She wasn't sure if she was relieved that he was apparently hale and hearty or furious that he'd tricked her into coming by means of such a cryptic, panic-inducing message. One thing was certain: they would have words about the wording of future missives.
What she wanted to do was sit down and catch the breath she realized she'd been holding for almost a se'nnight. Instead, she nodded to the gatekeeper and walked weakly away. She would sit when she reached Nicholas's solar. And then once she recovered, she just might put him to the sword for her trouble.
She made her way across a rather large expanse of flat ground that the students and lads used to play games on, then continued on toward the inner walls that enclosed the heart of the university. Now, these were walls that offered protection against a foe. Morgan walked through the gate, casting a surreptitious look up at the heavy spikes of the portcullis gleaming dimly above her as she did so. Perhaps Nicholas was more concerned about the safety of his scholarly texts than he appeared.
Or perhaps he was concerned about the safety of his lads. She suspected she understood why. He had only mentioned once, in passing, that he'd had sons of his own at one time who had been slain. She supposed that since he hadn't been able to protect them, he felt compelled to protect others who could not see to themselves. Whatever the true reason, there were many, many souls that had benefited from his altruism. She certainly counted herself as one of them.
She threaded her way through many buildings and along paths until she reached the heart of Lismòr. It was an enormous building, with chambers and apartments surrounding an inner courtyard. Nicholas's chambers took up one half side of the building, and his solar happily resided in one of the corners. Morgan had spent many a pleasant hour in that solar, conversing with an exceptional man who had made an exception in her case, allowing her to remain at the orphanage in spite of her being a girl.
Which was no doubt why she found herself standing not fifty paces away from his chambers, instead of at a very profitable siege that had been destined thanks to much effort on her part to yield quite a tidy sum. Her comrades had thought her mad for walking away; she had agreed, yet still she had packed her gear and left. Now that she was here, she felt a completely appalling sense of homecoming.
All because of a message from a man who had been like a father to her.
Morgan pursed her lips and continued on toward Nicholas's private solar. She would contemplate her descent into madness later, perhaps when she was sitting before a hot fire with a mug of drinkable ale in her hand and Nicholas before her to answer a handful of very pointed questions.
She stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, turned the handle, and slipped inside. The chamber was an inviting one, luxuriously appointed yet not intimidating. A cheery fire burned in the hearth, fine tapestries lined the walls, and thick rugs were scattered over the floor to spare the lord's feet the chill of cold stone. Candles in abundance drove the shadows back into their corners and sweet music filled the air.
Until she closed the door behind her, that is. The music faltered. The young man who plied his lute averted his eyes when she looked at him.
"Continue, Peter," said a deep voice, roughened by the passage of many years. "Now, lads, I seem to remember one of you asking for a tale."
The dozen or so lads strewn about the floor like so many shapeless garments were successful in varying degrees at tearing their gazes from her. Morgan was acutely aware of the filth of her clothing and the poor condition of her cloak. She looked about her for a place to sit. She settled for a corner and sank down onto the stool that had been handily placed there for just such a need as hers. She pulled the edges of her cloak closer around her and did her best to become part of the shadows.
Then she glared at the man holding court, for Lord Nicholas looked fit and strong and certainly in no need of anything from her.
He only winked at her and turned his attention back to his lads. "What will it be tonight?" he asked. "Romance? Adventure? Perilous escapades that should result in disaster but do not?"
"Peril," Morgan said before she could stop herself. "Imminent death. Something that requires an immediate and drastic rescue. Something that might include missives sent and travels made when apparently there was no need."
The lads again turned to look at her briefly, many of them slack-jawed, the rest looking quite confused.
"Oh, nothing so frightening," Nicholas said smoothly. "Lads? Any suggestions?"
"The Tale of the Two Swords," a young lad piped up.
Half the lads groaned. Morgan groaned right along with them. Too much romance in that one. Unfortunately, it was one of Nicholas's favorites and one he would never do the decent thing and refuse to retell.
"The Two Swords," Nicholas agreed readily. "So it will be."
Morgan rolled her eyes and leaned back against the wall, preparing to completely ignore all she would hear. Obviously, she would have no answers out of the man before he was ready, and if he held true to form, his nightly tale-telling would last for at least an hour. It was his ritual, repeated as consistently as the sun rising and setting each day. It gave the lads a sense of security, or so he said.
Morgan closed her eyes, wondering if she might be able to snatch a bit of sleep and block out the romance that would ooze out of the tale Nicholas was beginning to spin. But, despite herself, she found herself listening. Gilraehen the Fey was bold, Mehar of Angesand was beautiful, and Lothar of Wychweald was evil enough to make the most hardened of listeners shiver.
In time, the romance in the tale increased. Morgan was quite certain there would be tender sentiments exchanged soon between Gilraehen and Mehar?things that were entirely too sugary to be inflicted upon the hapless lads in the chamber. Morgan shot Nicholas a warning look, but he blithely ignored it.
She gave up and turned her attentions to the condition of her own hands. As she listened to Mehar placing her hand in Gilraehen's and giving herself to him as his queen, Morgan pursed her lips. She herself hardly had time for such pleasantries; it was just as well, for no man would look at her hands, scarred and rough, and ask her to do anything with them besides curry his horse. A mercenary's life was not an easy one.
It was especially hard on one's hands.
"What of the two swords?" a lad asked. "The king's sword, especially." He paused. "I hear it is very sharp."
Nicholas laughed. "Well, of course the king keeps the Sword of Neroche. But the other?" He paused and shrugged. "The Sword of Angesand hangs in the great hall at Tor Neroche."
"But," another asked, sounding quite worried, "isn't the king afraid someone might make off with it?"
"Nay, lad, I daresay not. Before she died, Queen Mehar, she who fashioned the blade, laid an enchantment of protection upon it, that it would never be stolen. She also prophesied about several special souls who would wield that blade at a time of particular peril, but that is a tale for another night."
The lads protested, but not heartily. They were secure in the knowledge that the following night would bring more of the same sort of pleasure. Morgan watched them file past her and understood precisely how they felt. She'd been orphaned at six, taken in by a company of mercenaries for several years until she'd begun her courses, then heartlessly deposited without a backward glance upon Nicholas's doorstep at the tender age of ten-and-two. She had had her own share of those long evenings passed in the comfort of Nicholas's solar, listening to him tell his stories. But she had never, for reasons she never examined if she could help it, allowed herself to luxuriate in that sensation of security.
