Star of the Morning

by Lynn Kurland

  She could hear the words the mother whispered to the girl. She could hear the words the man shouted at the well. She could hear the names that the man and woman called each other.

  Gair.

  Sarait.

  She knew the number of the children and she knew some of their names. There were seven. Six lads and a wee lass. The eldest son’s name was Keir.

  The wee lassie’s name was Mhorghain.

  By now, she knew the way through the woods so well, she supposed she might have been able to walk them herself while awake. She knew the words that the mother had spoken to the little girl.

  Words of warning.

  A reminder about the spell of un-noticing and another spell of comfort and protection.

  Morgan could have said the words aloud if she’d dared—or if she’d had the stomach for them. But she couldn’t. Not the second spell. That she’d used the first at all was enough to set her to shivering.

  She had come to the point where she wasn’t sure anymore sometimes whether she was awake or asleep. She could smell the sweet scent that clung to the mother. It was lavender and a faint hint of rose.

  She could feel the mother’s hand as well, around the little girl’s. The little girl seemed wrapped in a feeling of deep love and great affection. Morgan found herself wrapped in those same feelings—as if she had been that little girl and that woman her mother.

  It was, oddly enough, the same feeling she had each time Miach touched her.

  She had seen the glade with the well so many times in her dreams, she had no doubt she would recognize it immediately. She had relived the argument between the man and the woman so many times, she could repeat it word for word, though it was in a language she had not learned on Melksham.

  She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. It didn’t help clear her head, but she hadn’t really expected it to. She wasn’t quite sure what would. Perhaps a very long, very difficult siege that would require for its ending a piece of daring business that would tax the very limits of what she could do. Or perhaps she could just ask Miach to clunk her over the head with her own sword. That might buy her a few minutes of peace.

  She paused. Would Miach know a spell to drive away dreams?

  She was almost afraid to ask.

  She decided abruptly that she would not, but she would see if he could be prevailed upon for a bit of conversation. He was weary, she was anxious; it might be a good distraction for both of them.

  “Miach,” she said.

  He seemed to struggle to focus on her. “Aye?”

  “Who was Sarait?” was the first thing out of her mouth. She almost swore. Would this damned dream never cease to plague her?

  “She was youngest of the five daughters of Sìle, king of Tòrr Dòrainn,” he said with a yawn. “Why?”

  “She was Gair’s wife, was she not?”

  He shut his mouth with a snap and looked at her in surprise. “Aye, she was. How do you know?”

  “How do you think I know?” she asked crossly.

  A look of profound pity came over his face. “Ah, Morgan,” he said quietly. “Poor gel.”

  She cursed. It made her feel a little better. “I’ll wager you know more about Gair and his doings than you’re telling.”

  “I’ll wager I don’t,” he said with a grave smile. “I’ve told you everything I’ve heard, or read.”

  “Know you nothing of his children?” she asked, pained.

  “I don’t,” he said. “But we’ll find the answers. Perhaps when we reach your destination.”

  “Will you come that far?” she asked in surprise.

  He seemed to consider for a minute or two. “I will, if you like,” he said quietly.

  She found she could do nothing but nod. Her relief was so great, she almost cried. She didn’t dare look at Miach for fear she would weep in truth, so she put her face forward and continued on.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Miach hold out his hand. She took it without thinking. He squeezed once, hard, then let go.

  “Dreams are frightening, Morgan,” he said. “Full of things we cannot understand.”

  She nodded as if she agreed, but she did not. Her dreams were full of things she understood all too clearly.

  And she was beginning to suspect she was not dreaming.

  They paused briefly for a meal, then continued on. Morgan couldn’t decide if the pace was too swift, or if it chafed. What she did know was that she could not bear for night to come.

  But it came anyway. There was no inn, no deserted out-buildings for them to borrow, only the sky above with its bitter stars shining coldly down upon them. Morgan volunteered for the first watch. She was more than happy to stand in the shadows and try to become invisible.

  It did not help.

  She heard Gair’s words in her head, over and over again. She heard Sarait’s spell of un-noticing, the one she had used a handful of times already.

  Then she heard other words. It seemed that they came from other dreams that she could not quite remember. But the words were good ones and she wished they had been hers to use. She wondered if the words might have belonged to Sarait.

  She was certain they were not Gair’s.

  It was well into the next watch when she realized she was not alone. She turned to slip back into the shadows only to find Miach not ten paces from her, leaning against a tree, watching her. She would have squeaked in surprise, but she never squeaked.

  “How long have you been there?” she demanded.

  “About an hour.”

  “I was concentrating,” she lied.

  He grunted, pushed off from the tree, and took her by the arm. “Come back to camp.”

  She dug her heels in and gave him no choice but to stop. She looked up at him seriously. “I cannot.”

  “Morgan, you cannot remain awake for the rest of your life. You must sleep.”

  “I daren’t,” she said.

  “Then perhaps a pinch of herb in wine to help you along?”

  She scowled. “Don’t tell me you use those for the pigs as well.”

