They walked off together, deep in discussion about things Morgan imagined would include remedying Miach's lack of weaponry.
Adhémar resheathed his blade and looked at her. "You are a passable swordsman," he conceded.
"Thank you," she said simply. She would have said quite a bit more, but Glines was seemingly on the verge of choking to death and friendship demanded that she at least whack him firmly on the back a time or two. Adhémar and Fletcher fell in behind Miach and Paien, so she didn't have the opportunity for any more instruction or enlightenment.
"He doesn't know you," Glines said quietly.
"I'm not offended," Morgan said.
He looked at her in astonishment. "You would have ground any other man in the dust for saying such a thing."
"I know," she said with a sigh. She shook her head slowly. Her wits were returning, but not swiftly enough. She looked up at Glines. "I will be more myself: tomorrow."
"One can hope," he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders.
She elbowed him sharply in the ribs and he laughed with a gasp.
"Better already, I see," he said with a grin.
"I was neverthatindisposed," she returned. But she did not feel totally herself either. There was something about looking over that lifeless brown plain that woke a terrible sense of foreboding in her.
"I am well," she said aloud, but Glines had already walked away.
Horses it would have to be, before it was too late. The knife in her pack seemed to concur because it whispered its assent.
She reshouldered her pack and followed her companions. She dreaded stopping to make camp.
That night she dreamed.
She was walking through a forest, a forest full of dense underbrush that forced her to struggle along. She made slow progress, but progress was made.
She was alone.
She continued to struggle, feeling a sudden urgency, as if there was an appointed place and a certain time set aside for something to happen that she must be a witness to. Something dreadful was going to happen.
She had to reach her journey's end before it did.
She pushed herself harder. The branches, thorns, and stickers tore at her clothing and her skin.
But she could not stop.
She could not or it would be too late.
Chapter Nine
Miach stood on the edge of camp, looking north as the sun began to set to his left. It had been a very long day so far and he suspected he would not go to his rest anytime soon. He stared, unseeing, into the distance and began to methodically test his spells for weakness.
Fortunately, or perhaps not, there was no change in what he'd become accustomed to as a normal level of erosion. That he had grown used to it was unsettling. That the deterioration continued despite his renewing and reweaving was perhaps even more disturbing. Was this truly part of a larger plan of attack, or was it nothing more than a concentrated effort by some evil mage to drive him mad?
He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
But what he did want to know was more about the circumstances surrounding the awakening of Adhémar's sword. Was it the sword itself that had decided to spring to life for that instant, or had Morgan called to the magic? Interesting questions, both of them, but ones he feared he would never have an answer to. He knew Adhémar wouldn't allow him to have a decent look at his sword and he suspected Morgan would likely skewer him if he suggested she had called any magic. If five days spent traveling with her had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that she despised magic in all its forms.
"Idle thoughts?"
Miach came back to himself with a snap that sounded audible even to his ears. He turned to find Morgan standing next to him. He focused on her with difficulty, then shook his head. "Nay," he said. "I was just thinking about home."
"Hmmm," she said. "And where would home be for you?"
