The Misted Cliffs Page 4

  “Yes,” Cobalt said. The beauty of the castle soothed him despite its stark location, or perhaps because of it. He breathed deeply. This high up, the crystalline air was seared dry of moisture.

  His father fell silent as they rode through the gate. They entered the narrow courtyard that curved around the base of the towers. The gatekeeper leaned out of his window in the small tower that flanked the gate and called down to the gatekeepers. Soldiers on horses patrolled the courtyard, and stable hands in the blue and silver livery of the House of Chamberlight hurried to attend the arriving company. Cobalt and Varqelle rode side by side through the commotion.

  A slender man with wispy gray hair approached them, astride a dappled horse. He wore Chamberlight livery, and a large silver medallion with sapphires hung around his neck. Tenson Gray directed the castle staff and had served here for decades.

  Matthew Quietland, a taller man in homespun clothes, rode at Gray’s side on a chestnut horse. Matthew had been a stable hand with Dancer’s household for as long as Cobalt could remember and oversaw the stables here. An odd sensation warmed Cobalt. Very few people evoked it from him. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he did know it pleased him to see the taller man. Matthew had offered an oasis of kindness when Cobalt had been a small boy running around these towers with smudges of dirt on his face.

  Cobalt raised his hand in greeting to the two men.

  “Hoy, there!” Gray made his way through the commotion of arriving warriors and running servants. “It is good to see you, Your Highness.” His gaze flickered to Varqelle.

  Cobalt turned to Varqelle. “Father, may I present Tenson Gray, our steward.” Then he said, “Goodsir Gray, my father, Varqelle, King of Harsdown.” He wanted to introduce Matthew as well, but protocol in the Misted Cliffs allowed introductions only for a servant of Gray’s higher rank. Cobalt had little patience with customs that dismissed a man like Matthew, but he didn’t want to risk offending his father, either.

  Gray bowed from the waist. “I am honored, Your Majesty.”

  Varqelle inclined his head. “My greetings, Goodsir.”

  Matthew slid off his horse and bowed deeply. He could have spoken to Varqelle, but custom neither required nor encouraged it. Varqelle hardly even looked at him as he dismounted and handed him the reins, which were dyed the Chamberlight blue.

  Cobalt swung off Admiral. As Matthew took the reins, Cobalt gave him what he hoped was a friendly expression. It felt stiff and unpracticed on his face, but he didn’t want Matthew to think he shared Varqelle’s dismissive attitude. Matthew’s face gentled into a familiar smile. He nodded to Cobalt, then led their mounts around the towers toward the stables.

  Varqelle craned back his head to look up at the walls. “An odd choice, that, a castle of only towers.”

  “But pleasing,” Cobalt said.

  Varqelle quirked a smile at him. “I rather like it.”

  Startled, Cobalt returned the smile. It stretched the muscles of his face in odd ways. Then he escorted Varqelle to a large tower on their right. Cliff-terns wheeled around its dome and broke the silence with their eerie cries. Cobalt felt his heartbeat in the veins of his neck, and sweat soaked his collar. He suddenly wanted to run and run until he exhausted himself. Unable to escape in such a manner, he instead escorted his father inside.

  The base of the tower joined with two others to form a large hall three stories in height. Heavy beams held up its ceiling and clusters of gourds hung from the rafters. An arcade of white-washed columns painted with blue borders circled the hall and curved at their tops in scalloped arches that supported the balcony. The colonnade looked different today, though Cobalt couldn’t place why.

  Then it hit him; the architecture echoed the arches that he and his men had destroyed at the Citadel of Rumors. He felt heavy, remembering the deaths. But he had done what needed doing and his regrets wouldn’t change that. What use was his remorse? It implied the hope of redemption, and he knew the truth, that his soul was parched of goodness. A man who had killed so many times—and who secretly entertained thoughts of murdering his own grandfather and king—was beyond salvation.

  A figure appeared on the balcony.

