Star of the Morning (45 page)

“Indeed, I do. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to find our very vital wielder and see if I can stop her before she throws herself off the battlements.”

“Why bother?” Adhémar asked. “She's ruined the damned sword.”

“Then she can use yours,” Miach snapped. “You don't have the magic for it.”

“What?” said Adaira, looking unpleasantly surprised. “Adhémar, what is he talking about?”

“Nothing,” Adhémar said. “Mindless babbling. An aberration. My brother is a fool, on many accounts. Leave Morgan be, Miach. She's not worth the trouble.”

Miach walked over and plowed his fist into his brother's face before he thought better of it. Adhémar went sprawling. Miach did not bother to help him up. He turned and tossed the hilt of the Sword of Angesand at Glines. “Guard that with your life.”

“I will,” Glines said faintly.

Miach looked at the rest of the companions he had grown quite fond of. They were all regarding him with various degrees of astonishment. “I apologize for the subterfuge. I will find Morgan, then we will all have speech together. Guard Glines and the hilt, if you will. I will return as soon as may be.”

“Aye, to find yourself in the dungeon!” Adhémar bellowed, struggling to his feet.

Miach turned and looked at him. “Do you honestly believe you can manage that?” he asked. “In truth?”

Adhémar opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it. “I'll expect more courtesy from you at my wedding banquet.”

“I imagine you will,” Miach said, then he strode from the great hall.

He ran through the passageways, up and down half flights of stairs, and out toward the kitchens. There was a pair of souls standing at the end of the hallway.

Morgan.

There was someone with her.

Miach skidded to a halt, then forced himself to run even faster. He skidded again, through shards of glass and spells laid to tangle about the feet and entrap.

Miach caught Morgan as she fell.

Lothar made him a low, mocking bow, then straightened. “Kinsman. Or should I say great-nephew several generations removed? Or should I merely say
former guest in my dungeon
?”

Miach hardly had the wherewithal to block the spell of death Lothar threw over him like a dark cloak. He was no longer the child he'd been when Lothar had first captured him riding recklessly along the border. He was a man full grown, in full possession of his powers, and damned close to being Lothar's equal.

Lothar laughed with genuine humor. “Do you think so?” he asked. “Oh, I daresay not. But we'll find out eventually, I imagine.” He yawned, patting his hand delicately over his mouth. “Unfortunately, my work is finished here for the day. I'll be back for you later.”

And with that, he vanished.

Miach was torn between catching his enemy and caring for the woman in his arms. He took a step, then stopped, the glass crunching under his boots. He looked down. There were the spells of entrapment, which he wiped away easily. But covering them, as if it had been wine sloshed generously upon the floor, was something else.

Poison.

Miach countered that as well, but it took him a moment or two and left him a little light-headed.

Or perhaps that was the aftereffects of the look Morgan had given him.

He'd known she would be angry and he'd been sure she would feel betrayed. He hadn't expect to see naked hatred on her face. He certainly hadn't expected her to destroy a sword that had hung in the hall of Neroche for five hundred years.

Her power was staggering.

He suspected he had met his match—and then some.

He shook his head, realizing that he would never know just how much power she had if he didn't get her somewhere quiet where he could set to healing her. He turned, then found himself facing another man with a crown full of white hair and power roiling off him like heat from a raging fire.

Miach backed up a step in spite of himself.

“Outside,” the man said, nodding toward the end of the passageway. “Follow me.”

“What?”
Miach demanded in astonishment. “Are you mad?”

“Do you want her to live?”

Miach continued to balk. He gathered his wits about him and readied a spell of defense. The man looked over his shoulder.

“Don't bother with that,” he said. “Come along, Mochriadhemiach. There's a good lad.”

Miach gaped at the older man as he walked toward the doorway leading out into the courtyard. “Who
are
you?”

The man stopped and looked back. “Nicholas of Lismòr. Are you coming?”

Miach found himself following, if for no other reason than to be free of the lingering stench of spilled wine. Perhaps if he walked out into the chill night air, his head would be clear. For all he knew, it might even aid Morgan.

Nicholas of Lismòr? How in the world had he gotten to Tor Neroche? How had he come to be here at this particular time? And just what in the hell did the man think Miach was using for wits? Did the man actually think he would simply hand Morgan over because he was ordered to?

He followed Nicholas until they stood out in the courtyard. He clutched Morgan to him.

“I will fight you—”

“Your battle, lad, is not with me,” Nicholas said.

“Lothar is gone,” Miach said flatly.

“Your fight with him will come later. You have hearts and loyalties to win inside. I will see to Morgan.”

Miach did not ease his hold on her. “How did you get here?”

“I flew.”

Miach blinked. “You what? But how ...”

“I daresay you'll know in time.”

“I want to know now.” Miach cradled Morgan more closely to him.

“Would it make you feel better to know she is my niece?”

Miach frowned in spite of himself. “Your niece? How so? Gair had no brothers.”

Nicholas smiled approvingly. “Then you know that much. If so, then you know that Sarait had a sister. Four sisters, actually.”

Miach cast his mind quickly back through the histories he'd read until he latched on to a name that had never seemed important before.

Until now.

Nicholas of Lismòr.

Lismòrian of Tòrr Dòrainn.

Too close for coincidence.

“Lismòrian of Tòrr Dòrainn,” Miach said in amazement. “She was Sarait's sister.”

Nicholas nodded. “Very good. Lismòrian was my lady wife.”

“You named your university after her.”

“It seemed fitting.”

“But that would make you ...” Miach looked at the other man in profound surprise. “Nicholas, the wizard king of Diarmailt.”

Nicholas smiled. “You're very well read, lad. No doubt you became so while you were recuperating from your time in Lothar's dungeon and learning to bear the weight of your new mantle.”

