Adhémar put his hand protectively over his blade. "I'm not convinced you don't want it for yourself. I'll do my own investigations. And until that time, your duty lies in doing what I tell you to do."
Miach had to clench his hands down by his sides to keep from throttling his brother. "My duty does not include sending a woman to her death. "
"It certainly does, if that death happens while ensuring the safety of the realm. Yourdutyis to the kingdom first, Mochriadhemiach," Adhémar snarled. "Surely you are old enough to understand that. Or perhaps the mantle was misplaced?"
And with that, he turned and walked away.
Miach couldn't have been more winded if Adhémar's horse had kicked him in the gut. He leaned over until he thought he could catch his breath.
Duty.
He remained where he was, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, sucking in breath until the nausea and the shock receded.
Adhémar was right. He had a duty to the kingdom, a duty that came before what he wanted or what Morgan wanted or even what Adhémar wanted. If the potential wielder had been anyone but Morgan, he would have strapped the lad to the back of his horse and thundered back to the palace without a second thought. If the wielder had been anyone but Morgan, he would have moved mountains to get the lad to Tor Neroche and slap that sword in his hands in order to stem the tide of erosion.
If it had been anyone but Morgan, he wouldn't have felt as if there was a hole in his gut that would gnaw at him through eternity because he would be responsible for making her life hell.
Damn it, he hated it when Adhémar was right.
It happened so seldom.
He looked up at the sparkling night sky and blew out his breath. What he wished, briefly, was that he had never touched the Sword of Angesand, that he had never left Tor Neroche, that he had never once clapped eyes on Morgan.
Salvation of the realm.
Destruction of his heart.
But what to do now? As Adhémar had so kindly pointed out, his duty dictated his actions, no matter how he might feel about it. He was duty bound to see that Morgan went to Tor Neroche. His position as archmage, guardian of the realm, demanded that he see that she at least held the Sword of Angesand. He had a responsibility to the inhabitants of not only Neroche, but the Nine Kingdoms, to use everything and everyone in his power to not only keep Lothar at bay, but destroy him if possible.
But Morgan…
"Miach?"
He closed his eves briefly, then straightened and looked at her. "Aye?"
"We're ready."
"Of course." He swallowed with difficulty. "Of course."
"You look terrible." She paused. "But Adhémar looks worse."
He smiled in spite of himself. "A little disagreement."
"Hmmm," she said. "Well, disagreement or no, Adhémar says there is danger and we must ride."
Miach nodded. "Aye."
"Then let us be off. I do not fear danger, but I cannot see leaving my comrades in it when flight would evade it."
If he hadn't been so numb already, he would have lost his breath with a whoosh. "You are a loyal companion," he said, finally.
"Loyalty is highly prized," she said quietly.
"As highly prized as magic is shunned?"
She smiled faintly. "Weger has a very unique code of conduct."
"I daresay," he said. "Perhaps you'll tell me more of his strictures someday."
