by Lynn Kurland
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.
&
nbsp; “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.
Miach was tempted to get up and leave them to their snores, but he made the mistake of looking at Morgan again.
And once he looked, he found he couldn’t look away.
He stared at her by the light of a pair of candles in the chamber and nodded to himself. Aye, it would be sensible to remain nearby for a while.
To make certain Adhémar didn’t lose his way.
To see to Morgan if she needed aid.
To find the answers to his riddles.
“She’s a vile wench.”
Miach blinked and looked at the doorway. Adhémar stood there, scowling.
“I wonder how vile can she be with that visage,” Miach mused.
“Aye, well, don’t wonder too closely or she’ll give you a lump on your head you won’t soon forget.”
“Interesting.” He looked at his brother casually. “I believe I’ll travel with her for a bit, just to make certain she’s well.”
“Why?” Adhémar demanded.
“Chivalric duty. Mother would have approved.”
“I was going to travel with them too,” Adhémar said with a grumble. “At least for a bit. I think, however, that you should return home as the crow flies.”
“I don’t like crows.”
“I don’t care. Go home. Morgan will be fine. I’ll look for your wielder for another fortnight, then I’m for home as well.” Adhémar looked down at him archly. “I, at least, am staying on task.”
“And if she is y—” He shut his mouth before he said any more, but it was likely too late. And if she is your task? Miach watched the idea as it hung there in the stillness of the chilly air, brittle and fragile, so fragile that a single sigh would have shattered it beyond repair.
And then Adhémar snorted. “Impossible.”
“Quite right,” Miach said promptly, quickly waving the words away and leaving no trace of their passing. “I don’t think I can take any shape but my own for a bit.” He shivered. “Too much raw meat, you know.”
Adhémar shivered in distaste. “Stay, then, but not overlong. I’m going to find a bed and sleep off my headache. I have another lump, but I can’t fathom where I earned it.”
He turned and walked off, gingerly touching the back of his head.
Miach looked at his companions. They were still snoring in a duet that he was certain would eventually give him a headache. He sighed and rose, collected all Morgan’s weapons and piled them into a corner, then removed his stool from between his sleeping companions. He wrapped himself in the cloak Cathar had pressed upon him, sent a happy thought his brother’s way, and sat down in a corner to try to find his own rest.
He found it difficult. Too many questions, too many possibilities, too much noise.
And too much beauty lying before him.
He supposed it would be a very long night.
Eight
Morgan woke. She shifted, and a thrill went through her, as if she’d had a great sickness and its vestiges were still coursing through her veins. It was not unlike what she’d felt after the sea journey from Bere. Magic? Not unless Adhémar had been pouring his foul brew down her; she suspected she would have remembered that.
Well, whatever it was, it would no doubt fade in time. The best thing for it would be to sit up and face the day. She managed to get herself upright with a minimum of effort, dragged her hand through her hair, then froze.
There was a man sitting on a stool in the corner of the chamber, watching her.
She reached for her sword, and found nothing. She could tell without moving that the rest of her daggers were missing as well. She glanced about her casually but with deadly purpose for the rest of her weapons. They were, as fate would have it, all propped up about the man who was sitting on the stool in the corner, watching her.
He looked briefly at her gear, then back at her. “Everything is here,” he said calmly. “I kept watch.”
“Good of you,” she said. She could defend herself with her hands alone, but that was generally a messy business and she was resting on a quite nice mattress in what looked to be a decent chamber. It would be a pity to ruin all that. But she would, if she had to. She suspected by the way the man did not move that he realized the same thing.
Then she remembered who he was.
He was the man from the night before, the one who had flown into the clearing as a hawk, spewed forth fire, then changed himself into himself.
Hadn’t he?
She frowned, then rubbed the spot between her eyes that had begun to pound. Sea travel was harder on the body than she had feared. First it was magical herbs, now it was shapechanging men. What next? Swords that sprang to life with magelight—
Oh. But that had already happened.
Heaven help her.
Morgan immediately shunned that memory and swung her legs to the floor. She waited until the tingling subsided, then forced herself to attempt a bit of politeness.
“Thank you for guarding my gear ...” She reached for his name, but found she did not know it.
“Miach,” he supplied helpfully.
“Miach,” she repeated.
“Aye.”
She looked at him. Once she managed to get her eyes uncrossed and could actually see him, she felt her jaw drop.
Nay, not another one!
He had to be Adhémar’s brother. Indeed, he might have been Adhémar’s twin, but he was obviously several years younger. And, she had to admit, he was handsome in a different way. He had the same dark hair, the same handsome features, but a leaner build. He was also not sitting there, puffing out his chest, demanding by his very presence that any and all in the area drop to their knees and shower him with accolades. Could it be that he was actually tolerable?
Well, the only way to know for sure was to listen to him talk.
“Are you his brother? Adhémar’s?”
“So my mother claimed.”
Morgan lifted one eyebrow. “And how does that set with you?”
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and smiled a very small smile. “A bit like a rash that I cannot scratch but that burns like hellfire just the same and never goes away.”
Morgan almost smiled. “That I can understand—”
“Morgan! You’re awake!”
She whipped her head around to see Glines standing just inside the doorway. She had to put her hands over her eyes to make the chamber cease with its spinning as Glines leaped into the chamber. He put his hand on her forehead.
“You’re not feverish,” he said, sounding vastly relieved.
It was testimony enough of her weakness of form that she allowed it without thinking. It was obvious Glines had done the like before. Perhaps she had been out of her head with fever. She brushed Glines’s hand away in annoyance. “I am well.”
“We worried. You’ve slept for two days.”
Morgan scowled at Glines. “Did Adhémar give me more herbs? I daresay I feel as if he did.”
“Nay,” Glines said. He shot Miach an uncomfortable look. “At least I don’t think so.”
Morgan frowned at Miach. So, he was not without his faults. “You didn’t give me any of Adhémar’s brew, did you?”
He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t.”
“Fortunately for you,” Morgan said. She studied him for another moment or two. “You poor man. I vow you are the mirror of Adhémar.”
“Morgan,” Glines said, sounding slightly aghast. He looked at Miach. “I’m sure she meant no offense.”
“Of course I meant offense,” Morgan said. “Adhémar is a dolt and every time he opens his mouth, he confirms it. I’ll reserve judgment on this brother until I’ve seen him with a sword in his hands. A sword of his own,” she said, casting a pointed look at the collection of her weapons he was surrounded by.
“Oh, Morgan, please stop,” Glines said miserably.