Cathar shuddered. "I detest it when you shapechange. How can you bear it?"
"Flying is faster than riding," Miach said. He walked to the door. "I'll return as quickly as I can."
"How will I reach you?" Cathar called after him.
"You won't."
Miach pulled the door closed behind him, then loped down a single flight of his twisting stairs. He exited through a doorway that led him out onto the battlements. He paused to make certain all his spells were as intact as they were going to be for the moment, then he jumped up on top of the wall.
"Miach!"
Cathar's voice almost startled him badly enough to make him fall off. He glared over his shoulder at his brother standing below him.
"What?"
Cathar held out Miach's cloak. "I thought you might get cold."
Miach rolled his eyes, but he reached down to take the cloak Cathar held up to him. He swung it around his shoulders, then looked at his brother. "Satisfied. "
"Only marginally."
Miach snorted out a small laugh, then turned and dove off the wall.
"I hate it when you do this!" Cathar bellowed after him.
Miach had used the shapechanging spell so often that he hardly had to do more than think about becoming a hawk before the change was wrought in him. He continued his downward swoop, then pulled up before he hit the ground. He beat his wings hard against the air and rose through up through the dawn. He saw Cathar standing against the wall, shaking his fist and cursing him. Miach cried out in a hawk's voice, then continued his upward climb. He had no idea where to start, so he flew east. He hoped he would find his quarry quickly.
He needed the wielder of the Sword of Angesand.
He suspected that the safety of the realm might depend upon it.
Chapter Four
Morgan kicked aside the rotting leaves to make certain she'd left nothing behind in the roots of the tree. She stretched, ignoring her muscles that protested the motion. It had been a most uncomfortable night's sleep, one of many recently, and she blamed Nicholas for it. If she hadn't passed an entire se'nnight at Lismòr, she wouldn't have been so soft. As it was, she would probably spend the rest of her life regretting those days of perilous comfort.
She shouldered her pack, trying not to think about the blade lounging in the bottom of it, no doubt waiting for a most inopportune moment to make its presence known. She'd already decided that the best thing to do would be to pretend it just wasn't there. Of course, that might not be as easy as it sounded, considering it was the reason for her journey.
She took a deep, calming breath, put her troubling thoughts behind her, and set out on her day's walk.
She walked for several hours, paused briefly for a hasty meal made from things Nicholas's cook had packed, then continued on her way.
She was only a pair of days out of Bere and that spoke well of the quickness of her pace. Unfortunately it meant that she would be getting on a ship that much sooner, but that was something she didn't dare dwell on?
She stopped suddenly, her ear catching something amiss. A single step sounded behind her, then there was silence. Morgan didn't have to hear more. She cursed herself for thinking so deeply that she hadn't been paying heed to her surroundings. She started forward again, keeping to the near side of the road where the shadows of the trees gave some cover.
Twice more she stopped and twice more the footsteps stopped a scant moment later. The third time, the maker of the sounds was not so careful and she heard them distinctly. That was enough for her. With skill born of years of practice under Wegers less-than-gentle tutelage, she slipped off the road and doubled back until her pursuer was before her.
The man in front of her carried a sword; she could see the point of his scabbard hanging down below his long, travel-stained cloak. He moved with the carefulness of one used to war and its games. No scholar, that one, nor a pampered lord. Then who was he? And why was he following her? Was he looking for a traveling companion, or did he have a more sinister motive?
No matter. She had no desire for the first and no fear of the latter. She would merely keep him in her sights until an opportunity to choose a different path presented itself.
The man hesitated at one point, likely realizing that his quarry was no longer in front of him. He hesitated, then eased into the shadows of the wood to the right of the road. Morgan raised her eyebrows. So he was not unskilled. Interesting. She continued down the road, all her senses tuned to what was going on in the woods beside her, and allowed events to unfold as they would.
In truth, she likely should have been more careful, but she'd had a rather tedious journey so far, it was dusk, and she was in the mood for something to do besides walk. But not too much sport. She was, after all, in a fair bit of haste. Best that she merely take the fool and render him useless, then be on her way.
She was prepared when she heard a footstep behind her and felt a hand clap her on the shoulder. Morgan stomped back on the arch of his toot, elbowed him in the gut when he bellowed in pain. She drew her sword, then spun around and clunked him heartily on the side of his head with the hilt.
He fell to the ground like a mature tree, slowly and ending with a great thump.
