Star of the Morning (9 page)

Cathar shook his head slowly. “Miach, it is no wonder Adhémar does not sleep well. I think you worry him.”

“I likely should,” Miach said with a sigh. “I think I should go now. You will see to things while I'm gone? If Turah makes a poor decision, go behind him and remedy it, won't you?”

“And find my head on a pike outside the gate when Adhémar finds out what I've done.”

“He won't find out because neither you nor I will tell him. You'll make certain the kingdom stays safe and I'll make haste.”

“You do that,” Cathar said. He paused, then looked at Miach seriously. “Be careful.”

“I always am.” He rose and stretched. “I'll continue to watch the borders while I'm away. I think I can manage that, at least.” He put his hand on Cathar's shoulder. “Put the fire out before you leave, would you?”

Cathar blinked in surprise. “You're going
now
?”

“Is there a better time?”

“But supplies . . . a horse ...”

“I won't need them.”

“Miach, you'll need food. At least take a bow and arrow for hunting.”

“I won't need those either. I'll just use my talons.”

Cathar shuddered. “I detest it when you shapechange. How can you bear it?”

“Flying is faster than riding,” Miach said. He walked to the door. “I'll return as quickly as I can.”

“How will I reach you?” Cathar called after him.

“You won't.”

Miach pulled the door closed behind him, then loped down a single flight of his twisting stairs. He exited through a doorway that led him out onto the battlements. He paused to make certain all his spells were as intact as they were going to be for the moment, then he jumped up on top of the wall.

“Miach!”

Cathar's voice almost startled him badly enough to make him fall off. He glared over his shoulder at his brother standing below him.

“What?”

Cathar held out Miach's cloak. “I thought you might get cold.”

Miach rolled his eyes, but he reached down to take the cloak just the same. He swung it around his shoulders, then looked at his brother. “Satisfied?”

“Only marginally.”

Miach snorted out a small laugh, then turned and dove off the wall.

“I hate it when you do this!” Cathar bellowed after him.

Miach had used the shapechanging spell so often that he hardly had to do more than think about becoming a hawk before the change was wrought in him. He continued his downward swoop, then pulled up before he hit the ground. He beat his wings hard against the air and rose up through the dawn. He saw Cathar standing against the wall, shaking his fist and cursing him. Miach cried out in a hawk's voice, then continued his upward climb. He had no idea where to start, so he flew east. He hoped he would find his quarry quickly.

He needed the wielder of the Sword of Angesand.

He suspected that the safety of the realm might depend upon it.

Four

Morgan kicked aside the rotting leaves to make certain she'd left nothing behind in the roots of the tree. She stretched, ignoring her muscles that protested the motion. It had been a most uncomfortable night's sleep, one of many recently, and she blamed Nicholas for it. If she hadn't passed an entire se'nnight at Lismòr, she wouldn't have been so soft. As it was, she would probably spend the rest of her life regretting those days of perilous comfort.

She shouldered her pack, trying not to think about the blade lounging in the bottom of it, no doubt waiting for a most inopportune moment to make its presence known. She'd already decided that the best thing to do would be to pretend it just wasn't there. Of course, that might not be as easy as it sounded, considering it was the reason for her journey.

She took a deep, calming breath, put her troubling thoughts behind her, and set out on her day's walk.

She walked for several hours, paused briefly for a hasty meal made from things Nicholas's cook had packed, then continued on her way. She was only a pair of days out of Bere and that spoke well of the quickness of her pace. Unfortunately, it meant that she would be getting on a ship that much sooner, but that was something she didn't dare dwell on—

She stopped suddenly, her ear catching something amiss. A single step sounded behind her, then there was silence. Morgan didn't have to hear more. She cursed herself for thinking so deeply that she hadn't been paying heed to her surroundings. She started forward again, keeping to the near side of the road where the shadows of the trees gave some cover.

Twice more she stopped and twice more the footsteps stopped a scant moment later. The third time, the maker of the sounds was not so careful and she heard them distinctly. That was enough for her. With skill born of years of practice under Weger's less-than-gentle tutelage, she slipped off the road and doubled back until her pursuer was before her.

The man in front of her carried a sword; she could see the point of his scabbard hanging down below his long, travel-stained cloak. No scholar, that one, nor a pampered lord. Then who was he? And why was he following her? Was he looking for a traveling companion, or did he have a more sinister motive?

No matter. She had no desire for the former and no fear of the latter. She would merely keep him in her sights until an opportunity to choose a different path presented itself.

The man hesitated at one point, likely realizing that his quarry was no longer in front of him. He hesitated, then eased into the shadows of the wood to the right of the road. Morgan raised her eyebrows. So he was not unskilled. Interesting. She continued down the road, all her senses tuned to what was going on in the woods beside her, and allowed events to unfold as they would.

In truth, she likely should have been more careful, but she'd had a rather tedious journey so far, it was dusk, and she was in the mood for something to do besides walk. But not too much sport. She was, after all, in a fair bit of haste. Best that she merely take the fool and render him unconscious, then be on her way.

She was prepared when she heard a footstep behind her and felt a hand clap her on the shoulder. Morgan stomped back on the arch of his foot, elbowed him in the gut when he bellowed in pain. She drew her sword, then spun around and clunked him heartily on the side of his head with the hilt.

