Star of the Morning

by Lynn Kurland

  She fought the relentless march of weariness, but in the end she lost the battle. She started to sleep. She feared she might drool. She knew she had snorted.

  She knew this because she snorted herself awake.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth, wondering if she’d given herself away. She looked quickly at Miach, but found that she needn’t have worried. He was sound asleep with his head down on one of the manuscripts, his face turned toward her, making snorts of his own.

  He was also drooling.

  Master Dominicus would have had his head for that.

  Well, at least his snoring covered up what was a tremendous growl from her stomach. She put her hand over her quite empty belly and willed it to be quiet. Perhaps Miach would grow hungry as well and go off to seek something to eat so she could be about her own business.

  She folded her arms over her chest and frowned at him, willing him to wake.

  Fifteen

  Miach suppressed a smile at the horrendous noises Morgan’s stomach was making. He did his best to continue to snore, but he suspected she might not believe him for much longer. It had been a very long night and most of a very long morning. He wondered if the rest of the day would move as slowly. Hopefully not, for Morgan’s sake.

  He was quite impressed by her ability to track him, especially since he’d cast his own spell of invisibility over himself. That she could apparently see through it was astonishing.

  Why had she chosen to follow him? Was she afraid he would get lost? Had Adhémar sent her after him?

  He immediately dismissed the last. She wouldn’t have done Adhémar’s fetching for him. If anything, Adhémar could have asked and she would have said nay just to spite him. No doubt she had reasons of her own. Perhaps he would discover those in time. For now, it was enough to enjoy having Morgan and Chagailt together.

  Chagailt was, as it happened, one of his favorite places. It had once been the center of Neroche, both governmentally and culturally. That had changed when Gilraehen the Fey had been king, courtesy of a particularly nasty battle with Lothar. The capital had been moved to Tor Neroche, which had once been the king’s hunting lodge. Tor Neroche had been rebuilt in the ensuing years and fortified with magic that began at the foundations, rose to the tops of the towers, and left it impervious to all assaults. It was a safe place, but rather uninspiring when it came to the surrounding countryside.

  The palace of Chagailt, on the other hand, was in a beautiful part of the country where it rained a great deal and everything was green. Flowers bloomed effortlessly, gardens grew enthusiastically, and trees were so thick that at times they were troublesome to the inhabitants of the area. The palace itself held a special place in Miach’s heart. He had passed several summers here with his mother, tending the gardens, tending his magic. Adhémar didn’t like it; he said it rained too much. Miach found the weather rather to his liking. There was something quite spectacular about seeing the sun, finally, after weeks of solid rain.

  All of which didn’t matter at present except that it was set to rain outside and he had come back to a place he knew as well as he knew Tor Neroche. It was magnificent still, in spite of the fact that it had been relegated to mere summer home status.

  And Morgan was there with him.

  Un-noticed in the corner, for the moment.

  Miach sat up and rubbed his arms. Though there was light from the candles, that light did nothing to warm the chamber. Miach turned and kindled a fire in the hearth by mostly normal means. Once that was burning cheerily, he lit more candles and put them on the table.

  Morgan was watching him, silently.

  He admired her commitment. He would have to acknowledge her at some point, but he would give himself a few more minutes to see if he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He’d read for hours already, but with no success. If he’d had a better idea of where to look, it would have helped. Many men were arrogant, many had children, and many were evil. Finding a man to match Morgan’s dream was not an easy task.

  But it gave him the unexpected pleasure of yet more of her company, away from the distraction of her comrades and the annoyance of his brother. He wouldn’t purposely drag out his search, but he would relish the time it took him.

  He pushed aside the manuscript he’d been reading, rose, and walked about the chamber. He stopped in front of Morgan simply to see what she would do. She was as still as death. He smiled to himself and continued on, then came to a sudden halt. He reached out and picked a heavy book off a shelf where it lay, dusty and unused.

  Something that might have been termed unease went down his spine.

  He took the book back over to the table and sat down. He touched the book and it fell open to a page he hadn’t called.

  Gair, the black mage of Ceangail, lived a thousand years before he wooed and wed a princess of Tòrr Dòrainn. Seven children were born to them, six sons and a daughter.

  Miach stared off into the distance. He knew of Gair, of course. He’d considered him more than a month ago as he sat in his tower chamber at Tor Neroche and contemplated that rather populated list of black mages who might have been responsible for his troubles. But Gair was dead, so he had dismissed him. Odd that now he should come across his name again in such a serendipitous fashion.

  Miach frowned and continued to read.

  In time, his lady wife realized that she could not change Gair’s nature and she sought a way for him to destroy himself. When he proposed a journey to a place where he could prove to her his power, she agreed, though she insisted that her children remain behind. He refused. After much argument, she allowed the children to be brought, feeling sure she could protect them from whatever spells he might unleash.

  He brought them to a well of evil. Sarait sent her children into hiding before he began his spell to uncap the well and prove his ability to contain it.

  It geysered forth and swept over everyone there. Sarait managed to cover her eldest son from its effects, but it was not completely done. The lad crawled off into the forest, lived long enough to find aid and tell his tale, then died.

