He'd started in Ainneamh, despite Miach's warning, and had absolutely no success. Miach was far better suited to treating with elves than he himself was. He hadn't purposely set out to offend King Ehrne. To be sure, Erhne had spent enough of his centuries dealing with mortals that he should have been less prickly, but somehow that had not been the case.
He would send Miach to do repairs after he returned to Tor Neroche. Perhaps he would send Nemed along as well, and between the two of them they could soothe the delicate, affronted elvish feelings.
But really, what else could he have said? Telling Ehrne that Ainneamh was the last place on earth he'd expected to find someone to wield the Sword of Angesand had been meant as a compliment, not an insult.
Elves.
Impossible creatures.
He had then worked his way south. Melksham had been his last resort and he had hoped to find something useful there. All he'd come away with was a sore head and an irritating shieldmaiden. He grunted. She would have made a perfect match for Cathar. He was half tempted to take her home and introduce her to him, but that would potentially put her in line for a seat next to the throne and he didn't think he could bring himself to subject his land to her bad temper.
He drew his sword. He looked at the runes of power and might that had been carved upon it centuries ago. It was still bright, that sword, as it it had been newly forged.
Unfortunately it was bright with nothing but a bit of daylight. There was nothing in him that called to the power within the blade. He resheathed the sword with a curse and shoved away from himself the despair that threatened to engulf him. He was a man full grown and past that sort of self-doubt. Even though he was forced to admit that he never could have, at any point, claimed Miach's power, he did claim his sword and there was power in that.
He could not say how it had been done, or by whom, but his mage-craft was gone, and he suspected it would not return to him until Lothar was dead and his spells unraveled. Perhaps it was for the best. The Sword of Angesand had been weighing on his mind. He was not anxious to admit to bullheadedness, but it was possible that he might not have done anything about it if he had been in full control of his powers.
But where to go now? He'd looked in the unlikely places. Perhaps now it was his task to look for unlikely souls in likely places. He cursed as he considered. Angesand, aye; or perhaps a less social visit to Penrhyn. There was nothing in him that whispered of a direction excepthomeand that was not useful.
He cast his mind in farther circles than he had before. The schools of wizardry? He stepped back from that thought as if it stood to bite him. He hadn't been able to bear it there longer than necessary when he'd been a lad, and his sojourn had been cut short by his father's death. The wizards could likely be grateful for that, for if he'd had to listen to them pontificate one more time on the proper way to weave a spell, there would have been bloodshed.
Morgan stirred. He watched but saw that she only shifted, then passed into a deep, more peaceful slumber. Miach's brew seemed to work.
A pity Miach hadn't had an herb to restore Adhémar's magic.
Adhémar set his face forward and considered his route. He would perhaps travel with Morgan's company for a bit and continue north. After all, who knew but keeping company with unlikely souls might lead to the unlikeliest soul of all.
He had no other choice.
Chapter Six
Morgan woke. The deck was no longer heaving beneath her. She was no longer heaving either, which she took to be a very promising sign. She was somewhere that smelled of rich earth and a smoking fire. She remained still, trying to work out where that somewhere might be and where her weapons were. She had no knives up her sleeves, which was disconcerting, but the usual suspects were still stuck down her boots. The comforting coldness against her anklebones told her that much. Well, no matter. If she had to do damage, she could do so with her hands alone. That was assuming, however, that she could get to her feet and stay there long enough to do so.
She was having grave and unwholesome doubts on that score.
Twigs snapped and popped near her ear. She opened one eye a slit and saw that it was night, stars were clear in the sky above her, and she was lying in a glade surrounded by trees. She was on bare ground, save that uncomfortable rock near her lower spine, and she was not alone. She listened to familiar voices, and sighed deeply in spite of herself.
"I'm running perilously short on gold," Adhémar was saying with a grumble.
"Then cease passing the time with Glines and his cards," Camid suggested.
"I cannot believe there won't come a time when I won't win," Adhémar returned.
Camid chuckled. "So say all his victims."
"I'm convinced the wench poached much of my coin," Adhémar said pointedly. "I should go through her pack whilst she sleeps."
"She's not sleeping," Glines said absently, shuffling his cards. "And, no disrespect intended, you wouldn't have been able to go through her pack."
"Why is it you are so protective of her and so unfeeling about my purse?" Adhémar groused.
"Save our lives a time or two as she has, then we'll think about it," Camid said.
"Don't bother about his gold," Morgan croaked, turning her head. She had to wait several minutes until the world stopped spinning and she could focus on the little group sitting on the far side of the fire. "He'll just spend it unwisely."
"Unwisely?" Adhémar said sharply. "How so?"
"Those herbs," she said, clearing her throat. "Where did you get them?"
