Star of the Morning

by Lynn Kurland

  Nicholas smiled approvingly. “Then you know that much. If so, then you know that Sarait had a sister. Four sisters, actually.”

  Miach cast his mind quickly back through the histories he’d read until he latched on to a name that had never seemed important before.

  Until now.

  Nicholas of Lismòr.

  Lismòrian of Tòrr Dòrainn.

  Too close for coincidence.

  “Lismòrian of Tòrr Dòrainn,” Miach said in amazement. “She was Sarait’s sister.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Very good. Lismòrian was my lady wife.”

  “You named your university after her.”

  “It seemed fitting.”

  “But that would make you ...” Miach looked at the other man in profound surprise. “Nicholas, the wizard king of Diarmailt.”

  Nicholas smiled. “You’re very well read, lad. No doubt you became so while you were recuperating from your time in Lothar’s dungeon and learning to bear the weight of your new mantle.”

  “But you dropped out of tales two hundred years ago!”

  “Did I?” Nicholas mused. “I suppose that might be true. But I have been here and there, doing what needed to be done. I tried to stop Sarait from marrying Gair, you know, but she thought he had changed his ways.”

  “Soft-hearted, was she?” Miach asked faintly.

  “Aye,” Nicholas said. “And Gair was charming, when he wanted to be. I know how she was deceived. He was my friend at one time as well.”

  “Indeed,” Miach managed.

  “Aye, indeed,” Nicholas said. “But that is a tale for another time. My turn on the stage is over, but yours has just begun. You have made a good beginning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve watched you for years.”

  Miach looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I hesitate to ask,” Miach said frankly.

  Nicholas shrugged with a smile. “I always thought you and Morgan would make a fine match.”

  Miach wondered if he could possibly be surprised by anything else that happened that night.

  “I doubt Morgan will agree,” he said grimly. Then he frowned. “I wonder something, though. Did you know who Morgan was when she came to the university?”

  Nicholas smiled. “Aye, I knew who she was. You see, Sarait had asked me to care for her children should anything have happened to her. I said I would, of course, never dreaming that she intended to risk her life by goading Gair into proving his power. By the time I realized what she’d done, the mercenaries had already taken Morgan in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Morgan the truth about her parents?”

  Nicholas looked at him sideways. “Can’t you imagine how she would have taken it? How have her dreams haunted her now? I shudder to think how it would have affected her then. Besides, I wanted her hid and there was no better place than in a mercenary camp. And then my orphanage. And then Weger’s tower of terror.” He smiled. “Aren’t those the last places you would have looked for her?”

  Miach wished for nothing more than a seat. “I suppose so.” He paused. “But I fear all that safekeeping may have been undone tonight. I must return inside and tend her.”

  “You cannot heal her of this hurt.”

  “I could—”

  “Perhaps,” Nicholas conceded, “but it would take all your skill and leave you none for other things. Now, your task lies elsewhere and your land will lie in ruins if you do not see to it. That is your duty, if you will.”

  Miach wanted to stop time, so he could determine for himself if this was the right course. In truth, Tor Neroche could have fallen down around his ears and he wouldn’t have cared. Not if it meant he could save Morgan.

  “Duty,” Miach said with a sigh. “I detest that word.”

  “Of course you don’t, Mochriadhemiach,” Nicholas said gently. “Now, give her to me and be about your business.”

  Miach couldn’t bring himself to release her. “I do not doubt you are who you say you are, and I know the care you’ve taken of her over the years, but how can you possibly equal in that university of yours the herbs I have here?”

  “You aren’t the only one with a decent garden, lad.”

  “But healers—”

  “Do you think I have only a selection of Harding’s sons in my hall?” Nicholas asked.

  “When will I see her again?” Miach asked, pained.

  “If she lives—”

  Miach clutched her to him. “I’m coming with you.”

  “You will be of no use to her now,” Nicholas said calmly. “If she lives, you will know.”

