by Lynn Kurland
“Nay,” she said hoarsely. “Nay, that isn’t possible.”
“Morgan—”
She pulled away from him and backed up. “If one more person I know turns out to be a mage…” She shook her head, her eyes wide with shock and grief. “I don’t think I can bear it.”
“Morgan—”
“Did he bring me here?” she demanded. “Is he a shapechanger as well?”
“Ah—”
She grabbed for his hands and clutched his fingers so hard, he thought she just might break them.
“Teach me the dragonshape.”
“Nay,” he said faintly, “I’ll never get you back out of it.”
She pulled on him, starting to run. “Teach me the shapechange, Miach, damn you.”
“Morgan—”
“Please,” she pleaded. “You know why.”
He did.
And he supposed if she wanted to outrun her demons, he wasn’t the one to stop her. With any luck, once she’d flown long enough to forget about what she’d learned, he would be able to coax her back into her proper form.
So he ran with her and gave her the spell.
Within the space of a heartbeat, he was rising in the air, chasing after her. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at the way she’d taken to it, but he supposed he wasn’t past it. He chased her through the air, struggling to keep up with her.
Then, as the sun wheeled toward the west, he lost himself in the joy of flight as well and forgot about elves, and wizards, and truths that were hard to bear. He rolled and swooped and dove, feeling Morgan’s desperation and fear be replaced by a wild joy that finished stealing what small part of his heart he hadn’t already surrendered to her.
The future be damned; he would fly with her as long as she wanted.
And hope that he would be able to convince her to come back to herself when she had finished.
Fourteen
Morgan went sprawling onto the frozen ground. She lay still for a moment, trying to assess potential damage. She hadn’t broken anything and it was dark enough that probably no one had seen her. Well, except Miach, who was presently turning her over and leaning over her with a hand on either side of her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, panting.
She shook her head. “I need to work on my landings.”
He looked down at her with a wildness in his eyes she’d never seen before yet understood perfectly. There was something about becoming something else, something wild and untameable, even if it was just for a few hours, that left something behind, something that hadn’t been there before.
She watched him heave himself up to his feet, then looked up at the sky above her. If someone had told her six months ago that she would blurt out a spell of shapechanging and fling herself up into the air, she would have plunged a knife into his chest without a second thought.
Yet she’d shapechanged without hesitation. She’d propelled herself to impossible heights, then turned and fallen to the earth like an arrow shot from a bow. She’d cried out in a harsh dragon’s voice, rolled in the air, and laughed for the sheer joy of it.
And all that time Miach had been there at the tip of her wing, laughing with her, chasing her, goading her, challenging her to fly ever faster and higher.
If she hadn’t loved him before, she would have then.
“Morgan?”
She reached up for the hands he held down to her. She looked at him for a moment once she’d gotten her feet under her, then flung her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely.
“Thank you,” she whispered, blinking hard to stop her tears. “Thank you so much.”
“Nay,” he said against her ear, “thank you. That was…”
“What?”
He laughed a little uneasily. “It was something that tempts me to turn around and do it again.”
Unfortunately, she suspected she understood that, as well. She held on to him until she felt like she could stand with any success. The dragon fierceness faded far faster than she thought it would, leaving her substantially more bereft than she’d ever felt leaving Weger’s magical tower. She shivered as she pulled away.
“I’m cold.”
“It will pass.”
Well, he would certainly know. “I feel as if I’ve lost a little of myself,” she said weakly.
“You left it in the sky,” he said with a smile. “Which is, I imagine, why I continue to shapechange. You’ll find it again the next time we fly.”
“Will there be a next time?” she asked unwillingly.
“You tell me.”
She opened her mouth to tell him nay, then realized that she wasn’t at all sure she wouldn’t do it again. She pursed her lips. “I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.”
“Don’t decide now,” he advised. “Sit by the fire, sip sweet wine, and settle back into yourself. It may take an hour or so before the change leaves you completely.”
She nodded, then sighed gratefully as he took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She felt his hands tremble just the slightest bit as he fastened the clasp at her throat and understood that; she was still not at all steady on her feet. She caught his hands before he drew back, held them between her own, then brought his palms to rest against her cheeks. When she thought she could speak without weeping, she looked at him.
“Thank you for pulling me back out of that,” she said finally. “I almost lost myself.”
He looked at her solemnly. “I will never let you lose yourself, Morgan. No matter what shape you take, I will always pull you out of it.”
“Have you never been tempted to remain a dragon?” she asked.
“Every time I fly,” he said with a smile. He took her hand. “Let’s go find that fire. It will help with the chill.”
She took a deep breath, then nodded. She walked with him back through the inner wall gate. She stumbled several times, though she supposed that came from more than just shapechanging. The truths that she’d heard came back to her in a rush, leaving her far colder than any shapechanging perhaps could have. She shivered all the way to Nicholas’s door.
