Star of the Morning

by Lynn Kurland

  “Then why did you bring her here?”

  “Duty,” Miach said wearily. “My duty to my king.”

  “Which comes before your duty to your heart.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Or to her.”

  “Damn it, that too.”

  “Poor lad,” Cathar said sympathetically.

  “Nay, poor Morgan,” Miach said. He looked at his brother bleakly. “I cannot stop this thing now. It is too late. And I fear to tell her who I am. She will never look at me in the same way again.”

  Cathar was silent for quite some time. He looked into his cup. He drained his cup, then looked into it, as if it might provide him with better answers thusly. He fingered his cup, crossed and recrossed his legs, sighed, then put both feet on the floor and looked at Miach.

  “You could send her away before she sees the sword.”

  “I tried that.”

  “Try harder.”

  “Treason,” Miach said wearily.

  “Aye.”

  “You’re a bloody romantic.”

  “So, little brother, are you.”

  Miach rolled his eyes and wished he had a better response than to simply sigh. He finally looked at Cathar. “There is more.”

  “There always is.”

  Miach cursed him, then continued on. “I think she is Gair of Ceangail’s daughter.”

  “Impossible,” Cathar said promptly. “All his children were killed in that horrible bit of business with the well.”

  “Morgan dreams of him.”

  “I dream of him,” Cathar said, “but only after bad beer.”

  “This is serious.”

  “So is bad beer.”

  Miach couldn’t laugh, but he did smile. “Perhaps I will see humor in that someday, but not today. I have sat with her while she dreamed of him.” He sighed. “It was not easy to watch.”

  Cathar set his cup down on the floor. “Miach, perhaps she heard fireside tales as a wee thing and she’s dreaming a tale she once heard. It could be that being close to your magic has wrought a foul work upon her delicate senses. Perhaps she ate something vile and paid for it during the night. There are a dozen things it could be.”

  “They did not find the bones of the young girl in those woods,” Miach countered. “The eldest boy died later from his wounds, after he finished telling the tale, but they never found the girl.”

  “But—”

  “She knows Camanaë spells that I didn’t teach her.”

  “Gair was not of Camanaë.”

  “Oh, but he was,” Miach said quietly. “He was the youngest son of Sgath of Ainneamh and Eulasaid of Camanaë. It was the only reason he convinced Sarait to wed with him, for she never would have wed one without magic to equal her own.”

  “But Camanaë is a matriarchal magic,” Cathar protested.

  “Tell that to King Harold,” Miach said promptly. “Tell it to Gair of Ceangail.”

  “I can’t. They’re dead.”

  “Tell it to me, then, for I have it from Mother in abundance. Matriarchal it may be, but not always. I tell you, Cathar, Morgan is the young girl she dreams of. They aren’t dreams; they’re memories.”

  “Very well,” Cathar conceded, “let us suppose that is true. What does that mean for the sword?”

  “It means she will not only have the power to wield it, but the right as well. It means she will never rest until she has fulfilled her place in the sword’s history. It means that when she realizes what I’ve done, how I’ve brought her here without admitting who I was or what I wanted from her, she will never look at me again without wanting me dead.”

  “Perhaps she’ll stab you with the blade right off and you won’t have to see any of those looks.”

  “Thank you,” Miach said shortly. “I knew there was a reason I trusted you with all my secrets.”

  Cathar only laughed gently. “Ah, Miach, all will be well.You’ll see.”

  “Are you peeping into the future now as well?”

  Cathar shook his head with a smile. “I am not. I’ll leave the bloodshot eyes and sore head to you. I’m just thinking that you’re a braw enough lad and if your Morgan has sense, she’ll forgive you.”

  “I daresay her sense of vengeance is what she’ll rely on.”

  “I doubt it,” Cathar said easily, “else you wouldn’t love her as you do.”

  “Why does everyone think I love her?” Miach asked crossly.

  “You said so,” Cathar pointed out.

  Miach scowled. “Perhaps I’m confused. The woman is fiendishly proficient with everything sharp and she hates magic in general and mages in particular.”

  “And so a blissful union is begun,” Cathar said with a wide smile. “May I live to see it bloom and flourish.”

  “Aye, I hope you do,” Miach agreed with a half laugh. He smiled for a moment then felt it fade. “Aye, and I wish the same for myself.”

  Cathar collected the cups, rose, and walked toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll go see what Adhémar’s combining. I’m sure it can’t be good.”

  “Likely not,” Miach said. “I’ll come find you later.”

  Cathar nodded and left the chamber. Miach rose, stretched, and wondered if he dared take the time for a bath. He looked toward the window and saw that it was still dark. He had time to see to his spells, have a bath, and return downstairs before Morgan was awake.

  He went about his work with a single-minded determination that might have impressed even Weger.

  Then he found something that brought him up short.

  Was there an actual hole in his spells?

  He cursed for quite a lengthy period of time, then started again from the beginning, rechecking each spell. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed; all he knew was that he had indeed found a hole in one of his spells of defense.

