Star of the Morning (16 page)

“How trying. How has the rest of your journey proceeded?”

“About the same,” Adhémar said grimly.

“Insults?”

“Too numerous to relate.”

“Complaints?”

“I could fill volumes.”

“And now being bested by a beautiful wench,” Miach said. “And all without your magic. Where have you been so far, by the way?”

“Where
haven't
I been?” Adhémar countered. “Oh, you'll need to make a visit to Ainneamh soon.”

“Why?”

“Ehrne is touchy.”

Miach rolled his eyes. He could only imagine the various feathers he would be called upon to unruffle by the time Adhémar returned home. “And in all these delicate parleys with rulers of other realms you found no wielder?”

“Not a one.”

“Not even any decent mages?”

“There is a distressing lack of them. I suppose I'll have to look farther afield.” He shivered lightly. “I do not relish a journey to the east. Only wizards and criminals there.”

“You'll survive,” Miach said. He rose wearily to his feet. “I'll let you be about it then—”

“Sit down,” Adhémar commanded. “I did not give you leave to go.”

“I wasn't planning to go far,” Miach said and as he said the words, he realized it was true. “I was going to find something to eat.”

And then find Morgan and see how she fared.

“Why did you even start out to look for me?” Adhémar asked sharply.

Miach hesitated, then sighed and squatted back down by the fire. He might as well give Adhémar tidings. He would have no peace otherwise. “I worried.”

“About me?”

“Among other things.”

Adhémar scowled at him. “Who is seeing to the borders?”

Miach forced himself not to hesitate. “Turah sits the throne, as you commanded,” he said.

“I hope he can see to the borders,” Adhémar said.

Miach refrained from comment—quite wisely to his mind. Cathar was minding the borders and most everything else. No doubt Turah would have quite a tale to tell when Adhémar returned home, but Miach would sort that all out later. For now, there was no sense in upsetting his brother.

“And you?” Adhémar asked. “Did you leave someone to mind things?”

“The realm will survive my absence. I hadn't intended to stay away long.”

Adhémar grunted. “Neither had I. I'm telling you, Miach, that I have no more time for this wild hare of yours. I'll look for another fortnight, but then I'm turning for home.”

“Perhaps you'll have good fortune,” Miach said. “For now, I'm hoping for a good meal.” He rose and stretched. “Are you coming?”

Adhémar pursed his lips. “I'll be in later. Pay for mine for me, if you managed to bring coin with you.”

Miach picked up a rock, tossed it high into the air and changed it into a purse full of gold on the way down.

“Damn you,” Adhémar complained.

“I'll buy you supper,” Miach said, then he walked away. He pulled Morgan's sword out of the ground and took it with him back to the inn.

He ordered a meal for himself, paid for one to be taken to Adhémar, then went to sit down next to the fire. He drew a veil of disinterest over himself—not so strong that his supper wouldn't find him, but strong enough to discourage too many studious looks from the other patrons—and sat back to think.

He was not mad; he had seen the Sword of Neroche blaze to life. He'd been twenty leagues to the south, true, but he'd seen it just the same. Perhaps there was magic in the blade yet . . .

He looked at Morgan's sword. It was a simple, elegant blade, very well fashioned and adorned with a handful of gems on the hilt. It was not an inexpensive blade and Miach wondered how she had come by it.

Perhaps he would learn of it later. He sighed deeply, then set the blade aside as his supper arrived.

He tipped the serving wench handsomely and settled down to the simple fare with the gusto of a man who had been eating raw game for far too many weeks. It was only after he'd satisfied himself far past where he was comfortable that he leaned back in his chair and considered his next move.

He could return to Neroche and leave Adhémar to come in his own good time. Indeed, the situation at the border came close to demanding it. Even as he had traveled the Nine Kingdoms, searching for his brother, his mind had ever been on his spells. It had needed to be, for the erosion had continued. His ability to see to that constant drain on his defenses had not diminished, but he would eventually need the power of the Sword of Angesand.