  She came forward and stood with her hands on the railing. Hair the color of a raven’s wing, just barely streaked with gray, framed her alabaster face and fell over her shoulder in a braid to her waist. She had a slender, graceful build. Faint lines creased the corners of her large, dark eyes. Her delicate cheekbones and small nose gave her an ethereal aspect, one heightened by the white silk of her tunic and trousers. Cobalt had seen portraits done in her youth; she had been lovely at age sixteen, when she had borne her first and only child. The years had added maturity, elegance, and an indefinable quality that made it hard to look away from her face. Now, at forty-nine, his mother’s beauty was devastating.

  Her attention was riveted on the man at Cobalt’s side, the husband she hadn’t seen in more than three decades. Varqelle met her gaze, his expression guarded and unreadable. A sphere of glass seemed to enclose them and leave Cobalt outside.

  Dancer broke the tableau first. She walked along the balcony to a spiral staircase and descended to the main hall. Cobalt was acutely aware of how slight she was compared to him and Varqelle, especially when they stood here in leather and metal armor and chain mail, with swords at their sides. How had Stonebreaker justified beating this frail woman? Cobalt didn’t want to think what that said about Varqelle, that Dancer had chosen to live with Stonebreaker instead of with him.

  She stopped before them with no welcome in her eyes and looked up at Varqelle. “My greetings, Husband.”

  Varqelle looked down at her. “Wife.”

  Cobalt waited. He wasn’t certain what he had expected—perhaps explosions or some great revelation. Maybe secretly, in a deep place where he didn’t want to admit the truth, he had hoped they might be glad to see one another.

  None of that happened.

  Dancer looked toward the entrance behind him and Varqelle. Cobalt could hear his men out in the courtyard; they were making more noise than usual. Probably they were excited to be home. He didn’t turn around to look; this moment was too important to let anything distract him. He had told his men that under no circumstances was anyone to disturb him and his parents, not even if the castle were falling off the cliff or the sun out of the sky.

  Dancer shifted her gaze to him. “Your men must be tired and hungry.” Her tone was courteous. Impeccable. She was also so distant, she could have been encased in ice.

  “We’ve had a long ride,” Cobalt said. The rumble of his voice, deeper than that of other men, sounded threatening next to her soft tones. He wanted to reassure her, but he didn’t know how.

  “I will see that Goodsir Gray takes care of it,” Dancer said.

  “Thank you.” Cobalt had never felt this stilted with his mother.

  She spoke to Varqelle. “Perhaps you and Cobalt will join me in the Cloud Room? We could have—have tea. Wine.” She caught her lower lip with her teeth.

  Varqelle didn’t look any more comfortable than his wife or son. Cobalt knew too little about him to judge, but he almost thought that behind his father’s dark gaze and composed expression, he was…relieved? There had been no recriminations. Perhaps this might go all right after all—

  “Ho!” a voice outside called.

  Cobalt almost jumped. What the blazes? Surely his officers wouldn’t come in now. As he started to turn, Dancer looked past him, her forehead creased—

  The color drained from her face.

  Puzzled, Cobalt shifted his focus to the entrance—and froze. No. It couldn’t be. Not now.

  Stonebreaker Chamberlight, king of the Misted Cliffs, stood framed in the archway.

  4

  Storm Tower

  Mel whipped up her sword to parry a blow from Bricklayer. They were practicing on a field behind the stables, as they had done most of their lives, ever since the two of them had been old enough to lift the wooden play sw
ords Brick’s father had made.

  Their relative abilities had varied over the years. They had been fairly evenly matched as small children, but they had only been playing with toys then. As they matured, they began practicing with blunted metal swords. In adolescence, Mel had grown faster than Brick, and she had almost always bested him. Then he had shot up like a cornstalk, tall and gangly. His voice deepened next, and his body beefed up with muscle. For a while during that frustrating time, Mel had lost every bout, unable to match his reach or strength. Gradually she learned to take advantage of the speed her smaller size and lithe build afforded her. Now they were evenly matched again, relying on skill and experience when they challenged each other.

  However, today their bouts had changed. No longer was it just exercise, a game, a friendly competition. Their lives could soon depend on how well they trained. Brick would ride with the army if Varqelle invaded Harsdown. And Mel’s parents had decided; if it came to war, Chime would rule Harsdown while Muller defended the country. Mel would serve as a mage and a junior officer for the army. She saw no other path she could take in good conscience.