  Miach closed his eyes briefly. “I want an assurance.”

  Nicholas looked at him with one raised eyebrow. “You’re the archmage, lad. Stretch your vision. Surely you don’t believe your duty lies within your own borders alone, do you? You can know of what happens in other countries besides your own.” He smiled. “You’ll know—without my sending word.”

  Miach found he had no response to that.

  Apparently seizing that as his opportunity to be about his business, Nicholas took several steps backward. Miach didn’t look away, he did not blink, but suddenly in the place of the man crouched a great dragon with scales of emerald and a breast so encrusted with gems that Miach couldn’t begin to speculate on their worth. As it was, they dazzled him with their brightness and hue.

  The dragon beat its great wings and rose, then stretched out its great talons. Miach found himself offering Morgan to the wizard king of Diarmailt as if he hadn’t a useful thought in his head or the smallest bit of sense to go with that thought.

  I will see to her, if seeing can be done.

  And with that, the dragon rose into the air, its burden clutched delicately in its talons. Miach stood, gaping, until the wind from the creature’s wings stopped blowing his hair into his eyes and he could finally see.

  He watched until the creature from a dream ceased to sparkle in the night sky.

  All that was left was stars. Those sparkled as well, but he supposed that might have been from the tears standing in his eyes.

  Miach dragged his sleeve across his eyes and continued to watch until he knew he would be standing there forever if he didn’t turn away.

  He took a deep breath. He would secure the kingdom, then he would take his own journey to Melksham Island and he would do it as quickly as possible. Perhaps Nicholas was equal to the task of healing Morgan, but he couldn’t possibly love the girl the same way Miach did. If nothing else, he would offer what aid he could . . . and an apology, if allowed.

  He turned away from the courtyard and walked back into the castle.

  The great hall was still in an uproar. The shards of sword had been swept up and were currently being contained in a brass ash bucket held rather uneasily by Cathar. Cathar and Paien were eyeing each other closely, as if they wondered who would draw the first blade. No doubt Cathar was wondering if he might be able to put the bucket down before blood was spilt.

  Miach took the bucket away from his brother and handed it to Fletcher.

  “Guard that with your life,” he said briskly.

  Fletcher edged closer to Glines.

  Miach turned to Adhémar. “Get on with your wedding. I’ve other things to do.”

  Adhémar glared at him. “When I have my magic back, you will find yourself in a place you won’t enjoy.”

  “Your magic back?” Adaira of Penrhyn screeched. “That keeps resurfacing, Adhémar. What do you mean by that?”

  “I told you it was an aberration,” Adhémar said dismissively. “I’m going to go dress. Perhaps you’ll care to see to supper.”

  Miach watched his brother walk off in one direction, his suddenly quite furious betrothed stomp off in another, and found himself somewhat relieved that he was not in either’s shoes. His brothers likewise departed for safer ground, leaving him there with Morgan’s companions. He looked at them to find them still
watching him with expressions ranging from astonishment to disapproval.

  He faced disapproval first. He walked over to Paien and held out his hand.

  “I’m Mochriadhemiach,” he said. “Archmage of the realm. I’ve been traveling in disguise for a pair of fortnights for reasons I will give later. My friends call me Miach.”

  Paien looked at his hand for several moments, then studied him for several moments more before he finally took his hand and shook it in a crushing grip. “Where’s Morgan?” he asked.

  “That is a tale better reserved for my private chambers,” Miach said. “She is safe.”

  Paien grunted and released his hand. “I wondered about you.”

  “Did you,” Miach said dryly.

  Camid came and clapped hands with him, looking up with a squint. “I didn’t. I’ve no use for magic, outside of using it as a way to describe my skill with an axe, but I suppose I won’t hold it against you. Sweet on her, are you?”

  “Hmmm,” Miach said.

  “Then why in the bloody hell did you bring her here?” Camid asked, fingering his axe purposefully.

  “Again, a conversation for another place.”

  “But the time will be now,” Paien growled.

