Star of the Morning

by Lynn Kurland

  “I have been places you wouldn’t dare dream about,” he said coldly.

  “And you have shown me the one person who might possibly spare my kingdom,” Adhémar said, likewise quite chilly in his tone. “You have a duty to your liege lord to aid him in keeping that kingdom safe. Until I have my magic back, I’ll use Morgan however I have to.”

  Miach folded his arms over his chest and suppressed the urge to break a few of his brother’s bones. “I might be able to determine what’s happened to your magic if you’d just let me look at that damned sword of yours.”

  Adhémar put his hand protectively over his blade. “I’m not convinced you don’t want it for yourself. I’ll do my own investigations. And until that time, your duty lies in doing what I tell you to do.”

  Miach had to clench his hands down by his sides to keep from throttling his brother. “My duty does not include sending a woman to her death.”

  “It certainly does, if that death happens while ensuring the safety of the realm.”

  “I—”

  “Your duty is to the kingdom first, Mochriadhemiach,” Adhémar snarled. “Surely you are old enough to understand that. Or perhaps the mantle was misplaced?”

  And with that, he turned and walked away.

  Miach couldn’t have been more winded if Adhémar’s horse had kicked him in the gut. He leaned over until he thought he could catch his breath.

  Duty.

  He remained where he was, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, sucking in breath until the nausea and the shock receded.

  Adhémar was right. He had a duty to the kingdom, a duty that came before what he wanted or what Morgan wanted or even what Adhémar wanted. If the potential wielder had been anyone but Morgan, he would have strapped the lad to the back of his horse and thundered back to the palace without a second thought. If the wielder had been anyone but Morgan, he would have moved mountains to get the lad to Tor Neroche and slap that sword in his hands in order to stem the tide of erosion.

  If it had been anyone but Morgan, he wouldn’t have felt as if there was a hole in his gut that would gnaw at him through eternity because he would be responsible for making her life hell.

  Damn it, he hated it when Adhémar was right.

  It happened so seldom.

  He looked up at the sparkling night sky and blew out his breath. What he wished, briefly, was that he had never touched the Sword of Angesand, that he had never left Tor Neroche, that he had never once clapped eyes on Morgan.

  Salvation of the realm.

  Destruction of his heart.

  But what to do now? As Adhémar had so kindly pointed out, his duty dictated his actions, no matter how he might feel about it. He was duty bound to see that Morgan went to Tor Neroche. His position as archmage, demanded that he see that she at least held the Sword of Angesand. He had a responsibility to the inhabitants of not only Neroche, but the Nine Kingdoms, to use everything and everyone in his power to not only keep Lothar at bay, but destroy him if possible.

  But Morgan . . .

  “Miach?”

  He closed his eyes briefly, then straightened and looked at her. “Aye?”

  “We’re ready.”

  “Of course.” He swallowed with difficulty. “Of course.”

  “You look terrible.” She paused. “But Adhémar looks worse.”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “A little disagreement.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Well, disagreement or no, Adhémar says there is danger and we must ride.”

  Miach nodded. “Aye.”

  “Then let us be off. I do not fear danger, but I cannot see subjecting my comrades in it when flight would evade it.”

  If he hadn’t been so numb already, he would have lost his breath with a whoosh. “You are a loyal companion,” he said, finally.

  “Loyalty is highly prized,” she said quietly.

  “As highly prized as magic is shunned?”

  She smiled faintly. “Weger has a very unique code of conduct.”

  “I daresay,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me more of his strictures someday.”

  “It would be a welcome reprieve from too much magic,” she said quietly.

  He looked down at her. “It troubles you?”

  She took a deep breath. “I am no coward, but I vow, Miach, that if I had not given Nicholas my word to deliver this blade to the king at Tor Neroche, I would turn around, brave the ship, and return to Melksham.” She paused for quite some time. “I don’t know if I can carry these burdens much longer.”

  “It weighs upon you, doesn’t it?” he asked softly. “The blade and your dreams?”

  “More with every step we take north.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “I want,” she said finally, “nothing more to do with magic, mages, or my dreams. Nothing.”

  Miach nodded. “I can’t blame you.”

  “I don’t blame you,” she said quickly. “Then again, I don’t consider you a mage of any sort. You can’t help what you can do.” She paused. “I suppose neither can I. But I want no more of it than necessary.”

  And here he was on the verge of plunging her into magic she might never escape from.

  “Duty is a difficult thing, at times,” he offered finally.

  “Hmmm,” she said. She took his hand and pulled him along. “Let us be about it, then. Then perhaps we can move on to something else.”

  He walked with her back to the horses, then swung up into the saddle. Adhémar took the time to curse him, then wheeled his horse about and rode off into the dark. The rest of the company followed. Miach found himself riding next to Morgan, as had become their custom. Even in the dark, he could see the worry on her face.

  “Paien was right,” she said.

  “Aye,” Miach agreed.

  “Will it grow worse, do you think?”

  “I fear so,” he admitted.

  She was silent for quite a while. “I fear,” she began hesitantly, “I fear they are coming for me.”

  Miach didn’t dare disabuse her of the notion. “It is possible,” he said.

