Star of the Morning (6 page)

“The Sword of Angesand. It was fashioned by Mehar of Angesand, who wove into it—”

“Aye, I know all about it,” Morgan interrupted. That was all she needed, to have to listen to another of Nicholas's romantic and completely unsuitable tales while
outside
his solar. At least inside she had a warm fire to distract her. Here she only had a skinny, trembling lad who couldn't have been more than ten-and-two, who was making her cold just by looking at him.

“Go to bed,” she ordered, “and forget what you've heard. The king is well. Indeed, all is well. I would say that listening to too many of Nicholas's stories has worked a foul work upon you.”

The lad hesitated.

Morgan nodded firmly toward the dormitories. The lad nodded in unison with her, looking only slightly less miserable than before. He cast her one last desperate look before he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Morgan snorted to herself. Rumor and hearsay. The lad was confusing fact with the stuff of Nicholas's evening's entertainment.

She put the matter out of her mind and sought her chamber, finding it just as she had left it two years earlier. Indeed, it looked just as it had for the six years she'd called it her own. She hadn't used it very often since going on to make her way to other places, but each time she'd returned, she had found it thusly prepared for her. She leaped into her bed with a guilty abandon she would regret in a se'nnight's time when she was reduced to rough blankets near a weak fire. She closed her eyes and promised herself a good, long march through bitter chill at some point in the future as penance.

But not tonight.

It couldn't be true. Morgan rolled over and pulled the covers up over her ears. The king of Neroche was as full of vile magic as ever, the Nine Kingdoms were safe, and she was indulging in a guilty pleasure she rarely allowed herself.

Surely all was well.

Two

The next morning found Morgan not in her warm, deliciously soft bed under an equally delightful goose-down duvet, nor banging on Nicholas's door demanding answers as she had briefly contemplated, but in a cold, drafty chamber of scrolls where a sharp-eyed, suspicious man made noises of disapproval each time she unrolled a scroll or turned a leaf. He complained even more bitterly each time she dared ask for something else.

And it was barely dawn.

After a terrible night's sleep passed dreaming of swords and darkness and skirmishes against things one did not normally find on the field of battle, she had descended into the bowels of the university where she had hoped to find something to ease her mind about the state of affairs in the kingdom of Neroche.

She realized, with a start, that she was resting her chin on her fist and staring at the shelves of manuscripts without really seeing them. She shook her head to clear it, then rose and wandered about the chamber until she found herself standing before a large book. It had been set in a place apparently built exactly for it, for it fit in its niche with neither too much nor too little room.

Morgan looked at the keeper of records. He was beginning to wheeze, which she took as a sign she might be standing near something quite interesting. She raised one eyebrow in challenge.

“You cannot,” he squawked, finally.

“Master Dominicus, I am only taking it over to the table to read it. I am not putting it in my pack to then sell off to the highest bidder the moment I can escape through the front gates.”

He hopped down off his stool and strode over to her. He frowned fiercely. “I, at least, will carry it to your place. Have you washed your hands?”

“I haven't eaten anything to dirty them.”

“Then perhaps you should—and return later.”

“I'll manage without, thank you.”

He frowned a bit more, then carefully and with great ceremony removed the book from its place and carried it over to the table. He set it down reverently, then he spun around and glared at her.

“Do not tear the pages.”

“I wouldn't dare.”

He watched her as she sat, then hovered over her until she slowly drew a dagger from her belt and very carefully set it down next to her. Then she looked up at him pointedly. He scowled, but retreated to his seat with all the dignity he could likely muster, under the circumstances.

Morgan looked at the book before her, then carefully and with a terrible sense of inevitability, opened the cover and turned over the first leaf.

She should have known.

She sighed and began to read it again. But this time, however, she found herself reading the tale of Queen Mehar and King Gilraehen with a new eye, ignoring the romance that seemed to be slathered all over the story at every opportunity, and finding that there were several details she had missed.

She'd known that Mehar had forged her sword with her own hands and laid upon it many enchantments. That the queen had possessed the wherewithal to make such a thing left Morgan with warm feelings toward her; that she apparently knew how to use it as well was another thing to like about her. Mehar had been rumored to be a spectacular horsewoman as well as a lover of all things bright and sharp. Morgan supposed she could even forgive the woman her dabblings in magic for those two things.

Morgan hadn't remembered, however, that Mehar had possessed the magic of Camanaë. Even she had heard enough of Nicholas's tales over the years to know that Camanaë was a powerful matriarchal magic—one that Lothar had been from the beginning determined to eradicate. If that was the magic that Mehar had bound into her sword, it was powerful indeed.

Morgan was half surprised that the blade still existed. One would have thought Lothar would have made a special effort to find that sword, or steal it or destroy it.

She mused about that possibility for several moments. What would happen, she wondered, if the sword were destroyed? Would Neroche cease to be or would it merely limp on in a crippled fashion?

She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She continued to read about Harold the Brave, Uisdean the Wise, Edan the Fearless. She continued on through the years, finishing with King Anghmar and his lady wife Queen Desdhemar. It was his son, Adhémar, who sat the throne at present. The line of kings had always retained some bit of magic, some more, some less, but always enough to keep Lothar at bay.

