Star of the Morning

  He looked around him to make certain no one was watching him, then drew his sword halfway from its scabbard. Still nothing but a sword. He waited for it to speak to him, to answer to the kingship in his blood.

  The sword was silent.

  He, on the other hand, was certainly not. He cursed as he led his company swiftly back to the castle. He swore as he thundered through the gates, dismounted at the front doors, and strode angrily through the hallways, up and down flights of stairs, and finally up the long circular stairway that led to the tower chamber where his youngest brother was supposed to be diligently working on affairs of the realm.

  Adhémar suspected that he might instead be working his way through the king’s collection of fine, sour wine.

  Adhémar burst into the chamber without knocking. He allowed himself a cursory glance about for piles of empty wine bottles, but to his disappointment found none. What he did find, though, was the sort of semi-organized clutter he’d come to expect from his brother. There was an enormous hearth to Adhémar’s right with two chairs in front of it, straining to bear up under the weight of books and clothing they’d been burdened with. Straight ahead was a long table, likewise littered with other kinds of wizardly things: papers, scrolls, pots of unidentifiable substances. Adhémar supposed they couldn’t be helped, but it seemed all foolishness to him.

  He found his brother standing behind the table, looking out the window. Adhémar cleared his throat loudly as he crossed the chamber, then slapped his hands on the table. His younger brother, Miach, turned around.

  “Aye?”

  Adhémar frowned. His brother looked enough like him that he should have been handsome. He had the same dark hair, the same enviable form, even the same flawless facial features. Today, however, Miach was just not attractive. His hair looked as if he’d been trying to pull it out by the roots, he hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were almost crossed. And they were red. Adhémar scowled. “Miach, your eyes are so bloodshot, I can scarce determine their color. What have you been doing, perfecting a new spell to cause painful rashes on annoying ambassadors?”

  “Nay,” Miach said gravely. “Just the usual business.”

  Adhémar grunted. He had, quite honestly, little idea what the usual business was. Spells, puttering, muttering; who knew? His brother was archmage of the realm, which Adhémar had always suspected was something of a courtesy title. Indeed, if he were to be completely honest, he had begun to suspect that quite a few things were merely courtesy.

  Or at least he had until that morning.

  Adhémar drew his sword and threw it down upon Miach’s worktable. “Fix that.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It doesn’t work anymore,” Adhémar said, irritated. He glared at his brother. “Did you see nothing of the battle this morning? Don’t you have some sort of glass you peep in to see what transpires in the realm?”

  “I might,” Miach said, “but I was concentrating on other things.”

  Adhémar thrust out his finger and pointed at his sword. “Then perhaps you might take a moment and concentrate on this.”

  Miach looked at the sword, clearly puzzled. “Is there something amiss with it?”

  “The magelight vanished!” Adhémar exclaimed. “Bloody hell, Miach, are you up here napping? Well, obviously not because you look terrible. But since you weren’t watching me as you should have been, let me tell you what happened. We were assaulted by something. Many somethings, of a kind I’ve never seen before. My sword worked for a moment or two, then ceased.”

  “Ceased?” Miach echoed in surprise.

  “It was as if it had never had any magic in it at all.”

  “Indeed?” Miach reached out to pick up the sword. “How did that—”

  Adhémar snatched up the sword before his brother could touch it. “I’ll keep it, thank you just the same.”

  Miach frowned. “Adhémar, I don’t want your sword. I only wanted to see if it would speak to me.”

  “Well, it’s not going to, so don’t bother.”

  “I think—”

  “Don’t think,” Adhémar said briskly. “Remedy. I can’t guide the bloody realm without the power of this sword, and I can tell you with certainty that there is no power left in it.”

  “Adhémar,” Miach said evenly, “let me see the damned sword. You can hold on to it, if you don’t trust me.”

  “A king can never be too careful,” Adhémar muttered as he held his sword out to his brother. Point first, of course. There were limits to his trust.

  Miach looked at it, ran his fingers along the flat of the blade, then frowned. “I sense nothing.”

  “I told you so.”

  Miach raised his eyebrows briefly. “So you did.” He looked at his brother. “What of you? Have you lost your magic as well?”

  Adhémar thought back to the spells he’d cast as the creature had attacked him. He’d left the scene of battle too quickly to determine if they’d taken effect or not, but he wasn’t about to admit as much. Who knew how closely and with what relish Miach might want to examine that? “I’m having an off day,” Adhémar said stiffly. “Nothing more.”

