Star of the Morning (5 page)

The lads again turned to look at her briefly, many of them slack-jawed, the rest looking quite confused.

“Oh, nothing so frightening,” Nicholas said smoothly. “Lads? Any suggestions?”

“The Tale of the Two Swords,” a young lad piped up.

Half the lads groaned. Morgan groaned right along with them. Too much romance in that one. Unfortunately, it was one of Nicholas's favorites; he would never do the decent thing and refuse to retell it.

“The Two Swords,” Nicholas agreed readily. “So it will be.”

Morgan rolled her eyes and leaned back against the wall, preparing to completely ignore all she would hear. Obviously, she would have no answers out of the man before he was ready, and if he held true to form, his nightly tale-telling would last for at least an hour. It was his ritual, repeated as consistently as the sun rising and setting each day. It gave the lads a sense of security, or so he said.

Morgan closed her eyes, wondering if she might be able to snatch a bit of sleep and block out the romance that would ooze out of the tale Nicholas was beginning to spin. But, despite herself, she found herself listening. Gilraehen the Fey was bold, Mehar of Angesand was beautiful, and Lothar of Wychweald was evil enough to make the most hardened of listeners shiver.

In time, the romance in the tale increased. Morgan was quite certain there would be tender sentiments exchanged soon between Gilraehen and Mehar—things entirely too sugary to be inflicted upon the hapless lads in the chamber. Morgan shot Nicholas a warning look, but he blithely ignored it.

She gave up and turned her attentions to the condition of her own hands. As she listened to Mehar placing her hand in Gilraehen's and giving herself to him as his queen, she pursed her lips. She herself hardly had time for such pleasantries; it was just as well, for no man would look at her hands, scarred and rough, and ask her to do anything with them besides curry his horse. A mercenary's life was not an easy one.

It was especially hard on one's hands.

“What of the two swords?” a lad asked. “The king's sword, especially.” He paused. “I hear it is very sharp.”

Nicholas laughed. “Well, of course the king keeps the Sword of Neroche. But the other—” He paused and shrugged. “The Sword of Angesand hangs in the great hall at Tor Neroche.”

“But,” another asked, sounding quite worried, “isn't the king afraid someone might make off with it?”

“Nay, lad, I daresay not. Before she died, Queen Mehar, she who fashioned the blade, laid an enchantment of protection upon it, that it would never be stolen. She also prophesied about several special souls who would wield that blade at a time of particular peril, but that is a tale for another night.”

The lads protested, but not heartily. They were secure in the knowledge that the following night would bring more of the same sort of pleasure. Morgan watched them file past her and understood precisely how they felt. She'd been orphaned at six, taken in by a company of mercenaries for several years until she'd begun her courses, then heartlessly deposited without a backward glance upon Nicholas's doorstep at the tender age of ten-and-two. She had had her own share of those long evenings passed in the comfort of Nicholas's solar, listening to him tell his stories. But she had never, for reasons she never examined if she could help it, allowed herself to luxuriate in that sensation of security.

There were times she suspected she should have.

An older lad, one who looked as if he spent far more time thinking about heroic tales than determining how he might become a part of them by some time spent in the lists, stopped by the door and turned back to Nicholas.

“I know the prophecy, my lord,” he said quietly.

Nicholas remained seated in his chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “The prophecy?”

“Queen Mehar's prophecy about the Sword of Angesand.”

“I imagine you do, lad.”

“I can recite it for you—”

Morgan was about to tell him not to bother, but Nicholas beat her to it.

“Not tonight, my son. I've a guest, don't you see, and you need to be abed.”

“I could speculate,” the lad offered.

Nicholas rose slowly and walked over to stand by the door. “In the end, my son, unless you are intimately involved in either the doing of the deeds or the making of the tales, it is naught but speculation. And since we are neither, we should leave the speculating to others and retire to our beds before our nerves are overworked.” He held the door open pointedly. “Good night, Harding's son. Have a peaceful sleep.”