He looked up from his cup when he saw Morgan's watch-man heading back toward the bedchambers, dragging an obviously wounded lad with him. Miach found himself on his feet and following them before he knew he intended to do so.

He was being altruistic.

It was one of his finer characteristics.

He followed the men down the passageway, then paused at the doorway as the older man ushered the young man inside and bid him sit down upon a stool and not make any noise.

“She needs sleep,” the man was saying. “I'll find a stitcher for you and we'll have your arm seen to. I suppose we should have done it earlier, but I thought food would serve you better. Now, sit you here and watch over Morgan until I return.”

The lad looked at him with wide eyes and nodded. “As you will, Paien.”

“Draw your sword, Fletcher my lad, and lay it across your knees. You'll look fiercer that way.”

It would take more than that, but Miach forbore offering any comment. He continued to lean against the doorway as the man called Paien turned to leave. Then Paien froze. His hand didn't stray toward his sword, but even so, Miach had no doubt of his intent. Miach nodded to himself. A seasoned fighter, if he was that sure of his skill.

“Well, friend,” Paien said slowly, “you returned.”

Miach handed Morgan's sword to Paien and smiled in his most reassuring fashion. “I thought I might be useful,” he said easily.

“And how useful might you be?”

“I do have some small skill in healing.”

Paien studied him for quite some time in silence. Miach allowed it, given that he was doing a bit of the same. Finally Paien relaxed.

“You look like Adhémar.”

“We're kin,” Miach allowed.

“Brothers,” Paien stated.

“Surprisingly enough.”

Paien laughed. “What's your name, lad?”

Miach considered quickly. Many had named their sons after Adhémar, but none after him. Then again, Mochriadhemiach was quite a mouthful. He would just give the shortened version his family used and attach a small spell of insignificance to it. That would be anonymity enough for his purposes, as he didn't plan to be there all that long.

“Miach,” he said, smiling and extending his hand.

“Paien of Allerdale,” the other man said, taking Miach's hand and shaking it firmly. “The resemblance truly is strong between you and Adhémar.”

“To my everlasting shame,” Miach said with a smile.

“Your brother is not completely without virtues.”

“So it is rumored, but I rarely believe it,” Miach said. He looked at Morgan. She was pale, but she did not look ill beyond saving. He then looked at the lad Fletcher, who on the other hand did not look well at all.

“Arrow wound,” Paien said with a nod. “From a band of unwholesome creatures. I was going to look for someone to sew it up for him.”

“I can see to it,” Miach said.

Paien considered only briefly before he stepped back and waved Miach inside. “Your brother apparently has no judgment when it comes to herbs, so I hope you'll acquit yourself in a more promising fashion. Do you require anything?”

“A mug of hot water,” Miach said, producing a small purse from beneath his shirt. “And I
am
a better judge of herbs than my brother.”

“Morgan will certainly appreciate that,” Paien said. He propped her sword up against the wall. “I'll return quickly. That's Fletcher of Harding, by the way. He's on a quest.”

Miach would have asked him what he meant by that, but he was already gone. Miach turned to Fletcher, who looked simply terrible. He pulled up another stool, sat down, and smiled at the young man.

“How did you earn this?” he asked.

The boy, who couldn't have been ten-and-eight though he was struggling to look as if he were, shivered miserably. “I was shot unawares. I should have been looking about me to check for enemies.”

“You know,” Miach said, unwrapping the bloody rag covering the wound, “many seasoned warriors are caught unawares.”

“Not Morgan. Not any of the men with her.”

“Well, perhaps they are especially canny. I wouldn't worry. You're young, yet.”

“Not too young for an important quest,” Fletcher said importantly. Then he seemed to reconsider. “At least I had hoped for an important quest. It was either that or remain on Melksham Island to till my father's fields and fade into obscurity.”

