by Lynn Kurland
How would she deliver Nicholas’s blade to the king if she couldn’t bear up under the simple strain of an easy battle?
For the first time in her life, she gave serious thought to the possibility that she might not succeed at what was set before her.
She dragged herself toward where she knew the inn to be. It was an ill thing indeed to not be in control of her faculties. She shuddered to think what Weger would have had her doing. Likely a fortnight’s hard labor to burn out of her whatever illness might be lingering.
He would have been appalled to watch her draw her sword and lean on it periodically as she made her way slowly and feebly toward the inn.
Weger had been, she could admit now with a bit of distance, a difficult taskmaster.
The inn turned out to be quite a bit farther up the road than Paien had claimed. She could only assume that his ability to smell roast pig at ridiculous distances had led him astray. Then again, he was one for traveling, so perhaps he had been here before but merely forgotten the precise location.
She reached it, eventually, and paused at the door. She could hear the full-bellied laughter of Paien, well fed and no doubt happily nursing a large mug of ale. She shook her head. She could not face their merriment now, nor the looks on their faces when they saw her so undone. Perhaps there would be room in the stables.
She paused there next, but there were too many voices inside to suit her there as well, so she continued to walk. Perhaps in that little clearing up ahead. She knew there was someone in that clearing because she could hear the swearing from where she stood. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind company. She attempted a quiet approach, but found that it was all she could do to get there.
She paused in the shadows. Damnation, it was Adhémar. Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed her. Perhaps that had something to do with his being busy trying without success to light a fire. It was as if he had never before set flint to tinder.
The chill intensified. Morgan looked up, listening to the wind in the trees, and smelling the sweet, sharp scent of pine that enveloped her like a pleasant memory. There were pines in the high mountains of Melksham and she had spent an agreeable summer there once, tracking things as part of Weger’s curriculum. The smell was equally pleasing now, accompanied as it was by the breeze and the cursing.
And then she realized that the breeze was not exactly what it seemed to be. It was the sound of wings. The wings belonged to a very large bird, perhaps an eagle or a great hawk. A hawk, she decided, as it circled the glade, then came to rest on the ground. It stood there for a moment or two, then hopped over to the well-laid pile of wood.
It opened its beak and spewed forth fire.
Morgan rubbed her eyes and wondered if now her descent into madness was complete. The boat had obviously done more harm than she’d dared suppose. The question now was, was it permanent?
She looked again at the cheerfully blazing fire and saw that Adhémar squatted next to it, warming his hands against it, but now he had been joined by another man.
Another man?
Morgan took a step forward and looked at them both. They looked so much alike, she could scarce tell them apart, though the newcomer was younger and seemed a bit raw, as if he had traveled a great distance in terrible haste.
Adhémar seemed to have no pity for him. He began to babble at the newcomer with great irritation. Morgan did not consider herself unlearned, but this was a tongue she had never heard before.
She leaned heavily upon her sword. Could the day worsen? First had been a battle with things from her nightmares, then the sword that blazed with a bloodred light, and now these words that were being spoken in front of her but swirled in her head as if she’d dreamed them long ago but forgotten them until just this moment.
She realized her knees were not going to hold her the split second before she went down upon them. Adhémar jumped to his feet and looked at her in surprise, but he made no move to help her.
The other man rose, shook himself like a wet dog, then walked around the fire and held down his hand to her.
“Don’t bother,” Adhémar said. “She won’t take it.”
“But I’ll offer just the same,” said the second man.
Morgan was not herself; it was the only reason she allowed him to pull her to her feet. Perhaps pull was not the right word for it. It was as if she had been floated back to her feet. That had everything and nothing to do with the man in front of her. She pulled her hand out of his immediately and clutched her sword as if it was the only thing holding her upright.
Which, as it happened, it was.
The second man coughed suddenly. She supposed it was from his long journey as an eagle. Nay, hawk. She looked at him with a frown.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Does it matter?” he rasped.
She supposed it did not. “Are you a shapechanger?” she asked, feeling things around her beginning to spin. Shapechanger. How was it a word she had never considered before came so easily to her tongue?
