Star of the Morning

by Lynn Kurland

  She was silent until the barn was within reach. Then she stopped and looked at him. “How did you know those spells—really?”

  He shrugged. “I heard them somewhere.” And that somewhere was the schools of wizardry at Beinn òrain. Actually, it might have been earlier than that. He suspected his mother might have taught them to him. “From my mother, perhaps.”

  “Did she have magic?”

  “A little.”

  “I do not care for magic.”

  “I know.”

  “I have not said it strongly enough. I loathe it. It is a weak, foolish, unmanly way to conduct a body’s business. I prefer steel.”

  “I know,” he said again.

  She seemed to have more to say, but it was long in coming. She chewed on her words, sighed, cursed, then glared at him.

  “This was not in my plans.”

  “I imagine it wasn’t,” he said dryly.

  “It might just be a little magic, this business that troubles me,” she said, sounding as if she didn’t dare hope the same might be true.

  “It might be.”

  “Indeed,” she said, apparently warming to the idea, “it’s possible that there is merely some village witch lurking amongst my ancestors. Perhaps she passed this weakness down through the generations to me.” She put her shoulders back. “An aberration. That’s all it is.”

  “Very likely,” he said, though he didn’t exactly agree.

  She shot him a sharp look. “Weger would be disgusted.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “He would likely take back his mark.”

  “Does he do that?” Miach asked in surprise.

  “There’s always a first time,” she said darkly.

  “Well,” he said, putting his hand briefly on her shoulder, “we’ll try not to let him know. Perhaps the magic only comes when you’ve had too little sleep.”

  “Think you?” she asked, without hope.

  Miach patted her shoulder, then took his hand back before she cut it off. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “I suppose,” she muttered, then she hesitated. “It looks as if your brother is looking for you.”

  “Or you,” Miach said under his breath. For all he knew, that was true. After all, what man with eyes could not look at Morgan and not find her lovely?

  Would it be unsporting to place a hex of thorough ugliness upon her?

  Miach thought not.

  Adhémar glared at him as he approached. “Where have you been?”

  “Out for a run,” Miach said easily.

  Adhémar grunted, then looked at Morgan. “And you? What is your excuse?”

  “Do I need one?” she asked tartly.

  “You’ll fall off your very expensive horse if you do not sleep.” He nodded toward camp. “Take my spot. I’ll go watch the horses.”

  Miach watched as Morgan nodded a little unsteadily. She did pause, however, at the edge of camp and look at him.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  “Thank you,” Adhémar echoed. He looked after her as she walked away, then turned to Miach. “Thank you for what? What did you do for her?”

  “Why do you care?”

  Adhémar drew himself up. “I like to know what’s going on.”

  Miach opened his mouth, then shut it. There was no place to begin that Adhémar would have the patience for and even if he did have the patience for it, Miach wasn’t certain he wanted his brother to know anything about the direction in which his thoughts were going.

  “Nothing,” Miach said, pushing past his brother. “Go see to the horses, would you?”

  “How dare—”

  Miach didn’t stay to hear the diatribe. He walked into camp, found his pack and a bit of ground that was relatively free of rocks, and rolled up in a blanket.

  It was an extremely odd dream, that dream of Morgan’s. It was obviously vivid enough that she could recall spells from it. The possibility of her dream actually being memories was a tantalizing one, but one he couldn’t begin to take seriously until he had more information. But where to find it—

  The chamber of scrolls at Chagailt. Aye, that was the answer. Chagailt was not far. He could slip in, do a bit of searching in the musty manuscripts, then rejoin the company before they went much farther north.

  He considered north for a moment or two. There was only so much country before north ended in Lothar’s land, or the sea. Just where was Morgan planning to go anyway? And why had she chosen such a journey?

  Miach sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Too many questions and not enough answers.

  Morgan had magic.

  It was an astonishing turn of events.

  Fourteen

  Morgan rode slowly with her company, realizing that she was going to have to make a course decision soon. She thought about Miach’s map and knew that though Angesand was large enough and Neroche substantially larger, she would eventually have to bear west to reach Tor Neroche. Her route would bypass most of the places Camid and Paien were looking forward to.

  They would not be pleased.

  She sighed and looked down at her hands. They were the same hands she had possessed the whole of her life. Sure. Steady. Comfortable with a blade. Then how was it that after six-and-twenty years of life, her hands should suddenly be capable of something so completely foreign and abhorrent to her?

  She had woven a spell of un-noticing.

  She had undone that spell as well.

  She touched the mark over her brow. It had burned like hellfire when it had been made, and continued to burn for days afterward, as if there had been something put into the wound to make it so. But during those days of discomfort, she had not resisted the pain, knowing that it would burn not only into her flesh but into her soul just exactly what she had become and what she was capable of.

  How was it, then, that this magic should catch her so unawares and slip into her being with such little fanfare?

  She thought back over the past several months. Her mercenary activities were nothing notable. Her journey to Lismòr was unremarkable—

  She froze. Unremarkable?

