Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (55 page)

His next visitors were Edtoall and Matill
and Rhianne’s sisters and their husbands. Matill positively gushed
over him, while Edtoall stood by him proudly and recounted the
grand exploits of the great ShadowLord. Morgin was beginning to
realize that again his status had changed, that he had become a
public figure with a reputation that grew daily. And as his
in-laws, Edtoall and Matill’s status had increased with his. There
was no doubt that they hoped his reputation would continue to grow,
and were quite willing to help things along by instigating a
carefully chosen rumor or two, spreading the word about his
prowess, his power, his magic.

Rhianne’s sisters said almost nothing. They
sat politely ladylike, beaming some of that same hero worship that
Morgin had seen in Wylow’s sons. Their husbands, though, while
silent much like their wives, showed reactions that ranged from
indifference, to boredom, to outright malice. Morgin couldn’t
really blame them if they grew tired of hearing of the ShadowLord’s
exploits. He certainly had had more than enough.

Rhianne, as always hovering in the
background, shooed them all away. But Edtoall dallied, pleading the
need for a short, private conference.

“About that wife of yours,” he said to
Morgin when they were alone. “Would you mind a bit of advice from
an old man who is a little more experienced in these matters?”

Without waiting for an answer Edtoall said
fiercely, “Bed her, lad. Bed her hard. Take your pleasure in her
and see that she takes none in you. She needs that. She’s a woman,
and sometimes a woman has to be taught her place.”

Morgin looked closely at the older man, and
he knew in some way that Edtoall would never dream of treating
Matill so, for Matill would not allow it.

“A good woman is like a good horse, Morgin
my son. Spirited. But give her too much rein and she’ll break away
from you. And that’s when you must let her feel the spurs of you
displeasure.”

There was never any doubt in Morgin that he
would not take such advice. He could not treat a woman that way.
And in any case, regarding Rhianne, when he was well enough he was
probably just going to kill her. She was likely still alive only
because no one else knew of her treachery.

When Edtoall had gone Morgin fell into a
deep sleep, and in his dreams Ellowyn fussed over him unsparingly,
tucking the covers tightly about him, constantly touching his
forehead to test for any fever. He asked her if she’d heard
Edtoall’s comments. She nodded.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“Perhaps he is correct, my lord. I myself do
not know how to properly treat a woman, so I cannot judge.”

“But you’re a woman yourself. And certainly
you know how you’d like to be treated.”

“But you are wrong, my lord. I am no
woman.”

Morgin laughed. “Surely you are no man.”

“No, my lord,” she said matter-of-factly.
“But neither am I a woman. I am an angel, and not of this
world.”

Morgin stared at her for a long moment,
trying to understand if she was teasing him, but she was not. “Damn
you!” he swore.

Her eyes opened wide. “I am sorry, my lord,
if I have offended you. But I cannot damn myself, though I’m sure
that if you speak to my master he will be happy to damn me in any
way you wish.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Morgin snarled. “And
who is your master?”

“That I do not know, my lord. I had, of
course, assumed that you knew.”