“But you dropped out of tales two hundred years ago!”

“Did I?” Nicholas mused. “I suppose that might be true. But I have been here and there, doing what needed to be done. I tried to stop Sarait from marrying Gair, you know, but she thought he had changed his ways.”

“Soft-hearted, was she?” Miach asked faintly.

“Aye,” Nicholas said. “And Gair was charming, when he wanted to be. I know how she was deceived. He was my friend at one time as well.”

“Indeed,” Miach managed.

“Aye, indeed,” Nicholas said. “But that is a tale for another time. My turn on the stage is over, but yours has just begun. You have made a good beginning.”

“How do you know?”

“I've watched you for years.”

Miach looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“I hesitate to ask,” Miach said frankly.

Nicholas shrugged with a smile. “I always thought you and Morgan would make a fine match.”

Miach wondered if he could possibly be surprised by anything else that happened that night.

“I doubt Morgan will agree,” he said grimly. Then he frowned. “I wonder something, though. Did you know who Morgan was when she came to the university?”

Nicholas smiled. “Aye, I knew who she was. You see, Sarait had asked me to care for her children should anything have happened to her. I said I would, of course, never dreaming that she intended to risk her life by goading Gair into proving his power. By the time I realized what she'd done, the mercenaries had already taken Morgan in.”

“Why didn't you tell Morgan the truth about her parents?”

Nicholas looked at him sideways. “Can't you imagine how she would have taken it? How have her dreams haunted her now? I shudder to think how it would have affected her then. Besides, I wanted her hid and there was no better place than in a mercenary camp. And then my orphanage. And then Weger's tower of terror.” He smiled. “Aren't those the last places you would have looked for her?”

Miach wished for nothing more than a seat. “I suppose so.” He paused. “But I fear all that safekeeping may have been undone tonight. I must return inside and tend her.”

“You cannot heal her of this hurt.”

“I could—”

“Perhaps,” Nicholas conceded, “but it would take all your skill and leave you none for other things. Now, your task lies elsewhere and your land will lie in ruins if you do not see to it. That is your duty, if you will.”

Miach wanted to stop time, so he could determine for himself if this was the right course. In truth, Tor Neroche could have fallen down around his ears and he wouldn't have cared. Not if it meant he could save Morgan.

“Duty,” Miach said with a sigh. “I detest that word.”

“Of course you don't, Mochriadhemiach,” Nicholas said gently. “Now, give her to me and be about your business.”

Miach couldn't bring himself to release her. “I do not doubt you are who you say you are, and I know the care you've taken of her over the years, but how can you possibly equal in that university of yours the herbs I have here?”

“You aren't the only one with a decent garden, lad.”

“But healers—”

“Do you think I have only a selection of Harding's sons in my hall?” Nicholas asked.

“When will I see her again?” Miach asked, pained.

“If she lives—”

Miach clutched her to him. “I'm coming with you.”

“You will be of no use to her now,” Nicholas said calmly. “If she lives, you will know.”

Miach closed his eyes briefly. “I want an assurance.”

Nicholas looked at him with one raised eyebrow. “You're the archmage, lad. Stretch your vision. Surely you don't believe your duty lies within your own borders alone, do you? You can know of what happens in other countries besides your own.” He smiled. “You'll know—without my sending word.”

Miach found he had no response to that.

Apparently seizing that as his opportunity to be about his business, Nicholas took several steps backward. Miach didn't look away, he did not blink, but suddenly in the place of the man crouched a great dragon with scales of emerald and a breast so encrusted with gems that Miach couldn't begin to speculate on their worth. As it was, they dazzled him with their brightness and hue.

The dragon beat its great wings and rose, then stretched out its great talons. Miach found himself offering Morgan to the wizard king of Diarmailt as if he hadn't a useful thought in his head or the smallest bit of sense to go with that thought.

And with that, the dragon rose into the air, its burden clutched delicately in its talons. Miach stood, gaping, until the wind from the creature's wings stopped blowing his hair into his eyes and he could finally see.

He watched until the creature from a dream ceased to sparkle in the night sky.

All that was left was stars. Those sparkled as well, but he supposed that might have been from the tears standing in his eyes.

Miach dragged his sleeve across his eyes and continued to watch until he knew he would be standing there forever if he didn't turn away.

He took a deep breath. He would secure the kingdom, then he would take his own journey to Melksham Island and he would do it as quickly as possible. Perhaps Nicholas was equal to the task of healing Morgan, but he couldn't possibly love the girl the same way Miach did. If nothing else, he would offer what aid he could . . . and an apology, if allowed.

He turned away from the courtyard and walked back into the castle.

The great hall was still in an uproar. The shards of sword had been swept up and were currently being contained in a brass ash bucket held rather uneasily by Cathar. Cathar and Paien were eyeing each other closely, as if they wondered who would draw the first blade. No doubt Cathar was wondering if he might be able to put the bucket down before blood was spilt.

Miach took the bucket away from his brother and handed it to Fletcher.

“Guard that with your life,” he said briskly.

Fletcher edged closer to Glines.

Miach turned to Adhémar. “Get on with your wedding. I've other things to do.”

Adhémar glared at him. “When I have my magic back, you will find yourself in a place you won't enjoy.”

“Your magic
back
?” Adaira of Penrhyn screeched. “That keeps resurfacing, Adhémar. What do you
mean
by that?”

“I told you it was an aberration,” Adhémar said dismissively. “I'm going to go dress. Perhaps you'll care to see to supper.”

Miach watched his brother walk off in one direction, his suddenly quite furious betrothed stomp off in another, and found himself somewhat relieved that he was not in either's shoes. His brothers likewise departed for safer ground, leaving him there with Morgan's companions. He looked at them to find them still watching him with expressions ranging from astonishment to disapproval.