"Do youwantromance?"
She snorted. "I daresay it would ruin my sleep."
He put his arm around her shoulders and started back toward camp. "I know just the thing. I'll tell you of Catrìona of Croxteth. She was an ordinary gel, you know, who found herself thrust into quite extraordinary circumstances."
"Is there magic involved?" Morgan asked, putting her arm around Miach's waist when he stumbled.
"Only to make her sword sharper," he said. "A pity she died so long ago. You would have liked her very much, I think."
"Miach, how do you know all these tales?"
"I?"
"Never mind," Morgan interrupted. "I remember now. Too much time at the fire; not enough time in the lists."
"Something like that," he agreed.
Morgan walked with him back to the fire, nudged Glines ungently with her foot to wake him for his watch, then made herself a place by the fire and rolled up in her blanket. Miach did the same, stretching out with his head near hers. Morgan rolled onto her belly and rested her chin upon her folded hands.
"Well?" she said expectantly.
"It is a verylongtale," he said, "but very necessary for those who might want to spend a great deal of their time not sleeping."
"That would be me," she said gratefully.
"So I suspected. Now, make yourself: comfortable and give heed to the interesting facts I plan to lay out for you. The manner of Catrìona's birth is on this wise…"
Morgan watched him as he spoke, the firelight flickering softly on his face, his eyes alight with the enjoyment he obviously took in his words. And he did spin a fine tale, reminiscent or Nicholas, and Morgan listened with pleasure. She remembered finally having to rest her head on her pack because she grew sleepy. The singing or the blade did not trouble her, for a change. Catrìona or Croxteth had put a spell on her blade so it would sing to her in a different scale depending on what sort of trouble was near. Morgan wondered if she could teach her knife the same thing, then she remembered that it was the kings blade, not hers.
Perhaps after her task was done, she would take her marvelous horse and ride across the mountains to Durial where she might learn from the dwarves there the art of forging. Then she would make her own blade. And she just might teach it to sing as well.
The thought was pleasing and quite comforting. She fell asleep, to her great surprise, with the touch of Miach's hand on her hair and his voice whispering in her ear.
And she dreamed of blades that sung a song only she could hear.
Chapter Nineteen
Miach sighed as he sat on the edge of yet another well. It had been a very long sen'night and it looked to be lengthening still. He remembered little of the journey from Chagailt save that he'd wanted desperately to sleep and he knew Morgan couldn't bear to. He pitied her the dreams that haunted her. He wished he had a good explanation for them save the one she wouldn't want to hear.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the suspicions he'd begun to have at Chagailt about the fate of Gair's daughter were but a foreshadowing of a truth he now realized he could no longer deny.
He was convinced Gair's youngest daughter had survived. He was equally sure she had been taken in by a band of traveling mercenaries. There she had learned to shun anything to do with magic. That distaste had been strengthened at an orphanage. It surely had been completely cemented into her being at a particular tower on the coast of a backward island famous for sheep and feuds over water rights.
In short, he was positive Morgan was Gair's lost daughter.
There was simply no other explanation for Morgan's abilities, or her dreams.
And it she was Gair of Ceangail's daughter, she certainly would have the power necessary to wield the Sword of Angesand. Was it possible that she dreamed of the sword not only because it resembled her blade, but because she was destined to wield it?
The Wielders of the Sword of Angesand will come, out of magic, out of obscurity, and out of darkness…
If there was a darkness out there, Gair had certainly been a master of it. And if Morgan sprang from that line, it would fit the prophecy. But what would Morgan say to it all?
He imagined he knew already, and her response wouldn't use very many polite words.
He dragged himself back to the present with great effort. He would think on it later. Now, he was working and needed to make certain he had earned their keep.
They had made camp at twilight near the barn of an obliging farmer. Miach had paid their price of supper by a quietly made promise of a sweetened well, which the farmer had enthusiastically agreed to. Miach had eaten briefly, then gone about his work. It had been nothing compared to what he'd done at Angesand, but still it had been wearying.
