Star of the Morning Read Free

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.
    â€œAye?”
    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?”
    â€œNay,” 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.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œCeased?” Miach echoed in surprise.
    â€œIt was as if it had never had any magic in it at all.”
    â€œIndeed?” 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.”
    â€œWell, it’s not going to, so don’t bother.”
    â€œI think—”
    â€œDon’t think,”