Star of the Morning (35 page)

And she dreamed of blades that sung a song only she could hear.

Nineteen

Miach sighed as he sat on the edge of yet another well. It had been a very long se'nnight and it looked to be lengthening still. He remembered little of the journey from Chagailt save that he'd wanted desperately to sleep and he knew Morgan couldn't bear to. He pitied her the dreams that haunted her. He wished he had a good explanation for them save the one she wouldn't want to hear.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the suspicions he'd begun to have at Chagailt about the fate of Gair's daughter were but a foreshadowing of a truth he now realized he could no longer deny.

He was convinced Gair's youngest daughter had survived. He was equally sure she had been taken in by a band of traveling mercenaries. There she had learned to shun anything to do with magic. That distaste had been strengthened at an orphanage. It surely had been completely cemented into her at a particular tower on the coast of a backward island famous for sheep and feuds over water rights.

In short, he was positive Morgan was Gair's lost daughter.

There was simply no other explanation for Morgan's abilities, or her dreams.

And if she was Gair of Ceangail's daughter, she certainly would have the power necessary to wield the Sword of Angesand. Was it possible that she dreamed of the sword not only because it resembled her blade, but because she was destined to wield it?

If there was a darkness out there, Gair had certainly been a master of it. And if Morgan sprang from that line, it would fit the prophecy. But what would Morgan say to it all?

He imagined he knew already, and her response wouldn't use very many polite words.

He dragged himself back to the present with great effort. He would think on it later. Now, he was working and needed to make certain he had earned their keep.

They had made camp at twilight near the barn of an obliging farmer. Miach had paid their price of supper by a quietly made promise of a sweetened well, which the farmer had enthusiastically agreed to. Miach had eaten briefly, then gone about his work. It had been nothing compared to what he'd done at Angesand, but still it had been wearying.

He was now finished, but he couldn't bring himself to do more than sit while their host prepared to taste the price of their stay.

The farmer drank suspiciously, but then his face broke out into a genuine smile of surprise. “Delicious,” he said happily. He looked at Miach with sudden calculation. “Don't suppose you want to stay another night, would you?”

“Why?”

“I have a cow who gives sour milk. I've tried everything, but nothing helps.” He paused. “She's the reddish one in the end stall there.”

“Sorry,” Miach said regretfully. “We cannot stay.”

“The next time perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

Miach watched the farmer walk away, then he quietly laid a charm of sweetness on that poor, sour cow in the end stall that would last the length of the beast's life. It took little of his energy, but that, combined with his brief work on the well, left him rather short-tempered. He supposed he should have saved a bit of sweetness for himself.

He was contemplating the irony of that when Adhémar walked out to the well. He had a long drink, dragged his sleeve across his mouth, and grunted.

“Good.”

“Thank you.”

Adhémar propped his foot up on the edge of the low brick wall. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What did you find on that useless jaunt to Chagailt save a clutch of nasties?”

“A fine meal or two,” Miach said.

Adhémar grunted. “I daresay. Anything else?”

Miach paused, considered, then looked up at Adhémar calmly.

“I believe I found your wielder.”

It was worth it. There was something tremendously satisfying about being able to say something that would so thoroughly undo his brother that Adhémar should lose his balance, flail about a bit, then plunge headfirst into a very cold, albeit sweet, bit of water. Fortunately for the very wet king of Neroche, the well was deep but rather large and he had no problem surfacing. Adhémar clung to the brick that enclosed the water.

“My
what
?”

Miach reached out a hand and pulled his brother out. Adhémar stood there, shivering and dripping. Miach almost felt sorry enough for him to dry him off with a bit of magic.

Almost.

That the tidings would, in effect, turn Morgan over to Adhémar's care and heaven only knew what else, was what kept him from it.

“You heard me,” Miach said. “I think I have found your wielder.”

“You
think
,” Adhémar said, scowling fiercely. “How on earth would you be able to recognize him?”

Miach pretended to consider that. There was no sense in irritating Adhémar unnecessarily by telling him that he was just as capable as the king of recognizing the man—likely more so since he still had the ability to sense magic in another. That would lead to a discussion about why Adhémar had been sent when Miach could have gone. That was destined to finish poorly.

“Well,” Miach began slowly, “I know the requirements. The wielder should have magic—”

“I knew that,” Adhémar huffed.

“And perhaps something that shows an affinity for the sword,” Miach continued thoughtfully. “Of course, there's no way to tell for sure until we take her to Tor Neroche and see if the Sword of Angesand calls to her.”

“I knew that as well,” Adhémar snapped. “Tell me something I don't know—her? What do you mean
her
?”

“Morgan.”

Adhémar spluttered. He swore. He cursed Miach in five different languages and laid upon him spells that would have left him crawling in a garden in the form of an earthworm if he'd had the power for it.

Miach regarded him with his arms folded over his chest. “Are you finished?”

“Hardly,” Adhémar spat. “Have you gone mad?”

“Hardly,” Miach returned. “Aren't you at all curious?”

“Nay,” Adhémar said shortly. “You've lost all wits and I'm uninterested in where they went.” He paused. “But then again, just out of curiosity, why do you think she might be the one?”

“I can't say.”

