Star of the Morning (30 page)

She simply could not be.

Miach was almost certain of that.

Morgan stepped back from the book and looked at him. “I must find the truth.”

“The truth?” he said, with only a slight pang of guilt.

“About my dreams.” She shivered. “I think they will drive me mad soon.” She looked at him. “Do you dream?”

“Aye.”

“Of mages, and wells of evil, and death everywhere?” she asked.

Unbidden, memories came back to him. Of mages, and dungeons of evil, and death that had hung over his head for months as Lothar held him captive and his mother tried desperately to free him. He'd been ten-and-four at the time.

Aye, he had dreams enough of his own.

The next thing he knew, Morgan was standing a hand's breath from him, searching his face as if she looked for her own horror there.

“You do.”

“I do,” he agreed. “But they are not your dreams.”

Morgan took him by the hand and started toward the door, dragging him with her. “I need to run.”

He started to tell her that she couldn't outrun all her troubles, but the thought generally appealed to him as well, so he couldn't exactly tell her to stop.

“Is there a place where we might run freely?” she asked as she pulled him up the stairs.

“Lunch first?” he asked, hoping to distract her.

“Later.”

He didn't argue. He suspected he would have followed her quite a long way before he asked her to stop.

She cast a spell of un-noticing over the both of them, shuddering as she did so, then opened the door out into the grand hallway. Miach walked with her without speaking as she wandered, finally finding her way out the side door and into the formal gardens. Miach was faintly relieved he had become accustomed to her habits else he would have found himself left behind quite quickly.

Was she merely dreaming?

He wondered.

Perhaps he would offer, when the time was fit, to teach her the few spells a poor farmer might know. It might show them both what she was capable of.

He thought again of Gair of Ceangail, his arrogance, his absolute stupidity in taking his precious wee ones to a place of such evil.

The man had deserved death.

He wondered, however, what he had left behind.

He would give that more thought later, when he'd lured Morgan back inside, fed her, and put her to sleep. For now it was all he could do simply to keep up with her.

Sixteen

Morgan sat on a little stool near the hearth, shivering. She wondered when it would all stop, this appalling departure from her usual method of conducting her life. First it had been that unsettling bit of charity when she'd first encountered Adhémar, then that horrible seasickness, and then—

She shifted her stool closer to the fire. She didn't want to think about anything else, not Adhémar's sword, not Nicholas's blade, not her terrible dreams. She held her hands out toward the blaze, but it didn't help her. The chill had settled in her heart and there was nothing to be done about it. She looked over at the book that sat on the shelf on the far side of the chamber. Such an unassuming tome. There was nothing engraved upon the outer cover. If one could ignore the magic that blanketed it, one might have been able to read it easily.

Morgan wondered what was inside that book.

She'd wondered that since she'd first seen it yesterday. Knowing it was there while she tried to sleep the night before had only kept her awake.

She turned away. Whatever was in it would likely give her nightmares anyway—and possibly worse ones than she was having at present.

She'd hoped her dreams would pass and leave nothing behind as a new day had dawned.

Unfortunately, that had not been the case.

Her dreams were always at the edge of her mind, pulling and tugging at her, trying to intrude upon the activities of the day. She couldn't stop herself from wondering about that man who had spoken the words at the well, the words that had loosed such a terrible evil. Had he been a mage? Had the little girl survived? Had the evil ever been stemmed, or was it continuing to spew forth even now, simply because there was no one there to stop it? Was she the only one who dreamed this dream, or was the horror of it so terrible it leaped from dreamer to dreamer, troubling all in its wake?

She looked about her for a distraction and found Miach. He lay at her feet next to the fire with his head on his pack and watched her with tranquil eyes. To be sure he was by far the most handsome farmer she'd ever seen. Then again, most farmers she knew were wearing boots coated with dung and carrying swords coated with their neighbors' blood.

And none of them looked anything like Miach.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, looking for all the world as if the most pressing thing on his mind was what to have for breakfast.

“My dream.”

He nodded slowly, as if that didn't surprise him. “It is a powerful dream.”

“I think the man is a mage. Was a mage,” she corrected. “What do you think?”

He seemed to consider. “‘Tis possible, I suppose.”

“Are there evil mages?” she asked, then she stopped. “Well, of course there are. Lothar, for one.”

“Aye.”

“Are there others, do you suppose?” She paused. “Others who might have . . . um . . . uncapped a well of evil?”

He winced. She was almost certain of it.

“I daresay there are,” he said, finally.

“Do you know any?”

“Personally?”

She frowned at him. “Don't make me force you to be serious.”

He sighed. “I am not treating your questions lightly. I suppose there are evil mages enough for any number of nightmares.”

“Ones who did what that man did?”

Miach crossed his feet at the ankles. “Possibly. Lothar of Wychweald is, as you know, someone who could have done something like that, but I don't know that he was ever that interested in doing any magic that wasn't visible to everyone for leagues.” He paused. “There was, of course, Gair—”

Morgan gasped. A terrible chill went down her spine. She opened her mouth and words came tumbling out.
“‘Then came the black mage of Ceangail, Gair by name, who never aged and begat children after a thousand years—'”

Miach sat bolt upright, suddenly not relaxed at all. “How did
you
know that?”