  Miach looked about to see if he had any friends in the area. Fletcher was holding the bucket as if he feared it might come alive at any moment. Glines, however, was casually swinging the hilt around his finger and looking at Miach with a smile. Miach nodded at him and started toward the door of the great hall. Glines caught up with him easily, leaving the others to follow.

  “Where’s Morgan?” Glines asked.

  “I sent her off with a dragon.”

  Glines choked. Miach smiled grimly.

  “I wish I were jesting. She will be well.”

  “You’ll see to it,” Glines stated.

  “If seeing can be done,” Miach said. He sighed and walked quietly for several moments, out of the great hall, through passageways, up and down half flights of stairs, and then to the bottom of the twisting steps that went up to his tower chamber. He looked at Glines. “I hope she will be well.”

  “Could you not cure her?”

  Miach put his hand on the wall and considered his words very carefully for some time. Finally, he looked at Glines. “I could have, perhaps,” he began slowly, “but to do so would have required all my attention, all my skill, and perhaps all my strength.” He paused. “A thousand years from now, I might have gained the fortitude to do that and see to the realm at the same time.”

  “A thousand years,” Camid snorted. “Ridiculous. Who will be alive in a thousand years?”

  Miach decided that perhaps that was a topic for a more private setting as well. He smiled at Glines. “I relinquished her to someone with the skill, the strength, and the age. He will see to her. I will see to the realm.”

  “And when she is whole?”

  “Then I suppose you and I will battle for her hand,” Miach said lightly.

  “I would lay odds on myself, at this point,” Glines said seriously.

  “Unfortunately, so would I,” Miach said. He swept them all with a look. “Come, friends, and ascend with me. We have plans to make and tales to tell.”

  “And a wedding feast to attend,” Glines added helpfully.

  Miach sighed, then climbed the stairs, leaving the others to follow along. He would tell his tales, they would make their plans, then he would set his spells and secure the borders. If he had time, he would see if he couldn’t get a reasonable look at Adhémar’s sword and determine if it had been enspelled or not. He would take a moment or two more and think about that strange magic that seemed to be cropping up in unexpected places.

  And then he would put it all behind him and take his own journey south, to see what aid he could offer Nicholas.

  And hope there would be a reason to.

  Twenty-six

  Nicholas of Lismòr, brother-in-law to the fair Sarait and uncle to the lass lying in the bed before him, sat in a chair under a window in a peaceful, quiet chamber and stared out at the night sky. He’d been sitting in that chair for quite some time. He generally didn’t rest overmuch, despite his years, but he had expended all his energy and he was weary.

  If there were stars, he could not see them. It was indicative of the state of things. Darkness covered the land. Darkness covered the young woman lying in the bed nearby. Darkness covered even his own heart, and he wasn’t one to give in to despair.

  He fingered the ring he held. It was a man’s ring, a jet-black stone set in silver. Nicholas did not shiver when he touched it, though he supposed he should have. The ring had belonged to Gair of Ceangail. It was a reflection of his power and the darkness of his heart.

  Nicholas had received the ring when he’d received a wild, headstrong lass of twelve summers. The mercenaries who’d gifted him Morgan had also shoved the ring in his hands. They had warned him, though, never to show it to her. She’d been holding on to it when they’d found her wandering in the woods, dry-eyed and mute. A quick reconnaissance of the area had produced a darkness so complete that the men had fled in terror, taking the girl with them.

  The ring, they had said, gave the girl nightmares, but they had feared to throw it away lest at some point it prove to be the only link to her parentage.

  Of course, Nicholas had recognized the ring. He’d seen it thousands of times on Gair’s hand, even before Gair had wed Sarait. When he’d received it from the mercenary lads, he’d put it away in a trunk and put the girl in a chamber.

  The chamber he was sitting in, actually. The girl, who now lay in the bed, had grown up to be an astonishing young woman. Nicholas had had the privilege of watching over her during part of her youth. It had also been his privilege to exert all his power to do his best to call her back from the brink of death.

