Star of the Morning

by Lynn Kurland

  Miach nodded. Only this time, they had come against just him and Morgan.

  Something foul was afoot.

  He hated appearing weak, but he was desperately tempted to ask Morgan to either stop or carry him on her back. There was magic, of course, and then there was magic. Killing magic did not come without a desperately high cost, both in its execution and in the price it exacted from his soul. It was one thing to face an opponent with a sword and give him a fair chance. It was another thing to take his powers and destroy life when that life had no chance to defend itself.

  Though he supposed Lothar’s creatures, if these were actually Lothar’s creatures, were better off being free of Lothar’s influence.

  It was cold comfort, indeed.

  He stumbled along for miles, waiting for some of his strength to return to him. He finally pulled Morgan to a stop, leaned over, and took several deep breaths. Then he heaved himself upright.

  “Let’s run,” he said.

  Morgan opened her mouth, no doubt to ask him if he was up to the challenge, but then she shut it and nodded.

  She made him run in front of her, which he supposed said quite a bit about her opinion of his recovery, but he didn’t object. It took all his strength and determination just to put one foot in front of the other and fling himself forward.

  It was afternoon before they could see the others and their camp. Morgan caught him and pulled him back. She motioned for him to follow her as she walked carefully and silently through the woods.

  It was then that Miach realized they were still wearing his spell of un-noticing.

  He stumbled and landed heavily on a stick that snapped as it broke in two. Morgan glared at him briefly before continuing even more carefully. Miach examined his spell and found it completely intact.

  He followed Morgan back to camp. They walked past Paien without his even looking in their direction, so Miach knew the spell was good. Not that he would have doubted that anyway. Unfortunately, it raised a very unsettling question.

  How had those creatures seen through it?

  He dissolved the spell as they walked into camp. Well, Morgan walked into camp; he hobbled there. Everyone rose, wearing expressions of astonishment. He made it to the fire before he dropped to his knees. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He suspected he could have slept on a bed of sharp rocks and been grateful for it.

  He listened to the conversings going on around him but could make no sense of them. This certainly wasn’t what he would have preferred—to be looking like a feeble old man in front of Morgan, but he was past aiding himself. He knelt there and concentrated on breathing.

  “Miach.”

  He couldn’t even look up at Adhémar. “What?”

  “What was it?”

  “Fell things that attempted an ambush.”

  Adhémar squatted down in front of him. “Lothar?” he asked quietly.

  “They were of the same sort that attacked you near Tor Neroche.” He put his hands on his knees and straightened. “We must break camp. Keep moving.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you not hear me? There were two score and ten of them, at least! Who knows what else lies in wait.”

  Adhémar drew himself up. “I’d like to see for myself.”

  “Very well then,” Miach groaned. “An hour back, if you must go look.”

  “Whose lads were they?” Camid asked sharply.

  “The same sort who attacked us before the inn outside Istaur,” Morgan said.

  “Let’s all have a look, then,” Camid said. “Morgan, are you coming?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Glines, look after Miach.”

  “Fletcher,” Adhémar said, “you come as well. We’ll collect Paien on our way. He should have been standing guard. I’m not sure why he didn’t see you pass him.”

  Miach felt Morgan rest her hand on his head briefly before she tromped off with their companions. Miach thought he might have been able to get up before that, but her touch left him weak in a far different way.

  He was truly in trouble.

  There was silence for quite some time.

  Miach was certain he hadn’t fallen asleep, but then again perhaps he had. When the blackness receded, he lifted his head to find Glines of Balfour studying him. Glines smiled briefly.

  “My lord Archmage.”

  Miach had avoided the youngest son of Graeme up until this point, mostly because he had demonstrated quite clearly that he was barely capable of stopping himself from bowing each time Adhémar walked near. Miach suspected he might like the man, however. He had a quick wit and a rather wry sense of humor.

  “Are you sure of that?” Miach asked.

  “Perfectly.”

  Miach grunted. “Today, I do not feel anything so lofty.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Perhaps they will return with a count of the corpses.”

  “Were there many?”

  “Too many.”

  Glines studied him until Miach actually began to feel uncomfortable—and there were few things in this world or the unseen one that made him so.

  “What?” Miach asked. “What ails you?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “A dangerous indulgence.”

  Glines smiled. “Why are you here?”

  “Do you think I can tell you?”

  “I’ll wager that possibility on a game of chance, if you like.”

  Miach smiled dryly. “I’ve watched you lighten several purses on this journey, my friend. I dare not wager anything so serious.”

  Glines lifted one eyebrow, looking mildly surprised. “Not off on holiday, then.”

  Miach shrugged and managed to get himself upright. He supposed it might be several days before he was fully recovered. He resisted the almost overwhelming desire to throw himself into a se’nnight’s sleep. “You never know.”

  “I suspect not.”

  Miach sighed deeply. “Nothing to worry over. I simply came to find my brother.”

  “Did he escape,” Glines asked, “or was he merely off looking for something?”

  Miach considered the other man. “I daresay you know more than you’re telling. Has Adhémar been talking to you?”

  Glines smiled briefly. “He mutters when he loses.”