“I read it,” she managed. “In Nicholas's study.” She paused. “Do you know more about this, um, Gair?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Aye.” Then he looked up at her and the serious expression on his face chilled her.

“Do I want to know any more?” she whispered.

“Wanting and needing are often two different things,” he said gravely. “You may not want to know, but perhaps you need to know.”

She nodded.

Miach sighed. “Gair's history is a troubled one. The magic he made was not exactly of a wholesome sort.”

“Is any magic wholesome?” she asked tartly.

He looked at her solemnly. “Aye, it is.”

Morgan decided she would argue that point later. “Very well, so he was not a nice man. What else?”

“He lived a thousand years, then he wed. I know he had seven children. I do not know how many of them survived him.” He paused and looked at her. “But 'tis said he uncapped a well of evil that slew everyone within the sound of his voice.”

Morgan closed her eyes briefly. It could not be.

But it had to be.

“You know too many tales,” she said faintly.

“It is possible that I passed too much of my time sitting before the fire listening to tales and not enough time training with my sword.”

“Aye.” She paused for several minutes, then slowly met his eyes. “I have the feeling I am dreaming of him.”

Miach looked at her gravely. “I'm afraid so.”

Morgan bowed her head and sighed deeply, feeling as if she'd been holding her breath for days. Perhaps she had her answer, but it raised another question she couldn't answer.

Why was she dreaming about Gair of Ceangail?

She pushed the name away. She would think about it later, perhaps while she was doing everything in her power to keep from falling asleep again.

She looked around for something else to discuss. Her gaze fell upon her pack and she thought about her blade. Perhaps Miach might know something about it. She looked at him hopefully.

“Do you know anything about swords?” she asked.

“I know which end of them to point away from me.”

“One could hope,” she said. “Actually, I'm thinking of daggers.”

“I would recognize one as such, were I to see it.”

She glared at him briefly, then went to fetch her pack. She could hardly believe her actions; she seemed powerless to keep herself from doing things with Miach she wouldn't have done with anyone else. There was something about him that inspired the telling of confidences. She suspected Nicholas would have liked him very much.

She began to unpack her gear. Miach laughed softly when he saw the scarf. Morgan looked at him.

“Spoils.”

“I see you're wearing the socks that match.”

“More spoils.”

“Poor Adhémar. What a blow to his pride.”

“He could use several more such blows,” she groused, “until his ego was down to the level of his sword skill. But such is, happily, not my task.”

“Nor mine,” Miach said. “What else have you in there?”

Morgan pulled out the slim leather wallet that contained velvet wrappings that cushioned the blade as if it had been a priceless treasure. Morgan set her pack aside, then put the knife on her knees. She knew she was doing much the same thing that Nicholas had done and that gave her a queer feeling inside, something that felt quite a bit like Fate.

And she was, after all, a great believer in Fate.

She untied the leather closure, then began to unwrap the velvet coverings. She kept an eye on Miach as she pulled out the cloth containing the blade. He suddenly went quite still.

She couldn't blame him. She had the same kind of unease come over her when she touched the blade. She continued to unwrap the cloth. Something fell to the stone hearth under her feet. She watched Miach pick it up.

It was a ring.

He looked just a little unsteady. “What is this?”

“I've no idea. It must have come with the knife. I don't remember agreeing to take it with me.” She took it and put it on the table. Then she took the blade and held it up.

Magic shimmered along it, a silvery magic that connected with her in a manner she simply could not understand and did not want.

To her horror, she felt her eyes begin to burn with tears. She dragged her sleeve angrily across her face. “I loathe magic. And look you,” she said, thrusting the blade at him. “ 'Tis slathered with it!”

Miach took the blade from her. He looked at it as if he held either a great treasure or a live asp.

“Miach?”

“Where,” he said hoarsely, “did you come by this?”

She supposed there was no harm in telling him. “Nicholas of Lismòr gave it to me.”

“Nicholas of Lismòr,” Miach repeated. “And where in the world did he come by it?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea.” She paused. “What do you think?”

He seemed to be having trouble breathing. “I think,” he said finally, “that leaves and flowers are a rather unusual thing to adorn a weapon with.”

“A pity that isn't the end of the troubles with this dagger,” Morgan said. “Can you not feel the magic? I can see it as well.”

Miach twisted the blade this way and that as he examined it by the firelight. He slowly traced the engravings on the blade and the hilt with his finger. “Nay,” he said finally, “the blade does not call to me.”

She blinked. “What does that mean?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head. He seemed to consider his next words quite carefully. “It can mean many things,” he said slowly. “It is said that if a mage fashions a blade, ofttimes that blade will respond to another with magic in their blood.” He paused and looked at her. “It seems to call to you.”

“I have no magic in my blood,” she protested.

“The knife seems to think you do.”

She shivered. “You know, it sings to me as well.”

“Does it, indeed?”

“It does,” she said. “I did not ask for this and I have no idea what it means for me, but you are fortunate not to bear the burden. Stick to farming,” she advised, “and be grateful you have so little magic.”