  “You would be surprised,” he said dryly. “It would help you, I think.”

  “Miach, I don’t think anything will help me sleep.”

  “You haven’t tasted my brew.”

  “If it contains a magic spell, then no matter how lovely your pigs might find it, I will not enjoy it.”

  He smiled. “I should suggest a run, but I fear tonight you would soon leave me far behind.”

  “You are not fully yourself yet,” she agreed.

  He took her hand in both of his. Morgan suspected she should have pulled away, but it was so soothing she just couldn’t bring herself to. It was something Nicholas would have done.

  But Miach was not Nicholas.

  Not at all.

  “I could tell you a tale about something,” Miach offered, rubbing her hand absently. “If you like.”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “What sort of something?”

  “Something that would soothe you,” he promised. “I’m sure there would be swords involved. Bloodshed. Peril. That kind of thing.”

  “Romance?” she asked skeptically.

  “Do you want romance?”

  She snorted. “I daresay it would ruin my sleep.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and started back toward camp. “I know just the thing. I’ll tell you of Catrìona of Croxteth. She was an ordinary gel, you know, who found herself thrust into quite extraordinary circumstances.”

  “Is there magic involved?” Morgan asked, putting her arm around Miach’s waist when he stumbled.

  “Only to make her sword sharper,” he said. “A pity she died so long ago. You would have liked her very much, I think.”

  “Miach, how do you know all these tales?”

  “I—”

  “Never mind,” Morgan interrupted. “I remember now. Too much time at the fire; not enough time in the lists.”

  “Something like that,�
� he agreed.

  Morgan walked with him back to the fire, nudged Glines ungently with her foot to wake him for his watch, then made herself a place by the fire and rolled up in her blanket. Miach did the same, stretching out with his head near hers. Morgan rolled onto her belly and rested her chin upon her folded hands.

  “Well?” she said expectantly.

  “It is a very long tale,” he said, “but very necessary for those who might want to spend a great deal of their time not sleeping.”

  “That would be me,” she said gratefully.

  “So I suspected. Now, make yourself comfortable and give heed to the interesting facts I plan to lay out for you. The manner of Catrìona’s birth is on this wise ...”

  Morgan watched him as he spoke, the firelight flickering softly on his face, his eyes alight with the enjoyment he obviously took in his words. And he did spin a fine tale, reminiscent of Nicholas, and Morgan listened with pleasure. She remembered finally having to rest her head on her pack because she grew sleepy. The singing of the blade did not trouble her, for a change. Catrìona of Croxteth had put a spell on her blade so it would sing to her in a different scale depending on what sort of trouble was near. Morgan wondered if she could teach her knife the same thing, then she remembered that it was the king’s blade, not hers.

  Perhaps after her task was done, she would take her marvelous horse and ride across the mountains to Durial where she might learn from the dwarves there the art of forging. Then she would make her own blade. And she just might teach it to sing as well.

  The thought was pleasing and quite comforting. She fell asleep, to her great surprise, with the touch of Miach’s hand on her hair and his voice whispering in her ear.

  And she dreamed of blades that sung a song only she could hear.

  Nineteen

  Miach sighed as he sat on the edge of yet another well. It had been a very long se’nnight and it looked to be lengthening still. He remembered little of the journey from Chagailt save that he’d wanted desperately to sleep and he knew Morgan couldn’t bear to. He pitied her the dreams that haunted her. He wished he had a good explanation for them save the one she wouldn’t want to hear.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the suspicions he’d begun to have at Chagailt about the fate of Gair’s daughter were but a foreshadowing of a truth he now realized he could no longer deny.

  He was convinced Gair’s youngest daughter had survived. He was equally sure she had been taken in by a band of traveling mercenaries. There she had learned to shun anything to do with magic. That distaste had been strengthened at an orphanage. It surely had been completely cemented into her at a particular tower on the coast of a backward island famous for sheep and feuds over water rights.

  In short, he was positive Morgan was Gair’s lost daughter.

  There was simply no other explanation for Morgan’s abilities, or her dreams.

  And if she was Gair of Ceangail’s daughter, she certainly would have the power necessary to wield the Sword of Angesand. Was it possible that she dreamed of the sword not only because it resembled her blade, but because she was destined to wield it?

  The Wielders of the Sword of Angesand will come, out of magic, out of obscurity, and out of darkness . . .

  If there was a darkness out there, Gair had certainly been a master of it. And if Morgan sprang from that line, it would fit the prophecy. But what would Morgan say to it all?

  He imagined he knew already, and her response wouldn’t use very many polite words.

  He dragged himself back to the present with great effort. He would think on it later. Now, he was working and needed to make certain he had earned their keep.

  They had made camp at twilight near the barn of an obliging farmer. Miach had paid their price of supper by a quietly made promise of a sweetened well, which the farmer had enthusiastically agreed to. Miach had eaten briefly, then gone about his work. It had been nothing compared to what he’d done at Angesand, but still it had been wearying.

  He was now finished, but he couldn’t bring himself to do more than sit while their host prepared to taste the price of their stay.

