The Misted Cliffs Read online

  Cobalt spoke with suppressed bitterness. “Grandfather has no love for anyone.” It had taken him years to convince the king of the Misted Cliffs that Varqelle would be of more use to him free than in prison. “He also has no male heir—except me. If you regain your crown, then someday I will inherit the thrones of both the Misted Cliffs and Harsdown. What matters to Grandfather is that the power of his house will double.”

  Varqelle’s eyes glinted. “As will mine.”

  “Yes.”

  The king paused. “And your mother?”

  Unease stirred in Cobalt, the one hesitation that had plagued him through his years of planning. He knew the rumors, that his mother had fled her husband’s brutality. Dancer had never told him what happened, despite his many questions. But neither had she tried to stop him from following his drive to know his father.

  “She is well,” Cobalt said. “I would see that she remains that way.”

  “I also.” Varqelle’s gaze never wavered. “The Jaguar Throne awaits us.”

  As much as Cobalt wanted his heritage, he had his doubts. He didn’t believe the Misted Cliffs could defeat Harsdown and Aronsdale combined, and he had no desire to embark on a war that would lay waste to three countries. Would they repeat the mistakes of history? Two centuries ago, Jazid and Taka Mal had attacked the Misted Cliffs and nearly destroyed all three countries. They had severed the Misted Cliffs in two, but they couldn’t hold their subjugated lands. Harsdown absorbed some of the conquered territory and the rest became a new country, Shazire. It had taken many generations for their realms to recover. It could happen again, this time with the Misted Cliffs attacking two other realms. Cobalt had no wish to precipitate such a ruin.

  Yet no matter what his wishes, he couldn’t have rescued his father without his grandfather’s help. So he had made a devil’s bargain. Nor was he certain who to name as the devil—his grandfather…or himself. A dark spirit drove him, restless and wild, full of anger, quenched only when he was riding hard with his men, sword in hand. He wanted to avoid war—but if it happened, he would gladly go into battle with Varqelle.

  Varqelle spoke in a shadowed voice. “I accept the offer of my wife’s father for sanctuary in the Misted Cliffs. But never forget, my son, that the Jaguar Throne is your heritage. We will reclaim your legacy—no matter what it takes.”

  2

  Cobalt the Dark

  Night had fallen by the time Mel finished tending her horse and returned to the house. Her parents could have chosen to live in Castle Escar, the fortress of the Jaguar King high in the northern mountains, but they preferred the sunnier climes and milder countryside here in the lowlands. Their sprawling farmhouse had many wings, all built from sunbask wood, so warm and golden it almost seemed to glow.

  Mel went in a side entrance, into the boot chamber. She smiled, thinking of how her mother, Chime, found “boot chamber” so amusing. Born a commoner, Chime had lived on a farm until she was Mel’s age. She often told her daughter stories of how they all tramped straight into the kitchen after working in the orchards.

  That had been before the mage mistress of Castle Suncroft had come searching for mages—and found Chime. Mel had heard the story so many times, she knew it by heart. The princes of the Dawnfield line were expected to wed the most powerful mages they could find among the eligible women of Aronsdale. So a reluctant Chime had agreed to marry Prince Muller, cousin to the king, and after a rocky betrothal, they had come to love each other. Then Varqelle had invaded Aronsdale. Mel shuddered. Had he succeeded eighteen years ago, he would have executed her father, possibly her pregnant mother as well. Mel would never have been born. It disquieted her to know Varqelle still lived, imprisoned far to the north.

  While Mel cleaned her gear from her training with the army earlier that day, she mulled over the fate that had put her father on the throne. Varqelle had commanded a more powerful military than Aronsdale, but Aronsdale had mages. Legends told of armies backed by a mage queen, and those tales strummed a chord within her. In both a literal and figurative sense, mages gave light. Red spells brought warmth, orange eased pain, yellow soothed emotions, green read emotions, blue healed injuries, and indigo healed emotions. A mage had a maximum color she could use, and she could do spells with that or any lower color. Red and orange mages were most common, though they numbered only in the twenties. Yellows were rarer. The only known greens were Chime and the mage mistress at Castle Suncroft. Skylark, the mistress here, was the only pure blue. Iris, the Aronsdale queen, was a rainbow, with blue as her strongest hue. Muller, Mel’s father, was the only living indigo, and legend claimed King Jarid was a purple mage. Together, they had all helped defeat Varqelle.

