Star of the Morning (41 page)

At least she had that impression.

Paien looked equally as nervous.

Camid's nose was quivering, but he was made of very stern stuff.

The farther along they went, the more Morgan realized that she was a very,
very
small part of a much larger world. True, she bore in her pack a blade that Nicholas of Lismòr had bid her bring to the king, but what did that mean? For all she knew, the king wouldn't be bothered to see her. Perhaps she would only deposit the blade into the hands of a retainer, then be shown the front gates.

Assuming she made it inside the front gates to be shown back out of them.

“Morgan.”

Morgan looked at Miach. Her mouth was appallingly dry and her eyes unsettlingly moist. Good heavens, was her form going to desert her fully now?

“Aye?” she croaked.

Miach tapped his finger meaningfully over his left eyebrow.

Morgan touched Weger's mark. It seemed a very small thing, somehow, when compared to what she was seeing now. “But—”

“The king would give his right arm to fight as you do. He would take you as his champion in less time than it takes me to say as much—and count himself more fortunate than any of the other eight kings.”

She managed a frown. “You are a flatterer.”

“Never,” he said seriously. “Of all the things I am, a flatterer is not one.”

“I will likely not even see the king.”

Miach pursed his lips. “Then it will be his loss.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Do not forget who you are.”

She felt apprehension well up in her so suddenly and so strongly that she caught her breath. It took her quite some time to be able to draw a normal one again. When she could, she looked at him.

“Will you stay with me?” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “If you can?”

He smiled, but he looked a bit winded, as if he'd had his own brush with something devastating. “I will,” he said finally. “I would count it an honor.”

And then he looked at her for so long that she thought she might have blushed if her cheeks hadn't been so red already from the chill. There was something in his expression she simply could not understand.

Was it affection?

Was it resignation?

Was she losing what few wits she had left?

She couldn't say and didn't dare speculate. Perhaps later, when her task was finished and she could think clearly. Perhaps Miach would stay with her until then. Perhaps then he would be willing to speak of other things besides swords and magic.

Perhaps.

She found herself unsettled by something that annoyed her, only to realize it was the singing of the blade. If nothing else, at least ridding herself of
that
might improve her mental state.

Morgan set her face forward. Damned goose-feather mattress. Bloody magic-slathered knife.

What was to become of her now?

She considered that until they crossed the massive drawbridge, rode underneath the terrifying spikes of the raised portcullis, and managed to get past the third defense of the massive iron gates. By that time Morgan had forgotten who she was, where she came from, and what she carried in her pack. She was clinging to consciousness by means of her pride alone. She would have given even her horse to have slunk off back through the gate, under the portcullis, and over the drawbridge to leap down into the snow and hide.

“The palace is made to impress,” Glines said, dropping back to ride beside her. “It was once, if you can believe it, a hunting lodge.”

Morgan blinked in surprise. “You jest.”

“I do not,” Glines said, looking far too comfortable.

Then again, he didn't have a damned blade in his pack, singing loudly and distracting him.

“How do you know?”

“I have been here before,” Glines said. “With my father.” He smiled. “I was shown about by one whose task that is.”

“Surely not,” she said.

“Surely, aye. They show visiting nobility about the palace to impress and intimidate them. I'll pretend to be one of the servants now and show you about.”

“But I'm already intimidated,” Morgan protested.

“I'm not,” Miach said, “so you can show me the palace. What can you tell us now?”

“Well,” Glines said importantly as they rode along through the outer bailey that looked as if it might have housed an entire country in a pinch, “Tor Neroche was actually Yngerame of Wychweald's hunting lodge. This was several generations ago.”

“Several,” Morgan repeated reverently.

“Aye,” Glines said. “When Yngerame crowned his son Symon, he gave him his hunting lodge to use for a palace and Neroche to use for a country.”

“But it wasn't this grand,” Morgan said.

“I daresay not,” Glines agreed. “So when Symon wed with Iolaire of Ainneamh, he simply could not have brought an elven princess to such a mean hall, so he built her the palace of Chagailt.”

Morgan looked at Miach with raised eyebrows. “That was a handsome gift.”

He nodded in response and Morgan suspected he was thinking of Queen Iolaire's gardens that they had run through so heedlessly.

“Aye, well, Chagailt was beautiful, but it was vulnerable to attack. It has been destroyed and rebuilt a time or two. When Gilraehen the Fey was king, he decided that for the safety of his family and the crown, he needed somewhere more defensible. He retreated here. Over the years it has been strengthened until it has become the palace you see today. Tor Neroche; Neroche of the Mountains.”

“I think I like Chagailt better,” Morgan murmured.

“You haven't seen the inside,” Glines said. “Wait until you've seen the great hall before you pass judgment. For now, let us see if we can at least get ourselves inside the front doors.” He looked at Morgan. “Are you going to tell us now why we are here?”

“I am not,” Morgan said.

Glines shrugged. “Very well. Off we go then. There are the front doors. I suppose we'll see if Adhémar was able to talk his way inside and gain us entrance as well.”

Morgan nodded, though she had acquired a knot in the pit of her stomach that seemed determined to remain there despite her best efforts to make it disperse. She kept her head down and followed the horses in front of her until they stopped. Then she looked up.

Well, those must have been the front doors. Morgan sat in her saddle, clutching her reins, and wondered what to do now. Miach dismounted, then looked up at her.

“Coming?”

“Of course,” she croaked. She swung down out of the saddle with as much grace as possible. Her knees came close to knocking together. She credited that with the great amount of hard riding she'd done recently. It surely had nothing to do with trepidation over where she was.

