THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA : Morgawr (BOOK THREE)

“Both seem impossible to me,” he answered the other carefully.

“You fail to see what I am telling you,” the intruder said. “I am telling you why I will prove a better ally than the little witch. Who stands between you and your goal? The Prime Minister, who is hardy and well? He will serve long years before he steps down. His chosen successor, the Minister of the Treasury, Jaren Arken? He is a man younger than you and equally powerful, equally ruthless. He aspires to be Minister of Defense, doesn’t he? He seeks your position on the council.”

A cold rage swept through Sen Dunsidan on hearing those words. It was true, of course—all of it. Arken was his worst enemy, a man slippery and elusive as a snake, cold-blooded and reptilian through and through. He wanted the man dead, but had not yet figured out a way to accomplish it. He had asked the Ilse Witch for help, but whatever other exchange of favors she was willing to accept, she had always refused to kill for him.

“What is your offer, Morgawr?” he asked bluntly, tiring of this game.

“Only this. By tomorrow night, the men who stand in your way will be no more. No blame or suspicion will attach to you. The position you covet will be yours for the taking. No one will oppose you. No one will question your right to lead. This is what I can do for you. In exchange, you must do what I ask—give me the ships and the men to sail them. A Minister of Defense can do this, especially when he stands to become Prime Minister.”

The other’s voice became a whisper. “Accept the partnership I am offering, so that not only may we help each other now, but we may help each other again when it becomes necessary.”

Sen Dunsidan took a long moment to consider what was being asked. He badly wanted to be Prime Minister. He would do anything to secure the position. But he mistrusted this creature, this Morgawr, a thing not entirely human, a wielder of magic that could undo a man before he had time to realize what was happening. He was still unconvinced of the advisability of doing what he was being asked to do. He was afraid of the Ilse Witch; he could admit that to himself if to no one else. If he crossed her and she found out, he was a dead man; she would hunt him down and destroy him. On the other hand, if the Morgawr was to destroy her as he said he would, then Sen Dunsidan would do well to rethink his concerns.

A bird in the hand, it was commonly accepted, was worth two in the bush. If a path to the position of Prime Minister of the Coalition Council could be cleared, almost any risk was worth the taking.

“What sort of airships do you need?” he asked quietly. “How many?”

“Are we agreed on a partnership, Minister? Yes or no. Don’t equivocate. Don’t attach conditions. Yes or no.”

Sen Dunsidan was still uncertain, but he could not pass up the chance to advance his own fortunes. Yet when he spoke the word that sealed his fate, he felt as if he were breathing fire. “Yes.”

The Morgawr moved like liquid night, sliding along the edges of the shadows as he eased across the bedchamber. “So be it. I will be back after sunset tomorrow to let you know what your end of the bargain will be.”

Then he was through the doorway and gone.





Sen Dunsidan slept poorly that night, plagued by dreams and wakefulness, burdened with the knowledge that he had sold himself at a price that had yet to be determined and might prove too costly to pay. Yet, while lying awake between bouts of fretful sleep, he pondered the enormity of what might take place, and he could not help but be excited. Surely no price was too great if it meant he would become Prime Minister. A handful of ships and a complement of men, neither of which he cared overmuch about—these were nothing to him. In truth, to gain control of the Federation, he would have obligated himself for much more. In truth, he would have paid any price.

Yet it still might all come to nothing. It might prove nothing more than a fantasy given to test his willingness to abandon the witch as an ally.

But when he woke and while he was dressing to go to the Council chambers, word reached him that the Prime Minister was dead. The man had gone to sleep and never woken; his heart stopped while he lay in his bed. It was odd, given his good health and relatively young age, but life was filled with surprises.