  Miach sat back, stunned. The similarities between that tale and Morgan’s dream were too great to be dismissed. But why would Morgan be dreaming of Gair and his demise? And why would Gair’s daughter know a spell of Camanaë, the spell that Morgan had heard the girl whisper?

  Miach looked off into the darkness of the chamber’s shadows. It didn’t seem to him that the tale was that old. Rumors of Gair’s evil, of his deeds and mischief were hundreds of years old, of course, but this tale of his ending . . . nay, it was much more recent.

  Miach rested his hands on top of the manuscript. Gair’s death was definitely during his lifetime. A pity the eldest lad had not survived longer than merely to tell his tale. He could have said much about his father and the circumstances surrounding his death, as well as a few other interesting details.

  Such as whether or not his sister had survived.

  Miach continued to leaf through the book, but found no listing of the names of the children. That wasn’t a complete surprise. The records in Chagailt were of a broader stroke than might have been kept in other places.

  He contemplated that for quite some time, idly turning pages, when his eyes fell upon something else.

  ... given to Nicholas, the wizard king of Diarmailt, whose wife and five sons were killed by Gair, for Nicholas was wed to Sarait’s elder sister . . .

  Miach was startled by a terrific noise coming from the corner where Morgan was sitting. It took him a moment to pull himself back to the present. He blinked for a moment or two, then looked at Morgan.

  “Hungry?”

  Morgan swore. “Starving.”

  “You could come sit by the fire. Or we could go hunt for a meal in the kitchens.”

  She undid her spell with a shiver, then rubbed her face with her hands. “I don’t know if I would make it to the kitchens. I’m not sure I’ll make it to the fire.” She groaned as she stood and limped over to
sit down next to the hearth on a stool.

  Miach shut the book. There was indeed more to Gair’s tale than he’d remembered, but he set it aside for the moment. First he would feed Morgan, find out why she had followed him, then spend the day with her if she liked. There would be time enough that night to find out more about Gair and his doings.

  “How long have you known I was there?” she asked.

  “Not long,” he lied.

  She looked at him narrowly. “In truth?”

  “You’re very good.”

  She frowned. “I used the spell.” She paused. “I was desperate for some kind of concealment.”

  He turned in his chair to look at her. “Were you? Why did you come? Were you worried about me?”

  “Partly,” she admitted. “But mostly because I am looking for something.”

  “Are you? What?”

  “Luncheon,” she said. “I don’t suppose you could find some, could you?”

  “Aye, I suppose I could. Do you want to come along?”

  “I’d rather read, if you don’t mind.”

  She looked more unnerved than he’d realized at first. He suspected that she’d come for much the same reason he had, hoping to find something to help her with her dream.

  He started to turn, then paused. He had left the book on the table. It wasn’t in his nature to be secretive—his current secrecy aside—and he also wasn’t one to make decisions for others—his former desire to get Adhémar away from the border aside as well—but he suspected that if Morgan read anything about Gair and the circumstances of his demise, it might be too much for her.

  At least for now.

  He reached over the table and casually picked the book up. He reshelved it carelessly and covered it with a very strong spell of aversion. Then he started toward the door.

  “I’ll return soon,” he said.

  “Miach?”

  He stopped and tried not to shiver. It was madness to think about sharing anything with this woman besides a loaf of bread. But there was something about the way she said his name . . .

  “Aye?” he asked, not turning around.

  “Will anyone come?”

  He did turn then. “Surely you aren’t afraid.”

  “Of course not. But I like to know what to expect.” She paused. “Perhaps that is what I do not care for about magic.”

  Poor girl. “I think no one will come,” he said slowly. “You could use your spell if you had to.”

  “I might.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “How is it you knew about this place?”

  “Chagailt is famous for its records.”

  “And lunch?”

  “It is famous for that as well. I’ll see what I can find.”

  She stood, rummaged about in her purse, then walked over to hand him a coin. “Pay them for it.”

  He took the coin. It was of Neroche strike. “Where did you come by this?”

  “Your brother’s purse,” she said shortly. “We’ll thank him when next we see him.”

  He smiled. “Is this not stealing?”

  “Spoils,” she said promptly. “I told you before, didn’t I? He was following me, no doubt with evil intent. When I felled him, it was well within my rights to take everything save his weapons.”

  “Weger’s rules?”

  “Oh, nay,” she said seriously, “those would suggest that I help myself to all his weapons and perhaps his boots if they fit. Of course, I left your brother with far more than I should have, which Weger would have found . . . unacceptable.”

  “I daresay,” Miach said dryly, vowing to someday see what else the man found unacceptable. “Well, I’ll go find something to eat.”

  “I appreciate it,” Morgan said as she began to wander about the chamber.

  Miach put Adhémar’s coin in his purse and left the chamber. Answers later; food first.

  He ran up the steps and walked swiftly toward the kitchens. He passed many souls, but none took any notice of him. He had already reached the kitchen before he realized that he’d undone his spell below and hadn’t taken the time to reweave it. He was face-to-face with Finlay the cook before he further realized that it was too late.