  “Which I imagine is quite often. If that is the case then you know that I am not on holiday and my brother has not merely escaped for pleasure. He is searching for something in particular and I came to find out why it was taking so long for him to find it. I thought perhaps I should offer him my aid.”

  Glines produced wine and poured a cup. “And now you’ve found something you hadn’t intended to find?”

  “What would that be?” Miach asked.

  “Morgan.” Glines handed him wine. “You love her, don’t you?”

  Miach choked and grasped desperately for the wine Glines proffered. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I recognize the symptoms, if not the illness,” Glines said dryly.

  “The illness of what?” Morgan asked from behind them.

  Miach spewed the wine out of his mouth. He supposed it was better than choking on it, but neither was a good choice. When had Morgan and the lads returned? Had he napped for that long? Had she heard Glines’s babbling?

  “He’s excitable,” Morgan said, dropping her pack down next to the fire and squatting next to Miach. She looked at him. “Recovered?”

  “Completely,” he managed.

  She pursed her lips. “You’re optimistic.”

  “Always. How many were there?”

  “Thirty,” she said without expression. “I do not remember killing so many. I daresay you didn’t either.” She looked at him closely. “How did we manage that, do you suppose? Not a mark on many of them. It’s as if they simply died of fright.”

  “Ah,” Miach said, casting about desperately for a plausible reason, but finding that nothing came to mind. He was, he would be the first to admit, not in top form at present. A normal spe
ll of that magnitude would have drained him for days and left him quite happily taking to his couch to rest and recover. But the spell he’d wrought against those creatures from one of Lothar’s nightmares?

  He wondered if he would manage to walk steadily in a se’nnight’s time.

  Unfortunately, he had no choice.

  “It’s Chagailt,” Glines said.

  Miach turned to look at him. “What?”

  “Chagailt,” Glines repeated. “There are spells laid upon the forests here around. Didn’t you know?”

  “I didn’t,” Miach said, “but I’ll hear the tale.” Pray, make it believable.

  “What would you know of it?” Morgan asked skeptically.

  “More than you, apparently,” Glines said with a smile. “I have traveled upon the continent before, you know. One picks up tales here and there while one is about his travels.”

  “Tales from men well into their cups do not generally count as truth,” Morgan said dryly.

  “There is a little truth in each cup of ale,” Glines said.

  Miach smiled. “Is there, indeed?”

  “If not, there should be.” Glines looked at Morgan. “I heard that there are spells of ward and protection laid about the palace of Chagailt. It was built, you know, for Iolaire of Ainneamh by her husband, Symon of Neroche, as a wedding present. What spells she did not weave into the surrounding countryside, he certainly did. I heard that the magic is still very much in force and will hinder any creature who comes upon unwary travelers with evil intent.”

  Miach stole a look at Morgan to see if she was going along with Glines’s myth. She glanced at him; he fixed an expression of surprised relief on his face, as if he’d just heard the answer he’d been seeking. She shot him a look of faint skepticism before she turned back to Glines.

  “What else did you hear?”

  “Nothing that I remember,” he said vaguely. “I’m merely suggesting that perhaps there were forces at work that you couldn’t see. Forces that aided you when you needed it.” He rose and stretched. “I wouldn’t resent help in any form, were I you.”

  “You are not me,” Morgan said, standing as well, “but I will not begrudge myself the aid either.” She shivered. “I had counted, but not well apparently. I do not doubt my skill, but even I have to admit we are fortunate to be alive.”

  Miach nodded, trying to look as innocent and grateful as he could. It wasn’t difficult to look grateful, because he was—for solid ground under his feet and no need to move anytime soon.

  “We should press on,” Morgan announced.

  So much for rest. Miach nodded. “Aye, you’re right.”

  “You sound unconvinced. Do you not fear meeting more of those?” Morgan asked.

  He started to tell her that he sensed none of them, nor anything like them for miles, but he hadn’t sensed the first lot either. A powerful spell had certainly concealed them.

  He wished he had the energy to return and examine the corpses. He wished he had the opportunity to have a closer look at Adhémar’s sword. Then again, he had managed a decent look at the lads near Tor Neroche and seen nothing that told him about the author of the evil. Perhaps here, the result would be the same.

  He didn’t want to give voice to the thought, but he suspected this would not be the last time he met this particular sort of magic.

  He heaved himself to his feet, swayed, then found himself with Morgan’s arm around his waist.

  “You’re pitiful,” she said, turning him toward the horses. “Can you make it across the glade?”

  “Possibly,” Miach said, tossing Glines a brief smile before he turned back to Morgan. “With help, of course,” he added.

  Glines cursed.

  “Glines, be useful,” Morgan said. “Bring his pack and yours. I do not like the feeling here.” She looked at Miach. “Can you manage a horse?”

  “Um,” he began.

  “Likely not,” she said. “We’ll ride together on yours and mine will follow.”

  Miach decided at that point that silence was likely the wisest course of action. Besides, who knew but that he might fall off his horse, take a fatal blow to his head, and leave the mantle of archmage falling upon someone who wasn’t expecting it? It wasn’t unheard of, that.

