He was now finished, but he couldn't bring himself to do more than sit while their host prepared to taste the price of their stay.
The farmer drank suspiciously, but then his face broke out into a genuine smile of surprise. "Delicious," he said happily. He looked at Miach with sudden calculation. "Don't suppose you want to stay another night, would you? "
"Why?"
"I have a cow who gives sour milk. I've tried everything, but nothing helps." He paused. "She's the reddish one in the end stall there. "
"Sorry," Miach said regretfully. "We cannot stay. "
"The next time perhaps."
"Perhaps. "
Miach watched the farmer walk away, then he quietly laid a charm of sweetness on that poor, sour cow in the end stall that would last the length of the beast's life. It took little of his energy, but it combined with his brief work on the well left him rather short-tempered. He supposed he should have saved a bit of sweetness for himself.
He was contemplating the irony of that when Adhémar walked out to the well. He had a long drink, dragged his sleeve across his mouth, and grunted.
"Good."
"Thank you."
Adhémar propped his foot up on the edge of the low brick wall. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"What did you find on that useless jaunt to Chagailt save a clutch of nasties?"
"A fine meal or two," Miach said.
Adhémar grunted. "I daresay. Anything else?"
Miach paused, considered, then looked up at Adhémar calmly.
"I believe I found your wielder."
It was worth it. There was something tremendously satisfying about being able to say something that would so thoroughly undo his brother that Adhémar should lose his balance, flail about a bit, then plunge headfirst into a very cold, albeit sweet, bit of water. Fortunately for the very wet king of Neroche, the well was deep but rather large and he had no problem surfacing. Adhémar clung to the brick that enclosed the water.
"My what!"
Miach reached out a hand and pulled his brother out. Adhémar stood there, shivering and dripping. Miach almost felt sorry enough for him to dry him off with a bit of magic.
Almost.
That the tidings would, in effect, turn Morgan over to Adhémar's care and heaven only knew what else, was what kept him from it.
"You heard me," Miach said. "I think I have found your wielder."
"Youthink," Adhémar said, scowling fiercely. "How on earth would you be able to recognize him?"
Miach pretended to consider that. There was no sense in irritating Adhémar unnecessarily by telling him that he was just as capable as the king of recognizing the man?likely more since he still had the ability to sense magic in another. That would lead to a discussion about why Adhémar had been sent when Miach could have gone. That was destined to finish poorly.
"Well," Miach began slowly, "I know the requirements. The wielder should have magic?"
"I knew that," Adhémar huffed.
"And perhaps something that shows an affinity or a calling to the sword," Miach continued thoughtfully. "Of course, there's no way to tell for sure until we take her to Tor Neroche and see it the Sword of Angesand calls to her."
"I knew that as well," Adhémar snapped. "Tell me something I don't know?her? What do you meanher?"
