She wasn't certain where she intended to go.Out of the great hallseemed like a good start. Her cheeks were wet and she found she could hardly see where she was going. She realized, to her horror, that she was making horrendous sounds of pain that she supposed some unkind village bard would have termed weeping. She had never wept thusly before, so she wasn't quite sure what to call it. All she knew was that she was in a dark passageway and she could not go back.
She would go back to Melksham. Perhaps she would die of seasickness on the boat. If she had the misfortune of surviving the voyage, she would find a siege and throw herself into it. Perhaps she would seek out Weger and see if he could drive whatever magic there was in her?and she now had to accept that it was a staggering amount?out of her. Whatever she did, she would at least become invisible.
Perhaps she would forget, in time, that once she had come to love the archmage of the realm. Perhaps, in time, she would cease to believe that she'd once thought he might have loved her in return?
She heard a crash and realized that she had upended a tray of fine crystal glasses. A servant stood there, having rescued one, apparently. The others lay in shards about his feet. Morgan dragged her sleeve across her eyes.
"My apologies," she said, starting to brush past him.
"Wait, lady," the old man said in a kindly fashion. "Perhaps this will ease you."
She looked at the man. He had a horrible scar down one cheek. That prompted her to stop and humor him where she wouldn't have otherwise.
"What have you there?" she asked, looking at the lone survivor from his tray of drink.
"Wine," he said dismissively. "A very fine vintage, I daresay, but not too high for the likes of us, eh?"
She wanted to tell him that she was the wielder of the Sword of Angesand, but what point would there have been in that? The sword was no more, and she was disgraced and shamed. Aye, she was little better than a servant indeed.
She took the glass, nodded her thanks, then drained it before she tasted it.
She heard more glass shatter against stone. It was only after she recognized that sound that she knew it was her glass to have fallen from her fingers.
The bitterness of the poison spread through her like fire, though it was not fire, for it was cold. She looked at the man in surprise.
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Why not?" Then he smiled. "Actually, there is a good reason, but I daresay you'll never know it."
"Who are you?" she managed with her last thought. Darkness was hard upon her and she felt the flicker of flame that was herself becoming weaker.
"Lothar of Wychweald," the man said with another conspiratorial smile, "but don't tell anyone I'm here. I was planning to keep myself out of sight so I could serve at the king's wedding feast when it comes, but I thought I'd try out my brew on you first. How do you like it? "
Morgan had no strength to offer any opinion.
The flame flickered wildly.
Then went out.
Chapter Twenty-five
Miach looked at the shards of the Sword of Angesand that lay scattered over the table and spilled onto the floor. A thousand shards that would never be put together again. He closed his eyes briefly. He'd known it would be terrible, when Morgan realized the truth. He just hadn't known how terrible. He'd wanted to stop it. When keeping her from Tor Neroche had failed, he'd wanted to at least soften the truth.
He had come too late.
He supposed he might never forget the sight of the Sword of Angesand leaping down into her hand, as if it had waited decades to do just that.
He supposed he would also never forget the sight of her slamming it against the king's table and shattering it into pieces.
He ruthlessly put both visions behind him and strode forward. He snatched the knife off the table and shoved it into his belt. He caught the ring up as well and shoved it into a pocket. Adhémar wouldn't remember that Morgan had said the knife was intended for him and Miach would make sure he continued to forget. The ring was something he would think about later.
Then he reached out and carefully picked up the hilt of the Sword of Angesand. He held it, then turned and looked at his brother.
"You could have done that better," he said shortly.
"Me?" Adhémar said, looking stunned. "I didn't tell her to ruin the bloody sword!" He scowled. "Not only did she break the sword, she insulted the princess of Penrhyn. "
Miach looked coldly at the woman standing to Adhémar's left. "Is that who you are?"
