Star of the Morning (40 page)

If it had been anyone but Morgan, he wouldn't have felt as if there was a hole in his gut that would gnaw at him through eternity because he would be responsible for making her life hell.

Damn it, he hated it when Adhémar was right.

It happened so seldom.

He looked up at the sparkling night sky and blew out his breath. What he wished, briefly, was that he had never touched the Sword of Angesand, that he had never left Tor Neroche, that he had never once clapped eyes on Morgan.

Salvation of the realm.

Destruction of his heart.

But what to do now? As Adhémar had so kindly pointed out, his duty dictated his actions, no matter how he might feel about it. He was duty bound to see that Morgan went to Tor Neroche. His position as archmage, demanded that he see that she at least held the Sword of Angesand. He had a responsibility to the inhabitants of not only Neroche, but the Nine Kingdoms, to use everything and everyone in his power to not only keep Lothar at bay, but destroy him if possible.

But Morgan . . .

“Miach?”

He closed his eyes briefly, then straightened and looked at her. “Aye?”

“We're ready.”

“Of course.” He swallowed with difficulty. “Of course.”

“You look terrible.” She paused. “But Adhémar looks worse.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “A little disagreement.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “Well, disagreement or no, Adhémar says there is danger and we must ride.”

Miach nodded. “Aye.”

“Then let us be off. I do not fear danger, but I cannot see subjecting my comrades in it when flight would evade it.”

If he hadn't been so numb already, he would have lost his breath with a whoosh. “You are a loyal companion,” he said, finally.

“Loyalty is highly prized,” she said quietly.

“As highly prized as magic is shunned?”

She smiled faintly. “Weger has a very unique code of conduct.”

“I daresay,” he said. “Perhaps you'll tell me more of his strictures someday.”

“It would be a welcome reprieve from too much magic,” she said quietly.

He looked down at her. “It troubles you?”

She took a deep breath. “I am no coward, but I vow, Miach, that if I had not given Nicholas my word to deliver this blade to the king at Tor Neroche, I would turn around, brave the ship, and return to Melksham.” She paused for quite some time. “I don't know if I can carry these burdens much longer.”

“It weighs upon you, doesn't it?” he asked softly. “The blade and your dreams?”

“More with every step we take north.”

He nodded slowly.

“I want,” she said finally, “
nothing
more to do with magic, mages, or my dreams.
Nothing
.”

Miach nodded. “I can't blame you.”

“I don't blame
you
,” she said quickly. “Then again, I don't consider you a mage of any sort. You can't help what you can do.” She paused. “I suppose neither can I. But I want no more of it than necessary.”

And here he was on the verge of plunging her into magic she might never escape from.

“Duty is a difficult thing, at times,” he offered finally.

“Hmmm,” she said. She took his hand and pulled him along. “Let us be about it, then. Then perhaps we can move on to something else.”

He walked with her back to the horses, then swung up into the saddle. Adhémar took the time to curse him, then wheeled his horse about and rode off into the dark. The rest of the company followed. Miach found himself riding next to Morgan, as had become their custom. Even in the dark, he could see the worry on her face.

“Paien was right,” she said.

“Aye,” Miach agreed.

“Will it grow worse, do you think?”

“I fear so,” he admitted.

She was silent for quite a while. “I fear,” she began hesitantly, “I fear they are coming for me.”

Miach didn't dare disabuse her of the notion. “It is possible,” he said.

Aye, that was indeed possible.

He couldn't count Adhémar's most recent battle on Neroche's northern border. That was a common occurrence. But Morgan had been at the first attack with Adhémar near Istaur. She had been at the second attack with him. She had been at the inn behind them.

But why would Lothar know anything of her?

He shook his head. It made no sense. Just because she could wield a Camanaë spell of un-noticing did not mean she was the possessor of that magic.

Surely there were many alive who could use the spells of Camanaë without having any of that magic flowing through their veins.

Though he couldn't bring a single bloody one of them to mind.

Was it possible that Lothar had been searching for Morgan all along?

“Miach?”

Miach looked at her. Perhaps Adhémar had a point. If Morgan was ensconced in Tor Neroche, she would be safe. Perhaps she would hold the Sword of Angesand and it would remain lifeless in her hand. Her potential to be the wielder would be proved wishful thinking, but she would be within the walls where Miach could guard her.

Perhaps his duty would be a good thing in the end.

“Nothing,” he said finally.

“That wasn't what I said,” she said. “I asked if you thought they were coming for me.”

He shook his head. “I don't know, Morgan. But what I do know is the walls of Tor Neroche offer safety.”

“Even to farmers?” she asked doubtfully.

“Even to farmers,” he assured her. “But most assuredly to dutiful carriers of blades destined for kings.”

She looked at him for a moment or two, then nodded. “I will see if I can win a place for all of us,” she said. “You have been very valiant as well.”

He smiled, but it was a pained one. If she only knew . . .

He nodded his thanks and turned his face forward. The castle was three days' hard ride ahead. Three days before they would know the truth of her gifts. Three days before he would have to tell her the truth about himself.

Three days before he would fulfill his duty.

Duty.

What a bloody awful word.

Twenty-two

Morgan rubbed her face with her free hand. It didn't aid overmuch with the weariness, but it was one of the ways she used to stay awake. What she wanted to do was sleep for a solid se'nnight. She wanted it so desperately, she was tempted to simply lean over, put her head on Reannag's neck, and close her eyes. Would the horse continue to carry her, or would he allow her to fall off? It was indication enough of her state that she didn't care which it would be.

