by Lynn Kurland
Miach considered. He couldn’t leave Adhémar guarding the borders without his magic. There were times he suspected it was dangerous to leave Adhémar in charge with his magic. But telling him as much was out of the question. This would require diplomacy, tact, and very probably a great deal of unwarranted flattery. Miach cleared his throat and frowned, pretending to give the matter much thought.
“I suppose I could go,” he began, “but I have no way of recognizing who the man will be.” That wasn’t exactly true, but there was no point in telling Adhémar that either. “Unlike you, my liege.”
“Bloody hell, Miach, I can’t call enough magelight to keep myself from tripping down the stairs! You go find him.”
“But no one else sees as clearly as you do,” Miach said smoothly. “And it will take a special sort of vision, an eye that discerns far above what most mortal men can see, a sense of judgment that only a man of superior wit and wisdom possesses.” He paused dramatically. “In short, my liege, it is a task that only you can possibly be considered equal to.”
Adhémar opened his mouth to protest, then shut it suddenly. Miach supposed he was grappling with the unexpected flattery and weighing the potential glory of it being true against the trouble of actually leaving Tor Neroche to traipse over the Nine Kingdoms, looking for someone to wield a sword that wasn’t his.
Miach saw Rigaud stir, no doubt to say something about keeping the throne warm for his brother while he was away. He shot Rigaud a look of warning. Rigaud made a rather rude gesture in return, but grinned as he did it. Miach pursed his lips and turned his attention back to Adhémar. His brother finally cursed.
A very good sign.
“I’ll need to be back by mid-winter, at the latest,” Adhémar announced.
“Why?” Miach asked carefully.
“I’m getting married.”
“Finally,” Cathar said, sounding rather relieved. “To whom?”
“Don’t know yet,” Adhémar said, finishing off Cathar’s ale and handing his brother’s cup back to him. “I’m still thinking on it.”
Miach was set to suggest that perhaps Adhémar choose someone with a decent amount of magic to make up for his lack, but he forbore. For now, it was enough to have time to sort out what was truly going on in the palace without his brother underfoot, bellowing like a stuck pig about his sufferings.
Adhémar scowled. “I’ve little liking for this idea.” He looked at Miach narrowly. “I suspect this is a ruse so you can keep your toes warmed by the fire while I’m off looking for a fool ready to volunteer to take his life in his hands to protect us from the north.”
Miach didn’t offer any opinion on that.
Adhémar swore for quite some time in a very inventive fashion. Finally, he swept them all with a look. “Well, it appears I am off to find a wielder for the Sword of Angesand.”
“Have a lovely journey,” Rigaud said, edging closer to the throne.
Adhémar glared at him. “Turah will sit the Throne while I am gone—”
“What?” Rigaud shouted, leaping in front of his brother. “Adhémar, what of me! I know Nemed is worthless—”
Miach was unsurprised by either the volume of the complaints or Adhémar’s choice. After all, it was well within Adhémar’s right to choose any of his brothers to succeed him.
Adhémar held up his hand. “He is my choice and my choice is final. You will, of course, aid him as you would me.”
Miach didn’t need to look into the future to know what would happen in the king’s absence. Mansourah would shadow Cathar, Nemed would stand unobtrusively behind Turah and steady him should he falter, and Rigaud would rage continuously about the injustice of it all. Adhémar looked at Miach.
“And you will do as you see fit, I suppose.”
“As he bloody pleases, you mean,” Rigaud grumbled.
“As I usually do,” Miach said with a grave smile. “I have quite enough to do to keep me busy.”
“You watch your back, Adhémar,” Cathar rumbled. He wrapped his hands around his cup of ale. “I’ve no mind to crown Turah any time soon.”
“Heaven preserve us,” Rigaud gasped. “My liege, perhaps I should come and defend you.”
“With what?” Cathar said, scowling. “One of your brightly colored tunics? Aye, blind the bloody buggers with your garb and hope they don’t stick you in spite of it.”