  Large enough for a single man, perhaps. Not large enough for a company of creatures. He sat back down in his chair and considered. There had been no sign of anything like that after Adhémar had been ambushed in the fall, which made Miach wonder how those creatures had come so near Tor Neroche. There had also been no disturbance in any of his spells that would explain how any of the other creatures had entered Neroche.

  So, how had those nightmarish beasts come into Neroche without breaching his spells?

  And who had come in after brazenly making such a rent in his defenses?

  He turned his attentions to the gap and rewove the surrounding spells until there was no sign of any opening. He reexamined everything one last time to make certain he’d missed nothing.

  Apparently that took him far longer than he’d suspected.

  He came to himself to find that he was standing in the middle of the room. He had no idea how he’d gotten there.

  Or how long he had been at his task.

  But there was an evening sky visible through his window.

  He bolted for the door, then leaped down the stairs, cursing as he did so. He ran through the passageways, up and down more steps, and burst into the chamber where the company was being housed.

  Only Glines was there, pacing uneasily before the fire.

  Miach came to a skidding halt. “Where are they?” he asked, feeling panic descend.

  Glines crossed the chamber quickly. “I couldn’t stop her.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know, but I sent the other lads with her. I remained behind in case you came. She put all her weapons on the bed over there and left, holding a knife in one hand and a ring in the other.” He paused again. “My lord, she was not herself.”

  “I daresay not,” Miach said. Morgan had left her gear behind? He could only imagine what was going on inside her head. He turned and made for the door. “Follow me.”

  “Trouble?”

  “That doesn’t begin to describe it,” Miach said grimly as he jerked the door open and strode out into the hallway. “How long ago did she leave?”

  “Half an hour. I wou
ld have come for you, but—”

  “My fault,” Miach said unflinchingly. “I never should have left her.”

  “Do you know where she’s going?” Glines asked.

  Miach looked at him briefly. “The great hall.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  And he would. Miach cursed. The entire bloody castle would see and then the future would be changed forever.

  Without his having told her who he really was.

  He began to run.

  Twenty-four

  Morgan clutched Nicholas’s blade in one hand and the ring in the other. She had thought she might be able to drown out their singing that way, but it wasn’t so. The blade not only sang, it glowed. The ring merely lay in her hand without any otherworldly manifestations. She slipped it onto her finger for safekeeping, then continued on her way.

  She hadn’t intended to go on any sort of exploration. She’d woken that morning to find Miach gone and the rest of the company tucking in to a substantial breakfast. She would have eaten, and indeed she did try, but the blade troubled her so greatly that she found she couldn’t. She picked at her food, then spent the morning pacing and trying to ignore the buzzing in her head. She’d wondered what had become of Miach, but she’d had trouble even holding on to that thought.

  She’d even gone so far as to send a message to the king through one of the servants. The reply had been that the king was busy and would see her later.

  She would have been satisfied with that, but the blade was definitely not.

  Finally, as evening had approached, she had surrendered. She had walked over to her couch and laid out all her weapons. She suspected they would not be welcome if she managed to see the king. She had then emptied her pack onto Miach’s bed. The ring had fallen out and landed with a clink on the marble floor. She had picked it up, then unwrapped the knife.

  It had blazed with a sudden light.

  Its song had burst forth as well, briefly, then subsided into a calmer, more pleasant hum. Morgan had stared at it, feeling as if her life were no longer under her control.

  She had risen and made for the door. Her companions followed her, or so she thought, though she really couldn’t have said. Her eyes were full of the blade, her head so full of its song, and her heart so desperate to be free of both that she hadn’t really noticed anything else.

  She decided to go look for the king. She would find his audience chamber and shove the bloody things under the door if she had to.

  The sooner, the better.

  She wondered if that was Paien calling her name, or the knife. She tried to look behind her to see who was following her, but found that she couldn’t. She could no longer tell the difference between dreaming and waking. This dream was not evil, but it was powerful. She was not running through thick underbrush, she was walking through magnificent passageways.

  But still she could not wake.

  The souls filling the hallways increased, but Morgan pushed through them and past them without stopping to converse. They were richly dressed, some were carrying food, some were looking at her in surprise and dismay. She didn’t stop to ask them why.

  Another song had begun.

  One not sung by her knife.

  She had to find it before she went mad. She had never considered madness before, not truly, though she began to consider it now. Was this how it felt? Slowly losing contact with the world you knew, being drawn into a dream where songs were sung that only you could hear and blades glowed in a way that only you could see?

  She found herself suddenly standing in front of a set of doors that reached far up into the darkness of the ceiling above. Guards stood there, blocking her entrance. Morgan struggled to catch her breath.

  “Open them,” she managed.

  The guards only stared back, silent and watchful.

  “Open them!” she shouted.

  “Morgan,” Paien began miserably from behind her.

  Morgan spoke a spell of opening. She had no idea where the words had come from, but they were there on her tongue and ready for her use. The doors responded with a great creaking sound. Guards leaped away in surprise and fear.

