The rest of the day passed almost pleasantly. Morgan managed to ignore the book open behind her on Nicholas's desk, as well as the knife lying wrapped next to it. She forced herself to taste the rest of her meal, managed nods in response to Nicholas's questions, and endured the arrival of the lads and the tale they were treated to. By the time the evening ended and she had sought her bed, she thought she might have had herself back under control.
She would take the blade to Tor Neroche, hand it to the king, and turn right around and head for home. She would only have to touch it long enough to hand it off, then she would be tree of it and back to herself. Surely she had that much discipline within her.
She fell asleep without trouble, but she did dream.
She dreamed of a slim, elegant sword.
Covered with a tracery of leaves and flowers, all the things that Queen Mehar loved…
Chapter Three
Miach, archmage of the realm and sufferer of a kingdom-sized headache, closed the manuscript he'd been reading and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, things were no better. His chamber was an untidy, hazy blur. Perhaps that had to do with too much poring over manuscripts that had provided him with too few answers. He yawned, but that hurt his head, so he stopped. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.
He could, however, remember the last time he felt a shudder in his spells.
It had been a fortnight ago.
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 with her in it. 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.