She sat up straighter and pulled the hood back off her head. The chill brought some semblance of clarity back to her mind. It was little wonder she was tired; no doubt the entire company was tired. They had ridden north almost without ceasing from the battle at the inn. The weather had worsened. The road had worsened. Even her mood had worsened, for the closer she got to the king's palace, the more she wanted to bolt the other way.

The blade continued to sing from the bottom of her pack.

In fact, the song had begun to get in the way of her hearing the men around her.

That was just as well, for there had been much commentary on her choice of destinations from all corners.

“Halt,” Adhémar said suddenly.

Morgan peered blearily into the distance and saw a company riding toward them. Outriders from Tor Neroche? She could scarce believe that she might have actually come this close to reaching her journey's end, but perhaps the impossible had actually become reality.

Adhémar swept them with a look. “I will go ahead and see if I can bargain for entrance. Remain here.”

Morgan yawned hugely and gave in to temptation. She leaned over, wrapped her arms around Reannag's neck, and closed her eyes. It was so marvelous, so decadent, she feared she might never be able to straighten again. And bless the steed, he didn't complain. The only time she felt him move was when she realized she was truly falling asleep. Perhaps he sensed it too and wished to spare her an undignified tumble.

“Morgan.”

She sat up suddenly, bleary-eyed. She rubbed her eyes and found that Miach was next to her. “Aye?”

“I thought you might fall off soon.”

Morgan couldn't even manage a decent nod of agreement. She looked ahead of them and saw that Adhémar was still speaking with the outriders. She wasn't convinced he would win them entrance. Unfortunately, she could do nothing but wait behind, in the snow, shivering, and wonder if she had just given her chance to complete her quest into the hands of a fool. She should have gone ahead herself. But that would have meant yet more time in Adhémar's company and she simply couldn't bear the thought of that.

At least the journey with such terrible haste had rid her of Adhémar's constant harping on magic and its usefulness. She did not agree and she was tired of arguing with him. She had come to the point where she did her best to ignore him. That task was made much easier by the sounds of her blade singing.

She could scarce hear anything else.

Actually, that wasn't true. She suspected that the ring might have joined in with the blade.

If she hadn't made Nicholas a promise, she would have heaved her entire pack into the nearest patch of briars and been well rid of it.

“Well,” she said finally, looking at Miach, “perhaps he will manage it.”

“Aye,” he said, his tone curiously flat.

“Will you not be relieved?”

He managed a wan smile. “I will be relieved when we are inside the walls and you are safe.”

“I am safe out here,” she reminded him. “As are you, with me to guard your back.”

He smiled truly then. “Aye, you have that aright. I am grateful for it.” He looked up. “Oh. It looks as if he managed it.”

Morgan found herself somewhat relieved by the sight of Adhémar riding back their way. He seemed to be very pleased with himself. She supposed she couldn't blame him, but having to listen to him brag about it for the foreseeable future would make for a very tedious ride.

“Come,” Adhémar boomed. “I have seen to it all.”

Moran pursed her lips. Aye, here it came.

“I will ride ahead, of course, but you may all follow. Slowly,” he added. “I will pave the way.”

Well, that was something at least.

“Good of you,” Morgan muttered.

Miach snorted, but said nothing else. He did smile briefly at her before he urged his horse forward. Slowly.

They made their way up a very long winding road. Morgan was too preoccupied with the blade in her pack and the damned ring as well to pay much heed to her surroundings. She was cold, tired, and nervous. It was work enough to keep her mount on the road.

The day went on endlessly. The snow was blinding in its brightness and the road ceaseless in its twisting and turning.

“Morgan.”

Morgan looked at Miach in annoyance. He pointed upward.

Morgan humored him by looking.

She felt her mouth fall open. She didn't even manage to rein her horse in. She simply clutched the reins and gaped, feeling every inch the country miss who had never stepped out of her pigsty.

It was Tor Neroche, perched high above her on the edge of a cliff. Actually, it looked as though it had simply grown out of the rock, daring the unwary and the unwashed to venture beneath its mighty shadow. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once.

“Oh,” she managed, finally. “It's magnificent.”

He smiled. It seemed something of a sad smile, which only made sense if he wished such a place might have been his. Morgan shook her head.

“Do not envy the king this palace,” she said, struggling to master her own surprise. “I imagine he longs for a garden such as yours and the peace with which to farm it.”

“Think you?” Miach asked quietly.

“I daresay. Though this is a bloody impressive palace, isn't it?” she managed. “And these just the outer walls.” She paused. “Are they guarded by magic in truth, or is that rumor, do you suppose?”

“I've heard that magic was woven into the foundations,” he said slowly. “I imagine it finds itself everywhere here.”

Morgan shivered. “Dreadful.”

“Safe.”

“But at what price?”

Miach nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose.”

Morgan rode on for quite some time under the shadow of those enormous outer walls. She supposed there wasn't a ladder built tall enough to touch their crenelated tops, nor a lad born brave enough to try to scale them. The wall was made of massive granite blocks, held together with heaven only knew what, and tilting out at an alarming angle that gave those who rode under them the impression that they were about to be crushed beneath them.