Adhémar growled and launched himself at Miach. Of course, having grown up in a hall with six brothers left Miach expecting something like it, but he was weary and didn't move quickly enough. He went down with a thump. There was a sickening crunch as something smacked against stone. Miach realized that that something had been his head. He waited a minute until his vision cleared and he was certain he wouldn't become senseless, then he changed himself into a man-sized scorpion.

“Arrgh!” Adhémar exclaimed, leaping up and backing away in revulsion. “Cowardly whelp,” he spat. “Can you not fight me in the form of a man?”

Miach returned to his manly form with a smile.

“I daresay you won't have the guts to remain as you are,” Adhémar muttered.

Miach crawled to his feet, looked at Adhémar for a moment in silence, then happily lived up to his brother's low expectations.

He was not at his best, which hampered his creativity, but he did manage several shapes that left Adhémar very unhappy. Miach almost took his brother's head off in the form of a great bear with glistening claws, tripped him and sent him sprawling thanks to a brief stint as a darting snake, and made him back up a pace involuntarily as he put on the trappings of an enormous, misshapen troll. He grabbed his brother and heaved him up high over his misshapen, drooling head.

Perhaps the last wasn't all that fair. Miach had come face-to-face with just such a creature at Chagailt and hadn't been able to stop his own recoiling. He started to say, or gurgle rather, that he had perhaps stepped over the line of gallant behavior, when he heard the unmistakable and unwelcome sound of Morgan's voice. He saw her standing at the edge of the little courtyard.

He hardly had the time to register that she'd told Adhémar to prepare to fall, and that such would happen because she had a dagger in her hand, before she was in process of flinging it with all her strength toward Miach's heart.

He managed to turn himself into nighttime dew and waft to the side before the blade struck, but just barely.

He had the feeling that when he managed to gather himself back to himself, he would find he had not escaped harm altogether.

He watched damply as Adhémar picked himself up, cursing loudly and vigorously. Adhémar drew his sword and sliced though all the air around him. Miach would have clucked his tongue if he'd had a tongue to cluck. Since he did not, he cast himself onto the first available breeze and floated well away from the farmer's barn.

It was tempting to continue to laze along, but he feared he was so weary that he might forget himself as he lay upon the hard crust of field, turn into frost before he knew it, and be crushed under the hooves of wandering cattle. Or his own Angesand steed. The irony of that would have done him in—if the hooves wouldn't have.

He resumed his proper form and stared in consternation at the bloody gash in his arm, visible through the rent in his cloak. Well, at least it wasn't a gash in his chest. He cursed nonetheless as he clutched his arm. Why was it he couldn't weave a spell of binding on his own self? It would have made things so much easier.

He trudged off with another curse toward the barn. Surely someone in the company would have a needle and some thread and some small bit of skill with both.

He walked into the circle of firelight and endured the gaping stare of Fletcher and the manly looks of comradely pity from Camid and Paien. Glines, however, jumped to his feet immediately.

“What did you do?”

“I cut myself,” Miach said through gritted teeth.

“Got too close to someone else's sword, eh, lad?” Paien boomed.

“Something like that,” Miach muttered. He looked at Glines. “Have you a needle?”

“The question is, do you want him to ply it?” Camid asked, getting to his feet. “And the answer is nay. Come sit over here, lad. I'll see to you.”

Miach looked at him. “Do you have any skill with a needle?”

“Oh, aye,” Camid said with a grin. “Haven't you seen me darning my socks?”

“I haven't and I don't want to, but I'll trust you anyway,” Miach said, sitting down heavily. “Be gentle; I might scream.”

Camid stroked his nose thoughtfully. “I could give you a wee tap under the chin first. You wouldn't feel a thing.”

“I'll settle for a leather strap between my teeth, thank you just the same.”

Camid laughed with far more delight than Miach was comfortable with, but dug about in his pack and came out with something that might have resembled a kit for the odd small job of putting things back together. Miach looked at it in alarm.

“Those look to be awfully thick needles,” he said.

“Well, lad, aren't you thick-skinned?” Camid said, with twinkling eyes.

“Nay, I'm not,” Miach answered promptly. “And when I look at your gear there, I think I might prefer to bleed to death.”

“That's for my saddle,” Camid said, setting aside one set of needles and pulling out another. “These are for flesh.”

Miach honestly couldn't see how Camid could distinguish between the two, but he supposed it wouldn't make much difference. It especially didn't make any difference when he was treated to the spectacle of watching Morgan and Adhémar walk into camp. The sight of that, the sight of them actually
conversing
without blades drawn, was enough to have him gritting his teeth so hard, the cracking noise drowned out any grunts of pain he might have made.

“Easy, lad,” Camid chuckled. “I haven't begun yet.”

“Be about it then, friend,” Miach said, still through gritted teeth, “while I am distracted.”

Camid applied himself to the stitches. “Fond of her, are you?” he murmured.

“Is that really the kind of question”—Miach grunted—“you should be asking right now?” Miach grunted another time or two. It was a more manly noise than yelping. Camid was obviously more suited to stitching saddles than stitching men.

“Your brother is desirable, perhaps,” Camid offered, “but he is not for Morgan. I wouldn't worry.”

Miach met Camid's eyes. “Did you think I was?” he said. “Worrying?”

“I have two good eyes. And a fine nose for a romance.”