  After a few minutes, Brick sent her sword spinning. Mel glared at him and heaved in a breath, her hand clenched on the strap of her wooden shield, sweat soaking her tunic.

  Brick raised his sword. “Ho!” He sounded tired and smug.

  “Ho, yourself.” But Mel smiled. “Well done.”

  “You, too.” His crooked grin revealed strong, white teeth. He was a bulky youth, her lifelong friend, neither handsome nor plain, with brown hair that flopped over his ears. A friend who might soon die—and she could do nothing to stop this march of events toward war.

  He rubbed his arm across his sweating face. “Long bout.”

  “Aye.” Mel retrieved her sword from where it had landed on the packed dirt. “I guess I’m distracted.”

  He laughed amiably. “By my great swordsmanship, eh?”

  “Hah.”

  They headed back to the house and parted with a promise to meet tomorrow. Mel tried not to imagine Brick in battle. She knew he would be a good soldier, but somehow that made it worse. He shouldn’t have to risk his life because Cobalt Escar and his outlaws had murdered Aronsdale warriors to free a prisoner who should have died eighteen years ago.

  Inside, Mel walked down the hallway, lost in thought. The sunbask paneling on the walls and the paintings of the summer countryside usually soothed her, but today nothing helped.

  Her bedroom was large, all constructed in sunbask, from the parquetry floor to the walls, ceiling, and rafters. Rugs woven in blue and gold yarn warmed the floors. The four-poster bed stood across the room by one of the windows. Her favorite blue quilt lay fluffed on it, worn and freshly laundered. Shelves with her books took up one wall and her desk sat in the corner. It annoyed Mel that her parents expected her to study so much. She already had an education beyond what most people attained. Although her studies interested her, she felt she had done enough. By law, a person reached the age of majority at sixteen. At eighteen, she was more than old enough to decide her path in life.

  As far as anyone knew, Mel was the strongest mage among the girls of her generation; as such, she was betrothed to Aron, her cousin, the crown prince of Aronsdale. About one year her junior, he had the Dawnfield good looks, dark hair, and dark eyes. He was supposed to marry the strongest mage in Aronsdale, not Harsdown, but no one quibbled over the detail. Although Harsdown was technically now a territory of Aronsdale, the two countries and their sovereigns operated on almost equal footing, and Harsdown had the larger area. Mel saw Aron once or twice a year and they wrote each other often. She could envision herself coming to care for him. But now, with the threat of war looming over them, her thoughts turned from romance to fear. As a newly commissioned officer, seventeen-year-old Aron would ride with the Aronsdale army.

  Her betrothed could die.

  A cry came from her bed. Startled out of her gloom, Mel squinted at the quilt. It looked normal. She went over and investigated, but found nothing on or under the covers. Crouching down, she peered under the bed.

  Two yellow eyes blinked at her.

  “Well, who are you?” Mel gently pulled out a small ball of fur, a powder-gray kitten. It resembled the stable cat, who had recently had a litter of babies fathered by a tomcat that prowled the farm.

  The kitten mewed piteously.

  “Are you lonely?” Cradling the small animal, Mel sat cross-legged on her bed. As she petted the kitten, the designs on her bedcovers caught her attention, all those chains of blue octagons on a lighter blue background. Mel loved the quilt. At age nine, she had figured out how to calculate the interior angles of each octagon and also its exterior angles. She liked geometry. Always she was coming up with relations to describe shapes. She often later discovered that her proofs had already been worked out in her books, but sometimes she came up with new ones. Someday when she knew enough, she planned to write her own book about geometry. It all connected to her magecraft. But it was hard to imagine turning her studies to the service of war.

  The mathematics of death.

  Mel bent her head, disheartened. As she brushed her hand over the kitten’s front leg, it mewled in protest.

  “What’s the matter?” Mel murmured. She examined the leg and realized it was hurt, either sprained or broken. Dismayed, she looked around her room. The window nearest to the bed was open. The kitten could have climbed up a bush outside and tumbled inside the room. Its leg had probably already been injured. She doubted that short fall would harm an otherwise healthy kitten, but it could have made its leg worse.

