“I study many things, Majesty,” Ritathan’s chair creaked.
Halithe tried to peer through the stacks of books and papers but couldn’t see a thing and didn’t dare try shift anything.
“Good, good,” King Xyrath lowered his voice. “I have some things to ask of you.”
“Majesty, I do not serve you, you do not hold—”
“I know, I know,” Xyrath chuckled as if that wasn’t his concern. “No this is more in the way of advice, really.”
“If I can, Your Majesty, I will aid you.”
“Excellent.” Halithe heard his chair move closer. “Now, I was wondering if the mage guild had access to any spells that might help,” his voice dropped even lower, “with hair loss. Along the hair-line.”
“Ah,” Ritathan said. To Halithe’s surprise, his voice held a note of sympathy. “Majesty, I have colleagues who have worked on this problem, but they have yet to solve it.”
“They can’t make hair grow?” Xyrath asked.
“They can,” Ritathan said. “But they can’t seem to make it stop. Nor can they localize it. When the spell is cast in its current form, the hair grows everywhere, uncontrollably.” Ritathan lowered his voice too. “Everywhere, Your Majesty.”
Halithe covered her mouth to stifle her snicker.
“Well, that is disappointing,” Xyrath said. “They are still working on it, yes?”
“Oh yes,” Ritathan replied. “Have no fear of that, Your Majesty. Many have an interest in such a spell.”
“Well, that’s fine, fine.” Xyrath’s chair creaked again. Halithe peered around piles, trying to see, but not daring to even breathe hard. “There’s another matter, more of history than anything else.” His voice was grown serious, with no trace of his prior humor. “Atira blades.”
“Majesty?” Ritathan seemed startled. “I know that some in the Guild have attempted to make magical weapons, but no one has succeeded that I know of.”
“Not yet,” Xyrath said firmly. “Although I appreciate that they try. No, I want an atira blade, forged in the ancient days.”
“Majesty, they do not exist.” Ritathan was just as firm.
There was a long silence then. The back of Halithe’s neck prickled. This King was not one to be denied.
Xyrath chuckled at last, and when he spoke, the tension in his voice had eased. “Well, if you come across a reference, you’ll let me know?”
“Of course, your Majesty.”
“I’d also ask if you know any who have cures for the morning sickness. My dear Satia is suffering from it terribly and her healers don’t seem to be able to aid her.”
“I do not,” Ritathan said. “I fear that magical healing, both divine and arcane, has been lost to us, Your Majesty. Ever since the Mage Wars.”
“‘As if magic itself lashed out at us and tore those gifts away,’” Xyrath quoted.
“I see you know your Worious,” Ritathan said.
“From his Chronicles,” Xyrath said. “Hated them but had them beat into me in my younger days.” His chair creaked again. “She’s sent for your Guildmaster, you know.”
“Guildmaster Forterran?” Ritathan asked. “I haven’t spoken with him recently.
“He’s got the gout,” Xyrath said.
“Ah,” Ritathan observed. Halithe could have killed to see his face.
“My queen is with child, my heir.” Xyrath rose and his scabbard hit the chair again. “She is a bit ill-tempered, what with bearing and all. You understand.”
“Perfectly,” Ritathan’s chair slid back as he rose.