  Though it was true that most archmages were made from someone within the royal family, it was equally true that the calling had fallen upon the occasional unsuspecting wizard or even, in one particular case, a farmer with latent magic. The poor man had been out plowing his field, come close to being crushed by the power that had suddenly surged into him, then woken to find he had suddenly become responsible for quite a bit more than just his fields.

  Miach could sympathize with him, actually.

  So, lest he cause another soul such wrenching distress, silence was the order of the day. Perhaps if he was feeling particularly faint, he could ask Morgan to put her arms around him and hold on until he felt better.

  “So, where are we going?” Glines asked as he followed along obediently.

  “Still north.”

  Glines began to wheeze.

  “Not that north,” Morgan said.

  “Well, if we’re headed anywhere north, we should pause at Penrhyn,” Glines supplied helpfully. “They make a delicious wine.”

  They did; one Adhémar was far too fond of. The kings of Neroche had, from time to time, bargained with the kings of Penrhyn for a particular type of gem they had periodically used to make their magic. The need for that had long since ceased, but the need for Penrhyn’s sour wine had not. The entire history of trade relations was long and tedious, but what Miach could say was that the sour wine was potent and Adhémar’s taste for it was legendary. He would be immediately recognized and his anonymity compromised.

  “Better to avoid them,” Miach put in. “Rumor has it they are a stingy lot. We would likely be forced to pay huge duties coming in and out of their country. Best we stay on lesser-known roads.”

  Morgan stopped next to his horse. “There is wisdom in that, no doubt.” She gave him a leg up, then fixed his pack to her horse before she swung up behind him. Miach spent far too much time enjoying what he shouldn’t have been enjoying. By the time he thought to look around, the rest of the company was mounted and Morgan and Paien were discussing a direction. Adhémar was balking. Apparently the lure of sour wine was far too strong.

  “I vote for Penrhyn,” Adhémar said firmly.

  “We have another hard day’s travel before we must needs make a decision,” Miach said, casting his brother a pointed look. “Let us ride today and decide tomorrow. One way or another, today we must go north.”

  “North?” Paien said. “How far north?”

  “We’ll speak more of it later,” Morgan promised, “when we’re away from this accursed wood.”

  “Enspelled,” Glines corrected her.

  “I stand by accursed,” she said. She put her arms around Miach. “Can you remain in the saddle this way?”

  “I’ll soldier on bravely,” he promised. He supposed his manliness would survive being coddled like a toothless dotard, but he wasn’t sure his heart would.

  “You aren’t really going to fall off, are you?” Morgan asked sharply.

  “I’ll do my best not to,” he promised, but it was too late for that. He had fallen into an abyss that opened up without warning before him, an abyss named Morgan. He suspected there was no way out. Worse yet, he wasn’t certain he wanted to find a way out.

  I dreamed of a sword that looked just like the knife.

  Her words came back to him, but he shook his head. He hadn’t truly considered the possibility before, but he did now and without hesitation decided that Morgan could not possibly be the wielder. She had one spell to her credit, a vile dream that haunted her, and a blade that was the twin of the Sword of Angesand. Those things did not a wielder make.

  Yet, what if she were?

  Miach couldn’t stop his poor, overworked mind from considering that. If Morga
n was the wielder, then he would have to watch Adhémar take her and do with her as he pleased.

  He closed his eyes at the feel of her arms around him. He would wait and see. Maybe she didn’t really have any magic. Maybe her dreams were just dreams and not memories. Maybe she dreamed of Mehar of Angesand’s sword only because it resembled the knife in her pack.

  He wasn’t sure what he should hope for.

  He was sure what he feared.

  Eighteen

  Three days later, Morgan rode atop her magnificent Angesand steed and examined her situation. Chagailt and her inhuman attackers were left far behind. Her leg was very much mended and had ceased to pain her. And, finally, Miach was upright in his own saddle. It was an improvement, but he still looked terrible, which was not. She wasn’t sure if he had eaten something foul or if the battle with those nightmarish creatures had simply been too much for him. Perhaps she should have tried a few of Adhémar’s herbs on him to see if they couldn’t have aided him.

  Though she had to admit that riding with him for all that time had not been unpleasant. He was good company. There was something about him that was very comfortable.

  Far beyond her favorite pair of boots.

  She shifted in the saddle, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts. Best she leave those be and concentrate on something less troubling to her heart.

  If she could manage it.

  The rest of her company seemed happily oblivious to her distress. They were passing the time discussing potential locales they might visit on their way north, locales that might provide a bit of entertainment in what for them had been a rather uneventful journey.

  Uneventful? Morgan wished she could agree.

  Her unease had grown with every league they traveled north. At first she’d thought it might have been uncertainty over what to expect once she reached Tor Neroche. What was she to do, exactly? Walk up to the king and simply hand the knife to him? What if he would not see her?

  She could scarce bear to think about that possibility.

  In time, though, she’d come to realize that her unease sprang from a different but unsurprising source. Her dream had not troubled her in a pair of nights, but that didn’t matter because now it had begun to haunt all her waking hours. It didn’t matter how often she sought distraction, it was still with her.