  “We’ll get you help.” Mel started to stand, but the kitten cried again. She settled back on the quilt, taking care not to jostle its leg. As soon as she calmed the animal enough to move, she would find someone who could set its leg. As she petted the kitten, the octagons on the quilt shimmered and their blue grew more intense. She filled with blue light. Beautiful blue light.

  “That is a lovely animal,” a woman said.

  Mel surfaced from her reverie. Her mother was standing in the doorway, a slender woman in a glistening tunic and trousers sewn from layers of emerald and gold silk. Her luxuriant golden hair curled around her face, shoulders, and arms. It amazed Mel when people said she looked like her mother. Mel knew they were being kind, that she resembled a boy more than a girl. She would never have Chime’s beauty.

  “Didn’t I close that door?” Mel asked. She tended to forget, which could be embarrassing given that she had just changed her clothes.

  “You did. But no one answered when I knocked.” Chime hesitated. “I felt your spell. I feared you were hurt.”

  Mel stared at her blankly. “What spell?”

  “Your blue one. The healing.”

  Blue? “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Chime came over and sat on the bed. “You aren’t hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” Mel touched the kitten’s front leg. “She hurt her leg.”

  Her mother examined the kitten. “She seems fine.”

  “What?” Mel gently probed the leg, but she found no trace of an injury. This time when the kitten mewled, she sounded annoyed rather than in pain.

  “Do you think I healed her?” Mel asked, bewildered.

  Chime beamed at her. “It seems so.”

  Elation surged in Mel. “But why now? Blue spells never worked for me before.”

  “Never?”

  “Sometimes maybe I would get a hint of something.” Mel shrugged. “But no real spell.”

  “Did you do anything differently this time?”

  “I didn’t try. I just—well, sort of meditated.” For Mel, it was a rare state. Usually she was too busy with her life to slow down and be contemplative.

  “Perhaps you were pushing too hard before.” Chime scratched behind the kitten’s ear, evoking a contented purr. “You’re also still maturing into your abilities
.”

  “Maturing, pah,” Mel grumbled. “When you were my age, you had already reached your full potential.”

  Chime spoke quietly. “That’s true. And I’ve never made a blue spell in my life.”

  A tickling caught in Mel’s throat, anticipation and nerves. “I will talk to Skylark. See what she says.”

  “I have been so proud of your talents.” Chime’s smile dimmed. “But of late I find myself wishing you had no magecraft at all.”

  Mel’s hand stilled on the kitten. “Would it matter? If Varqelle takes the Jaguar Throne, I doubt he will show us the same compassion Cousin Jarid gave him. At least if I go with the army, I’m doing something to protect us.”

  Chime took her hand. “We will manage. Somehow.”

  Mel squeezed her mother’s fingers. Better to fight than to wait for retribution from a king bent on vengeance. Rumors ran wild now. They claimed Varqelle’s monstrous son, Cobalt, the Midnight Prince, would lead Varqelle’s army. Varqelle had never made it a secret that he considered Mel’s family “weak, pretty pretenders.” It made her skin crawl. Women weren’t always killed by an invading army, but she would rather die in combat than have them touch her or her mother.

  She saw that same fear reflected in Chime’s eyes. The kitten rubbed Mel’s hand, purring, fine now. She wished the wounds among their three countries could be as easily healed.

  The Gales Chamber in the Castle of the Clouds took up half the third level in the Storm Tower. Its floor, curving walls, and domed ceiling were white marble. So were the thrones for the king and queen that stood on a hemispherical dais on the outer edge of the room. White cushions softened the marble seats and diamonds inlaid the high backs. Stonebreaker Chamberlight, king of the Misted Cliffs, sat in one throne. He wore the traditional garments of his station, blue trousers and knee-boots, and a snowy white tunic with a blue sphere on the chest. The Chamberlight sphere. Scholars claimed it symbolized the perfection of Chamberlight rule. A sapphire medallion hung around his neck on a gold chain. He was leaning slightly to the side, one elbow on the arm of his chair, his posture a study in regal carriage.