Star of the Morning (39 page)

Miach felt her touch on his arm. “Aye?” he croaked.

“Come,” she said simply. “We must away.”

“Aye,” he agreed. He looked down at her and would have liked nothing more than to have taught her a spell of shapechanging and bid her fly off to safety with him.

Unfortunately, he was no place of refuge. He would have to send her off on her own. He would, however, need to find the proper time to do it. Perhaps when Adhémar wasn't looking. Perhaps when the rest of the company was asleep. Perhaps when they had ridden far enough from the danger Paien had spoken of for him to feel certain Morgan wouldn't encounter it on her way back to Melksham.

He nodded briskly and went to saddle his horse.

They rode north, the miles being consumed by the hooves of the marvelous Angesand horses. Miach finally forced the company to stop at an inn. He dismounted and waited for the rest of the company to do so as well. Miach studied the inn. He wasn't pleased with the look of it, and he wasn't without the resilience and stamina to keep going, but he had to stop. He was certain that they had far outridden whatever Paien had caught sight of. It would do no harm to rest here. Indeed, Miach suspected this might be a good place to stop for the night.

Giving him the perfect opportunity to convince Morgan that she should return home by the most direct route possible.

“I'll watch first,” Camid offered. “Go ahead inside and eat. Just save me something.”

“I'll stay as well,” Paien said. “Glines, take Fletcher with you and make certain Morgan doesn't eat everything.”

Morgan scowled at him before she walked into the inn. Miach followed her over to a table by the fire. He set his pack down, then went to find them something to eat. Once that was seen to, he sat down with her, Adhémar, Glines, and Fletcher, and was unashamedly grateful for a seat that didn't move.

It took some time, but soon the conversings of the men around him began to make sense to his ears. Miach suppressed the urge to look over his shoulder when he heard the king's name being mentioned. He did manage to not look at Glines, though that was something of an effort too.

“I've seen him fight,” said a man behind Morgan. “Remarkable, and make no mistake about that. I've never seen a finer.”

“Ah, but all his brothers are decent men of war,” said another. “Each with his own strengths. 'Tis rumored the next down, Prince Cathar, is an even finer swordsman than the king.”

“That isn't possible,” said the first.

“Aye, it is.”

An argument ensued. Miach paid little attention to it. Indeed, he could have ignored the rest of the conversation, but then another, more lucid-sounding voice cut through the arguing.

“But you've missed the most interesting of the princes,” that clear voice said. “The Prince Archmage!”

“His name escapes me,” someone slurred.

“Not pronounceable,” said another. “And 'tis bad luck to do so.”

“So I hear as well,” said the strongest voice. “Though I don't know why. Perhaps it angers him.”

Adhémar snorted. Miach didn't dare look at him, so he concentrated on his ale. Morgan looked with interest over her shoulder.

“You know,” said one, “I've heard that the youngest—”

“The archmage—” put in another.

“Aye, the archmage,” the man said impatiently. “I've heard that all the talents of all the brothers are manifest tenfold in him.”

“In truth?”

Adhémar snorted so loudly that he choked. Morgan glared at him and turned her attention back to the conversation going on behind her. Miach exchanged a bland look with Glines.

Glines only smiled in return.

“He can outride the king, outfight Cathar the Fierce, weave melodies in the wind that would shame Nemed the Fair, and other things that normal men couldn't do even if they had magic—and the archmage can do all these things in spite of his magic.”

“Is that so,” said one of the men. “Then heaven preserve us if he intends to do any of that
with
his magic.”

Miach buried his thoughts in his cup. He would have happily continued to do so, but Morgan leaned over toward him. “I wonder what it would be like to cross swords with
him
.”

“You would likely leave him on his knees, weeping,” Miach whispered back.

“There are limits to my skill.”

“You jest,” he said seriously. “I can't think of a man who can stand against you. And you need no finger-waggling to improve your swordplay.”

“It doesn't sound as if this archmage does either,” Morgan said.

“Oh, enough,” Adhémar said crossly. He glared at them both, got to his feet with a curse, and walked out of the inn.

Morgan looked at Miach. “What ails him?”

“Envy,” Miach said promptly. “No doubt you bested him once too often. Are you finished?”

“Not by half,” she said, and applied herself to her meal.

Miach caught Glines still looking at him. Glines winked, then continued on with ingesting a substantial repast. Miach supposed he should probably do the same thing. Who knew when he next would have a decent meal?

He corrected himself. He might have a decent meal once he reached the castle, but would he manage to eat it?

He suspected not.

“How much farther?” Morgan asked, pushing her plate away finally. “Miach? Glines?”

“Three days, on the outside,” Glines said. “If we ride hard.”

Morgan leaned forward. “Will we get inside the gates, do you think?”

Fletcher leaned in as well. “Why wouldn't we?” he whisper-ed.

“They're guarded by magic,” Morgan said seriously. “Didn't you know?”

“But, Morgan, you don't believe in magic,” Fletcher breathed.

Miach found himself on the receiving end of a very pointed look from Morgan before she turned back to Fletcher.

“I don't
like
magic,” she said, “but I must concede that it exists. Don't rely on it, though. It is fickle.”

Fletcher nodded seriously. Miach counted that as one of Weger's rules that the boy would now emblazon upon his memory and carry with him for the rest of his days.

Miach sat back and looked at his companions sitting around that table. He was a little surprised by how much affection he'd grown to feel toward them in such a short time. They were good souls. Honest. Trustworthy.

