Paien looked equally as nervous.
Camid's nose was quivering, but he was made of very stern stuff.
The farther along they went, the more Morgan realized that she was a very,verysmall part of a much,muchlarger world. True, she bore in her pack a blade that Nicholas of Lismòr had bid her bring to the king, but what did that mean? For all she knew, the king wouldn't be bothered to see her. Perhaps she would only deposit the blade into the hands of a retainer, then be shown the front gates.
Assuming she made it inside the front gates to be shown back out of them.
"Morgan."
Morgan looked at Miach. Her mouth was appallingly dry and her eyes unsettlingly moist. Good heavens, was her form going to desert her fully now?
"Aye. "she croaked.
Miach tapped his finger meaningfully over his left eyebrow.
Morgan touched Weger's mark. It seemed a very small thing, somehow, when compared to what she was seeing now. "But?"
"The king would give his right arm to fight as you do. He would take you as his champion in less time than it takes me to say as much?and count himself more fortunate than any of the other eight kings."
She managed a frown. "You are a flatterer."
"Never," he said seriously. "Of all the things I am, a flatterer is not one."
"I will likely not even see the king."
Miach pursed his lips. "Then it will be his loss." He looked at her meaningfully. "Do not forget who you are."
She felt apprehension well up in her so suddenly and so strongly that she caught her breath. It took her quite some time to be able to draw a normal one again. When she could, she looked at him.
"Will you stay with me?" she croaked. She cleared her throat. "If you can?"
He smiled, but he looked a bit winded, as if he'd had his own brush with something devastating. "I will," he said finally. "I would count it an honor."
And then he looked at her for so long that she thought she might have blushed if her cheeks hadn't been so red already from the chill.
There was something in his expression she simply could not understand.
Was it affection?
Was it resignation?
Was she losing what few wits she had left?
She couldn't say and didn't dare speculate. Perhaps later, when her task was finished and she could think clearly. Perhaps Miach would stay with her until then. Perhaps he would be willing to speak of other things besides swords and magic.
Perhaps.
She round herself unsettled by something that annoyed her, only to realize it was the singing of the blade. It nothing else, at least ridding herself ofthatmight improve her mental state.
Morgan set her face forward. Damned goose-feather mattress. Bloody magic-slathered knife.
What was to become of her now?
She considered that until they crossed the massive drawbridge, rode underneath the terrifying spikes of the raised portcullis, and managed to get past the third defense of the massive iron gates. By that time Morgan had forgotten who she was, where she came from, and what she carried in her pack. She was clinging to consciousness by means of her pride alone. She would have given even her horse to have slunk oft back through the gate, under the portcullis, and over the drawbridge to drop down into the snow and hide.
"The palace is made to impress," Glines said, dropping back to ride beside her. "It was once, it you can believe it, a hunting lodge. "
Morgan blinked in surprise. "You jest."
