Star of the Morning (8 page)

A slow, almost imperceptible tremble in his spells of defense along the northern border.

He'd wondered at first if he'd just imagined it. He'd paid special attention to the border for the fortnight following, but he'd sensed nothing else.

And then, yesterday, he realized that his spells were being eroded from beneath their underpinnings, much like sand being pulled out from a bather's feet as he stood upon the shore. It was a very gentle tide, but a relentless one.

Miach's first thought had been Lothar.

But the tide didn't have that stench of rottenness that permeated all that Lothar did. Indeed, there was nothing but a faint smell of evil, as if it were nothing but tainted water that washed away at his spells. It had made him wonder . . .

So he'd brought up to his tower all the manuscripts and scrolls he could find describing any of the black mages who'd ever troubled the Nine Kingdoms. He was fairly certain he'd been reading almost constantly since yesterday morning. At least he thought it had been just that long and no longer. His head was so full of names and terrible deeds that he could hardly tell for sure.

Lothar of Wychweald, Gair of Ceangail, Wehr of Wrekin: that was only the beginning of the list, and the most powerful of them. There were dozens of other nasty little mages lurking in the histories of the Nine Kingdoms. Determining who the offender might be would take a great deal of time.

Miach knew he did not have the luxury of too much time.

But perhaps he had time for a brief nap. He rubbed his eyes a final time as he rose, then he made his way around his long table and went to cast himself down on the unobtrusive cot tucked into a darkened corner of the chamber. Even if all he had was an hour or two of sleep, it would serve him well. It was a certainty he was in no shape to do anyone any good in his present condition.

He closed his eyes. It seemed as if he fell asleep instantly. He was fairly certain he began to dream.

At least he thought so.

Suddenly, he realized his mother was sitting in a chair before the fire in the tower room. It had been her chamber in her time as archmage of the realm. He had, during his youth, passed a great deal of his time in it with her. He'd thought, then, that it was simply because he loved his mother and found her company delightful. Later, after she'd died, he had begun to wonder if he'd felt his calling from an early age and such was his preparation.

Suddenly, he found himself sitting across from her before that same fire, but this time he wore his score-and-eight years upon his shoulders. He couldn't decide if he was dreaming or awake. In truth, he didn't care. He was exceptionally grateful to see a friendly face.

“Mother,” he said in relief.

“Miach, my love,” she said, her tone laced with affection. “How do you fare?”

“I've had easier fortnights,” he admitted.

“Son, your burden is heavy,” she said gravely. “Unfortunately, it will grow more heavy still.”

She'd said as much to him before she died. She was descended from the Wizardess Nimheil, and because of that blood, had the gift of foresight. Miach had it as well, but he suspected that it was not so strong in him. Then again, who knew? Perhaps his time to be tested had not yet come.

Miach sighed. “Adhémar has lost his magic, Mother. Worse still, the Sword of Neroche retains none of its power.” He looked at her bleakly. “I fear for the safety of the realm.”

She considered for but a moment before she spoke. “Remember the prophecy of Uisdean the Wise:
‘The king must sit upon his throne with his sword sheathed and laid across his knees before the tide of darkness will be stemmed.
'”

Miach considered. He knew the prophecy, of course, but it had been some time since he'd tried to unravel its meaning. He'd wondered at times if it meant that the kingdom would only be safe when there was no use for the king's sword. What he suspected, though, was that perhaps there would need to come a king to the throne of Neroche who had power to give
to
the sword, instead of taking power from it.

None of which was possible at present, what with Adhémar possessing no magic and the Sword of Neroche existing as nothing more than a well-designed but unmagical bit of metal.

He looked at his mother. “Any suggestions?”

She smiled at him in that way she had, looking supremely confident that he would find the solution on his own. “I imagine you already have an idea.”

“The Sword of Angesand.”

She nodded. “That and time is what you need, love. Time ...”

Miach nodded and rubbed his eyes, wishing they didn't burn so badly. He was going to have to sleep more at some point. Maybe after he'd resolved the current crisis. He opened his eyes, then flinched in surprise.

He was standing in the great hall, and he was alone.

He stared stupidly up at the Sword of Angesand for several moments before he got hold of himself sufficiently to think. He had no idea how he'd come to be in the great hall instead of in his tower chamber, but perhaps he would learn the truth of it later. For now, there was something else he needed to do. He walked around the high table and looked for something to stand on. He pushed Adhémar's chair back toward the hearth, then stood up on it and took the sword down off the wall.

It did not whisper his name back to him as he called it.

It was as any other blade would have been: cold, remote, naught but steel.

He admired it just the same. It was light in his hand, perilously sharp, painfully bright. The blade was adorned with leaves and flowers, the hilt with the same in colors of gold, rose, and green, interlaced with silver.

It was the answer. He knew it, just as surely as he'd known it two months earlier. Someone who could call on that power would give him the added time he needed to determine what was amiss on the border. And if war came to Tor Neroche, at least someone would be able to raise an enspelled sword in defense—

“Miach?”

Miach turned around on the king's chair. Cathar stood there on the other side of the table, looking at him in surprise. For a moment, Miach couldn't decide if he was still asleep or not. He frowned at his brother. “Am I dreaming?”

“I don't think so.” Cathar looked more than a bit worried. “What were you doing?” He gestured to the sword in Miach's hand. “Why do you have that sword?”

Miach looked at the sword in his hand. “It was part of my dream.” He looked at Cathar. “I think I'm awake now, though.”

“You're worrying me.”

“I'm worrying
me
.”

Cathar walked around the table and held out his hand for the sword. Miach stepped down off the chair, then handed it to his brother. Cathar gingerly took the sword and hung it back up on the wall. He put Adhémar's chair back in its place, then looked back at Miach. “It is the middle of the night. You should go back to bed.”

