He wondered.
Perhaps he would offer, when the time was fit, to teach her the few spells a poor farmer might know. It might show them both what she was capable of.
He thought again of Gair of Ceangail, his arrogance, his absolutely stupidity in taking his precious wee ones to a place of such evil.
The man had deserved death.
He wondered, however, what he had left behind.
He would give that more thought later, when he'd lured Morgan back inside, fed her, and put her to sleep. For now it was all he could do simply to keep up with her.
Chapter Sixteen
Morgan sat on a little stool near the hearth, shivering. She wondered when it would all stop, this appalling departure from her usual method of conducting her life. First it had been that unsettling bit of charity when she'd first encountered Adhémar, then that horrible seasickness, and then?
She shifted her stool closer to the fire. She didn't want to think about anything else, not Adhémar's sword, not Nicholas's blade, not her terrible dreams. She held her hands out toward the blaze, but it didn't help her. The chill had settled in her heart and there was nothing to be done about it. She looked over at the book that sat on the shelf on the far side of the chamber. Such an unassuming tome. There was nothing engraved upon the outer cover. If one could ignore the magic that blanketed it, one might have been able to read it easily.
Morgan wondered what was inside that book.
She'd wondered that since she'd first seen it yesterday. Knowing it was there while she tried to sleep the night before had only kept her awake.
She turned away. Whatever was in it would likely give her nightmares anyway?and possibly worse ones than she was having at present.
She'd hoped her dreams would pass and leave nothing behind as a new day had dawned.
Unfortunately that had not been the case.
Her dreams were always at the edge of her mind, pulling and tugging at her, trying to intrude upon the activities of the day. She couldn't stop herself from wondering about that man who had spoken the words at the well, the words that had loosed such a terrible evil. Had he been a mage? Had the little girl survived in the end? Had the evil ever been stemmed, or was it continuing to spew forth now, simply because there was no one there to stop it? Was she the only one who dreamed this dream, or was the horror of it so terrible it leapt from dreamer to dreamer, troubling all in its wake?
She looked about her for a distraction and found Miach. He lay at her feet next to the fire with his head on his pack and watched her with tranquil eyes. To be sure he was by far the most handsome farmer she'd ever seen. Then again, most farmers she knew were wearing boots coated with dung and carrying swords coated with their neighbors' blood.
And none of them looked anything like Miach.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, looking for all the world as if the most pressing thing on his mind was what to have for breakfast.
"My dream. "
He nodded slowly, as if that didn't surprise him. "It is a powerful dream."
"I think the man is a mage. Was a mage," she corrected. "What do you think? "
He seemed to consider. " 'Tis possible, I suppose."
"Are there evil mages." she asked, then she stopped. "Well, of course there are. Lothar, for one."
"Aye."
"Are there others, do you suppose?" She paused. "Others who might have… um… uncapped a well of evil? "
He winced. She was almost certain of it.
"I daresay there are," he said, finally.
"Do you know any?"
"Personally?"
She frowned at him. "Don't make me force you to be serious."