She caught Miach’s hand before he managed to get it anywhere near that wood.
“And what do you think of all this?” she asked, desperate to avoid going inside. “Does it bother you?”
He looked at her in surprise. “That you are Mhorghain of Ceangail?”
She nodded.
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him. “I loved you when I believed you were Morgan the mercenary. I loved you when I knew you had Weger’s mark on your brow. I love you still, knowing that you’re Gair of Ceangail’s daughter.”
She swallowed. “How can you? Knowing what he did—”
“Because you are not your father any more than I am my brother.”
She almost smiled. “In your case, I suppose that’s true.”
“It’s true in your case as well.” He leaned against the door and looked down at her. “Morgan, you are Gair’s daughter, but you are also Sarait’s. Your mother’s parents are King Sìle and Queen Brèagha. Your father’s parents are Eulasaid of Camanaë and Sgath of Ainneamh, powerful and majestic souls in their own right. I would trust any of them with my life.”
“Would you?” she asked, surprised.
“Without hesitation.”
“But not Gair.”
Miach sighed deeply. “Gair is a mystery I don’t know that we’ll ever understand completely. I’m not sure why Sarait wed with him, but I don’t think he was always as he became. Nicholas might answer that well enough to suit us both. He and Gair were friends for centuries before you were born.”
She felt a little light-headed. “I think I need to sit. I’m not sure what disturbs me more: that I’m someone I don’t know, or that I shapechanged.”
He smiled deeply. “You took to the latter amazingly well. Did you like it?”
“Unfortunately,” she said uneasily. “Almost as much as riding. But Weger would…well,
perhaps Weger wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I doubt Weger would be surprised by anything,” Miach said with a snort, “having likely done all of it himself. Perhaps when we finish our adventures, we’ll make a visit to Gobhann. You can tell him all the appalling shapes you’ve taken and see if he can match them. He won’t love you any less for any of it. I know I don’t.”
Morgan looked up at him. “You use that word easily.”
“What word?”
“Love.”
“Oddly enough,” he said, “I’ve never used it before. Let’s go in.”
Morgan looked at him quickly, but he only winked at her. She frowned. “Are you trying to distract me from all these tidings?”
He shook his head. “I’m distracting myself.”
“From what?”
“Thoughts of kissing you.”
She blinked in surprise. “In truth?”
“Of course, in truth,” he said with an exasperated laugh.
“Oh,” she said in a very small voice. “I wasn’t sure—”
“Go inside, gel,” he said, turning her around to face the door, “lest I find myself distracted from my distractions.”
She put her hand on the latch. “Miach?”
“Aye?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m not good at this.” She paused. “This business of…affection.”
“I never said you had to love me in return,” he said softly. “I just wanted you to let me love you. And before we examine that too closely, let’s go in. Just don’t look at Nicholas in that way you have that screams there’s a mage in the room who needs to have a sword sticking out of his chest. You’ll frighten the lads.”
“All right,” she said, taking a shaky breath. “I’ll try.”
He opened the door and waited for her to go in. She tucked herself behind him instead and pushed him on ahead. She looked at the floor as Miach led them over to their accustomed places before the fire. She sat down on a chair, then changed her mind. She pulled a stool up in front of Miach’s chair and sat down with her back pressed so tightly against his knees, she was certain his feet would fall asleep. She didn’t care. She would have sat in his lap if she hadn’t been certain she would have shocked all the lads there. She felt him lean forward and put his arms around her shoulders.
“Morgan,” Miach whispered against her ear, “it’s just Nicholas. Nothing has changed.”
“Except the fact that he’s a bloody mage,” she muttered grimly. “Damn me, but there’s no escaping the lot of you.”
“Do you want to escape?”
She turned and looked up at him. She was horrified to find that her teeth were chattering and she was very cold. “I’m not sure.”
He turned her bodily toward the fire, then rested his elbows on his knees and looked at her. “Hold on to me when you need to. I’ll keep you together.”
“When will things stop being something other than what I thought they were?”
“Death is the final surprise, I suppose,” he said wryly, “so perhaps you’d best steel yourself for a lifetime of this.”
She nodded. She looked into the fire for quite some time, taking an unwholesome amount of comfort at having Miach nearby. Unfortunately, it didn’t keep her mind from going in circles she couldn’t seem to stop.
“If he was the king of Diarmailt,” she whispered slowly, “then why isn’t he that any longer?” she whispered.
“When Lismòrian and his sons were slain, he was so grieved that he handed his crown to his nephew and walked out of his city alone, never to be heard from again. That was two hundred years ago.”
“Good heavens,” she said in surprise. “How old is he?”
“I didn’t ask,” he admitted. “Substantially older than Weger, I imagine. All I do know is that his power was very great and that his love for his lady wife was fodder for bards for centuries.”