  “Lucky for them I wasn’t involved,” Mel muttered as she put away her practice sword. Fighting was easier. It frustrated her that she could do so little with her magecraft. She wondered if she would ever figure out her maximum color or shape. Geometric shapes determined the strength of a spell. The more sides to the shape, the more power it gave. A triangle offered less than a square, which was less than a pentagon, and so on. A circle was essentially a polygon with an infinite number of sides, which made it the most powerful two-dimensional shape. The sphere was the highest form of all, a three-dimensional polyhedron with an infinite number of sides. A mage could draw on any shape up to her maximum. Most used only two-dimensional shapes, and that was all Mel had ever managed.

  She sighed. Skylark kept insisting Mel would master at least some three-dimensional shapes. Mel admired Skylark. Really, she did. But the mage mistress exasperated her no end, always pushing, pushing, pushing her to make spells Mel couldn’t manage.

  Mel admired her mother, too, an accomplished green mage who used three-dimensional shapes with up to twenty sides. But Mel feared she would disappoint her. At age nineteen, barely a year older than Mel was now, her mother had ridden with the Aronsdale army. A green mage could neither heal nor add health, but she could make someone feel stronger. She could pour confidence into soldiers, firm their wills, raise morale—and during battle that often made all the difference. She could also judge the moods of their enemies, if she could get close enough without being caught, which helped her to predict their strategies, often with considerable accuracy.

  When it came to magic, Mel felt more kinship with her father, though he was an indigo, for he also struggled with his spells. Indigos did more than soothe; they could actually give someone a stronger will, a happier outlook, an easing of grief. Legends of such mages were a thousand years old, from a misty age with few historical records. In modern times, no one had believed they existed—until Muller. Usually only women showed the traits of an adept, but after so many centuries of marrying powerful mages, the Dawnfield men had them, too. However, Muller’s power responded only to flawed shapes, and it made his spells crooked and erratic, as likely to injure as to heal. In the war, his abilities had been invaluable, but now he rarely used them.

  With a grimace, Mel braced her hand against the wall and tried to tug off her boot. Her flaws weren’t only in her spells. People tended to ascribe larger-than-life traits to the royal family and wear blinders when it came to their faults, but her parents never missed anything. They always noticed her misbehavior, including her less-than-royal apparel and her penchant for sneaking out late at night to explore the orchards. Mel’s mouth quirked upward. Her mother might seem a paragon of queenly elegance now, but Mel’s grandmother delighted in telling tales about how wild Chime had been in her youth, running about the farm and causing mischief.

  As Mel worked on her boot, she told herself she wasn’t bothered by her struggles to make spells. Just as her skill with a sword improved with practice, so would her magecraft. Both pursuits satisfied needs within her, one physical, the other mental. When she trained with the army, she felt strong, not only in her body, but also in her character; when she learned mage skills, it strengthened her mind. But it was discouraging that her talent was taking so long to mature.

  The blasted
boot wouldn’t come off, either. Mel yanked—and her foot popped free. She lost her balance and stumbled. She could have fallen, but with so much flexibility, she easily twisted around and caught a hook on the wall. She grinned. All that daily exercise came in handy.

  “You look smug,” a good-natured voice said.

  Mel spun around to see her father, the king of Harsdown, leaning casually against the door frame with his arms crossed. Gray streaked his yellow hair. At forty-six, Muller Dawnfield projected maturity and experience, and the faint lines around his eyes added to that impression. It contrasted with the portraits Mel had seen from his youth, when he had been so beautiful that people had called him pretty. They never said it to his face, though, given his expertise with a sword.

