This is the gravest threat Ulthuan has faced since the Sundering.’

‘And yet in the middle of this, Caledor, if Caledor it was, chooses to tell you that I will be going on a journey. You would have thought he would have more important things on his mind.’

‘This is not a subject for jest, Teclis,’ said Morelian. ‘The first archmage must have known we would find out all the rest for ourselves soon enough. It is a mark of your importance in the great scheme of things that he chose to speak to us about you.’

‘Why me?’ Teclis asked.

‘You are of the Blood of Aenarion,’ said Belthania.

‘And you and your brother are heroes,’ said Morelian.

‘I am no hero,’ said Teclis.

‘If you are not now, I fear you will be before all of this is over,’ said Morelian.

‘I am going to find my brother,’ Teclis said. ‘And to do that I will need a weapon.’

‘We shall see what we can provide,’ said Morelian.

‘I shall make my own sword,’ said Teclis.

‘Then you had best get started,’ said the High Loremaster.’ I shall see that a forge is put at your disposal.’

Quickly Teclis took a fresh piece of parchment and sharpened a quill before dipping it in ink and sketching out the runes and magical equations that would be needed to make the sword. For long hours he sat hunched over the desk in his chamber, working swiftly and easily.

He had studied Sunfang and he felt certain that he could duplicate at least part of the magic that had gone into creating it. The basic spells that would go to making the blade sharp and deadly would need to be every bit as potent and as well constructed as the magic of Caledor.

As he worked he wondered why he was really doing this. He did not have any great use for a blade – he was no warrior. He had no plans to run around like his brother, cutting things up with a sword. The only thing he was likely to be able to hurt was himself.

Anything that had got close enough to him that he would need to use a sword upon was already too close. He did not need to do anything as spectacular as the fire magic that had been woven into the sword. That would be difficult to do without access to the volcanic fires of Vaul’s Anvil. He was no warrior and he did not really need the blade to do anything so spectacular anyway.

It was the creation of the sword itself that was important. It was a test that he had set himself. If he could recreate this part of Caledor’s work, he could recreate other parts, at least that was what he told himself. He was setting himself on the same path as that great master-wizard. He was making a statement to himself and to the world about what he could do and what his intentions were.

In the end, it did not really matter what his motivation was. What mattered was that he completed the work he had set himself. The mystical diagrams and the potent incantations flowed freely onto the parchment, seeming almost to write themselves. He kept at work long into the night, using more and more parchment, constantly having to sharpen the nib of his quill, burning the candles in his chamber low.

Dawn was breaking by the time he had completed his work, but he did not feel tired. It was not merely the drugs that he used to give himself energy that made him feel so lightheaded. He had a sense he was becoming the person that he was intended to be; finally he was on the right path to fulfilling his destiny. Making this blade just felt right.

This was a sword that would never lose its sharpness no matter what it was used to cut and which would be able to cut through almost anything. It did not really matter to him that he had no real use for it – it was something that he could build upon, a structure into which you could eventually fit other spells in exactly the same way that Caledor had.

Yet even as he completed the design, a vague sense of dissatisfaction filled him. He was merely recreating the work of another. What he had done was a work of genius, but it was a work of someone else’s genius. It pleased him to be able to do this, but he knew that he would never be truly happy until he had managed to create a work of equal magnitude of his own. He wanted to make his own masterpiece.

As that thought occurred to him, a sardonic smile twisted his lips. He could see where that path was eventually going to lead him. He was putting himself in competition with the greatest mage who had ever lived.