  Aye, that was indeed possible.

  He couldn’t count Adhémar’s most recent battle on Neroche’s northern border. That was a common occurrence. But Morgan had been at the first attack with Adhémar near Istaur. She had been at the second attack with him. She had been at the inn behind them.

  But why would Lothar know anything of her?

  He shook his head. It made no sense. Just because she could wield a Camanaë spell of un-noticing did not mean she was the possessor of that magic.

  Surely there were many alive who could use the spells of Camanaë without having any of that magic flowing through their veins.

  Though he couldn’t bring a single bloody one of them to mind.

  Was it possible that Lothar had been searching for Morgan all along?

  “Miach?”

  Miach looked at her. Perhaps Adhémar had a point. If Morgan was ensconced in Tor Neroche, she would be safe. Perhaps she would hold the Sword of Angesand and it would remain lifeless in her hand. Her potential to be the wielder would be proved wishful thinking, but she would be within the walls where Miach could guard her.

  Perhaps his duty would be a good thing in the end.

  “Nothing,” he said finally.

  “That wasn’t what I said,” she said. “I asked if you thought they were coming for me.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Morgan. But what I do know is the walls of Tor Neroche offer safety.”

  “Even to farmers?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Even to farmers,” he assured her. “But most assuredly to dutiful carriers of blades destined for kings.”

  She looked at him for a moment or two, then nodded. “I will see if I can win a place for all of us,” she said. “You have been very valiant as well.”

  He smiled, but it was a pained one. If she only knew . . .

  He nodded his thanks and turned his face forwa
rd. The castle was three days’ hard ride ahead. Three days before they would know the truth of her gifts. Three days before he would have to tell her the truth about himself.

  Three days before he would fulfill his duty.

  Duty.

  What a bloody awful word.

  Twenty-two

  Morgan rubbed her face with her free hand. It didn’t aid overmuch with the weariness, but it was one of the ways she used to stay awake. What she wanted to do was sleep for a solid se’nnight. She wanted it so desperately, she was tempted to simply lean over, put her head on Reannag’s neck, and close her eyes. Would the horse continue to carry her, or would he allow her to fall off? It was indication enough of her state that she didn’t care which it would be.

  She sat up straighter and pulled the hood back off her head. The chill brought some semblance of clarity back to her mind. It was little wonder she was tired; no doubt the entire company was tired. They had ridden north almost without ceasing from the battle at the inn. The weather had worsened. The road had worsened. Even her mood had worsened, for the closer she got to the king’s palace, the more she wanted to bolt the other way.

  The blade continued to sing from the bottom of her pack.

  In fact, the song had begun to get in the way of her hearing the men around her.

  That was just as well, for there had been much commentary on her choice of destinations from all corners.

  “Halt,” Adhémar said suddenly.

  Morgan peered blearily into the distance and saw a company riding toward them. Outriders from Tor Neroche? She could scarce believe that she might have actually come this close to reaching her journey’s end, but perhaps the impossible had actually become reality.

  Adhémar swept them with a look. “I will go ahead and see if I can bargain for entrance. Remain here.”

  Morgan yawned hugely and gave in to temptation. She leaned over, wrapped her arms around Reannag’s neck, and closed her eyes. It was so marvelous, so decadent, she feared she might never be able to straighten again. And bless the steed, he didn’t complain. The only time she felt him move was when she realized she was truly falling asleep. Perhaps he sensed it too and wished to spare her an undignified tumble.

  “Morgan.”

  She sat up suddenly, bleary-eyed. She rubbed her eyes and found that Miach was next to her. “Aye?”

  “I thought you might fall off soon.”

  Morgan couldn’t even manage a decent nod of agreement. She looked ahead of them and saw that Adhémar was still speaking with the outriders. She wasn’t convinced he would win them entrance. Unfortunately, she could do nothing but wait behind, in the snow, shivering, and wonder if she had just given her chance to complete her quest into the hands of a fool. She should have gone ahead herself. But that would have meant yet more time in Adhémar’s company and she simply couldn’t bear the thought of that.

  At least the journey with such terrible haste had rid her of Adhémar’s constant harping on magic and its usefulness. She did not agree and she was tired of arguing with him. She had come to the point where she did her best to ignore him. That task was made much easier by the sounds of her blade singing.

  She could scarce hear anything else.

  Actually, that wasn’t true. She suspected that the ring might have joined in with the blade.

  If she hadn’t made Nicholas a promise, she would have heaved her entire pack into the nearest patch of briars and been well rid of it.

  “Well,” she said finally, looking at Miach, “perhaps he will manage it.”

  “Aye,” he said, his tone curiously flat.

  “Will you not be relieved?”

  He managed a wan smile. “I will be relieved when we are inside the walls and you are safe.”

  “I am safe out here,” she reminded him. “As are you, with me to guard your back.”

  He smiled truly then. “Aye, you have that aright. I am grateful for it.” He looked up. “Oh. It looks as if he managed it.”

  Morgan found herself somewhat relieved by the sight of Adhémar riding back their way. He seemed to be very pleased with himself. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, but having to listen to him brag about it for the foreseeable future would make for a very tedious ride.