Rigaud, for all his preening, wasn’t above defending his own honor and he launched himself at his elder brother with a curse. Adhémar moved his legs out of the fray and helped himself to Rigaud’s ale. The king’s respite was short. Soon he was pulled into the skirmish. Miach sighed. Things never changed, or so it seemed.
Or perhaps not.
Miach looked over the scene of skirmish and though things seemed the same, they were indeed not. Adhémar was powerless. His remaining brothers, even put together, did not have enough magic to keep the brooding darkness at bay. Nay, a wielder for the Sword of Angesand had to be found, and Adhémar was the one to do it.
“Miach!” Adhémar bellowed from the bottom of the pile. “Any thoughts on where I should go?”
“Probably to the most unlikely place possible,” Miach offered.
“Ah, but there are so many choices,” Adhémar said sourly. He shoved his brothers off him one by one, then sat up and sighed. “The kingdom of Ainneamh?”
“Only elves there,” Miach said. “I wouldn’t bother. I would turn my eye to a more humble place.” He paused. “Perhaps the Island of Melksham.”
“What!” Adhémar exclaimed. “The Island of Melksham? Have you lost all sense?”
“It was but a suggestion.”
“And a poor one at that.” He shook his head in disgust as he crawled to his feet. “Melksham. Ha! That will be the very last place I’ll look.” He glared at Miach one last time, then he strode from the room, his curses floating in the air behind him.
Miach watched as his remaining bothers untangled themselves, collected their empty cups, and made their way singly and with a good deal of commenting on the vagaries of the monarchy from the chamber.
Miach was left there, alone, staring at the empty place where his brothers had been. Unbidden, a vision came to him of the chamber before him, only it was abandoned, desolate, ruined, uninhabitable—
He shook his head sharply. That was no vision; it was a lie spawned by his own unease. All would be well. He was doing all he could. No doubt this was the worst of the disasters.
He reflected again on the places Adhémar might possibly go to find the wielder. Melksham Island was certainly the least likely, which would make it the most likely—but he wouldn’t tell Adhémar that. With any luck, he would make it there eventually on his own.
Miach turned and left the chamber, leaving the search for the wielder in his brother’s hands.
For the moment.
One
Morgan of Melksham walked along the road, cursing both autumn’s chill and her journey that caused her to be traipsing out in that chill instead of hunkering down next to a warm fire. This was not what she had planned. Her life had been proceeding quite nicely until she’d received the missive in the middle of a particularly muddy campaign in which she’d been trying to pry one of Melksham’s nobles from a keep that did not belong to him. The message from Lord Nicholas had been brief and pointed.
Come soon; time is short.
Morgan didn’t want to speculate on what that might mean, but she couldn’t help herself. Was the man suffering from life-threatening wounds? Was his home under siege from nobles he had exacted donations from once too often? Had he had a bountiful harvest and needed an extra pair of hands to bring that harvest to the cellar?
Was he dying?
She quickened her pace, forcing her thoughts away. She would know soon enough and then that uncomfortable, unwholesome pounding in her chest would cease and she actually might be able to eat again.
She reached the outer walls of the orphanage just as the sun was setting. Melk
sham Orphan’s Home at Lismòr had begun many years ago as a home for lads, but at some point it had also become a place of study that had brought together a collection of the finest scholars from all over the Nine Kingdoms. Nicholas, the lord of Lismòr, was the orphanage’s undisputed champion and the university’s chief procurer of funds.
Over the years, it had become different things to those who had experience with it. Many called it “the orphanage.” Others referred to it as “the university.” Nicholas simply called it “home.”
Morgan agreed with the latter, though she never would have admitted it.
The outer walls of Lismòr soon rose up before her, forbidding and unfriendly. It made her wonder, not for the first time, why a university merited anything more than a sturdy gate. It was rumored that Lismòr hid many things, including chests of marvelous treasure. Morgan supposed those rumors could have been referring to the offerings that appeared each night on Lord Nicholas’s supper table, but she couldn’t have said for certain.