  “Here,” Miach said, taking a taper and putting it on his table. “Light that.”

  Adhémar drew himself up. “Too simple.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

  Adhémar glared at his brother briefly, then spat out a spell.

  He waited.

  There was nothing.

  “Try it a different way,” Miach suggested. “Call the fire instead.”

  Adhémar hadn’t done the like since his sixth year, when his mother had taken him aside and begun to teach him the rudiments of magic. It had come easily to him, but that was to be expected. He had been the chosen heir to the throne, after all.

  He now closed his eyes and blocked out the faint sounds of castle life, his brother’s breathing, his own heartbeat. There, in the deepest, stillest part of his being, he called the fire. It came, a single flicker that he let grow until it filled his entire mind. He opened his eyes and willed it to come forth around the wick.

  Nothing, not even a puff of smoke.

  “An aberration,” Adhémar said, but even he had to admit that this did not bode well.

  “Let me understand this,” Miach said slowly. “Your sword has no magic, you apparently have no magic, and you have no idea why either has happened.”

  “That would sum it up quite nicely,” Adhémar said curtly. “Now, fix it all and come to me in the hall when you’ve managed it. I’m going to find a mug of ale.” He turned, walked through the doorway, slammed the door behind him, and stomped down the steps.

  Actually he suspected it might take several mugs of ale to erase the memories of the day he’d just had. Best to be about it before things became worse.

  Miach looked at the closed door for a moment or two before he bowed his head and blew out his breath. This was an unexpected turn of events, but not an unanticipated one. He had been archmage of the realm for fourteen years now, having taken on those duties the same moment Adhémar had taken the throne, upon the deaths of their parents. In that fourteen years, he had constantly maintained the less visible defenses against the north, passing a great deal of his time and spending a great deal of his strength to keep Lothar, the black mage of Wychweald, at bay. Those defenses had been constantly tested, constantly under siege of one kind or another.

  Until the previous year.

  It was as if the world outside the realm of Neroche had suddenly fallen asleep. His spells of protection and defense had gone untouched, untested, untroubled. He’d known it could not last and was not meant to last.

  Perhaps the assault had begun, and in a way he hadn’t foreseen.

  But what to do now? He was quite certain Adhémar’s sword hadn’t given up its magic on its own, and that Adhémar hadn’t lost his just as a matter of course. If a spell had been cast upon the king, the king had magic enough to sense it. Or at least
he should have.

  Miach considered that for a moment or two. Adhémar was the king and as such possessed the mantle that went with such kingship. Yet perhaps he’d spent so many years not using his magic for anything more desperate than to hasten the souring of his favorite wine that he’d lost the ability of it, a bit like a man who lost his strength because he sat upon his backside with his feet up and never lifted anything heavier than a fork.

  But to have had the sword lose its power as well?

  Miach rose and began to pace. There had been no spell laid upon the blade that he could discern, but perhaps there was more at work than he could see. Perhaps Adhémar had been stripped of his magic in the same way. But why? And by whom? He was very familiar with the smell of Lothar’s magic and this had no stench of that kind.

  Miach paced until the chamber ceased to provide him with room enough to truly aid him in his thinking. He descended the stairs and began to wander about the castle. He tramped about restlessly until he found himself standing in the great hall. It was a place made to impress, with enormous hearths on three sides and a raised dais at the back. Countless kings of Neroche had sat at that table on that dais, comfortable in the magic they possessed.

  In the beginning of the realm, the magic had been the king’s and his alone. The first pair of kings of Neroche had guarded the realm by virtue of their own power. In time, the kings had either had enough power in and of themselves, or they had found other means to augment that power. The Sword of Neroche had been endowed with a bit of magic itself, but it had always been dependent on the king.

  That had changed eventually. It had been the grandson of King Harold the Brave who had looked upon his posterity, considered the queen who had left him for one of Lothar’s sons, and decided that the only way to assure the safety of the kingdom was to imbue his sword with all of his power. He did, chose his least objectionable son as king, and made his magically gifted nephew archmage as a balance. It had been the Sword of Neroche, from that time on, that had carried most of the king’s magic, folded into the steel of its blade.

  Miach looked down at the floor and rubbed the back of his neck. Of course, he had magic of his own, more than he had ever admitted to his brothers, more than even he had suspected when he’d become the archmage. But he knew, in a deep, uncompromising way that reached down into his bones, that it would take all the magic he could muster, as well as all the king could draw from the Sword of Neroche, to keep Lothar at bay should he mount an all-out attack.

