She considered for a moment or two, then stood up and took the brush from him. She set it down on the bale of hay where she had been sitting. Then she said a few appropriate words of un-noticing over the brush.
The brush disappeared under her spell.
Miach tried not to look as surprised as he felt.
Morgan shivered. "Well? What say you?"
"Interesting."
"It isn't the first thing I hid," Morgan said. She gestured across the passageway between the stalls. "I tried it on another pair of curry combs."
Miach thought that if she didn't sit, she would fall, so he took her hand and pulled her over to sit down next to him. He considered the brush lying directly before them. The spell was woven well, if not a little untidily. What surprised him, though, was that the spell was of Camanaë. He could see that magic shimmering in the threads of the spell that covered the comb. That was a beautiful magic, like a cloth woven of soft and lovely colors, shot through with a silver as hard as steel.
It was not his magic of choice. As archmage, he was free to choose what magic to use and he tended to use a combination of Wexham and Croxteth. He knew that in his own veins there ran Eulasaid of Camanaë's blood, because of his mother. He was, he conceded, also Camanaë sorceress Mehar of Angesand's descendant, which he supposed Hearn knew very well. Perhaps that had been a mark in his favor.
Which was neither here nor there. Camanaë was a gentler magic, but he supposed that was no reflection of the women who used that magic. Womanly they might have been, but with wills of steel and ferocious in their defense of their land and their children.
He turned to study Morgan. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised that such a magic would come from her. She was as adamant as polished steel, but even so, there was beauty there.
And then he felt his mouth fall open.
Morgan? Magic?
Perhaps that blazing of the Sword of Neroche hadn't been a fluke after all.
But fluke or not, she did not look at all as if she relished what she'd just done. Miach promised himself a good think on what that might mean later on. For now, he would do what he could to ease her mind.
He rested his chin on his fist and looked at her. "Well," he said, finally, "that's something."
She looked at him so earnestly, he almost winced.
"Can you see the brush?"
"Um," he said, wondering what he could say that wouldn't reveal more than he cared to, "well, Iknowit is there, of course. You've done a very good job of hiding it. "
"I know," she said grimly. "But what of the others. "
Well, aye, he could see those as well, but there was even less sense in telling her that. He smiled faintly. "You'll have to show me where they are, of course. Now, tell me again how you knew the spell?"
"I dreamt it. "
"Did you." he said. It wasn't unheard of, but it certainly wasn't common. "Will you tell me of that particular dream?"
She took a deep breath. "I've been having it for days now. Bits and pieces of it." She patted herself for a weapon, drew a dagger from some bit of her person, and fingered it. "It has troubled me greatly."
Miach looked at her dagger. "Don't stab me by mistake. "
She frowned at him. "Miach, I try not to be overly critical, but you need to work on your manliness. "
He only smiled. "I'll be about it right after you finish. "
She put her dagger away, clutched the edge of the hay bale, and looked down at the floor of the stable. "It started with dreams of running."
"Were you running?"
"I thought so, at first. Now I think I'm dreaming of a little girl and she's the one running. The forest was full of thorns and underbrush that could not be bested."
He waited.
