Miach flinched.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking genuinely so. "I never meant?"
He couldn't tell her that he hadn't flinched from pain. He couldn't tell her that he was presently wasting a great deal of time and energy trying to convince himself that she had no magic. He couldn't say that he was wasting any further unused energy trying to convince himself that she could not possibly be the wielder.
Because he suspected he knew the truth.
Because if she was the wielder, that would put her in a kind of danger he couldn't bear to think on.
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He couldn't say anything.
Damn it anyway.
She touched his arm again.
Miach shivered.
"Can I fix that?" she asked. "Those marks I made?"
He looked at her. He cursed. He didn't mean to, but there were times a man was forced to take drastic measures to protect his vulnerable parts.
His heart, for instance.
"I'm fine," he said roughly.
He wasn't about to tell her that he would bear the marks of her fingers on his arm for the rest of his life and never regret it for an instant.
She looked at him for a moment or two in silence, then rose, just as silently. Miach sighed deeply after she left. This was his own doing. When would he learn to take his own advice? He should have make certain Adhémar was well, then returned immediately to the palace. He could have been standing in his own comfortable tower chamber, contemplating the affairs of the realm and looking over a list of terrified brides whose fathers were determined to see them wed to him. There was great appeal in that, truly. Who knew but that he might find a woman who would actually remain conscious when presented to him at court?
Stranger things had happened.
The sound of a soft footfall distracted him. He looked up from his contemplation of the hay beneath his feet to find Morgan standing next to him. She put her pack on the bale of hay and arranged it. She looked at Miach.
"Lie down."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lie down, you fool, before you fall there."
Miach did so only because he was too startled not to. He put his head on her pack then watched in complete astonishment as she covered him with her cloak. She came close to patting him, he was almost certain of it. She did look down at him with something akin to concern in her eyes.
"The blade is still singing," she said. "Will it disturb you?"
Miach listened. He could hear it too, now that it was so close to his ear, but it was a pleasant, soothing song, so it did not trouble him.
It was a song of Camanaë.
"I'll be fine," he said. "Thank you."
Morgan sat down on another bale of hay at his feet. "I'll keep watch."
"The horses will be fine."
"I wasn't talking about the horses," she said. "Go to sleep, Miach. I vow you need it. Your eyes are very red."
"I haven't been sleeping well."
"You will tonight." She rose, drew her sword, then sat and laid it over her knees. "Sleep in peace."