  She heard Paien curse. She thought she might have heard Camid squeak. She wanted to weep, but she couldn’t. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist, then walked into the great hall. She walked until she found herself standing in front of a large table on a raised dais. She drew her sleeve across her eyes again, wishing the fog would dissipate—

  “Morgan!”

  Morgan turned and saw through a mist of song and dream that Miach was standing just inside the massive doors.

  “Morgan,” he said again. “Let me help you.”

  She couldn’t answer. That new song had grown louder. She turned away from Miach and looked toward the back of the hall.

  There, above a massive fireplace, hung a sword.

  Covered with a tracery of leaves and flowers, all the things that Queen Mehar loved . . .

  Morgan sucked in air desperately. The blade was terribly loud. In time, Morgan realized her name figured in its song. The sword and the knife created a melody that wove itself around her, through her, in and out of her thoughts, until she lost all sense of who she was. She knew she walked around the long table until she was standing in front of the hearth, looking up. She slipped the ring off her finger and set it with a fumbling motion upon the table behind her. She set the knife down as well, though it seemed reluctant to leave her hand. But the blade above her shimmered with a light that was so bright, so lovely, so compelling that she could do nothing else but look at it.

  The song swelled into a crescendo that continued on until she was tempted to put her hands over her ears so she didn’t have to listen to it anymore. But the song was part of her and covering her ears would not help. So Morgan waited, wanting to cower but unable to, until the song reached its height.

  Then the blade leaped off the wall into her hand.

  And the song ceased.

  Morgan looked at the sword she held. The silence of it was as deafening as the noise had been before. The blade continued to glow with a soft light that was so exquisite she simply could not look away.

  And then it too subsided, until Morgan could only see a faint glow. She realized that the song was still there, sung between the sword and the knife, but faint enough that it didn’t trouble her. She took a deep breath, finding that she hadn’t breathed in quite a while.

  She held the sword in her hand and turned to look behind her for the first time.

  The great hall was full of people who were all staring at her as if they’d seen either a miracle or a nightmare.

  Morgan understood completely.

  To her right stood Adhémar. He was watching with a look of satisfaction on his face. Her company was standing directly before her on the other side of the table. They were watching her with varying degrees of amazement.

  And there, to her left, stood Miach. Alone. Apart. Watching her with an expression she couldn’t identify. She wanted to walk around the table and fling herself into his arms, but she found she couldn’t move. All she could do was stand there with her feet rooted to the ground and clutch the new sword in her hand.

  But then a voice cut through the silence like a particularly sharp blade.

  “And who, pray tell, is this?”

  Morgan looked about the chamber, feeling a little drunken with what was going on inside her head, and searched feebly for the speaker of those words. She found, at length, a woman who had come to stand next to Adhémar.

  The woman was, put simply, the most beautiful creature Morgan had ever seen. She was perfectly coiffed, perfectly dressed, perfectly mannered. Perfection embodied. She even spoke with perfect crispness, as if she could not have permitted anything less.

  “Could no one find her a bath?” the woman demanded.

  Morgan felt compelled to answer. She had to have some excuse for her filthy clothes, her boots that had tromped thro
ugh mud, manure, and snow, and her hair, which she was quite certain she hadn’t brushed since Miach had done it for her. Morgan took her free hand and pushed her hair, back from her face. “I was going to today,” she managed. “Bathe, I mean.” She paused and drew in a ragged breath. “I was distracted.”

  The woman raked her with a look that was perfectly callous. “One does not enter the king’s great hall in such a state.”

  Morgan nodded dumbly. Of course not. But the song . . .

  “Who are you?” the woman demanded. “Why are you here?”

  Morgan would have asked the same thing, but she was not quite herself and this was not her hall. She took a deep breath. “I am Morgan. I have something for the king.” She paused. “A blade. I was charged with its delivery.”

  “Well,” the woman said shortly, “give it to him and be off with you before we have to clean the floor again.”

  Morgan looked around, wondering where the king might be hiding. She’d never seen him, save on his coins, and those could have been any man wearing a crown. There were no crowns to be seen in the hall at present, no robes trimmed in ermine, no cloaks of purple velvet. There was a man standing near Adhémar wearing quite nice clothes, but he had no crown, so Morgan continued to look.

  “Um,” she said finally, feeling very uncomfortable with everyone staring at her. She couldn’t even bring herself to touch the mark over her brow. She was past that now. She was so far out of her usual existence, she couldn’t have recited one of Weger’s strictures if her life had depended on it. It was all she could do not to fall to her knees and weep. “I don’t see the king,” she whispered miserably.

  “Is this possible?” the woman said with a humorless laugh. “Is it possible that this ragged country wench does not know who the king is?”

  Morgan did not care for the slight, but could not bring herself to defend her honor. She was too desperate to get the sword out of her hand, the knife in the king’s, and be on her way. She looked at the woman hopefully. “Do you know who he is?”

  The woman looked at Adhémar in astonishment. “Adhémar?”