And, in Morgan's case, too dear for his peace of mind.

He was tempted, almost beyond his ability to resist, to remain at the table and bask in the warmth of the fire and in the radiance that was Morgan of Melksham, but he knew he couldn't. He had to put his plan in action.

He had no choice.

“I think,” he said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him, “that we should stay the night.”

Morgan looked at him in surprise. “Think you?”

“I do,” he said firmly. “Rest the horses, and all that.”

“But Miach,” she said slowly, “what of those creatures? What of the rumors of them?”

He would see to them after she was safely away, but he didn't dare say as much. “I think we have lost them. After all, we will be safely ensconced in the inn. I imagine we won't have any trouble with them.”

“If you say so,” she said doubtfully.

Miach watched her exchange a look with Glines, who shrugged, then she nodded.

“Very well,” she said. “Let us go guard the horses while the others eat, then we'll come back and inquire about chambers.”

Miach rose when the rest of his dinner companions did, paid the serving girl extra, then left the common room. He waited with Morgan, Glines, and Fletcher as Paien and Camid had their turn. Of Adhémar, there was nothing to be seen. Miach didn't worry. He couldn't have been so fortunate as to have had his brother go ahead without them.

Time proved him right. Adhémar returned as Camid and Paien came outside. They gathered together for a moment to review their plans for traveling farther that night. Miach was just preparing to inform the others of his plan before the peace of the evening and the comfort of their full bellies was disturbed.

Hell broke loose.

Miach watched in astonishment as a half dozen creatures of the kind he had grown accustomed to seeing sprang out from the shadows of the inn. He wasn't sure if he was more surprised that he hadn't noticed them, or that they made straight for Morgan.

Morgan jerked Fletcher behind her and dispatched two with only a slight bit of effort. Miach didn't even have a chance to draw his sword before the others were seen to.

Morgan?

They had come for Morgan.

He could hardly believe it, but he knew he had to. It proved to him beyond doubt that he had to act.

“Convinced?” Adhémar panted, sheathing his sword and glaring at him. “There is no safety on the road.”

“I never disagreed with that,” Miach said. “I was thinking we should pass the night here—”

“You're mad,” Adhémar said. “We must make for Tor Neroche as quickly as possible. It is our only hope of safety.”

“And speaking of safety, there is something we must discuss.” Miach nodded curtly at his companions, then took his brother by the arm. “Excuse us.”

Adhémar tried to pull his arm away. “What do you mean, excuse us? I've business—”

“With me,” Miach said shortly. He dragged the very resistive king of Neroche out of earshot, then turned on him. “I'm sending her home,” he began without preamble.

“You're sending who home?” Adhémar said, jerking his arm away and rubbing it in annoyance.

“I'm sending Morgan home.”

“You're
what
?” Adhémar said incredulously.

“I'm sending her back to Melksham. She'll be safe there.”

Adhémar looked at him as if he'd never seen him before. “But she's the wielder!”

“We don't know that.”

“You convinced me.”

“My mistake,” Miach said shortly. “I don't care what she's capable of. She's a target and I won't be responsible for putting her life in jeopardy.”

“And I don't want to lose what might turn the tide,” Adhémar snarled. “I want her in Tor Neroche and I want her hand on that blade. If it calls her name, I fully intend to use her to win the war.”

“Adhémar, you fool, she might die!”

“And I don't take that risk with every sortie?” Adhémar retorted. “Perhaps you have yourself safely tucked inside your tower, but I do not enjoy such luxury—”

Miach punched his brother in the mouth before he thought better of it.

Matters did not improve from there.

When they finally pulled themselves apart, Miach was rapidly losing sight from one swollen eye and Adhémar was clutching his nose with his hand as blood gushed from it. Miach glared at his brother.

“I have been places you wouldn't dare dream about,” he said coldly.

“And you have shown me the one person who might possibly spare my kingdom,” Adhémar said, likewise quite chilly in his tone. “You have a
duty
to your liege lord to aid him in keeping that kingdom safe. Until I have my magic back, I'll use Morgan however I have to.”

Miach folded his arms over his chest and suppressed the urge to break a few of his brother's bones. “I might be able to determine what's happened to your magic if you'd just let me look at that damned sword of yours.”

Adhémar put his hand protectively over his blade. “I'm not convinced you don't want it for yourself. I'll do my own investigations. And until that time, your duty lies in doing what I tell you to do.”

Miach had to clench his hands down by his sides to keep from throttling his brother. “My duty does not include sending a woman to her death.”

“It certainly does, if that death happens while ensuring the safety of the realm.”

“I—”

“Your
duty
is to the kingdom first, Mochriadhemiach,” Adhémar snarled. “Surely you are old enough to understand that. Or perhaps the mantle was misplaced?”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Miach couldn't have been more winded if Adhémar's horse had kicked him in the gut. He leaned over until he thought he could catch his breath.

He remained where he was, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, sucking in breath until the nausea and the shock receded.

Adhémar was right. He had a duty to the kingdom, a duty that came before what he wanted or what Morgan wanted or even what Adhémar wanted. If the potential wielder had been anyone but Morgan, he would have strapped the lad to the back of his horse and thundered back to the palace without a second thought. If the wielder had been anyone but Morgan, he would have moved mountains to get the lad to Tor Neroche and slap that sword in his hands in order to stem the tide of erosion.