Star of the Morning (44 page)

“Is this possible?” the woman said with a humorless laugh. “Is it possible that this ragged country wench does not know who the king is?”

Morgan did not care for the slight, but could not bring herself to defend her honor. She was too desperate to get the sword out of her hand, the knife in the king's, and be on her way. She looked at the woman hopefully. “Do you know who he is?”

The woman looked at Adhémar in astonishment. “Adhémar?”

Morgan shrugged. She was not above asking Adhémar, though she couldn't imagine he knew any better than she did. “Very well,” she said. “Adhémar, do
you
know the king?”

The woman's laughter was painful to listen to. It left bits of ice in the air as it wafted toward Morgan. “You foolish girl, he
is
the king.”

Morgan blinked. “No, he isn't.”

“Adhémar, you should perhaps improve your likeness on your coinage,” the woman said scornfully.

“Likeness?” Morgan repeated, feeling that her feet were not stable beneath her.

“Perhaps after we are wed,” the woman said smoothly.

“Wed?” Morgan repeated dumbly.

The woman looked down her nose. “Did you think you would have him, my little cabbage leaf?”

“He's an ass,” Morgan said without thinking. “I wouldn't have him if he begged.”

Gasps echoed throughout the chamber. Morgan suspected Adhémar's was the loudest.

Paien and Camid took a step backward. Morgan saw them do it but couldn't manage to tell them not to bother. She was still having too much trouble reconciling what the woman was saying with what she knew couldn't possibly be true.

Adhémar, the king?

Preposterous.

She looked at the men gathered in a neat row to one side of Adhémar. They looked enough like him that they could have been his brothers. There were five of them.

The king had brothers, didn't he?

Morgan clutched the sword in her hand and looked back at Adhémar. He had only folded his arms over his chest and was watching her expressionlessly. He was named after the king, true enough, though she had suspected his parents had indulged in too much wishful thinking while he was a baby and named him after the eldest prince. Was it possible? She thought back swiftly to all her encounters with him. He had been boastful, irritating, condescending, and autocratic in the extreme. She had thought it was just a bit of wishful thinking on
his
part.

Perhaps it had been something else.

She managed to swallow.

“Are you—” Her voice broke and she had to try again. “Are you the king?” she asked, but there was little sound to her words. She sounded faint, even to her own ears.

“Of course he is the king, you idiotic shieldmaiden,” the woman in blue snapped.

Adhémar shot the woman a look of warning, then turned back to Morgan. “Aye,” he said with a curt nod. “I am.”

“But—” She could almost not find voice for her thoughts. “But why? Why did you say nothing? Why did you let me believe otherwise?”

“I need you to wield the Sword of Angesand.”

Morgan looked at the sword in her hand. “This?” she asked. “This is the Sword of Angesand?”

The woman in blue threw up her hands in disgust.

Morgan looked at Adhémar. “Is it?”

“It is.”

Morgan frowned. Well, if that was the case, then it was little wonder that he had tried to teach her spells. Perhaps he'd known all along that the sword would call to her. But how? She'd told no one about her errand to Tor Neroche. She'd told no one about the knife she carried. She'd told no one she had dreamed of a sword that perfectly matched that knife—a sword that even she could now see was the Sword of Angesand.

Then she froze.

That wasn't exactly true.

She looked at the men standing next to Adhémar. Five brothers. Now that she thought about it, she remembered that the king had six brothers.

She looked to her left. There, standing by himself silently, watching her with a very grave expression, was Miach.

Adhémar's youngest brother.

“Miach?” she said, but there was hardly any sound to her voice.

“Who does this wench think she is?” the woman asked shrilly. “He's the archmage of the realm and she addresses him so familiarly?”

Morgan felt the ground begin to sway beneath her. “Archmage?” she said, her breath nothing but a puff of sound that floated out before her and hung in the chill of the hall.

Miach closed his eyes briefly. “Aye,” he said quietly.

She wanted to sit, but she didn't dare. Was it possible? Was it possible that he was who they said he was?

But why? Why would he have lied to her?

She stopped still. The cold steel in her hand was answer enough, she supposed. It was all very clear to her now. The charm and friendliness. The anxiousness to teach her spells. The gallant offer to see her all the way to Tor Neroche.

All only because they wanted her to put her hand on the damned Sword of Angesand and see if it called to her.

Perhaps that she could have borne, if that was all the betrayal there had been. But it went deeper than that—and it all had to do with Miach.

He was not Miach the bumbling farmer, he was Mochriadhemiach, the son of Desdhemar of Neroche. The archmage of the realm.

The archmage, not an inept weaver of spells.

The embodiment of everything she despised.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword—that beautiful sword that fit so perfectly in her hand—and she looked Miach full in the face.

“Who are you?” she rasped. “Tell me yourself, if you have the courage for it.”

The woman laughed. “Goodness, Adhémar, is it possible she truly has no idea of who—”

“Shut up,” Morgan said, whirling on the woman and pointing the sword at her. “Shut up, you shrill harpy, before I aid you in doing so by means of a dozen ways you won't care for in the least.”

Adhémar's fiancée fell, blessedly, silent.

Morgan turned back to Miach and looked at him furiously. “Tell me. Say the words.”

Miach paused only a heartbeat before he looked at her gravely. “I am Mochriadhemiach,” he said quietly. “And I am the archmage of the realm.”