“Many notable quests are begun with much less reason than that,” Miach said. He looked at the wound and maintained a neutral expression. It was not so much that it was deep, nor that it looked as if the arrow had been ripped out without care; it was that it stank of a vile magic.

Interesting.

“A fierce battle, was it?” Miach asked conversationally.

Fletcher shivered. “I've never seen anything like it. The creatures—” He shivered again. “Never seen anything like it.”

“Hmmm,” Miach murmured noncommittally. He hadn't seen anything like that magic either, not on this side of the northern border. Was Lothar sending his creatures so far south?

If so, how were they crossing the border without Miach sensing their presence? And if they were circumventing the kingdom of Neroche, then why were they coming here? Istaur was nothing but a port town and there was nothing else in the area worth a visit. Why would Lothar care about it?

Unless that wasn't what Lothar had been seeking.

“If Morgan hadn't made the sword light up,” Fletcher said faintly, “I think we would have been all overcome.”

Miach froze. He turned slowly and looked at Fletcher full in the face. “What did you say?”

Fletcher looked rather frightened, so Miach softened his expression.

“Go on, Fletcher. What sword?”

“Adhémar's sword,” Fletcher said, relaxing visibly. “I didn't feel very well, so I might have imagined it, but I'm almost certain I saw that sword flash red.” He paused. “I began puking soon thereafter, so perhaps I was just seeing things.”

Miach smiled. “Perhaps. It is easy to imagine things when you're ill, and that was no simple wound you earned. Perhaps you were momentarily overcome.”

Or not.

Miach desperately wanted time to consider the possibilities of what Fletcher had just told him, but he was interrupted by Paien entering the chamber.

“Here you are, Miach.”

Miach accepted the steaming cup from Paien, and dropped a pinch of herb into it, mixing it liberally with a spell designed to drive the poison from Fletcher's arm. He handed it to the lad.

“Drink it all,” he instructed.

Fletcher did his best, wrinkling his nose at the taste. Miach didn't encourage him to drink faster because he needed the time to get his feet back under himself.

Morgan had called to the power of Adhémar's sword?

He could hardly believe it.

“What about Morgan?” Paien asked.

What about Morgan, indeed. Miach looked at Paien. “I'll finish with the lad, then see to her as well.”

Paien nodded, left the chamber, then returned almost immediately with a stool of his own. He sat down next to Miach. “I'll help,” he said, helpfully.

Miach smiled to himself, then nodded and set to work on Fletcher's arm with a needle and thread he managed to produce from thin air without drawing attention to it. He made quick work of the wound, then bound it securely.

Then he rose and crossed the chamber to sit on the edge of the bed.

Morgan was no less lovely than she had been the first time he'd clapped eyes on her. She was, however, considerably paler. Miach decided that the first thing to do was make her comfortable. He set to his task without hesitation. Paien squawked when Miach began to remove her weapons from their secreted locations on her person, but Miach only held them out to Paien without comment.

When he had removed them all, he took her hand in his and stilled his mind. He sensed no serious hurt, just the aftereffects of a terrible bout of seasickness and a dreadful battle that afternoon.

And the bloodred magelight of the Sword of Neroche that troubled her even in her dreams.

Miach opened his eyes and stared at her in amazement. So, it was true. He could hardly believe that this woman, slender, lovely, and apparently unmagical, could have called forth the power of the king's sword when the king himself could not.

Astonishing.

Could she do it again or had it been an aberration?

Miach rethought his plan to look at her once more and then leave. Perhaps remaining with their company for a few more days would yield the truth of the matter. Something had happened that day, something he'd seen from twenty leagues away. Something that Morgan had been responsible for. All the more reason to find a reason to travel with her for a while and see for himself what the truth was.

He whispered two spells; one of healing and another of peace. Then he rose, stretched, and went to sit upon his stool. Fletcher was already asleep, leaning back against the wall and snoring happily. Miach looked to his right. Paien had joined the lad in blissful slumber, though he was quite a bit louder about his sojourning there.