She began to unpack her gear. Miach laughed softly when he saw the scarf. Morgan looked at him.
"Spoils."
"I see you're wearing the socks that match."
"More spoils."
"Poor Adhémar. What a blow to his pride."
"He could use several more such blows," she groused, "until his ego was down to the level of his sword skill. But such is, happily, not my task."
"Nor mine," Miach said. "What else have you in there?"
Morgan pulled out the slim leather wallet that contained velvet wrappings that cushioned the blade as if it had been a priceless treasure. Morgan set her pack aside, then put the knife on her knees. She knew she was doing much the same thing that Nicholas had done and that gave her a queer feeling inside, something that felt quite a bit like Fate.
And she was, after all, a great believer in Fate.
She untied the leather closure, then began to unwrap the velvet coverings. She kept an eye on Miach as she pulled out the cloth containing the blade. He suddenly went quite still.
She couldn't blame him. She had the same kind of unease come over her when she touched the blade. She continued to unwrap the cloth. Something fell to the stone hearth under her feet. She watched Miach pick it up.
It was a ring.
He looked just a little unsteady. "What is this?"
"I've no idea. It must have come with the knife. I don't remember agreeing to take it with me." She took it and put it on the table. Then she took the blade and held it up.
Magic shimmered along it, a silvery magic that connected with her in a manner she simply could not understand and did not want.
To her horror, she felt her eyes begin to burn with tears. She dragged her sleeve angrily across her face. "I loathe magic. And look you," she said, thrusting the blade at him. " 'Tis slathered with it!"
Miach took the blade from her. He looked at it as if he held either a great treasure or a live asp.
"Miach?"
"Where," he said hoarsely, "did you come by this?"
She supposed there was no harm in telling him. "Nicholas of Lismòr gave it to me."
"Nicholas of Lismòr," Miach repeated. "And where in the world did he come by it? "
She shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea." She paused. "What do you think?"
He seemed to be having trouble breathing. "I think," he said finally, "that leaves and flowers are a rather unusual thing to adorn a weapon with."
"A pity that isn't the end of the troubles with this dagger," Morgan said. "Can you not feel the magic? I can see it as well."
Miach twisted the blade this way and that as he examined it by the firelight. He slowly traced the engravings on the blade and the hilt with his finger. "Nay," he said finally, "the blade does not call to me."
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
He opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head. He seemed to consider his next words quite carefully. "It can mean many things," he said slowly. "It is said that if a mage fashions a blade, ofttimes that blade will respond to another with magic in their blood." He paused and looked at her. "It seems to call to you."
"I have no magic in my blood," she protested.
"The knife seems to think you do."
She shivered. "You know, it sings to me as well."
