A Tapestry of Spells (46 page)

“I’m still working on that,” Miach said. And he would be, no doubt, for quite some time to come.

Adhémar scowled, then looked back at the rest of his brothers. “It isn’t permanent,” he said confidently. “So, until I regain my magic, I’m sure our clever brother over there has a solution to our problems.” He looked at Miach expectantly.

Miach didn’t want to look as if he was gearing up for battle, so he tried a pleasant smile. “I do,” he said pleasantly. “I suggest the Sword of Angesand.”

“The Sword of Angesand,” Adhémar mouthed. He choked, looked about in vain for something to drink, then pounded himself upon his chest in desperation. Cathar handed him his own cup of ale. He drank deeply. “The what?” he wheezed.

“You heard me.”

“You cannot be serious!”

“Why not?” Miach asked.

“Because it is a woman’s sword!” Adhémar exclaimed. “You can
not
expect me to carry a woman’s sword!”

Miach suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “It
isn’t
a woman’s sword. It was merely fashioned by a woman—”

“It has flowers all over it!”

“Think on them as nightshade, dealing a slow and painful death to those upon whom the sword falls,” Miach said. “Many men have carried that sword in battle and been victorious with it, flowers aside.” He paused. “Have you ever held it?”

Adhémar scowled at him. “I have and nay, it does not call my name. Fortunately,” he muttered, “because I wouldn’t carry it even if it did.”

“I don’t expect
you
to carry it,” Miach said. “I expect you to find someone
else
to carry it.”

Adhémar gaped at him. Miach noted that the rest of his brothers were wearing similar expressions. Except Rigaud, of course, who was calculatingly eyeing the throne.

“What kind of someone?” Cathar asked cautiously.

“I imagine it will need to be a mage,” Miach said slowly. “After Queen Mehar last used it, it has only been wielded by those with magic.”

“Why don’t you take it up?” Adhémar asked. “Or don’t you have the magic necessary to do so?”

Miach looked at his brother coolly. “I daresay I do, but the sword does not call to me.”

“Have you asked it?”

“Adhémar, I am no longer a lad of eight summers. Even I can reach up far enough to pull the blade off the wall—which I have done a time or two while you were napping.”

“I’ve seen him,” Rigaud put in helpfully. “And more than twice.”

Miach shot Rigaud a glare before he turned back to his king. “We need a sword to replace yours until we can determine what ails you.”

Adhémar grunted. “Very well, I can see the sense in it. Where will you go to find this mage?”

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 eldest 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.