He fell to the ground like a mature tree, slowly and ending with a great thump.

Morgan waited an appropriate amount of time before she attempted to roll him over, her sword still in her hand. She managed it with difficulty, but once she had him on his back, she could see that he breathed still.

Perhaps unfortunately.

She looked, in surprise, at the most handsome man she had ever clapped her poor eyes on. Not pretty, as many lords' sons she'd known were, but noble. Indeed, the first thought that came to mind was that he belonged as a statue in the Hall of Kings in Tor Neroche, not trailing her to do heaven only knew what. His hair was dark, his features perfectly fashioned, and his form enviable.

Of course, he was drooling, but that might have had something to do with her tender ministrations.

Morgan took an unsteady step backward. It took her three tries to replace her sword in its sheath. The man had been following her, likely with her death on his mind. Or worse. She hadn't killed him, for pity's sake.

Still, it was difficult to look away from him. She felt like she had the first time she'd laid eyes on the sword Nicholas had had made for her. It had been so beautiful, she'd done nothing but stare at it, hardly able to believe such a thing existed. And considering the undeniable beauty of the man before her, perhaps she could be forgiven her moment of weakness.

Weger wouldn't have agreed, but he wasn't there to witness her witlessness and she certainly wouldn't tell him when next they met.

She gave herself a good shake, reminded herself that she was not an empty-headed tavern wench, and attempted to turn her mind to other things. Usually at this point in a skirmish she would have been looking for spoils. She set herself to that task, almost certain it would make her feel more herself.

It was one of the rules of engagement. When one bested his enemy, the victor was entitled to the conquered's goods. If one was feeling particularly generous, he left the vanquished his boots and cloak. All weapons were fair game, though it was generally considered bad form not to leave the fallen at least something with which to defend himself.

She would first look for weapons. It would serve a dual purpose: he wouldn't be able to use them against her and she could perhaps fall upon them if she didn't regain her wits soon. She reached for his sword. Somehow, though, she could not bring herself to touch it. She gaped at her own hand as if she'd never seen it before.

With a curse, she reached again for the sword, only to find herself still unable to even put her hand to it.

Good heavens, what next? Would she take up stitching? She snorted and promised herself a good run later to clear her head. For now, she would settle for the man's purse, which she cut from his belt without a twinge of remorse, and a rummage through his pack.

She helped herself to a pair of socks so fine they had to have been stolen from someone else and a scarf made of the same stuff. These things she put into her own pack, then she examined the contents of his purse.

She was surprised to find the coins were not all of a Melksham strike. Half of them she did not recognize; she wondered if she might have pilfered fakes. They bit like gold, though, so she supposed they would do in a pinch. She hesitated, muttered in disgust under her breath, then deposited a bit of his gold back into his purse and put his purse into his pack. No doubt he would find himself robbed of it just the same, but she would sleep with a clear conscience knowing she hadn't been the one to leave him penniless. She had been far kinder to him than any of her mates would have been. They would have thought her mad.

She suspected she should have agreed with them.

With a sigh, she squatted down, put her hands under the man's shoulders and dragged him off the road under the trees. She retrieved his pack and dumped it down next to him.

She walked away before she did anything else foolish.

She had done enough already.

 

 

An hour later it was dark and Morgan was leaning against a tree twenty paces from the man she had felled, unable to explain to herself why she was there or what she hoped to accomplish by returning.

She had traveled for half an hour, then come to an unwilling stop, unable to go on. She had touched the mark on her brow, reminded herself that it had been earned at the expense of any emotion and any pity. She didn't pity the man. She certainly hadn't fallen prey to the fairness of his face.

Perhaps it had been the fineness of his socks. She'd paused to put them on, unable to resist their softness. It was possible that they had been what had dealt the killing blow to her common sense.

Or perhaps it had been instinct that had forced her to retrace her steps. Weger had never discounted instinct. Indeed, that was the one thing about her he had found to praise, if a single lifting of one eyebrow on one lone occasion could be taken as praise. Few earned even that.

But as she stood leaning against the tree, she discounted instinct and socks, and credited her return to too much rich food at Nicholas's table. She would have to remedy that with a large number of very meager meals on her journey.

The man in front of her stirred. Morgan saw him sit up, then clutch his head in his hands. He lay back down with a selection of curses that had even her raising her eyebrows in appreciation.

It was likely those curses that distracted her from the true peril—the one that had put the point of his sword on her shoulder and given her a brisk tap or two.

Morgan spun around. She had her sword halfway from its sheath before she stopped and stared in surprise.

“Paien?” she said.

Paien of Allerdale made her a low bow. “Morgan, you are not yourself,” he said. “Didn't you recognize me?”

She should have. He was one of a trio of companions she had kept company with since her release from Gobhann. “I did. I just didn't expect to see you here.”

“Actually, neither did I,” Paien said with a half laugh, “but things change when you least expect them to.” He nodded toward the road where vociferous complaints were still being made. “Who is that?”

Morgan shrugged. “I have no idea. He was silent enough after I felled him.”

“No doubt,” Paien said. “Well, we'd best go shut him up, or we'll have every ruffian for miles joining us for supper.” He looked at her calculatingly. “Why were you watching over him?”