Star of the Morning (46 page)

He faced disapproval first. He walked over to Paien and held out his hand.

“I'm Mochriadhemiach,” he said. “Archmage of the realm. I've been traveling in disguise for a pair of fortnights for reasons I will give later. My friends call me Miach.”

Paien looked at his hand for several moments, then studied him for several moments more before he finally took his hand and shook it in a crushing grip. “Where's Morgan?” he asked.

“That is a tale better reserved for my private chambers,” Miach said. “She is safe.”

Paien grunted and released his hand. “I wondered about you.”

“Did you,” Miach said dryly.

Camid came and clapped hands with him, looking up with a squint. “I didn't. I've no use for magic, outside of using it as a way to describe my skill with an axe, but I suppose I won't hold it against you. Sweet on her, are you?”

“Hmmm,” Miach said.

“Then why in the bloody hell did you bring her here?” Camid asked, fingering his axe purposefully.

“Again, a conversation for another place.”

“But the time will be now,” Paien growled.

Miach looked about to see if he had any friends in the area. Fletcher was holding the bucket as if he feared it might come alive at any moment. Glines, however, was casually swinging the hilt around his finger and looking at Miach with a smile. Miach nodded at him and started toward the door of the great hall. Glines caught up with him easily, leaving the others to follow.

“Where's Morgan?” Glines asked.

“I sent her off with a dragon.”

Glines choked. Miach smiled grimly.

“I wish I were jesting. She will be well.”

“You'll see to it,” Glines stated.

“If seeing can be done,” Miach said. He sighed and walked quietly for several moments, out of the great hall, through passageways, up and down half flights of stairs, and then to the bottom of the twisting steps that went up to his tower chamber. He looked at Glines. “I hope she will be well.”

“Could you not cure her?”

Miach put his hand on the wall and considered his words very carefully for some time. Finally, he looked at Glines. “I could have, perhaps,” he began slowly, “but to do so would have required all my attention, all my skill, and perhaps all my strength.” He paused. “A thousand years from now, I might have gained the fortitude to do that and see to the realm at the same time.”

“A thousand years,” Camid snorted. “Ridiculous. Who will be alive in a thousand years?”

Miach decided that perhaps that was a topic for a more private setting as well. He smiled at Glines. “I relinquished her to someone with the skill, the strength, and the age. He will see to her. I will see to the realm.”

“And when she is whole?”

“Then I suppose you and I will battle for her hand,” Miach said lightly.

“I would lay odds on myself, at this point,” Glines said seriously.

“Unfortunately, so would I,” Miach said. He swept them all with a look. “Come, friends, and ascend with me. We have plans to make and tales to tell.”

“And a wedding feast to attend,” Glines added helpfully.

Miach sighed, then climbed the stairs, leaving the others to follow along. He would tell his tales, they would make their plans, then he would set his spells and secure the borders. If he had time, he would see if he couldn't get a reasonable look at Adhémar's sword and determine if it had been enspelled or not. He would take a moment or two more and think about that strange magic that seemed to be cropping up in unexpected places.

And then he would put it all behind him and take his own journey south, to see what aid he could offer Nicholas.

And hope there would be a reason to.

Twenty-six

Nicholas of Lismòr, brother-in-law to the fair Sarait and uncle to the lass lying in the bed before him, sat in a chair under a window in a peaceful, quiet chamber and stared out at the night sky. He'd been sitting in that chair for quite some time. He generally didn't rest overmuch, despite his years, but he had expended all his energy and he was weary.

If there were stars, he could not see them. It was indicative of the state of things. Darkness covered the land. Darkness covered the young woman lying in the bed nearby. Darkness covered even his own heart, and he wasn't one to give in to despair.

He fingered the ring he held. It was a man's ring, a jet-black stone set in silver. Nicholas did not shiver when he touched it, though he supposed he should have. The ring had belonged to Gair of Ceangail. It was a reflection of his power and the darkness of his heart.

Nicholas had received the ring when he'd received a wild, headstrong lass of twelve summers. The mercenaries who'd gifted him Morgan had also shoved the ring in his hands. They had warned him, though, never to show it to her. She'd been holding on to it when they'd found her wandering in the woods, dry-eyed and mute. A quick reconnaissance of the area had produced a darkness so complete that the men had fled in terror, taking the girl with them.

The ring, they had said, gave the girl nightmares, but they had feared to throw it away lest at some point it prove to be the only link to her parentage.