“Who’s to say? You know, you don’t look well.”
“I don’t feel well.” She paused. “I was seasick.”
“That can be draining,” he said, reaching out to lay his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Let me help you back to the inn.”
“Nay ...”
“I think you’re going to fall.”
“Never . . .”
She felt herself pitching forward.
She supposed the ground would hurt when she met it, but blackness descended before she knew for certain.
Seven
Miach stood with the woman in his arms and tried not to hurt her as he clutched her to him. He had been traveling as a hawk far longer than he likely should have and the wildness was still coursing through his veins. It was an effort to speak instead of scream, to use his arms for carrying instead of beating against the night sky.
And that was only part of the problem. He looked down into the woman’s face and caught his breath. She was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. Not pampered and coiffed and painted like the princesses and their ilk who came to Tor Neroche singly and in packs, hunting for a prince or better. Nay, she was beautiful in an almost painful way, like air in the winter that shimmered with frost and hurt to breathe in, or icy water that rushed and cascaded over stones in a stream and was breath-catching to swim through.
Just looking at her hurt him.
He looked at his brother, intending to ask who she was, then thought better of it. Adhémar was definitely worse for the wear of the previous months and seemed eager to dispense a bit of blame for that. Miach suspected that if he asked for the woman’s name, Adhémar would give him the wrong one out of spite.
He took a deep breath and focused with an effort.
“I should see to her,” he said, “then I’ll return and listen to what you’ve said. I’m sure you’ll have still more to stay.”
“Aye, I will,” Adhémar growled.
“Where can I take her?”
Adhémar jerked his head to his left. “The inn is there. Didn’t you notice it when you flew over?”
“I was concentrating on you,” Miach said.
“Well, it’s over there; you can take her there, but don’t look to me to pay for a room for her there. I have no coin left.”
Miach frowned. “And why is that?”
“The wench poached most of it; I lost the rest of it humoring one of my more vocal subjects in cards.”
Miach decided he would learn the truth of all that in good time and probably at a higher volume than he would care for. He started toward the inn.
“Be careful,” Adhémar threw after him.
Miach turned and looked at his brother expressionlessly. “Why?”
“She nearly killed me on Melksham when I was just trying to make sure she was safe. One moment I was following her at a discreet distance, the next she was attacking me as if I intended to do her harm.”
Miach to
ok note of her sword, standing there impaled in the ground. He could feel several more weapons strapped to her arms and waist. “Is she skilled, then?”
“Lucky, more like,” Adhémar huffed. “But she fights with no chivalry. I have no idea where she trained—perhaps she trained herself.”
“What is her name?” Miach asked.
“Morgan,” Adhémar said. “Morgan from that backward island where there’s nothing to eat but mutton and nothing to discuss in taverns but irrigation rights. She’s uneducated and dangerous.”
Miach looked down at her. “She looks quite harmless to me.”
Harmless and lovely. Miach found it quite difficult to look away from her.
“She’s unconscious,” Adhémar said. “Wait until she’s back to herself and you’ll find quite a few surprises. Put her down and return. Immediately.”
Miach turned and made his way to the inn. He hadn’t paid it any heed before, but he could hear voices coming from it now. He felt more himself with every step, but it was still uncomfortable to go inside the common room with so much noise and so many people.
He hadn’t crossed the threshold before he was confronted by two men and a dwarf, all of whom wore looks that bespoke serious concern—and not a little promise. He caught the looks they cast toward Morgan.
“She fell,” Miach said simply. “I caught her. Where can I take her?”
The older of the men assessed him briefly, then went to speak with the innkeeper. Miach looked at the dwarf and the younger of the two men who remained. The dwarf regarded him steadily, but without any sign of recognition. The other, fair-haired man gaped at him as if he’d seen a ghost.
Miach frowned. “A problem, friend?”
“I thought, ah, I thought we might have met—”
“I doubt it,” Miach said, his voice sounding rough in his own ears. The blond man might possibly be quite right, but now was not the time to find out. He was relieved when the older man returned.