A servant approached. Morgan wasn't one to hide, or to shrink back, but she found herself gladly standing behind Glines as he discussed their situation with the servant. Fletcher had tucked himself in behind her. Even Miach had pulled his hood up over his face and appeared to be trying to be un-noticed. Only Paien and Camid looked the same as they always did: alert and watchful, but not afraid.

Morgan was terrified.

There, she had admitted it. It hadn't been all that hard.

Shameful, but not hard.

“‘Tis big,” Fletcher whispered.

“Very,” Morgan agreed quietly.

“My father would wet himself at the sight.”

Morgan looked over her shoulder at him, then laughed in spite of herself. “Ah, but you have that aright, lad. This is a far cry from anything on Melksham. And to think the Lord Nicholas thinks he has a luxurious life.” She shook her head. “Astonishing.”

Glines came back to stand by her. “The servant is expecting us. Apparently Adhémar talked them into giving us a chamber for our use.” He paused. “You are going to have to state your business at some point, Morgan. To someone.”

“I know her business,” Miach said. He reached out and took Morgan by the hand. “Come, shieldmaiden. We'll find our chamber and then perhaps go for a little explore.”

“Food,” Paien suggested.

“Sleep,” Glines sighed.

“Silence,” Morgan whispered. She looked up at Miach. “The singing is starting to deafen me.”

“The knife?” he asked in a low voice.

“And the ring as well, I think.” She paused. “Am I going mad?”

He squeezed her hand. “I daresay not. Let's find this luxurious chamber we've been promised, then eat. I'm sure things will look a bit better after supper and a good rest.”

Morgan looked at their horses. “And these?”

“They will be cared for in a manner befitting their breeding,” Miach said.

“How do you know?”

“I watched Glines pay the head stable lad to see to it,” he said.

“That would do it,” Morgan murmured as she followed him in through the front doors. No one seemed to mark them as they passed. She walked with Miach, stunned and overwhelmed, for quite some time before something occurred to her. “Miach?”

“Aye?”

“Why didn't you go home?” she asked.

He pushed his hood back off his face and looked at her solemnly. His eyes were very pale in the torchlight that seemed to be everywhere in the passageway, driving back the shadows.

“I thought you might need me,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing.”

“It is something to me.”

He pulled his hood up again, squeezed her hand, and walked with her down the passageway. Morgan was grateful for that, somehow, and that her companions had encircled her, Paien and Camid leading, Miach and Glines on either side, and Fletcher walking behind. She looked over her shoulder at him.

“Don't lose yourself.”

He shook his head vigorously. “Won't.”

Morgan nodded and took comfort in their companionship. She would have to thank Nicholas for it at some point. She wondered if she would have managed to even walk upright instead of crawling if she'd been by herself.

It was, she conceded, difficult to remember you were an important person when your surroundings made you feel the size of a child. She wondered how Weger might fare.

Better than she, no doubt.

The servant stopped before a door, opened it, then stood back for them to enter.

Morgan walked inside and gaped. She wondered if that might possibly be her continual reaction to Tor Neroche. The chamber was nothing short of sumptuous.

It was also seemingly prepared just for them. There were low couches lining the walls to one side, seven in number. On the other side of the chamber was set a dining table and other chairs for relaxing and conversing after the meal. A fire blazed in a massive hearth. Food was being brought in and laid on a sideboard.

Morgan found herself wishing quite desperately for a bath.

The company was ushered in, then the servants withdrew and left them to themselves.

There was water at least for the washing of hands and faces and a prettily written note that promised more washing on the morrow if desired. Apparently food and sleep were what the masters of the castle had decided were most important. Morgan had to agree.

So she ate wondrous things with her companions, said fairly intelligent things after supper when they sat before the fire, then found that her only desire was to find a bed and make use of it. She put her pack on the floor but hardly dared crawl between such costly sheets. Miach seemed to have no compunction about the like. He pulled off his mud-encrusted boots and stretched out his filthy self upon a goose-feather quilt. He looked at her as she sat gingerly on the bed next to his.

“Well?” he asked. “Aren't you going to make use of that?”

“I don't dare.”

“Dare. You need to sleep.” He reached over and pulled her pack up to sit between their beds. “There. It will be safe here and you will be safe there. Sleep, Morgan, while you may. You can be about your business tomorrow.”

She nodded numbly. Perhaps it was the length of the day. Perhaps it was the grandness of the surroundings. Perhaps it was a bit of disbelief that she should be in such a place. She lay down and found that tears were slipping from her eyes and dripping down to wet her hair.

Miach reached for her hand and held it. “All will be well,” he said, very quietly.

She nodded, but she wondered. The knife in her pack had quieted down, so perhaps sleep was not so unreasonable an expectation for herself. She nodded again, closed her eyes, and knew she would never sleep.

“Miach?” she asked sleepily.

“Aye, love,” he said softly.

“Where's Adhémar?”

He snorted. “Slumming with the servants, no doubt.”

“Does he know many?”

“Aye.”

Morgan nodded and allowed herself to relax. The feeling of Miach's hand around hers was comforting, the bed was nothing short of delicious, and the song of the blade and the ring had subsided to a pleasing echo of a whisper.

“Morgan?”

She would have opened her eyes to look at him, but she was simply too weary. “Aye?”

“I have something to tell you,” he said softly. “Something important.”

She wanted to ask him if he was going to ask her to marry him, chipped nails and callused hands aside, but she couldn't even manage that. Besides, that was too ridiculous, even for her, so she merely nodded. “If you like.”

“First thing,” he said. “We have to talk first thing tomorrow.”