  “My lord Mochriadhemiach!” the man said, clapping his hands together joyfully. “Your visit is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Nor unprepared for, as you can see.” He waved a sweeping arm over what he’d been cooking that day. “We are always ready here for any size entourage.”

  “My friend Finlay,” Miach said with an answering smile, “I vow I haven’t eaten a decent thing in months. Since I was here this past summer, at least.”

  “You are here for long, I can hope? No one appreciates my efforts as you do.”

  Miach laughed. “I will readily admit that the fare is far superior to what I put up with in the mountains.”

  Finlay pursed his lips. “No offense to the king, of course, but his only requirement is that the offerings are hot.”

  “True enough,” Miach agreed. “So, I suppose I am reduced to hoping for a good meal only occasionally. Happily that occasion is today. As for the length of my stay, I imagine it will be only for the night.” He leaned over the table and motioned for the cook to do the same. “I’m here in disguise,” he whispered.

  Finlay looked at him with one raised eyebrow. “But I saw through your disguise, my lord.”

  “You have special talents.”

  Finlay seemed to need to consider the import of that. “How can I best serve?” he asked in a loud whisper. “Food? Supplies? Aid in your mage-like endeavors?” He paused. “My silence?”

  “That first of all,” Miach agreed. “Perhaps a bit of lunch for two, then supplies on the morrow, if possible.”

  “For two?”

  “Aye.”

  “Two?” Finlay asked, lifting one eyebrow questioningly.

  “Two manly, hearty appetites.”

  “Oh,” Finlay said, looking slightly disappointed. “I had hoped that perhaps you had . . . well . . . one does hope, you know ...”

  “My mother would have said much the same thing,” Miach said with a laugh. “I’ll wed eventually.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Who knows? He doesn’t discuss that with me. I am too far from the throne for it to concern me, you know,” Miach said as he watched Finlay prepare a basket filled with enough food for several people.

  “But, my lord,” Finlay said, looking faintly horrified and terribly interested, “you are the archmage.”

  “Hmmm,” Miach agreed. “You would think that would be inducement enough, wouldn’t you?”

  Finlay handed him the basket and a bottle of wine. “I would think so, my lord.”

  Miach paused. “You’ll keep my presence here a secret?”

  Finlay drew himself up. “Of course.”

  “I knew I could rely on you. A good day to you and many thanks for the meal.”

  He left Finlay bowing and scraping and promising all manner of magnificent delicacies upon Miach’s return. He walked quietly through the mostly empty palace, imagining how it might have been in the days of its glory, with shimmering lights reflecting on the marble floor, sweet music filling the air, and elves and men both making up the court of Iolaire the Fair. He wondered why it was Adhémar had no stomach for any of that. Then again, Adhémar didn’t have any more to do with elves than necessary. Miach supposed that was probably for the best. His brother was skilled with a sword, not with the delicacies of diplomacy.

  Well, Adhémar was happy where he was and Miach was more than happy to have Chagailt to himself when it suited him to come south.

  He made his way back down the stairs, then pushed his way into the chamber of records. He walked in, set the basket on the table, then looked at Morgan.

  He wished he’d hurried.

  She was standing in front of the book he’d put away, staring at it as if by so doing, she might uncover what was inside. She reached out a hand, but couldn’t seem to bring herself to touch it. She lo
oked at him.

  “Is this not the book you were reading?” she asked.

  “It might be.”

  “How could you bear to touch it?” she asked, rubbing her arms. “It is crawling with something I cannot name.”

  “I have a strong stomach,” he said lightly. “There was nothing interesting in it anyway. Hardly worth the effort of dragging it off the shelf.”

  “In truth?”

  “In truth,” Miach lied.

  He wondered, though, if that lie might cost him at some point.

  There were answers he had to have before he dared discuss Gair of Ceangail with her. Answers about the man’s magic, about his children, about things that might spawn dreams in a woman who could not possibly be related to him in any fashion.

  She simply could not be.

  Miach was almost certain of that.

  Morgan stepped back from the book and looked at him. “I must find the truth.”

  “The truth?” he said, with only a slight pang of guilt.

  “About my dreams.” She shivered. “I think they will drive me mad soon.” She looked at him. “Do you dream?”

  “Aye.”

  “Of mages, and wells of evil, and death everywhere?” she asked.

  Unbidden, memories came back to him. Of mages, and dungeons of evil, and death that had hung over his head for months as Lothar held him captive and his mother tried desperately to free him. He’d been ten-and-four at the time.

  Aye, he had dreams enough of his own.

  The next thing he knew, Morgan was standing a hand’s breath from him, searching his face as if she looked for her own horror there.

  “You do.”

  “I do,” he agreed. “But they are not your dreams.”

  Morgan took him by the hand and started toward the door, dragging him with her. “I need to run.”

  He started to tell her that she couldn’t outrun all her troubles, but the thought generally appealed to him as well, so he couldn’t exactly tell her to stop.

  “Is there a place where we might run freely?” she asked as she pulled him up the stairs.

  “Lunch first?” he asked, hoping to distract her.