“Follow me,” he said briskly.
Miach did, leaving the dwarf and the younger man behind. He cradled Morgan carefully in his arms and followed the older man down a passageway. They entered what was obviously one of the inn’s finest chambers, as it was well away from the common area and relatively well furnished.
Miach laid her down on a soft bed, then stepped back and looked at the other man. “Are you her father to care for her so well?”
“I am not,” the other man said easily, “but I will protect her as if I were.”
“You can see to her hurts?”
“I can. You can be on your way now.”
Miach lifted his eyebrows briefly, then nodded. “As you will, then.” Not her father and not likely to divulge any details. Then how did Adhémar know her? Were all these souls traveling in a group? Miach shrugged to himself. No doubt he would have all the details, and more, from Adhémar sooner than he cared for.
He nodded politely to the older man then made his way out of the inn and back to the clearing. Adhémar was sitting on a fallen log near the fire, staring morosely into the flames. He looked up as Miach approached.
“It took you long enough,” Adhémar groused.
“To settle Morgan, or to find you?”
“To find me,” Adhémar said crossly.
“That was hardly my fault. Why did you wait so long to use your magic so I could? At least you have it back—”
“I don’t have it back!”
Miach went to squat down next to the fire. He was suddenly and quite unaccountably cold. “You don’t? But I saw your sword—”
“What are you babbling about?” Adhémar demanded. “There was a battle today, aye, and I’m a little foggy on it, particularly the end, though I’m sure I fought well. I’m also sure I used my sword, but it most certainly did not display anything magical except my skill in killing.” He scowled. “All this does not explain why it took you so long to find me.”
Miach wanted to stop the conversation until he’d had a chance to digest that. Adhémar had not called to the magic of his sword?
But Miach was certain he’d seen the magelight.
“Miach!”
Miach blinked. “Sorry. I’m not quite myself yet. I’ve been flying about looking for you for almost a month. And then today—”
“Today we are fortunate you have such a vivid imagination and a great deal of luck,” Adhémar said, “else you would still be flying about looking for me.”
“Of course,” Miach said, but in truth he was completely baffled. He had seen the Sword of Neroche. It was unmistakable. It wasn’t possible that Adhémar had called to the sword’s power and not realized it. But if not he, then who?
Questions for later, he decided quickly. His brother was scowling fiercely and babbling just as furiously. Miach suspected he wasn’t missing much, but perhaps he should listen just the same. He would think on the mystery of the Sword of Neroche later, when he had the peace for it.
“She’s rumored to be a good swordsman but I wouldn’t know because those companions of hers coddle her so thoroughly I’ve never been able to lift a finger against her.”
Miach blinked. “Who?”
“Morgan!”
“She’s a good swordsman?”
Adhémar glared at him. “Are you listening to me?”
“Intently.”
“It doesn’t sound like you are,” Adhémar grumbled.
“Too much flying,” Miach said promptly. “So, she’s a shieldmaiden and you don’t care for her. Why do you continue to travel with her, if she irritates you so?”
“Did you hear nothing I said? The wench felled me with subterfuge, stole most of my gold and half my belongings, and won’t give them back! I can’t leave until I’ve had a chance to at least cross swords with her and intimidate her into returning my socks.”
Miach would be the last not to offer credit for embellishment where it was due, but if any of Adhémar’s claim was actually true, Miach could scarce wait to see Morgan the Fair and Deadly when she was awake.
“I’d command her to admit to her crimes,” Adhémar continued grimly, “but I don’t dare. I wouldn’t want to ruin my disguise as a common traveling man.”
Miach yawned to cover his smile. “This hasn’t been easy for you, has it?”
Adhémar snorted. “You have no idea. The only justice on the entire journey was that the wench puked almost the entire voyage from Bere, save those several hours when your herbs rendered her blissfully unconscious, but she complained about the magic on them once she was unfortunately lucid enough to speak.” Adhémar shook his head. “Cold comfort, indeed.”
“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 . . .