Morgan heard nothing but that. She saw the truth of it in Miach's eyes and knew he would not apologize for it. But to think of the lies, the deceit, the misleading he had done—

He had called her
love.

A great anger welled up in her. It was so strong, she half feared it would consume her, but that it didn't was even more terrifying. It raged through her with a sound of rushing wind, white hot in its fierceness, leaving her blind to all but her fury. In that moment, she understood what fueled Gair of Ceangail. She understood how he could hate so fiercely that he would destroy everything in front of him without mercy.

She lifted the sword—

And brought it down with all her strength against the banquet table before her.

The blade splintered, shattered, sparked as it disintegrated into thousands of shards and bits that floated through the air before her like snow.

The table remained intact.

Morgan stared at the haft of the sword, that beautiful hilt that was worked with a tracery of flowers, and could not believe what she had just done. She looked about her. Adhémar was staring at her, openmouthed. Soon that would turn to anger, she was certain of that. She looked at Miach.

His expression of profound pity had not changed.

Where there had been hate inside her, now there was only a deathly chill. Morgan threw the hilt onto the table with a sob and bolted.

She wasn't certain where she intended to go.
Out of the great hall
seemed like a good start. Her cheeks were wet and she found she could hardly see where she was going. She realized, to her horror, that she was making horrendous sounds of pain that she supposed some unkind village bard would have termed weeping. She had never wept thusly before, so she wasn't quite sure what to call it. All she knew was that she was in a dark passageway and she could not go back.

She would go back to Melksham. Perhaps she would die of seasickness on the boat. If she had the misfortune of surviving the voyage, she would find a siege and throw herself into it. Perhaps she would seek out Weger and see if he could drive whatever magic there was in her—and she now had to accept that it was a staggering amount—out of her. Whatever she did, she would at least become invisible.

Perhaps she would forget, in time, that once she had come to love the archmage of the realm. Perhaps, in time, she would cease to believe that she'd once thought he might have loved her in return—

She heard a crash and realized that she had upended a tray of fine crystal glasses. A servant stood there, having rescued one, apparently. The others lay in shards about his feet. Morgan dragged her sleeve across her eyes.

“My apologies,” she said, starting to brush past him.

“Wait, lady,” the old man said in a kindly fashion. “Perhaps this will ease you.”

She looked at the man. He had a horrible scar down one cheek. That prompted her to stop and humor him where she wouldn't have otherwise.

“What have you there?” she asked, looking at the lone survivor from his tray of drink.

“Wine,” he said dismissively. “A very fine vintage, I daresay, but not too high for the likes of us, eh?”

She wanted to tell him that she was the wielder of the Sword of Angesand, but what point would there have been in that? The sword was no more, and she was disgraced and shamed. Aye, she was little better than a servant indeed.

She took the glass, nodded her thanks, then drained it before she tasted it.

She heard more glass shatter against stone. It was only after she recognized that sound that she knew it had been her glass to fall from her fingers.

The bitterness of the poison spread through her like fire, though it was not fire, for it was cold. She looked at the man in surprise.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Why not?” Then he smiled. “Actually, there is a good reason, but I daresay you'll never know it.”

“Who are you?” she managed with her last thought. Darkness was hard upon her and she felt the flicker of flame that was herself becoming weaker.

“Lothar of Wychweald,” the man said with another conspiratorial smile, “but don't tell anyone I'm here. I was planning to keep myself out of sight so I could serve at the king's wedding feast when it comes, but I thought I'd try out my brew on you first. How do you like it?”

Morgan had no strength to offer any opinion.

The flame flickered wildly.

Then went out.

Twenty-five

Miach looked at the shards of the Sword of Angesand that lay scattered over the table and spilled onto the floor. A thousand shards that would never be put together again. He closed his eyes briefly. He'd known it would be terrible when Morgan realized the truth, he just hadn't known how terrible. He'd wanted to stop it. When keeping her from Tor Neroche had failed, he'd wanted to at least soften the truth.

He had come too late.

He supposed he might never forget the sight of the Sword of Angesand leaping down into her hand, as if it had waited decades to do just that.

He supposed he would also never forget the sight of her slamming it against the king's table and shattering it into pieces.

He ruthlessly put both visions behind him and strode forward. He snatched the knife off the table and shoved it into his belt. He caught the ring up as well and shoved it into a pocket. Adhémar wouldn't remember that the knife was intended for him and Miach would make sure he continued to forget. The ring was something he would think about later.

Then he reached out and carefully picked up the hilt of the Sword of Angesand. He held it, then turned and looked at his brother.

“You could have done that better,” he said shortly.

“Me?” Adhémar said, stunned. “I didn't tell her to ruin the bloody sword!” He scowled. “Not only did she break the sword, she insulted the princess of Penrhyn.”

Miach looked coldly at the woman standing to Adhémar's left. “Is that who you are?”

“I am Adaira,” said the woman in question. She looked down her very aristocratic nose at him. “I am here, my lord Mochriadhemiach, to become your queen. The wedding is in a month's time. Did my lord not see fit to tell you?”

Miach shot Adhémar a look of barely repressed fury. “Congratulations on your nuptials, my liege. A lovely surprise.”

Adhémar shrugged. “I told you I'd had business in Penrhyn. Now you see what that business was.”