“Of course,” Morgin said. “Go away and let
me sleep.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

~~~

Eglahan and Annen and Tulellcoe and Val and
Cort came to visit. Packwill came with them, but as always, when in
the presence of clansmen, he chose to stand discretely in the
background and speak only when addressed. It was easy to forget he
was there at all, especially with the others so near, and often so
loud.

“Damn, lad!” Eglahan said. “We thought you
were dead.”

Morgin shrugged. “There are moments when I
myself thought I was dead.”

“The ShadowLord lives again,” Annen shouted,
making it almost a cheer. “It was your cousin Brandon who found
you, buried under dead Kulls, pinned to the ground by a broken
lance. There seemed little life in you.”

“Life is a curious thing,” Val said. “The
healthiest of men will suddenly die for no apparent reason; or the
sickest of the old will live on and on. With the will to live, who
can say how close to death one might venture and still return to
the living?”

“Lately I’ve thought of that a lot,” Morgin
said. He tried to hide his unease. “And
sometimes . . . I wonder if maybe I didn’t actually
die out there . . . and then somehow return to the
living.”

“Impossible,” Eglahan declared flatly.

Annen shook his head, agreeing with him.

Val said nothing, but his eyes returned
Morgin’s unease.

Tulellcoe shook his head uncomfortably, and
without conviction said, “He’s right. That kind of power is beyond
any living mortal.”

Morgin looked at Tulellcoe closely. There
was suspicion in his voice, and while Morgin saw none in his eyes,
he sensed the same unease that had been in AnnaRail. Again, one who
had been close to him seemed now far and distant.

Annen spoke as if testing Morgin. “There is
talk, ShadowLord, of carrying this war to Durin. Some even speak of
uniting the Lesser Clans to do so.”

Morgin shrugged indifferently. “I thought
this war was done. And besides, it will be a long time before I am
healed sufficiently to return to war. And then I doubt that I will
want to do so.”

Val sighed as if relieved of a great fear,
but Annen grew visibly angry. “After what they did to us you’ll not
return the favor?”

Morgin thought of Csairne Glen. “I have seen
war. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, and it is
something I wish never to see again.”

“Hear, hear!” Val said. “For once let us
seek peace.”

“Peace?” Annen asked scornfully, turning on
Val angrily. “It’s easy for you to say that. They didn’t burn your
home and your crops. Your women aren’t living this very moment in
caves like animals. The coward in you—”

“Annen,” Eglahan shouted. “You go too far.
The Surriot is no coward.”

Annen flinched under his father’s anger, and
his own anger faded quickly. “Forgive me, Valken Surriot. I know
you are no coward. I know that well, but my mouth sometimes spouts
thoughtless anger.”

Val smiled forgivingly, clapped Annen on the
back. “I take no offense, Annen ye Elhiyne. But we have debated
this repeatedly now for several days, and neither of us appears
ready to concede so much as the slightest point. Perhaps we should
lay it aside for now.”

Annen grinned and nodded. “Agreed.”

Morgin frowned. “What’s all this about?”

Val shrugged. “Like you I wish never to see
war again. So when the question of further bloodshed arises, I try
to seek alternatives.”

Eglahan gave Annen a hard but friendly slap
between the shoulder blades. “And my son here is a hot blooded fool
who needs to spend more time thinking of wenches, and less of war.”
Eglahan suddenly remembered Cort, who’d been strangely silent. He
turned to her and bowed. “Forgive me, my lady.”

She smiled. “Apology accepted, Lord Eglahan.
But it seems to me when you men go chasing the ladies, sometimes
that too means war, eh?”

They all laughed at that. It was the first
time Morgin had laughed in what seemed a long, long time.

When it was time for them to go Tulellcoe
seemed oddly relieved to be gone. Cort was the last to leave, and
as she turned to go she said, “I pray that you heal quickly, my
lord.”

“My lord?” Morgin asked. “Why so formal? Why
am I no longer just Morgin?”

She shrugged. “It has been a long time since
you were just Morgin. After all, you are the ShadowLord.”

“That’s just a name,” Morgin said. “Nothing
more.”

“Oh, but you are wrong, my lord. It is far
more than just a name; it is a symbol. It represents honor and
power. It was the ShadowLord who opposed the Decouix menace, and it
was he who defeated them.”

“You act as if I did it alone.”

“In a way, you did, for without you it
surely could not have been done.”

“I don’t want to be a symbol,” Morgin
said.

“Then you should have allowed Illalla his
victory.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“No,” she agreed. “You couldn’t. Your
destiny was written in the blood of Csairne Glen long before you
fought there.”

“Damn you!” Morgin snarled. “You’re starting
to sound like all the rest.”

She was not an expressive woman, and a shrug
seemed to be one of her most prolific gestures. “I speak only the
truth, ShadowLord. But if you wish, then I will call you Morgin,
but only among friends.”

~~~

It should have been a simple spell, an
every-day kind of spell. A cup of herbal tea left by his bedside
that he’d forgotten, and with time it had cooled. A short
incantation, a few words and a bit of power and any clansmen could
reheat it in an instant. But when Morgin tried, no power came at
his bidding, nothing.

