Star of the Morning Read Free Page B

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