She looked over her shoulder at Nicholas, telling some tale she knew she would recognize if she had the wherewithal to listen, and wondered how she could have passed so much time with him and not realized what he was. Then again, she’d traveled with Miach for a month and been just as oblivious then. Perhaps she was destined to underestimate the souls around her.
She turned back to Miach. “Did he know who killed his family? He told me that they had been slain, but he never talked about those responsible.”
Miach nodded, but quite suddenly he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Aye, he knows. It took quite a while before the truth came out, but he knows.”
“Do you know who it was?”
He looked down. “Please don’t ask me this question now, Morgan,” he said quietly.
“Why n—”
She found that she couldn’t finish. She watched the question hang in the air in front of her, unasked, and felt a cold chill descend on her.
It couldn’t be.
“Morgan—”
She found that her breath was coming in little gasps. “It can’t be—”
Miach only looked at her silently.
She thought she might begin to scream soon. She found herself suddenly hauled up onto Miach’s lap. She clapped her hand over her mouth and turned to press her face against his neck. He held her tightly, almost too tightly, as her breath came in gasps. All she could hear, repeating in her head in a howling rush, was what Miach hadn’t said.
Gair had killed Nicholas’s family.
She put her other arm around Miach’s neck and held on, just to keep herself from splintering into as many pieces as had the Sword of Angesand.
She had no idea how long she sat there until she could begin to claw her way out of the swirling hell she’d fallen into without warning, but she began to manage it. The pit was still there, under her feet, but she finally backed away from it far enough to be able to catch her breath. Miach’s arms around her relaxed. In time, she realized that he was running his hand over her hair, working it free of her braid. His fingers caught in the tangles, but she didn’t complain. The occasional twinge was good. It made her feel as if she had some connection to the world around her.
She finally pulled back far enough to meet his very red eyes. “It was Gair.”
Miach closed his eyes briefly. “Aye.”
“And yet Nicholas allows me in his hall—”
“You are not Gair,” Miach whispered sharply. “Do not, and I mean do not, take on your father’s sins, Morgan. That is a path that leads to nothing but darkness and evil. And don’t cheapen Nicholas’s affection for you by thinking he considers you in the least bit responsible. It happened decades before you were born.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re right.”
“In this, at least, I am.” He looked at her seriously. “You became for Nicholas what Gair took away from him: a child to love.”
“Do you think so?” she whispered.
“I do.” He smiled, then very deliberately leaned forward and kissed the end of her nose.
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
She couldn’t smile. “Nay.”
He pulled her close again. “The last lad is leaving, love. What can I do?”
“Stay with me.”
“You know I will.”
She pulled back. “Nicholas brought me here after I fell, didn’t he?”
“Aye. He was, if I might say it, a most impressive dragon. He fair blinded me with all the gems encrusting his breast.”
She wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. She heard the door close. She waited until she heard Nicholas settle into his chair before she forced herself to her feet. She waited until Miach had risen as well, then took his hand and a deep breath at the same time.
Her feet were suddenly leaden and it took most of her strength just to force herself to walk across the chamber. She clutched Miach’s fingers, then came to an ungainly stop in front of Nicholas.
He didn’t look any different. She studied his face, his bright blue eyes
, his crown of white hair, and wondered how in the world she ever would have guessed he was who Miach said he was. She tried to swallow, but it didn’t help her suddenly parched throat. She felt Miach’s other hand come to unobtrusively join the other that she held. His hands were warm, comfortable, known.
She took a deep breath. “Are you,” she said, her voice breaking. She didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that were streaming down her face. “Are you Nicholas of Diarmailt?”
Nicholas only looked up at her gravely. “Aye, Morgan, I am.”
“And who am I?” she managed.
“Mhorghain of Ceangail,” he said quietly.
A sob escaped her before she could stop it. It shouldn’t have. After all, she’d already heard that from Miach. But somehow there was something final about hearing the same from the man sitting in front of her, the man who had taken her in as a girl and sent her off to Gobhann with tears in his eyes, that made it seem real past any means of denying it.
She felt her way down onto the sofa, then buried her face in her hands and wept. She had assumed she had cried out all her tears, but there was another batch right there for her use.
She wept for the girl who’d been orphaned at six, for her mother who was dead, for the brothers she hadn’t had protecting her. She wept for all the nights of bitter chill she’d passed in Weger’s tower, trying to dull the pain of no family to call her own.
She wept for Nicholas’s kindnesses to her that she’d never been able to accept. She even wept a bit for Miach, who loved her when she did not deserve it and apparently had an inexhaustible supply of patience. She supposed it would serve him well and keep him warm until she had the courage to give him the words he deserved in return.
When she finally came back to herself, she found Nicholas’s hand on her head and heard him making soothing noises. Miach’s hand was on her back and his foot was resting securely against hers. She dragged her sleeve across her face, then felt a cloth be pressed into her hands. She worked a bit on her face, blew her nose, then took several deep, bracing breaths. She shot Miach a grateful smile, then turned and mustered up a glare for Nicholas.