"Fanciful imaginings," Hearn said dismissively. "But," he added in a conspiratorial whisper, "do not mistreat any of my beasts, or I'll hear of it."
Miach laughed. "I'll keep that in mind, my lord." Then he sobered. "As to what you've heard… aye, there is some truth to it."
"Which is why you are here and not at Tor Neroche, minding your spells," Hearn noted. "You're attempting to find someone to wield a particular piece of metal?"
Miach looked at him evenly. "I don't need to be at Tor Neroche to mind my spells. And aye, that other reason is why I am here."
Hearn grinned. "I was teasing you, lad. I never doubted you could be about you business at any location while beleaguered by any type of distraction. And speaking of that distraction, why is she here?"
"Morgan." Miach asked dryly. "Well, she is merely here for a horse. Not that there are any mere horses here, of course."
"Nay, there are not," Hearn agreed. "And I suspect there is much more to it than that, but I'll not press you. To your work, Buck." Hearn shot Miach a look, then laughed heartily and rose and walked away. "Buck, indeed."
Miach pursed his lips. He might have seen humor in it, but that was obscured by the fact that he was tired, moving further away from the comfort of breakfast as he breathed, and it was beginning to rain.
He hoped that was not indicative of any future success.
He spent most of the day at his enchantment. There was a part of him that suspected that Hearn of Angesand had purposely ordered an enchantment of bitterness laid upon that water to torment him, for despite all his work of unraveling the day before, the water was still almost undrinkable. Progress was made slowly but there were times when he despaired of having any lasting success. He was bone weary when the sunset, too weary for supper. He limped directly to his luxurious place in the hayloft. Morgan was already there, stacking her blades in a particular order next to her.
Not on the side of her where he would be lying, if anyone was interested.
He sat down and looked as she considered a particularly small but lethal-looking dagger.
"A successful day in the lists?" he asked.
"The lads are improving," she said simply. "I cannot make them over in a pair of days."
He studied her long enough that she finally looked up at him. He wanted to shake his head in disbelief, but he didn't dare. What drove a woman of this beauty to take up the sword as her life's work? She could have had any man she wanted, surely, and enjoyed any number of comforts of home and hearth. Why had she chosen a life of discomfort, cold, and death?
And what of Hearn's other tidings… was it possible Morgan had actually trained with Scrymgeour Weger? He could hardly believe it, but he could also not deny that she fought in a manner that left chills coursing down even his spine?and he was not unskilled nor afraid. Was she so without hope, then? Or was it just that she detested magic?
If it was the latter, it did not bode well for him.
It also did not bode well for the possibility of her having wielded Adhémar's sword. Perhaps, then, it had been nothing but necessity that had forced the blade to reveal itself. Miach supposed he should be grateful and just move on.
But he couldn't bring himself to. Not yet. Just a day or two more with this woman who had a collection of blades that Cathar would have salivated over.
Just another day or two.
"Have I grown horns?"
Miach blinked, then smiled. "My apologies. I was just thinking."
"Apparently too hard."
"It was a perplexing subject."
"Do I want to know what it is?"
He smiled. "Likely not. But I will tell you some of it, if you like."
"I feared you would."
He laughed. "Do not stick me with any of your very sharp daggers there, but I wondered what it was that made you choose your profession."
She shrugged. "I know nothing else."
"Yet you lived at the university for several years, did you not?"
