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 stood there continuing to stare stupidly up at the Sword of Angesand for several moments before he got hold or 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 worryingme."
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."
"Iwasin 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 Hat and unappealing and he had to set it aside.
"Good heavens, Miach," Cathar said, sounding genuinely concerned, "what ails you?"