  Mel had never understood why it embarrassed him that he had a lithe physique and wielded a sword with grace. She wished she had his art. She didn’t care about looking tough; she never would with her slender build. She just wanted to fight well. Part of that came from her drive to feel she could protect herself and her people, and part from the satisfaction it gave her to excel at military disciplines. Chime encouraged her interest, determined Mel would grow up strong. Her instructors praised her skill and said she had a natural talent with the sword. Perhaps it was her Dawnfield blood or the indomitable spirit she inherited from Chime that made her feel such kinship to the warrior queens in her ancestry.

  However, Mel still lacked her father’s style with a sword. Ironically, the same could be said about their clothes. He was dressed impeccably today in a gold tunic over a white shirt and darker gold leggings tucked into knee-boots. Embroidery edged his shirtsleeves, and topazes and opals studded his finely tooled belt. He was without doubt the best dressed warrior in Harsdown.

  “Hello, Father,” she said.

  “Where have you been?” Muller said. “We expected you at supper.”

  “I was doing field exercises with Lieutenant Windcrier.”

  Muller didn’t look convinced. “He and the others were back over an hour ago.”

  “I also went riding in the orchards,” she admitted.

  “What about your studies?” He endeavored to put on a stern expression. “Your tutors say math is the only thing you aren’t behind in.”

  Mel held back her smile. No matter how hard he tried, he could never manage to be mad at her. “I like math.”

  “Yes, well, you have other subjects, you know.” Bewilderment tinged his voice. “And why do you dress that way? You’re a lovely woman, Mel, but you act as though you think you’re a boy.”

  She walked over to him, her gait uneven with one boot on and one boot off. Going up on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry I missed dinner, Papa.”

  His attempt to look strict melted. “Ah, Mel.” Then he remembered himself and frowned. “You need to behave,” he added.

  “The orchards were beautiful today.” Mel stepped back and braced one hand on the wall while she pulled off her other boot. “I lost track of the hours.”

  Muller sighed. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  She gave him her most angelic smile. “How about letting me do whatever I want?”

  “For flaming sakes,” he growled. “You’re just like your mother was at your age. She always smiled at me like that and I couldn’t think straight. And she never listened to me back then.” He squinted at her. “I’m not sure she does now, either. She is just better at making me think she does.”

  Mel laughed softly. “What a difficult life you have, Papa.”

  His answering laugh was kind. “You minx.” Quietly he added, “I would hope for you no greater difficulties in life than a father who grouses about your clothes.”

  She set her boots on the tiled floor. “You seem pensive tonight.”

  “I feel odd. I don’t know why.”

  “Make a mood spell.”

  He blinked. “For who?”

  “Yourself.” Mel went to the wall opposite the door and took her shoes off the shelf. “It might surprise you.” She often tried such spells. Sometimes they gave her unexpected insights into her own thoughts.

  “I already know how I feel,” he said. “Besides, my mood spells aren’t reliable.”

  Although his tone was casual, Mel knew what it cost him to make that admission. She turned around, a shoe in each hand. “They are just different, Papa. So powerful! You’re the only indigo alive.”

  His face gentled. “A powerful mess. But thank you.”

  “What does Mother say about your mood?”

  “She thinks I worry too much.”

  Mel walked over to him in her socks. “You do.”

  “Is that so?” He cocked an eyebrow. “When did you become an expert on the royal moods?”

  “Everything will be fine,” she assured him. “You will see.”

  He offered her his arm as they walked out into the hallway. “I hope so.”

  Mel didn’t see any reason to worry. Her parents had been successful with Harsdown. King Jarid had been clever to put two farmers in charge of this country, where farming was the most common way of life. Chime had spent her youth learning to run her family’s orchard; Muller’s family made their living from their lands and supported the farms of their tenants. Both Aronsdale and Harsdown exported crops and the wares of their craftspeople and imported many of the other goods they needed to live.