  Unless there was another way.

  He heard the faint hint of a song. He looked around him, startled, but the great hall was empty. He frowned, then resumed his contemplation of the floor.

  Again, he heard the whisper of a song.

  He realized, quite suddenly, where the music was coming from. He looked up slowly until his eyes fastened on a sword, hanging above the enormous hearth at the end of the great hall.

  The Sword of Angesand.

  Miach crossed slowly over to the dais, stepped up, and walked around behind the king’s high table. He looked up, finding that it was impossible not to do so. The sword was hanging well out of reach, so he was forced to fetch a chair. He pulled the sword down and looked at it.

  The Sword of Angesand, fashioned by Mehar of Angesand, queen of Neroche, and laced with enough magic to make even the most strong-stomached of souls quake. Miach held the sword aloft, but saw nothing but firelight flickering along the polished steel, firelight that revealed the tracery of leaves and flowers along the blade. All the things that Queen Mehar loved . . .

  It whispered the echo of the song he’d heard, then it fell silent.

  Miach looked at the blade. If the Sword of Neroche was unresponsive, was it possible the Sword of Angesand might not be? Could not a soul be found to awaken its magic? If a wielder could be found, perhaps it would be enough to keep Lothar curbed until Miach could solve the mystery of Adhémar and his sword.

  Perhaps.

  Miach’s hand shook as he replaced the sword—and that wasn’t from the exertion. It might work. Indeed, he couldn’t see why it wouldn’t. He turned and walked out of the great hall, convinced that there was no other path to be taken. Neroche’s king had lost his magic and the archmage could not win the battle on his own. The Sword of Angesand had power enough bound into its elegant steel to tip the scales in their favor.

  Now, to find someone willing to go off and search for that wielder.

  Miach made his way through the castle and back into the private family quarters. He found almost all his brothers gathered in their own, more modest hall, sipping or gulping ale as their particular circumstance warranted. He paused at the doorway to the chamber and looked them over. Was there a man there who might have the clearness of vision to recognize a wielder when he saw one?

  Miach looked at Cathar, who sat to the right of the king’s chair. He was a serious man of five and thirty winters, a scant year younger than Adhémar, who never would have thought to take an uninvited turn in his brother’s seat to see how it felt.

  Of course, that kind of testing was nothing to Rigaud, two years Cathar’s junior and as light-minded as the rest of them were serious. He lounged comfortably in Adhémar’s chair, dressed in his finest clothes. Miach looked pointedly at his green-eyed brother and only received a lazy wink in return. When Adhémar entered, he would be forced to bodily remove Rigaud from his seat, which Rigaud would enjoy immensely, though he would no doubt complain about the damage to his clothing.

  Next came Nemed, a lean man of thirty-two years with soft gray eyes and a gentle smile. Miach shook his head. Cathar wouldn’t have dared take on the task, Rigaud would have forgotten the task in his pursuit of fame and fortune, and Nemed would have found himself ripped to shreds by anyone with any ambition for power.

  That left him with only his twin brothers, Mansourah and Turah. They were canny warriors, but with weaponry was where their allegiance lay. They likely would have spent their time fighting over which of them might have been more suited to wielding the Sword of Angesand than searching out someone else to do it.

  Miach sighed heavily as he realized what he’d known from the start. There was only one to seek out the wielder, and that soul would not be happy to hear the news.

  Adhémar suddenly entered the chamber. All stood except Rigaud, who apparently didn’t want to give up his seat any sooner than necessary. Miach suppressed a smile at the squawking that ensued when the preening rooster was unceremoniously removed from his perch.

  Adhémar sat, then looked at Miach. “Well?”

  Miach shut the door behind him, then leaned back against it. No sense in letting anyone escape unnecessarily. “I believe I have found a solution.”

  “A solution?” Cathar echoed. “A solution to what?”

  Miach folded his arms over his chest. He wasn’t about to reveal the details of the king’s current condition. Adhémar could do that himself.

  Adhémar shot Miach a glare, then turned to Cathar. “I lost my magic,” he said bluntly.

  There were sounds of amazement from several quarters. Cathar frowned.

  “This afternoon?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Is it permanent?” Rigaud asked promptly.

  “Don’t hope for it overmuch,” Adhémar said shortly. “I’m sure it will return soon.” He shot Miach a look. “Won’t it?”

  “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 dri
nk, 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 cannot 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?”