Of course, Nicholas had recognized the ring. He'd seen it thousands of times on Gair's hand, even before Gair had wed Sarait. When he'd received it from the mercenary lads, he'd put it away in a trunk and put the girl in a chamber.

The chamber he was sitting in, actually. The girl, who now lay in the bed, had grown up to be an astonishing young woman. Nicholas had had the privilege of watching over her during part of her youth. It had also been his privilege to exert all his power to do his best to call her back from the brink of death.

He wondered, wearily, if she would wake.

The poison had been strong, but Lothar's poisons always were. Nicholas had had herbs dried and prepared for just such an occasion as this and he'd had the energy to pour into his own spells of healing.

Perhaps Mochriadhemiach could have tended her well enough on his own. It was obvious the lad was desperately in love with her. Surely that had to count for something.

But he was also guardian of the realm and his duty lay there.

Nicholas fingered Gair's ring and considered a bit more. Lothar's spells were indeed strong and his hatred of Camanaë yet even stronger. There had been times, over the centuries, when Nicholas had wondered if that hatred might be too strong to overcome. Morgan had been their best hope.

Perhaps he had been wrong to send her to Tor Neroche.

But it had been her destiny . . .

The night began to fade. Nicholas leaned forward and looked at Morgan. Her breathing was shallow. There was an unwholesome pallor to her face. If he hadn't known better, he might have suspected she had already passed on. He cast about for something else he might do, some other concoction of herbs, some other spell of healing.

Unfortunately, he was forced to admit that he had done everything possible. His strength and his magic were spent.

He stared out the window and waited for a dawn that seemed long in coming.

He distracted himself by thinking back over Morgan's life. He'd known her, of course, from her birth, watched over her from afar during her childhood, then rejoiced the day her mercenary guardians had left her in his care. She had become everything, and more, her mother could have wished for. One day, if he had the chance, he would tell her so. And he would tell her how much Sarait had loved her.

He remembered Sarait's joy in her daughter and the foreknowledge she'd had of Morgan's place in the history of the Nine Kingdoms. She'd never given up hope for Morgan's future, despite Gair's evil. Indeed, hadn't she said as much by the name she'd given her daughter?

Mhorghain.

In the language of Camanaë, it meant
hope
.

He watched as the morning star began to rise. It shone forth, heedless of the darkness, heedless of the fear in one man's soul as he watched the daughter of his heart fight for her life.

The star continued to brighten.

And then, from the bed, there was a movement. It was not the last breath drawn before a soul's final departure. It was a deep breath of life. Morgan stirred, then sighed and turned over in her sleep.

Nicholas closed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. She slept, suddenly peacefully, as if she had merely been about a hard day's labor and was resting from it.

He let out a ragged breath. She would live.

He smiled to himself, then looked out the window at the bright star in the east.

The star of the morning.

He took a deep breath. One test successfully passed. No doubt there would be others and they would be more grave than this. But just as the star of the morning heralded dawn, Mhorghain would bring hope to a kingdom that desperatedly needed it.

And to a man who held that kingdom together by his magic alone.

Nicholas put Gair's ring in his pocket and stretched briefly before he sat back and closed his eyes.

Morgan would be well. And though he could not control the events that would swirl around her, he could steady her before she plunged into them. He would tell her of her mother. He would give her what strength he could and offer what aid she would allow.

He looked out at the dawn once more before he closed his eyes and smiled.

It was enough for now.

Ruith woke abruptly.

He forced himself to remain motionless and breathe shallowly, simply because it was his habit. When one had to rely on more pedestrian means of protecting himself than magic, one learned early on to not give an attacker any more advantage than necessary.

It took him a moment or two to realize that he
was
awake, but somehow that didn't matter given that the memory flooding back in a rush was unpleasantly similar to the wave of spell that had overcome him in his dream—and, it would seem, in his waking life. He reached for Sarah only to realize that he couldn't.

But that could have been because he was sitting with his hands tied so tightly around the tree behind him that he couldn't move them.

He opened his eyes a slit, then fully when he found that no one was watching him. His companions were none but a trio of rough-looking lads standing in front of him, arguing not over the best way to put him to death, but the quality of his weapons and how they might reasonably poach the same without harm to themselves. He prayed their discussion might go on for quite some time so he might determine where he was and why he seemed to be the only one within earshot who wasn't talking about his knives. He took a slow, careful breath, then looked around himself.