  He wondered, wearily, if she would wake.

  The poison had been strong, but Lothar’s poisons always were. Nicholas had had herbs dried and prepared for just such an occasion as this and he’d had the energy to pour into his own spells of healing.

  Perhaps Mochriadhemiach could have tended her well enough on his own. It was obvious the lad was desperately in love with her. Surely that had to count for something.

  But he was also guardian of the realm and his duty lay there.

  Nicholas fingered Gair’s ring and considered a bit more. Lothar’s spells were indeed strong and his hatred of Camanaë yet even stronger. There had been times, over the centuries, when Nicholas had wondered if that hatred might be too strong to overcome. Morgan had been their best hope.

  Perhaps he had been wrong to send her to Tor Neroche.

  But it had been her destiny . . .

  The night began to fade. Nicholas leaned forward and looked at Morgan. Her breathing was shallow. There was an unwholesome pallor to her face. If he hadn’t known better, he might have suspected she had already passed on. He cast about for something else he might do, some other concoction of herbs, some other spell of healing.

  Unfortunately, he was forced to admit that he had done everything possible. His strength and his magic were spent.

  He stared out the window and waited for a dawn that seemed long in coming.

  He distracted himself by thinking back over Morgan’s life. He’d known her, of course, from her birth, watched over her from afar during her childhood, then rejoiced the day her mercenary guardians had left her in his care. She had become everything, and more, her mother could have wished for. One day, if he had the chance, he would tell her so. And he would tell her how much Sarait had loved her.

  He remembered Sarait’s joy in her daughter and the foreknowledge she’d had of Morgan’s place in the history of the Nine Kingdoms. She’d never given up hope for Morgan’s future, despite Gair’s evil. Indeed, hadn’t she said as much by the name she’d given her daughter?

  Mhorghain.

  In the language of Camanaë, it meant hope.

  He watched as the morning star began to r
ise. It shone forth, heedless of the darkness, heedless of the fear in one man’s soul as he watched the daughter of his heart fight for her life.

  The star continued to brighten.

  And then, from the bed, there was a movement. It was not the last breath drawn before a soul’s final departure. It was a deep breath of life. Morgan stirred, then sighed and turned over in her sleep.

  Nicholas closed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. She slept, suddenly peacefully, as if she had merely been about a hard day’s labor and was resting from it.

  He let out a ragged breath. She would live.

  He smiled to himself, then looked out the window at the bright star in the east.

  The star of the morning.

  He took a deep breath. One test successfully passed. No doubt there would be others and they would be more grave than this. But just as the star of the morning heralded dawn, Mhorghain would bring hope to a kingdom that desperatedly needed it.

  And to a man who held that kingdom together by his magic alone.

  Nicholas put Gair’s ring in his pocket and stretched briefly before he sat back and closed his eyes.

  Morgan would be well. And though he could not control the events that would swirl around her, he could steady her before she plunged into them. He would tell her of her mother. He would give her what strength he could and offer what aid she would allow.

  He looked out at the dawn once more before he closed his eyes and smiled.

  It was enough for now.

  Turn the page for a sneak preview of the

  newest release from Lynn Kurland

  Spellweaver

  Coming in January 2011 from

  Berkley Sensation

  To follow the adventures of Miach

  and Morgan look for The Mage’s Daughter,

  on sale now!

  The magic was a mighty wave that rose with terrifying swiftness toward the sky, hovered there for an eternal moment, then crashed down again to earth, washing over everything in its path.

  The lad who had been standing at the edge of a glade watched with horror as the wave rushed toward him. He started forward to save his mother from being washed away only to remember that he had another task laid to his charge. He took hold of his younger sister’s hand only to feel her fingers slip through his grasp despite his efforts to hold on to her. He shouted for her, but his calls were lost in the roaring of the evil as it engulfed him, sending him tumbling along with it. He groped blindly for his sister in that uncontrollable wave—