He was the Archmage of Tor Neroche; she was a shieldmaiden. If ever there were two souls who were not at all suited for each other, it was they two.
He had told Adhémar to go and look for the unlikely; how ironic was it that he should be felled by what he'd told his brother to find?
He would go. Soon.
Because his duty was in the north. Because she was unsuitable. Because he was the archmage and his duty was to wed someone with magic.
Damn it anyway.
He eased over to the ladder and climbed down. He passed through the stables quietly and walked out into the night. He cast a veil of illusion over himself that no one might mark him.
He began to run.
It was almost without thought that the spell of shapechanging whispered through his mind. Soon he was beating his wings against the chill of the night air, lifting himself over the castle walls and high into the starlit sky.
He quite happily lost himself in thoughts of flight.
Dawn was still an hour or two off when he climbed back up the ladder and cast himself down on the hay next to Morgan.
She stirred.
Miach froze, waiting until she went back to sleep.
"You smell like the wind," she said with a yawn.
"A night on the battlements," he lied.
"Hmmm," she said, then she rolled over and fell back asleep.
Miach would have pitied himself, but it was his own fault. He should have left that night, that first night before he sat five paces from her bed and watched her sleep. He should have gone home before he spoke with her, before he had watched her wield her sword with the Hashing gems, before he watched her look at Hearn's horses with a longing that smote him in the heart.
Aye, he should have gone.
More the fool was he for not having done so.
Chapter Twelve
Morgan walked through the lists. The garrison had already been exercised that morning and had begged, in not so many words, for a respite. Morgan had obliged them, though it had left her without anything to do but wander aimlessly about, trying not to look as it she wandered aimlessly about.
Lest Hearn of Angesand think her efforts were less than sufficient for one of his magnificent horses.
Her wanderings left her standing in the human's inner courtyard. The well stood in a corner of this courtyard and upon the edge of that well sat a man who looked as if he'd passed the last four days with the garrison, not waggling his fingers in a more unmanly pursuit.
Morgan crossed over and sat down next to him, but he did not move. Surely this business of magic could not be this taxing. Unless he wasthatunskilled and even a task that looked as simple as this was beyond the extent of his art. Was he sleeping? In the middle of a spell?
Wondering how he might flee the keep with his pride intact and his torso unpierced by her disappointed sword?
Miach rubbed his face and sighed. "Finished with the men so soon?" he asked.
"They needed a rest," she said gravely. "It does me no good to grind them so far into the dust that they cannot recover."
"True enough. "
"So I came to see about you. Do you need aid."
He reached behind him and drew out a dipper of water. He handed to her and watched expectantly.
Morgan tasted. She froze, unsure if she was tasting water or dew from heaven. She sipped again, hesitantly. Nay, she had not been mistaken. She couldn't remember the last time she'd drunk something that tasted as if it had been made with sunshine and green things and clear blue skies. She looked at Miach in astonishment.