  The farmer drank suspiciously, but then his face broke out into a genuine smile of surprise. “Delicious,” he said happily. He looked at Miach with sudden calculation. “Don’t suppose you want to stay another night, would you?”

  “Why?”

  “I have a cow who gives sour milk. I’ve tried everything, but nothing helps.” He paused. “She’s the reddish one in the end stall there.”

  “Sorry,” Miach said regretfully. “We cannot stay.”

  “The next time perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Miach watched the farmer walk away, then he quietly laid a charm of sweetness on that poor, sour cow in the end stall that would last the length of the beast’s life. It took little of his energy, but that, combined with his brief work on the well, left him rather short-tempered. He supposed he should have saved a bit of sweetness for himself.

  He was contemplating the irony of that when Adhémar walked out to the well. He had a long drink, dragged his sleeve across his mouth, and grunted.

  “Good.”

  “Thank you.”

  Adhémar propped his foot up on the edge of the low brick wall. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “What did you find on that useless jaunt to Chagailt save a clutch of nasties?”

  “A fine meal or two,” Miach said.

  Adhémar grunted. “I daresay. Anything else?”

  Miach paused, considered, then looked up at Adhémar calmly.

  “I believe I found your wielder.”

  It was worth it. There was something tremendously satisfying about being able to say something that would so thoroughly undo his brother that Adhémar should lose his balance, flail about a bit, then plunge headfirst into a very cold, albeit sweet, bit of water. Fortunately for the very wet king of Neroche, the well was deep but rather large and he had no problem surfacing. Adhémar clung to the brick that enclosed the water.

  “My what?”

  Miach reached out a hand and pulled his brother out. Adhémar stood there, shivering and dripping. Miach almost felt sorry enough for him to dry him off with a bit of magic.

  Almost.

  That the tidings would, in effect, turn Morgan over to Adhémar’s care and heaven only knew what else, was what kept him from it.

  “You heard me,” Miach said. “I think I have found your wielder.”

  “You think,” Adhémar said, scowling fiercely. “How on earth would you be able to recognize him?”

  Miach pretended to consider that. There was no sense in irritating Adhémar unnecessarily by telling him that he was just as capable as the king of recognizing the man—likely more so since he still had the ability to sense magic in another. That would lead to a discussion about why Adhémar had been sent when Miach could have gone. That was destined to finish poorly.

  “Well,” Miach began slowly, “I know the requirements. The wielder should have magic—”

  “I knew that,” Adhémar huffed.

  “And perhaps something that shows an affinity for the sword,” Miach continued thoughtfully. “Of course, there’s no way to tell for sure until we take her to Tor Neroche and see if the Sword of Angesand calls to her.”

  “I knew that as well,” Adhémar snapped. “Tell me something I don’t know—her? What do you mean her?”

  “Morgan.”

  Adhémar spluttered. He swore. He cursed Miach in five different languages and laid upon him spells that would have left him crawling in a garden in the form of an earthworm if he’d had the power for it.

  Miach regarded him with his arms folded over his chest. “Are you finished?”

  “Hardly,” Adhémar spat. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Hardly,” Miach returned. “Aren’t you at all curious?”

  “Nay,” Adhémar said shortly. “You’ve lost all wits and I’m unintere
sted in where they went.” He paused. “But then again, just out of curiosity, why do you think she might be the one?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Adhémar growled and launched himself at Miach. Of course, having grown up in a hall with six brothers left Miach expecting something like it, but he was weary and didn’t move quickly enough. He went down with a thump. There was a sickening crunch as something smacked against stone. Miach realized that that something had been his head. He waited a minute until his vision cleared and he was certain he wouldn’t become senseless, then he changed himself into a man-sized scorpion.

  “Arrgh!” Adhémar exclaimed, leaping up and backing away in revulsion. “Cowardly whelp,” he spat. “Can you not fight me in the form of a man?”

  Miach returned to his manly form with a smile.

  “I daresay you won’t have the guts to remain as you are,” Adhémar muttered.

  Miach crawled to his feet, looked at Adhémar for a moment in silence, then happily lived up to his brother’s low expectations.

  He was not at his best, which hampered his creativity, but he did manage several shapes that left Adhémar very unhappy. Miach almost took his brother’s head off in the form of a great bear with glistening claws, tripped him and sent him sprawling thanks to a brief stint as a darting snake, and made him back up a pace involuntarily as he put on the trappings of an enormous, misshapen troll. He grabbed his brother and heaved him up high over his misshapen, drooling head.

  Perhaps the last wasn’t all that fair. Miach had come face-to-face with just such a creature at Chagailt and hadn’t been able to stop his own recoiling. He started to say, or gurgle rather, that he had perhaps stepped over the line of gallant behavior, when he heard the unmistakable and unwelcome sound of Morgan’s voice. He saw her standing at the edge of the little courtyard.

  He hardly had the time to register that she’d told Adhémar to prepare to fall, and that such would happen because she had a dagger in her hand, before she was in process of flinging it with all her strength toward Miach’s heart.