Star of the Morning (42 page)

“Hmmm,” Morgan said. She felt herself drifting off into the first safe, peaceful sleep she had had in days.

Miach had called her
love.

That was worth a dozen pleasant dreams.

Twenty-three

Miach wrapped himself in a spell of invisibility and walked swiftly through the midnight halls of Tor Neroche. He hadn't considered how grand a place it was until he had seen it through the eyes of an innocent, honest woman who had never been anywhere so fine. He supposed he might never look at the palace in the same way again.

He'd told her he had something to tell her. And he did. He would tell her who he really was. At least in that much, he would be honest with her.

He ran up the steps to his tower chamber. All was as he had left it. Indeed, a fire burned in the hearth, as if he had merely left to poach something from the kitchen, not flown all the way to Istaur to find his liege lord.

His liege lord that he would have cheerfully strangled if it wouldn't have meant his own neck in trade.

He slammed the door behind him, cast aside his spell as if it had been a cloak, and crossed over to the table still littered with books and sheaves of paper and other things he didn't need and couldn't bear to look at. What he wanted was to be back downstairs, holding the hand of a woman who trusted him; what he needed to do was be about his business quickly so he could—before she woke and found Adhémar right there, more than willing to show her the great hall and that interesting sword hanging over the fireplace.

He turned toward the fire only to find that one of the chairs before it was occupied. He hesitated, then walked over to sit in the vacant chair. He smiled. “Cathar.”

Cathar handed Miach a cup of ale. “You look tired.”

“I
am
tired,” Miach said with a sigh. “Tired and heartsick.”

Cathar's eyebrow went up. “Heartsick? That sounds promising.”

“It wouldn't, if you knew the entire tale.” Miach drank, then set the cup aside and looked at his brother. “Well? Anything interesting transpire during my absence?”

“Haven't you been watching?”

“Of course.”

Cathar hesitated only slightly. “I meant, haven't you been watching the castle?”

“I assumed you would see to the castle. I've been watching the borders.” He smiled. “What are you going to tell me? Has Rigaud made over the Chamber of the Throne in purple velvets? Or greens, to match his eyes?”

“He tried,” Cathar admitted.

Miach managed a brief laugh. “I've no doubt he did. How did Turah fare?”

“As you might expect. He was nimble and canny and left the fighting up to me.”

“Wise lad.”

“Lad? He's older than you are, Miach.”

“And yet so fresh and spry still,” Miach said sourly.

“I can see it was a long journey,” Cathar said. “Did you not find what you sought?”

“I found more than I sought,” Miach said. “I found Adhémar, as well as a few creatures I thought were gifts from Lothar but now I suspect not.” He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it.

“And?” Cathar prodded. “Come now, Miach, and tell Cathar all your sorry tidings.”

Miach threw him a glare. “Very well. If you must know, I met a woman.”

“A woman?” Cathar said in surprise. “You had time to meet a woman?”

“Surprisingly enough. Unfortunately, she's not one I can have.”

“Wed?” Cathar asked sympathetically.

“Nay, not wed,” Miach said.

Cathar smiled. “Are you going to tell all, or must I guess?”

Miach looked at him in silence for a moment or two. As usual, if there was anyone he trusted inside the walls of Tor Neroche, it was Cathar. He needed a ready ear—and a sensible one. He sighed and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I found a wielder for the Sword of Angesand.”

“You're off topic, brother,” Cathar said with a small laugh. “What has that to do with your woman?”

“I believe she is the wielder.”

“A woman?” Cathar said, stunned.

“As fate would have it.”

“A woman you like?”

“I wouldn't say
like
,” Miach said grimly.

“Oh,” Cathar said almost silently. “So, your problem is that she doesn't like you?”

“Does it matter?” Miach asked, pained. “I suspect she looks at me like a brother.”

“Hmmm,” Cathar murmured sympathetically.

“She also bears Weger's mark.”

“Scrymgeour Weger?”

“The very same.”

Cathar shivered. “She's dangerous then.”

“Very. Let's also not forget that if she does prove to be the wielder, she will immediately join forces with Adhémar and I will be left forever looking at them together and wondering why it is I can't bring myself to fall upon the Sword of Angesand in a fit of despair.”

“Well, that I might be able to spare you.”

Miach blinked. “How?”

Cathar scrunched up his face, as if he thought he might have said too much.

“Cathar,” Miach warned, “if you know something—”

“I don't know anything,” Cathar said frankly. “You know Adhémar never talks to me.”

“What has he done?”

“There's some sort of feast being planned,” Cathar ventured carefully. “For a month hence.”

“Of course,” Miach said grimly. “He's probably set to celebrate finding his wielder and dooming her to being used as his weapon against Lothar.”

“I don't think the feast is for that.”

“Then what is it for? Yet another banquet to celebrate Adhémar's glorious reign that is devoid of disaster?”

Cathar shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know anything more than that. I suppose we'll find out. Now, what of your woman? Does she know what you think about her?”

“That I love her, or that I think she's the wielder?”

“Either. Both.”

“She's ignorant of both, and that is my doing.” Miach sighed deeply. “I'm not sure I want her to know either of the two.”

“Why not?” Cathar asked. “If she's the wielder, don't you want her to use the Sword of Angesand?”

Miach sighed deeply. “Of course I want the wielder to use the sword. But that was before I knew who the wielder was. That was before I was complicit in bringing a woman here who has no idea what lies in wait for her, what her destiny is, how we intend to use her until her usefulness fails. Does that satisfy you?”

Cathar buried his response in his cup.

“You and I were born to this duty,” Miach said. “We could renounce our birthrights at any moment. I could go be a farmer. You could go raise sheep.”

“Not now,” Cathar observed.

“Of course, not now,” Miach returned, “but I could have. Before Mother's mantle fell upon me.”

“Could you?” Cathar mused.

“I had a choice,” Miach said flatly. “Before she died. I was old enough to understand exactly what my future would hold and I accepted the task.”

“Did you understand truly?” Cathar asked. “Fully?”

“I never saw this, if that's what you're asking,” Miach said. “And nay, I did not understand how that mantle would come close to crushing me beneath it before I found the strength to bear it properly. But I have been amply rewarded for taking a chance on something I perhaps didn't fully understand. You're missing the point. At some point, you and I understood. We made a choice. Morgan will not be given a choice.”

“Won't she?”

Miach shook his head curtly. “She'll touch that damned sword, it will deafen us all with its singing and blind us with the flash of magelight, and then she will be pulled into a life she does not want and never asked for. How will she then say nay?”

“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.”