  During Varqelle’s reign, the people of Harsdown had suffered under heavy taxes and a lack of education. Many families had teetered on the edge of poverty. Muller and Chime had instituted wide-ranging programs designed to teach people improved methods of agriculture and animal husbandry, and they had restructured the taxes to be less of a burden. They also started guilds to train teachers and encouraged villages to set up schools. Mel thought it appalling that Varqelle had wrung so much from his country to support his war efforts while so many of his people struggled. Even now, some considered him the rightful sovereign, but in her eyes he had forfeited any right to his title when he put personal ambition before the welfare of his country.

  Over the years, Mel had seen the standard of living and education rise among her people. Orchards thrived, crops grew thick in the fields, shops were booming, and merchants came often now to Harsdown.

  She couldn’t imagine it would ever change.

  Cobalt’s men rode as hard as they dared with only moonlight to guide their progress. It would have been safer to wait until morning, but Cobalt didn’t want to risk that extra time. He had lost men in the battle, men whose deaths he grieved. His force was now more vulnerable to attack. It would take many days to reach the Misted Cliffs, and the sooner they were away from the Citadel of Rumors, the better.

  Varqelle sat easily on the stallion they had brought for him. His confidence in the saddle suggested he had kept physically fit during his confinement in the Barrens. Cobalt had feared to find him broken in a cell. But then, if Jarid Dawnfield had been a brutal man, he wouldn’t have let the deposed king live.

  Dawnfield was a fool.

  At the age of thirty-three, Cobalt was four years younger than Jarid, but he saw far more clearly than the Aronsdale king. Cobalt would never have allowed his enemy to live after vanquishing his army. Tonight was witness to the folly of that choice. But Cobalt was grateful to the Aronsdale king for his ill-advised compassion.

  Cobalt had been fifteen when Jarid imprisoned Varqelle, and on that day, Cobalt had begun to make plans to free the sire he had never met. He had also wrestled with the knowledge that another person had taken his heritage, a supposedly masculine girl. He abhorred Melody Dawnfield, not for anything she had ever done—for he had never met her, nor had he any desire to do so—but because she would inherit the throne her family had stolen from his father.

  Over the years, his spies had gathered information on the Citadel of Rumors. Aronsdale guarded the keep well, but Cobalt had persevered until he knew its vulnerabilities. He had also worked on his grandfather, Stonebreaker Chamberlight, king of the Miste
d Cliffs, convincing him to support the mission. As much as Cobalt had loathed asking his grandfather for help, his need to free his father had overcome even his burning resentment of Stonebreaker. When his grandfather had finally given him a force of men, Cobalt had trained them with care, taking time to know them, to assure himself of their prowess as warriors and their loyalty to his cause.

  Cobalt had learned to command by pitting his small army against the mercenaries and criminals who roamed the badlands between the Misted Cliffs and Harsdown. These days, people called that territory the borderlands, for it had finally become safe to travel after Cobalt cleaned it up. His men rode with him tonight, brimming with the success of their mission.

  Rock formations jutted all around like broken pieces of mammoth pottery. The land stuttered in natural furrows and ridges, and they had to slow their pace, enough to make conversation possible. Cobalt took his spectacles out of a protected sack in his travel bags and put them on so he could see the dark landscape better.

  Varqelle smiled slightly. “Glasses?”

  Cobalt flushed. It was hardly an imposing or convenient trait for a general. Fortunately, he needed them only for far distances or in the dark. He was a mediocre archer without them, but he didn’t need them for sword fighting.

  “I almost never use them,” he said.

  “Like your mother.” Varqelle paused, then spoke with a nonchalance that sounded forced. “How is she?”

  “Well.” Cobalt vividly remembered her words before he had left on this mission; she made him swear that if he came back with Varqelle, he would protect her from her husband. He knew almost nothing about why his mother had left his father, and it greatly disturbed him that she feared Varqelle.

  “Has she spoken to you about me?” Varqelle asked.

  “Very little.” Cobalt felt constrained in talking about her. To him, his father was a stranger, albeit one he very much wanted to know. But Varqelle had the right to ask. Dancer was his queen, though he hadn’t seen her for more than three decades.