Where the current king stood on matters of magic, she couldn't have said. She knew nothing of him save his name, and that only because she could not be in a battle where she did not either fight alongside or against half a dozen men whose parents had obviously thought his name to be a good one for their own sons. But of the king himself, she knew little. She had troubles enough of her own without adding to them things he should have been seeing to himself.

She sat back and sighed, wondering if she had the stomach to read through any more histories of any of the other kingdoms who were so dependent on the strength of Neroche. Watching the world unfold before her eyes was wearying.

She turned the leaves back toward the beginning, glancing idly at pieces of history, wondering how it had been for those who had gone before and done such glorious deeds—

Morgan went still. That was part of Mehar's prophecy, but what could it mean? That there were three poor, unfortunate souls predestined to carry a sword so magical that all sensible souls would flee from it? She pitied any who found themselves so burdened. At least she would never find herself in such terrible straits.

She closed the manuscript before it could trouble her further, rose, and nodded politely to Master Dominicus. “I will be on my way now,” she announced.

He looked no less relieved by that than by her arrival. He muttered indignantly as he gathered up what she'd been reading and continued to complain rather loudly as he put things away. Morgan thanked him politely and left the cellar. Perhaps he needed to be aboveground more often where he could at least see the sun. It might have improved his temperament.

She walked up the steps and paused at the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the brightness. It was obviously well past noon; that she hadn't noticed was proof enough of the distressing nature of what she'd read. She sighed and rubbed her hands over her face, wishing that so doing would wipe away her unease.

“Have you heard nothing about her?”

The whispered voice from just around the corner startled her back to herself. She would have continued on out of the shadowy stairwell, but there was something about the intensity of the whisper that kept her where she was. Besides, she would likely give the man fright enough to render him useless for the day if she popped out into the light. It was only altruism that motivated her.

“The lady Morgan?” said another man.

Morgan paused. When the gossip was about her, how could she not listen?

“Aye.” The first voice lowered. “You know, she spent a handful of years on the
other
side of Melksham Island.”

Morgan pursed her lips. She could just imagine where this was going. There were many sides of Melksham, but none containing anything so famous as the university.

Except Weger's tower, of course.

“It cannot be,” the second voice whispered in astonishment. “At Gobhann?”

Morgan nodded her head in time to the first man's wheezing.

“Aye, 'tis so.”

“But rumor has it Weger trains assassins there!”

“Mercenaries,” the first voice corrected, but he didn't sound any less troubled. “Or so 'tis said. Who knows what really happens behind those impenetrable walls?” He paused. “I've heard that he turns out men who will only take on tasks that are extremely dangerous or impossibly difficult. Ones that no simple soul would dare contemplate, and no seasoned soldier would dare attempt.”

“In truth?” the second said reverently.

“So I've heard.” He paused, perhaps to gather the courage to divulge even more appalling details. “He marks them, you know.”

“Who?” the second breathed.

“Weger, you fool! He marks those who win their freedom from his tower.”

“How?”

“None so marked will speak of it. But you can tell. The coldness in their eyes speaks for them.”

Morgan snorted. These men would do better to attend to their lectures more and listen at doors less. She cleared her throat loudly and stepped out into the passageway. It was an open passageway that surrounded a courtyard full of flowers and a fountain. The passageway contained two wheezing scholars who gaped at her then sped away as quickly as if she stood to draw her sword and end their gossiping lives at the slightest provocation.

Morgan shrugged. There was truth to what they'd said about her, though she didn't think her eyes were all that cold.

“Good day to you, my dear.”

Morgan pursed her lips as she turned around to find Nicholas behind her. He was leaning against a post, watching her with a smile.

Morgan scowled. “Eavesdropping, my lord?”

“It seems to have occupied your time well enough.”

“Ha,” she said with a snort. “Idle gossip might be interesting, but it never yields anything of substance.”

“Hmmm,” was his unsatisfactory response.

Morgan turned to face him.

“And what of you?” she asked. “Are you going to divulge your secrets now or will I need to pass another dreadful night on that horrible bed?”

He laughed and came over to draw her arm through his. “Dreadful indeed. Come, my dear, and let us find supper. I will tell you all you want to know after that.”

She soon found herself yet again on that comfortable bench, with a hot fire nearby and the promise of a fine repast to come. But apparently Nicholas wasn't going to wait for victuals to arrive before he said his piece.

“I need a favor,” he said, without preamble.

“Anything, of course,” Morgan said, before she thought better of it. It wasn't in her nature to promise before determining the lay of the land, but how was she to deny this man any whim he might have? Besides, he wouldn't have sent for her if he hadn't needed her.

Nicholas studied her in silence for several moments, then rose. He walked to a table set against a wall, rummaged about through stacks of papers, and came up with a key. This he used to open a plain wooden box that sat on the windowsill, in the company of several other ordinary wooden boxes. He drew forth something wrapped in cloth and brought it back with him. Resuming his seat, he laid his burden on his knees.