“I
was
in bed.”

Cathar's frown deepened. “I'm beginning to think, my lord Archmage, that you need a keeper.”

Miach sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I'm not sleeping well.”

“Apparently not.” He slung his arm around Miach's shoulders and pulled him past the table and toward the doorway. “What's your pleasure? A handsome wench, or a hot fire and brotherly conversation?”

Miach smiled faintly. “The latter, surely. I hesitate to think upon how the former might ruin my reputation when I walk away without good reason.”

Cathar laughed heartily. “I daresay. Come then, brother, and we'll talk away the night. What there is left of it.”

Miach nodded and walked with his brother back to his tower chamber, trying not to show how unsettled he was. He didn't remember having descended the steps he was now walking up, but in truth, he had to admit that everything seemed to be something of a waking dream these days. There were times he wasn't even sure the days were actually passing.

Though he knew they were. He'd been counting the days since Adhémar had left, and the number of times he'd heard from his eldest brother. The latter was the easier number because it totaled none.

He'd sent out birds to search, but they had returned with no tidings. He'd sent messages with discreet messengers, but heard nothing in return. He'd had no sense of his brother himself, but perhaps that was not unheard of, considering how little magic, if any at all, Adhémar retained. But two months had passed, and then some, and Miach knew he had to act. Soon.

He sat down across from Cathar in front of his fire and accepted a cup of ale. It tasted flat and unappealing and he had to set it aside.

“Good heavens, Miach,” Cathar said, sounding genuinely concerned, “what ails you?”

“I'm not certain,” Miach said.

“Your eyes are red.”

“I said I wasn't sleeping.”

“Are you drinking?”

“Not that either.”

Cathar let out a low whistle. “This isn't good. What is troubling you?”

“Besides the obvious?”

“Besides that,” Cathar agreed.

Miach considered. If there was a soul he trusted with his innermost thoughts, it was Cathar. They had been close for as long as Miach could remember. Cathar had saved him from all manner of bullying from other brothers until Miach could stand up for himself, then he'd remained there, steady and solid, since that time. His brother was a vault, a silent repository of things that Miach never would have dared tell anyone else. If he could tell anyone what ailed him, it would be Cathar.

“Very well,” Miach said seriously, “I will confide in you.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he spoke. “My spells are fading.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones of defense,” Miach said.

Cathar's mouth fell open. “You jest.”

“I don't.”

Cathar had a very long pull from his ale. “Defense? You mean those wee bits of magic that keep our border from being overrun by all manner of beasties and evil things sent from black mages we might know?”

“Those bits of magic are not so wee,” Miach said dryly, “but aye, those are the spells I fear are being affected. An effect, I might remind you, that I did not author.”

Cathar cradled his mug in his hands. “So? What have you decided to do? Are you going to go find what is wreaking this havoc, or merely wait it out and hope it goes away?”

“I daresay it won't go away. I have the strength to shore up the spells, but it will drain even me eventually.” He paused. “I fear this is just the beginning of the assault. And if we are assaulted and it is only my magic we can call on ...” He almost couldn't bring himself to voice his next words. “I am concerned about the outcome of that.”

“Is it Lothar behind the mischief, do you think?”

Miach paused. “I suspected so, at first, but there is something different about this magic. A faint whiff of a something that is not Lothar's.” Miach paused. “Now that I think about it, Adhémar carried that same smell about him after he lost his magic in that battle.”

Cathar shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Is it?” Miach mused. “I daresay not.”

“Who is doing this?” Cathar asked, stunned. “Who would dare? Who has the power?”

Miach shrugged. “All very good questions I wish I had the answers to. All I know is that I cannot watch the kingdom, maintain my spells, and solve this mystery at the same time. Not without some sort of aid. Even just the smallest bit of it.” He looked at Cathar and smiled wryly. “I am stretched rather thin at the moment.”

“You look terrible.”

“I imagine I do.”

Cathar paused and considered. “What will you do, then?”

“We need the Sword of Angesand and the power it will bring. Once that power is seated again here in the kingdom, I will have a bit of leeway to investigate. I must go and hurry Adhémar along. I've heard nothing from him since he left.” He scowled. “I wonder if he's actually making a search, or simply searching out all the alehouses between here and Melksham Island.”

Cathar laughed. “Aye, I wonder as well. Surely he should have sent some sort of message by now.”

“My thought as well.”

“So,” Cathar said, taking a final drink of his ale, “when will you go?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight is almost over, little brother.”

“Then I'd best hurry,” Miach said with a smile. “You'll hold things together while I'm gone, won't you?”

“Me?” Cathar asked in surprise. “But Adhémar left Turah on the throne.”

“So he did,” Miach said.

Cathar looked at him evenly. “That would be treason, Miach.”

Miach returned his look. “Clap me in irons, then.”

“I imagine I can't.”

“I imagine you can't either,” Miach agreed.

Cathar frowned. “You know, in the hands of the unscrupulous, this power you have could be a very dangerous thing.”

“Hence the refining fire that makes a mage into an archmage,” Miach said easily. “I would be nothing but ashes if I hadn't passed the test.”

“Then your heart is pure?”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Miach said dryly, “but I am loyal to the crown.”

“To the crown, or the king?”

Miach paused for several moments before he could manage a reply. “I think you wouldn't care for the answer.”

“Treason,” Cathar breathed. “And this time I'm serious.”

Miach shook his head. “Nay, Cathar, I will be loyal to the king, the crown, and the realm, and I certainly have no plans to undermine any of the three. Regardless of what I think personally.”