“And to you, my lord,” the lad said, then unwillingly made his way from the chamber.

Nicholas closed the door and turned to look at Morgan. “You came.”

Morgan rose and looked at him narrowly. “Your missive said to hurry. I feared you were dying.”

Nicholas laughed merrily and enveloped Morgan in a fatherly embrace. “Ah, Morgan,” he said, pulling back, kissing her soundly on both cheeks, then drawing her across to sit upon his exceptionally comfortable settee, “I'm not dead yet. What a pleasure to see you.”

Morgan scowled at him as she sat. “You asked me to come.”

“Did I?” he said, sinking down into an equally comfortable chair.

“It sounded as if your trouble required my immediate attention.”

“And so it does,” he said with a smile. “But not tonight. Tonight you will eat, then go to your rest. We'll speak of other things tomorrow.”

“My lord—”

“Tomorrow, my girl.”

She frowned fiercely at him. “I made great haste away from a
very
lucrative bit of business, simply because you called. I've hardly slept in a se'nnight for worry that I might arrive too late and find you
dead
. I daresay I deserve to at least know why you wanted me here!”

He smiled. “Is it not enough for an old man to simply wish to see the daughter of his heart?”

Morgan felt a sudden and very uncomfortable burning begin behind her eyes. She rubbed them to ease the stinging and to give herself time to recapture her frown. She was better off in a pitched battle. She did not do well with these kinds of sentimental utterings.

“A pleasant visit does not seem a good reason to me,” she managed finally.

“Doesn't it?” he asked kindly. “A pleasant visit, a se'nnight of comfort, a chance for me to make sure you're still alive?”

“I suppose,” she conceded, but she wasn't sure she agreed. She did not need the luxurious surroundings she found herself in. She did not need the affection of a man who had taken her in as a scraggly, snarling, uncivilized lass who had been accustomed to sleeping with a dagger under her pillow and holding her own against men three times her age. She did not ever dwell with pleasure on those many years in Nicholas's care when he taught her of letters and numbers and the quiet beauty of the seasons changing from year to year.

She also did not think on him each time she drew the sword at her side, the glorious sword he'd had made for her and adorned with gems from his own personal treasury.

“Morgan?”

“Aye, my lord?”

“What were you thinking on?”

She sighed deeply. “I was contemplating my condition as an appallingly ungrateful wretch.”

Nicholas laughed. “I daresay not. There is a chapel nearby, my dear, which you may use on the morrow for your penance. For now, fill this old man's ears with your adventures. We'll speak about other business tomorrow.”

Morgan lifted her eyebrows. “Other business? Is that why you sent for me, in truth?”

“Tomorrow.”

Morgan shot him a final, disgruntled look that he completely ignored, then she relented, and sat back against his dreadfully comfortable couch to give him the tales he wanted.

She told him of her travels, leaving out the more unsavory encounters. She told him of the places on the island she'd seen, the wonders she'd seen come in on ships at port, the tidy sums she'd earned.

“Obviously not of late,” Nicholas said dryly, casting a look at her clothes. “A rough year so far, I'd say.”

“Not the most profitable,” Morgan agreed.

“I told you the last time you were here, my child, to marry one of Harding's sons, not fight the man's battles for him. He is notoriously stingy.”

“Only because you've coerced so many donations out of him, my lord.”

“Goodness,” Nicholas said with a laugh, “you've been too many years out of polite company. Although it is all too true about the funds, we usually don't like to bring it up. Now you realize I have Harding's youngest here. He's a handsome lad.”

“He's likely half my age.”

“But he is rich.”

“
Was
rich,” she corrected. “I hazard a guess he will be less rich still once you're through with him—”

A discreet knock prevented her from discussing with Nicholas his extortionary techniques. Soon she found herself with a hearty repast sitting atop a table before her. Nicholas invited her to help herself, which she did without hesitation. It had been, after all, a rather lean autumn. Nicholas watched her thoughtfully as she ate.

