and nodded for her to come with him. They walked the horses for another half hour, then tended them and their gear. It wasn't nearly delay enough, but it was something.

Once the horses were seen to, she sat down with Miach by the fire.

Adhémar was full of conversation and didn't seem to notice that both she and Miach were not. Morgan let his ramblings evaporate into the night air. It was actually more soothing than annoying, but then again, she wasn't paying any heed to what he was saying.

Until he began again to speak of magic.

“You know,” Adhémar said, leaning forward with a gleam in his eyes, “a little magic can be quite a useful thing for a swordsman.”

“Can it indeed?” she asked with a yawn. “I would prefer to rely on my skill.”

“But skill can be augmented.”

“Aye, by more time in the lists,” Morgan said pointedly. “Magic is an unmanly pursuit.”

“But—”

“Adhémar, enough,” Miach said wearily. “Enough. We have heard enough of magic, and swordplay, and tales of your great prowess.
Enough
.”

Morgan agreed heartily. Adhémar, not unsurprisingly, did not. He rose and started to fling himself toward Miach, but suddenly he changed his mind. She watched as he stood there, in a towering rage, seemingly unable to make himself leap over the fire and beat his brother senseless as he apparently very much wanted to do.

“Well,” Morgan said, surprised, “I'm impressed. Most men don't have that much control over their tempers.”

“I daresay Adhémar agrees,” Miach said, looking up at his brother tranquilly. “Isn't that so, brother?”

Adhémar took several deep breaths, then took a step backward. He shook himself, as if he had shaken off restraining arms. He shot Miach a look that made Morgan flinch and she was not of unstern mettle. “You'll regret that.”

But then he turned to Morgan and put on a pleasant smile. “I do have control over my temper,” he agreed smoothly. “A trait many would admire.”

“I agree,” she said, but her first instinct was to draw her sword and sit closer to Miach. It was ridiculous, of course, for the man was full grown. He could look after himself. Besides, this was his brother. Just the same, Morgan thought that perhaps a bit of distraction might be useful at the moment.