  “Come,” Adhémar boomed. “I have seen to it all.”

  Moran pursed her lips. Aye, here it came.

  “I will ride ahead, of course, but you may all follow. Slowly,” he added. “I will pave the way.”

  Well, that was something at least.

  “Good of you,” Morgan muttered.

  Miach snorted, but said nothing else. He did smile briefly at her before he urged his horse forward. Slowly.

  They made their way up a very long winding road. Morgan was too preoccupied with the blade in her pack and the damned ring as well to pay much heed to her surroundings. She was cold, tired, and nervous. It was work enough to keep her mount on the road.

  The day went on endlessly. The snow was blinding in its brightness and the road ceaseless in its twisting and turning.

  “Morgan.”

  Morgan looked at Miach in annoyance. He pointed upward.

  Morgan humored him by looking.

  She felt her mouth fall open. She didn’t even manage to rein her horse in. She simply clutched the reins and gaped, feeling every inch the country miss who had never stepped out of her pigsty.

  It was Tor Neroche, perched high above her on the edge of a cliff. Actually, it looked as though it had simply grown out of the rock, daring the unwary and the unwashed to venture beneath its mighty shadow. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once.

  “Oh,” she managed, finally. “It’s magnificent.”

  He smiled. It seemed something of a sad smile, which only made sense if he wished such a place might have been his. Morgan shook her head.

  “Do not envy the king this palace,” she said, struggling to master her own surprise. “I imagine he longs for a garden such as yours and the peace with which to farm it.”

  “Think you?” Miach asked quietly.

  “I daresay. Though this is a bloody impressive palace, isn’t it?” she managed. “And these just the outer walls.” She paused. “Are they guarded by magic in truth, or is that rumor, do you suppose?”

  “I’ve heard that magic was woven into the foundations,” he said slowly. “I imagine it finds itself everywhere here.”

  Morgan shivered. “Dreadful.”

  “Safe.”

  “But at what price?”

  Miach nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose.”

  Morgan rode on for quite some time under the shadow of those enormous outer walls. She supposed there wasn’t a ladder built tall enough to touch their crenelated tops, nor a lad born brave enough to try to scale them. The wall was made of massive granite blocks, held together with heaven only knew what, and tilting out at an alarming angle that gave those who rode under them the impression that they were about to be crushed beneath them.

  At least she had that impression.

  Paien looked equally as nervous.

  Camid’s nose was quivering, but he was made of very stern stuff.

  The farther along they went, the more Morgan realized that she was a very, very small part of a much larger world. True, she bore in her pack a blade that Nicholas of Lismòr had bid her bring to the king, but what did that mean? For all she knew, the king wouldn’t be bothered to see her. Perhaps she would only deposit the blade into the hands of a retainer, then be shown the front gates.

  Assuming she made it inside the front gates to be shown back out of them.

  “Morgan.”

  Morgan looked at Miach. Her mouth was appallingly dry and her eyes unsettlingly moist. Good heavens, was her form going to desert her fully now?

  “Aye?” she croaked.

  Miach tapped his finger meaningfully over his left eyebrow.

  Morgan touched Weger’s mark. It seemed a very small thing, somehow, when compared to what she was seeing now. “But�
�”

  “The king would give his right arm to fight as you do. He would take you as his champion in less time than it takes me to say as much—and count himself more fortunate than any of the other eight kings.”

  She managed a frown. “You are a flatterer.”

  “Never,” he said seriously. “Of all the things I am, a flatterer is not one.”

  “I will likely not even see the king.”

  Miach pursed his lips. “Then it will be his loss.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Do not forget who you are.”

  She felt apprehension well up in her so suddenly and so strongly that she caught her breath. It took her quite some time to be able to draw a normal one again. When she could, she looked at him.

  “Will you stay with me?” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “If you can?”

  He smiled, but he looked a bit winded, as if he’d had his own brush with something devastating. “I will,” he said finally. “I would count it an honor.”

  And then he looked at her for so long that she thought she might have blushed if her cheeks hadn’t been so red already from the chill. There was something in his expression she simply could not understand.

  Was it affection?

  Was it resignation?

  Was she losing what few wits she had left?

  She couldn’t say and didn’t dare speculate. Perhaps later, when her task was finished and she could think clearly. Perhaps Miach would stay with her until then. Perhaps then he would be willing to speak of other things besides swords and magic.

  Perhaps.

  She found herself unsettled by something that annoyed her, only to realize it was the singing of the blade. If nothing else, at least ridding herself of that might improve her mental state.

  Morgan set her face forward. Damned goose-feather mattress. Bloody magic-slathered knife.

  What was to become of her now?

  She considered that until they crossed the massive drawbridge, rode underneath the terrifying spikes of the raised portcullis, and managed to get past the third defense of the massive iron gates. By that time Morgan had forgotten who she was, where she came from, and what she carried in her pack. She was clinging to consciousness by means of her pride alone. She would have given even her horse to have slunk off back through the gate, under the portcullis, and over the drawbridge to leap down into the snow and hide.