“You know,” he said casually, “there are richer prizes farther afield.”

Morgan stopped chewing and looked at him. “What?”

“There are nine kingdoms, Morgan, my dear. The last time I checked, those nine kingdoms contained at least nine kings. I would imagine that any of them would be more than happy to pay you quite handsomely to raise your sword in his defense.”

Morgan continued to chew. When she thought she could swallow successfully, she applied herself to her goblet of wine. “I don't fancy traveling,” she said with conviction—the conviction of one who truly did not enjoy traveling.

“A pity,” Nicholas said, admiring his own wine in the hand-blown glass goblet. “Gold, silver, renown. Glorious deeds.” He looked at her placidly. “Hard to resist.”

“And yet I manage,” she said. “What are you about in truth, old man? I've resigned myself to a decent meal and pleasant conversation, but I only find one of the two here.”

Nicholas smiled. “Finish your meal, my dear, then get yourself to bed. We'll speak on other things tomorrow. You'll stay for a bit, won't you?”

“Perhaps,” she said, but she knew she didn't dare. Too many nights with her head on a soft goose-feather pillow and the rest of her under an equally soft goose-feather duvet would completely ruin her for hard labor.

“However long you can manage will be long enough,” he said enigmatically. “Eat some more, Morgan. You're too thin.”

She ate her fill, ate a bit more just in case, then sat back with a cup of the orphanage's finest and savored polite conversation for a bit. She and Nicholas spoke of the weather, of the harvest, of his garden that still produced a very fine grape even past the hard frost. Morgan learned of new lads who had come to be sheltered and of older lads who had come to study, then gone on to make their way in the world. All of it perfectly normal; all of it unremarkable and secure. It eased her heart.

All but the part of her heart that knew such peace was not to be hers for long.

She thanked Nicholas for the meal, bid him a good night, and walked with him to the door. He put his hands on her shoulders, then kissed both her cheeks. “A good sleep to you, daughter. You'll need it before you start your next journey.”

“My next journey?” she asked blankly.

“Aren't you going on a journey?”

Ah, so this was where it lay, apparently. “I don't know. Am I, my lord?”

“An assumption, my dear,” Nicholas said easily. “Sleep in peace tonight.”

Morgan wondered if he had lost his wits, or it was that a decent meal and promise of a gloriously comfortable bed had robbed her of hers. She frowned at him, thanked him again kindly for his hospitality, then escaped his chambers before he could say anything else unsettling.

She had hardly made it ten steps from his solar when she was accosted by a voice from the shadows.

“My lady.”

Morgan stopped and sighed. “I'm not your lady. I'm just Morgan.”

“My lady Morgan.” The lad from Nicholas's solar stepped out from the shadows.

He stood there, Harding's youngest son, squirming uncomfortably until he finally gained control enough of his gangly limbs to stop and look at her. Morgan was not given to shifting, having earned her own measure of self-control on the other side of Melksham Island where self-control was a particularly important subject to learn, but there was something about the moment that left her with an almost uncontrollable urge to rub her arms.

She managed not to. “Aye, lad?” she asked.

“Lord Nicholas won't speak to me about it,” the young man whispered, “but I've heard rumors.”

“Rumors are dangerous.”

Apparently not dangerous enough to deter him. He leaned closer to her. “I heard,” he whispered conspiratorially, “that the king of Neroche has lost his power.”

She felt her eyebrows go up of their own accord. “Indeed. And where did you hear that?”

“I eavesdropped on Lord Nicholas while he was discussing it.”

Morgan waved aside his words. “He worries overmuch.”

“I don't think so. 'Tis rumored the king also searches for a warrior of mighty stature to wield a sword for him.” He paused, looked about him as if an enemy might be listening in, then leaned closer to her. “The Sword of Angesand,” he whispered.

She blinked in surprise. “The what?”