He tried again, and again, and again. His
power and arcane abilities were gone as if burned out of his soul,
and he realized then that he must hide that fact from everyone.
There was an emptiness in his soul, a vacuum of nothingness that
left him alone and cold. Somewhere between the horror of Csairne
Glen and the pain of his awakening he had lost his power, and its
absence left an ache in his soul, a sorrow that consumed him. He
was a wizard without magic, a sorcerer without power.

For Morgin the days passed slowly. JohnEngine
visited almost daily, but like AnnaRail and Tulellcoe he held
himself at a nervous and unfamiliar distance. It was as if he stood
separated from Morgin by a wall of change beyond which neither of
them could look nor speak nor hear without great effort. They had
both changed, though they tried to pretend they had not, but
silently they recognized their pretense for the lie that it
was.

With much time on his hands Morgin thought
often of MorginDeath, and of Csairne Glen, and of that time after
the battle during which they told him he had lain unconscious and
near death. Twelve days and nights of unconsciousness, though to
him it was a time without even the rudimentary thoughts of the
unconscious mind, a blank chasm within his memory without thought
or deed. Someone or something was playing with his memory again,
playing with his dreams, and it frightened him. And his magic and
power were gone. And when he thought such thoughts his mood turned
black and sorrowful.

They’d given him a room high in Castle
Inetka, and he started exercising by walking up and down the stairs
regularly, though JohnEngine protested mightily, while Rhianne was
smart enough to keep her mouth shut around him. He soon extended
his walks to include the gardens behind the castle. One day,
walking in the castle yard and watching some of the armsmen at
practice, Morgin asked JohnEngine, “Where is the men’s
barracks?”

“Why do you want to know that?” JohnEngine
demanded.

“Because I want to see France,” Morgin said.
“He’ll be there this time of day. I know it.”

JohnEngine frowned. “Perhaps now is not the
time.”

“Damn it!” Morgin shouted. “Why hasn’t he
come to see me? I know he hasn’t left the castle; I’ve seen him
practicing his swordsmanship in the yard. He’s avoiding me and I
want to know why.”

JohnEngine’s eyes narrowed with indecision,
and when he spoke, strain tightened his voice. “All right. Follow
me.”

He led Morgin across the yard and through a
narrow doorway, then down a windowless corridor lit by foul
smelling sooty torches. The walls were totally unadorned for they
had left behind the living quarters of House Inetka. They’d entered
a section of the castle that housed commoners and clansmen of low
caste. It was not unlike the section of Elhiyne where Morgin had
first lived.

JohnEngine stopped near an open doorway, and
with a nod of his head directed Morgin through it. Inside he found
a long barracks furnished with a great number of cots and a large
table at the far end. Seated at the table were several common
soldiers and a few clansmen of the lowest caste. They tossed dice
back and forth on the table, cursed loudly, and told the kind of
jokes that one heard only in a soldier’s barracks. None of them
noticed Morgin as he stepped into the room.

France sat on one of the cots, his back to
Morgin, methodically sharpening his sword. Morgin walked slowly
down the aisle between the cots and stopped a few paces short of
the swordsman.

“Aye, swordsman,” one of the soldiers
playing dice bellowed. “Are you sure you won’t try your luck?” He
looked up for an answer, but instead saw Morgin. His eyes shot open
and he stood suddenly. “My lord,” he said, bowing deeply from the
waist. Taken by surprise, his comrades jumped to their feet and
followed suit. France stood also and turned slowly to face Morgin,
though he did not bow.

One of the soldiers stepped forward. He was
obviously their leader and experienced at dealing with highborn
clansmen. “Forgive us, Lord. We didn’t know you was there. No
offense intended.”

“And none taken,” Morgin said. He reached
into his pocket and retrieved a silver coin, more than a month’s
wages for one of these men. “I’d like to speak to the swordsman
alone,” he said, and flipped the coin onto the table where it
chinked among the copper coins the soldier’s had been gambling
with. “If you’d do me the favor of continuing the game elsewhere,
that should sweeten the pot for your trouble.”

The soldiers thanked him and left quickly.
JohnEngine hesitated for a moment, then he too turned and left.