  She realized with a start that it was her journey to Nicholas’s orphanage that had started it all. Actually, it was touching the blade at Nicholas’s orphanage that started it all. It was then that she had begun to dream, dreams of swords and spells and darkness.

  But mostly darkness.

  But why? Why would something that was entrusted to her by a man who she knew beyond all doubt loved her and never would have wished her ill cause her such grief?

  She couldn’t fathom it.

  The knife in her pack was silent now, but that wasn’t always the case. Indeed, as she gave it more thought, she realized that it tended to sing to her when all else was quiet—when she was preparing to sleep. Likely while she was asleep as well.

  But what was she to do? Leave it behind? She could not. Though it was tempting to fling it as far away from her as possible, she knew she could not. She had been charged with protecting and delivering something to the king of Neroche that was obviously quite powerful. She could do nothing less than her duty where it was concerned.

  No matter the personal cost.

  She suspected that the personal cost might be quite high.

  Unless she could find out more about it. Perhaps if she knew whose blade it was, or how it fought, she might be able to fight it in turn. She wished for another visit to the chamber of records below Nicholas’s university.

  A pity that was impossible.

  By the time her company had made camp, she had almost convinced herself that she had passed too much of the day thinking idle thoughts. Her heart was heavy and her head hurt from too much speculation on things she didn’t understand. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who had a temper shortened by the journey. She watched Adhémar and Miach walk off into the forest, arguing already. While that wasn’t new, there was an edge to Adhémar’s voice that was more than simply an elder brother taking his y
ounger to task.

  She made meaningless conversation with Glines until the brothers had traveled out of earshot, then she turned and followed them.

  “Morgan!” Glines exclaimed.

  Morgan waved him off and continued on her way.

  She walked into the shadows of the forest quietly enough, then eased into deeper shadows. It was an easy thing to track Adhémar and Miach. What surprised her, though, was that she hadn’t been able to hear them bellowing from where she’d been sitting.

  “Chagailt?” Adhémar was saying incredulously. “Have you lost your wits?”

  “I don’t think so—”

  “What can you possibly hope to accomplish in a pile of dusty old manuscripts?”

  “I’ll let you know when I return.”

  “Fairy tales, Miach?” Adhémar said curtly. “You’re taking time out of our journey to go read fairy tales?”

  “I’m looking for something in particular,” Miach said calmly. “Nothing that concerns you—”

  Adhémar began to curse. Morgan admired the depth and breadth of them, but she found herself quite a bit more interested in where Miach was going that had riled his brother so thoroughly. She had to admit there was a part of her that was feeling almost a little protective of him.

  Poor, helpless farmer that he was.

  She considered the topic of conversation. A pile of dusty old manuscripts? Who knew what she might find there herself?

  “When will you go?” Adhémar growled.

  “Now. I’ll return in a day or two. Take my horse and see if you can linger in the area. I’ll hurry.”

  Adhémar cursed and stomped about in a circle before coming back to stand in front of his brother and curse him a bit more. Morgan took that opportunity to slip back to camp. She would ask Paien to take care of her mount, then follow Miach and see where he went.

  She squatted down behind Paien, who was sitting apart from the others, watching Glines teach Fletcher how to game while being corrected in the finer points of cheating by Camid. An otherwise quite unremarkable evening. She put her hand on Paien’s shoulder.

  “I’m off for a day or two,” she said quietly. “See to Reannag, will you?”

  “Where’re you off to, gel?” Paien asked, looking up from his supper.

  “Nowhere important,” she said with a yawn. “I’m tired of sitting.”

  “You were tired of riding an hour ago,” he pointed out.

  She pursed her lips. “If you must know, I’m off to shadow Miach.”

  “Are you?” he asked. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Paien looked over his shoulder at her. “I thought you liked Adhémar.”

  “I can’t stand Adhémar. Where did you get any other idea about it?”

  “I have a vivid imagination. So, do you like Miach now?”

  Morgan suppressed the urge to cuff him briskly on the back of the head. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.” She frowned. “Am I dreaming?”

  Paien shrugged. “I’m awake, but maybe you aren’t.”

  “It was the boat.”

  “Avoid them in the future.”

  “I fully intend to.”

  He smiled and winked. “Adhémar is a fine lad. Miach is a finer. You could do worse.”

  “I don’t intend to do at all.”

  “It was merely a thought.”

  “Aye, and a poor one.” She shook her head. “Why I talk to you, I don’t know.” She rose. “Watch over my horse.”

  He nodded. He didn’t ask her why she wasn’t taking the beast, which pleased her somehow. Perhaps he hadn’t completely given her up for lost. Besides, she was a better tracker on foot.

  She turned and walked back to the place where she had last seen the brothers. Adhémar was still arguing with Miach. Miach simply and quite suddenly turned and walked away while his brother was still at it. Adhémar bellowed after him for a moment or two, then gave up. Morgan stood in the shadow of a tree as Adhémar stomped past her, completely oblivious to her presence.