There were rumors, though, of another sort that swirled around Lord Nicholas. It was said that he never aged, that he conversed with mysterious souls who slipped inside the gates after dark and left well before dawn, and that he even possessed magic.
Morgan snorted. She had never seen any display of otherworldliness at the orphanage, and she’d lived there for many years. No doubt Nicholas’s garden bloomed in the depth of winter because he was a damned fine gardener, not for any more magical reason. He was a man of great intelligence, quick wit, and an ability to convince others to fund his ventures. He possessed no magic beyond that.
Surely.
And surely his missive had nothing to do with his health.
She knocked on the heavy gate, then waited impatiently as a single square of metal was slowly pulled back and a weathered face appeared, looking out suspiciously.
“Hmmm,” he said doubtfully.
Morgan pursed her lips. “Aye, hmmm.”
The porthole was slammed shut and the gate opened without haste. Morgan tapped her foot impatiently until the moment she could slip inside. She shut the gate herself, then looked at the gatekeeper.
“Is he dying?”
“Morgan,” the gatekeeper said pleasantly. “You’ve been away long.”
“But I have returned, in haste, and my hope is that it is not to attend a wake. Master James, is he dying?”
“Who?”
“Lord Nicholas!”
Master James scratched his head. “Not that I know of. I think he’s holding court with the lads in his solar. Best to seek him out there, aye?”
Morgan could hardly believe her ears. Nicholas was well?
She wasn’t sure if she was relieved that he was apparently hale and hearty or furious that he’d tricked her into coming by means of such a cryptic, panic-inducing message. One thing was certain: they would have words about the wording of future missives.
What she wanted to do was sit down and catch the breath she realized she’d been holding for almost a se’nnight. Instead, she nodded to the gatekeeper and walked weakly away. She would sit when she reached Nicholas’s solar. And then once she recovered, she just might put him to the sword for her trouble.
She made her way across a rather large expanse of flat ground that the students and lads used to play games on, then continued on toward the inner walls that enclosed the heart of the university. Now, these were walls that offered protection against a foe. Morgan walked through the gate, casting a surreptitious look up at the heavy spikes of the portcullis gleaming dimly above her as she did so. Perhaps Nicholas was more concerned about the safety of his scholarly texts than he appeared.
Or perhaps he was concerned about the safety of his lads. She suspected she understood why. He had only mentioned once, in passing, that he’d had sons of his own at one time who had been slain. She supposed that since he hadn’t been able to protect them, he felt compelled to protect others who could not see to themselves. Whatever the true reason, there were many, many souls that had benefited from his altruism. She certainly counted herself as one of them.
She threaded her way through many buildings and along paths until she reached the heart of Lismòr. It was an enormous building, with chambers and apartments surrounding an inner courtyard. Nicholas’s chambers took up one half side of the building, and his solar happily resided in one of the corners. Morgan had spent many a pleasant hour there, conversing with an exceptional man who had made an exception in her case, allowing her to remain at the orphanage in spite of her being a girl.
Which was no doubt why she found herself standing not fifty paces away from his chambers, instead of at a siege that had been destined, thanks to much effort on her part, to yield quite a tidy sum. Her comrades had thought her mad for walking away; she had agreed, yet still she had packed her gear and left.
All because of a message from a man who had been like a father to her.
Morgan pursed her lips and continued on toward Nicholas’s private solar. She would contemplate her descent into madness later, perhaps when she was sitting before a hot fire with a mug of drinkable ale in her hand and Nicholas before her to answer a handful of very pointed questions.
She stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, turned the handle, and slipped inside. The chamber was an inviting one, luxuriously appointed yet not intimidating. A cheery fire burned in the hearth, fine tapestries lined the walls, and thick rugs were scattered over the floor to spare the lord’s feet the chill of cold stone. Candles in abundance drove the shadows back into their corners and sweet music filled the air.
Until she closed the door behind her, that is. The music faltered. The young man who plied his lute averted his eyes when she looked at him.
“Continue, Peter,” said a deep voice, roughened by the passage of many years. “Now, lads, I seem to remember one of you asking for a tale.”
The dozen or so lads strewn about the floor like so many shapeless garments were successful in varying degrees at tearing their gazes from her. Morgan was acutely aware of the filth of her clothing and the poor condition of her cloak. She looked about her for a place to sit. She settled for a corner and sank down onto the stool that had been handily placed there for just such a need as hers. She pulled the edges of her cloak closer around her and did her best to become part of the shadows.
Then she glared at the man holding court, for Lord Nicholas looked fit and strong and certainly in no need of anything from her.
He only winked at her and turned his attention back to his lads. “What will it be tonight?” he asked. “Romance? Adventure? Perilous escapades that should result in disaster but do not?”
“Peril,” Morgan said before she could stop herself. “Imminent death. Something that requires an immediate and drastic rescue. Something that might include missives sent and travels made when apparently there was no need.”
The lads again turned to look at her briefly, many of them slack-jawed, the rest looking quite confused.
“Oh, nothing so frightening,” Nicholas said smoothly. “Lads? Any suggestions?”
“The Tale of the Two Swords,” a young lad piped up.
Half the lads groaned. Morgan groaned right along with them. Too much romance in that one. Unfortunately, it was one of Nicholas’s favorites; he would never do the decent thing and refuse to retell it.
“The Two Swords,” Nicholas agreed readily. “So it will be.”
Morgan rolled her eyes and leaned back against the wall, preparing to completely ignore all she would hear. Obviously, she would have no answers out of the man before he was ready, and if he held true to form, his nightly tale-telling would last for at least an hour. It was his ritual, repeated as consistently as the sun rising and setting each day. It gave the lads a sense of security, or so he said.
Morgan closed her eyes, wondering if she might be able to snatch a bit of sleep and block out the romance that would ooze out of the tale Nicholas was beginning to spin. But, despite herself, she found herself
listening. Gilraehen the Fey was bold, Mehar of Angesand was beautiful, and Lothar of Wychweald was evil enough to make the most hardened of listeners shiver.
In time, the romance in the tale increased. Morgan was quite certain there would be tender sentiments exchanged soon between Gilraehen and Mehar—things entirely too sugary to be inflicted upon the hapless lads in the chamber. Morgan shot Nicholas a warning look, but he blithely ignored it.
She gave up and turned her attentions to the condition of her own hands. As she listened to Mehar placing her hand in Gilraehen’s and giving herself to him as his queen, she pursed her lips. She herself hardly had time for such pleasantries; it was just as well, for no man would look at her hands, scarred and rough, and ask her to do anything with them besides curry his horse. A mercenary’s life was not an easy one.
It was especially hard on one’s hands.
“What of the two swords?” a lad asked. “The king’s sword, especially.” He paused. “I hear it is very sharp.”
Nicholas laughed. “Well, of course the king keeps the Sword of Neroche. But the other—” He paused and shrugged. “The Sword of Angesand hangs in the great hall at Tor Neroche.”
“But,” another asked, sounding quite worried, “isn’t the king afraid someone might make off with it?”
“Nay, lad, I daresay not. Before she died, Queen Mehar, she who fashioned the blade, laid an enchantment of protection upon it, that it would never be stolen. She also prophesied about several special souls who would wield that blade at a time of particular peril, but that is a tale for another night.”
The lads protested, but not heartily. They were secure in the knowledge that the following night would bring more of the same sort of pleasure. Morgan watched them file past her and understood precisely how they felt. She’d been orphaned at six, taken in by a company of mercenaries for several years until she’d begun her courses, then heartlessly deposited without a backward glance upon Nicholas’s doorstep at the tender age of ten-and-two. She had had her own share of those long evenings passed in the comfort of Nicholas’s solar, listening to him tell his stories. But she had never, for reasons she never examined if she could help it, allowed herself to luxuriate in that sensation of security.