Star of the Morning by Lynn Kurland

the wood to the right of the road. Morgan raised her eyebrows. So he was not unskilled. Interesting. She continued down the road, all her senses tuned to what was going on in the woods beside her, and allowed events to unfold as they would.
    In truth, she likely should have been more careful, but she’d had a rather tedious journey so far, it was dusk, and she was in the mood for something to do besides walk. But not too much sport. She was, after all, in a fair bit of haste. Best that she merely take the fool and render him unconscious, then be on her way.
    She was prepared when she heard a footstep behind her and felt a hand clap her on the shoulder. Morgan stomped back on the arch of his foot, elbowed him in the gut when he bellowed in pain. She drew her sword, then spun around and clunked him heartily on the side of his head with the hilt.
    He fell to the ground like a mature tree, slowly and ending with a great thump.
    Morgan waited an appropriate amount of time before she attempted to roll him over, her sword still in her hand. She managed it with difficulty, but once she had him on his back, she could see that he breathed still.
    Perhaps unfortunately.
    She looked, in surprise, at the most handsome man she had ever clapped her poor eyes on. Not pretty, as many lords’ sons she’d known were, but noble. Indeed, the first thought that came to mind was that he belonged as a statue in the Hall of Kings in Tor Neroche, not trailing her to do heaven only knew what. His hair was dark, his features perfectly fashioned, and his form enviable.
    Of course, he was drooling, but that might have had something to do with her tender ministrations.
    Morgan took an unsteady step backward. It took her three tries to replace her sword in its sheath. The man had been following her, likely with her death on his mind. Or worse. She hadn’t killed him, for pity’s sake.
    Still, it was difficult to look away from him. She felt like she had the first time she’d laid eyes on the sword Nicholas had had made for her. It had been so beautiful, she’d done nothing but stare at it, hardly able to believe such a thing existed. And considering the undeniable beauty of the man before her, perhaps she could be forgiven her moment of weakness.
    Weger wouldn’t have agreed, but he wasn’t there to witness her witlessness and she certainly wouldn’t tell him when next they met.
    She gave herself a good shake, reminded herself that she was not an empty-headed tavern wench, and attempted to turn her mind to other things. Usually at this point in a skirmish she would have been looking for spoils. She set herself to that task, almost certain it would make her feel more herself.
    It was one of the rules of engagement. When one bested his enemy, the victor was entitled to the conquered’s goods. If one was feeling particularly generous, he left the vanquished his boots and cloak. All weapons were fair game, though it was generally considered bad form not to leave the fallen at least something with which to defend himself.
    She would first look for weapons. It would serve a dual purpose: he wouldn’t be able to use them against her and she could perhaps fall upon them if she didn’t regain her wits soon. She reached for his sword. Somehow, though, she could not bring herself to touch it. She gaped at her own hand as if she’d never seen it before.
    With a curse, she reached again for the sword, only to find herself still unable to even put her hand to it.
    Good heavens, what next? Would she take up stitching? She snorted and promised herself a good run later to clear her head. For now, she would settle for the man’s purse, which she cut from his belt without a twinge of remorse, and a rummage through his pack.
    She helped herself to a pair of socks so fine they had to have been stolen from someone else and a scarf made of the same stuff. These things she put into her own pack, then she examined the