by Lynn Kurland
“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.