  Adhémar continued to crash through the undergrowth as he headed away from her. Morgan waited until he was gone before she set out to track Miach. He was walking quickly, then he hesitated. Morgan stopped as well. He started up again, then stopped a time or two more. Morgan had no trouble anticipating his halts, but she gathered after a time that he suspected someone was following him. She waited until he’d started up again and gone quite a distance before she took up his trail.

  He was a very fast runner and keeping up with him was surprisingly difficult. There were times she half expected he would begin to fly.

  An appalling thought, to be sure.

  She had to push herself to keep up with him. She was quite grateful that she’d had that time at Angesand to recover her strength else she would have been hard-pressed indeed to have matched his pace.

  She ran through the night, stopping to eat and drink only when Miach stopped. Fortunately he seemed to have the good sense to never be too far from a trickle of a stream.

  It was barely dawn when the forest suddenly ended. Miach slowed his pace, but he didn’t stop. Morgan couldn’t help herself. She skidded to a halt at the edge of the forest and gaped at the sight before her.

  Well, it was Chagailt, obviously. And without meaning to slight anything on Melksham, she could freely say that she’d never seen anything so large or so fine in all her life. The battlements soared into the sky, the long wings of apartments were flung out grandly from the main part of the palace, and everything was surrounded by glorious gardens. It was spectacularly elegant and she could hardly believe she intended to enter it with her mud-encrusted boots.

  Miach, however, seemed to feel no such hesitation. Morgan wrenched her attention away from the palace and back to him to find that he was far ahead of her.

  She had to sprint to keep him in her sights. As an afterthought and almost before she knew what she was doing, she whispered the spell of un-noticing over herself.

  That was appalling enough to almost make her stop.

  Almost.

  That she continued on as easily as if she’d indulged in magery her whole life said much about the state of her wits and the shocking lack of self-discipline she had currently at her command.

  More running was obviously called for.

  She heard Miach whisper something as well. Obviously the other spell he knew, which she suspected was the same one she’d just used. He wasn’t doing it very well, though, because she could still see him plain as day.

  And daylight was coming. She hugged the wall of the enormous palace and slunk along behind Miach, trying not to breathe loudly. He never looked behind him, so she assumed she was safe and un-noticed.

  Then he walked up to the front door and knocked.

  Morgan watched, openmouthed, as the door opened. A servant looked out, then started to close the door. Miach threw a small stone over the poor man’s head into the palace and when the guard turned to see what the noise was about, Miach slipped inside. Morgan leaped forward to do the same thing. The only trouble was, she was not quite quick enough and the guard shut her cloak in the door. She would have merely opened the door and liberated it, but the man leaned back against the door, apparently waiting for something else untoward to happen.

  Miach was disappearing down the hallway.

  Morgan felt she had no choice. It was either rip her cloak or leave it behind.

  She pulled. Her cloak tore with a horrible rending sound. The guard squeaked in surprise, but Morgan didn’t stay to apologize. She bolted down the passageway after Miach.

  She took the time to get her bearings, lest Miach lose them both and they not be able to find the front door again, then she continued to follow him. Perhaps his spell was better than she thought, for even though she could still see him, he passed by other souls without their marking him. They didn’t look at her either, but she knew her spell was working. Her experiences with the brush in the barn told her that much.<
br />
  Miach paused several times, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was going. He even scratched his head a time or two in a fashion that was so reminiscent of Adhémar, she almost snorted.

  There were many turns and twists, however, and she came to a point where she stopped blaming Miach for his head scratching. She was completely turned about and wondered if she would ever escape the palace without aid.

  It seemed like forever that she wandered the halls behind him, but in the end he stopped, looked about him, then opened a door and disappeared through it.

  Morgan followed quickly and only caught herself before she fell down the steep steps because she was lucky. She was almost certain she had squawked in surprise, but Miach didn’t stop his descent so perhaps she had imagined that. That she couldn’t tell was a little unnerving.

  She was beginning to suspect she needed a nap.

  The steps seemed to descend into the very bowels of the palace. The passageway wasn’t overly damp, but it was very cold. She drew her cloak about her, grateful she’d managed to pull most of it free of the front door.

  The stairs ended eventually and Miach came to a stop before a doorway. He opened it and a weak light spilled out. She hung back in the shadows and waited until Miach had gone inside. Luck was with her again for he left the door open behind him. Morgan slipped into the chamber, but just barely. She clapped her hand over her mouth and flattened herself against the wall as Miach reached around her to shut the door. He was so close, she could feel his breath upon her hair.

  But he said nothing. He only turned, dropped his pack onto a table, then began to poke about what she could now see was a library. Morgan found a chair and silently took off her pack and set it down on the floor beside her. She watched Miach as he perused manuscripts, much as she had done at Lismòr, though with far less fervor than she had used. If he was curious about something, he was certainly being nonchalant about it all.

  Finally, he chose a pair of very dusty books and carried them over to the table. He fetched a pair of candles, lit them, sat down, and began to read.

  Morgan watched.

  In time, she felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy.