Star of the Morning Read Free Page A

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.”
    â€œAdhémar,” Miach said evenly, “let me see the damned sword. You can hold on to it, if you don’t trust me.”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œHere,” Miach said, taking a taper and putting it on his table. “Light that.”
    Adhémar drew himself up. “Too simple.”
    â€œThen it shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
    Adhémar glared at his brother briefly, then spat out a spell.
    He waited.
    There was nothing.
    â€œTry 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.
    â€œAn aberration,” Adhémar said, but even he had to admit that this did not bode well.
    â€œLet 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.”
    â€œThat 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.
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    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