mage to the north. Heâd sent Adhémar off on a search for a wielder for that sword, then followed along a pair of months later to find out why his brother hadnât returned. It had been then, on the day when heâd found his brother, that heâd first laid eyes on Morgan of Melksham.
And lost his heart.
He had traveled with her for a month, come to love her more with each day that passed, and dreaded with equal fervor the moment when he would have to admit to her that he wasnât Miach the simple farmer, as he had led her to believe, but Mochriadhemiach, the archmage of Neroche. It might not have mattered so much who he was except for her loathing of magic in general and mages in particular.
Sheâd discovered his identityâand that he believed her to be one of the prophesied wielders of the Sword of Angesandâat a most inopportune moment. Her anger had been so great, she had taken that magical sword, brought it down against that very table at the back of the hall, and splintered it into a thousand pieces. Sheâd fled, encountered Lothar of Wychweald, then drunk poison heâd given her before Miach had been able to catch up with her. He had had no choice but to send her unconscious self back to Melksham to heal whilst he remained behind and attempted to see to the tatters of the realm.
But the tatters were mended, for the moment, and he would make do without the Sword of Angesand. He would also allow himself a pair of days to travel south and attend to the matters of his heart.
âMiach, should you have changed clothes, perhaps?â
Miach looked at Cathar, trussed up uncomfortably in his finest court clothes, and shrugged. âAdhémar told me not to stand out.â
âBut black, Miach,â Cathar protested. âCould you not have donned something less forbidding? You have six brothers, you know. Surely you could have found something in one of our closets.â
âThe rest of you donât dress any better than I do,â Miach said, âsave Rigaud, and I wouldnât wear anything he owns. This way Iâll fade into the background, which will please Adhémar the most.â
Cathar frowned thoughtfully. âCanât say I wouldnât rather be less conspicuous myself. All right, letâs be about it.â
Miach took a fortifying breath, then followed his brother into the chapel.
There were so many people inside, there was scarce room for him to squeeze through them to reach the front. He looked over the company as he did so. There was the usual royalty from neighboring nations, ambassadors where the royalty could not be troubled, as well as the odd assortment of dwarves, wizards, and an adventurous elf or two. And a quartet of mercenaries.
Miach smiled at those last lads as he took his place at the end of the line of his brothers. They were Morganâs companions; two men, a dwarf, and a lad who had hoped for adventure but gotten quite a bit more than heâd bargained for. They had remained at the palace as his guests over the past month, waiting with him for tidings of Morganâs condition.
Could he be blamed if heâd asked more than a respectable amount of questions about their dealings with her? Heâd had her company for less than a month, long enough to learn to love her, but not nearly long enough to know her as he would have liked. Their tales of her everyday doings had been a balm to his heart. Heâd been equally willing to listen to tales of her skill with a sword; those had come as no surprise to him. After all, she had studied with Scrymgeour Weger.
Wegerâs fame as a swordmaster was widespread and sobering. Graduates of his tower at Gobhann couldnât be called assassins, but they were certainly men for whom anything but swords had ceased to exist. Ostensibly Morgan had gone there to improve her swordplay, but Miach suspected the true reason sheâd sought the solace of Wegerâs tower was