“I will talk to him. But remember this. When he is done building his empire—do not look a denial at me, Mel. We both know what he is doing. When he has run out of places to conquer, he will have to rule. It is not I who will rule with him, nor Dancer. It is you. You believe he needs to talk to me, and maybe you’re right. But it is you who sit on the throne at his side.”
She folded her arms, feeling cold. “I just wish he would be satisfied. He has Shazire, Blueshire, and the Misted Cliffs.”
Matthew looked east to the distant cliffs. Beyond them lay Harsdown, Aronsdale, the Barrens, Jazid, and Taka Mal. His spoke with sadness. “I don’t think he knows how to stop.”
He was dying.
The Rocklands were killing Drummer. His lips were swollen and cracked. He was burning up. Vim plodded across the dry land. At first, Drummer had looked back often, to see if his pursuers were gaining on him. At first, Vim had outdistanced them.
At first.
Drummer knew now that he couldn’t outrun his pursuers. Vim had slowed down, and the flatlands had no place to hide. He would die of thirst before he reached that distant green line, if it even existed and wasn’t a mirage. Vim might die as well, because Drummer had known too little about the Rocklands to provide for his horse.
“Ah, Vim, I’m sorry.” He scratched the horse’s neck, as if that would achieve something. Then, wearily, he reined Vim to a stop and brought him around to face their pursuers.
The soldiers weren’t far behind, five of them leading extra horses, warriors with desert robes over their clothes and scarves to protect them from the sun. They weren’t pushing their mounts. They knew they had him. They wouldn’t risk injuring the animals just to catch him a little sooner. Perhaps Baz would kill him when they got back and perhaps he wouldn’t, but if he stayed out here, he would die for certain.
With a sense of futility, he sat watching as the soldiers approached. The capture was over in moments. One soldier came alongside Vim and took the reins. He spoke with an accent Drummer barely understood. It sounded like, “Horse something no weight.”
Drummer just looked at him, too worn-out to react.
The man spoke more slowly. “Your horse must rest. And have water. You have to get off.”
“Oh.” Drummer wearily slid to the ground. He lost his balance and sagged against the horse, too sick to move. Vim waited, his head hanging, his sides going in and out as he breathed heavily.
The soldier dismounted and grasped Drummer’s arm, holding him up. Another came over and led Vim away.
“Take care of him,” Drummer rasped. “He’s a good horse.”
“We will,” the man at his side said. He sounded respectful, which confused Drummer, who had expected hostility. He was having trouble thinking. His mind hazed and his vision blurred. When the soldier gave him a water bag, he fumbled with it, desperate to drink, and dropped the bag. The man picked it up and helped him raise its narrowed end to his mouth. Drummer gulped convulsively as warm water ran down his throat, and swallowed so fast that he choked.
“Slow down,” the man said gruffly. “You are valiant to brave the Rocklands, but you must go easy now or you will get sick.”
Drummer knew he was already sick. He slowed down, but he drank half the contents of the bag before they took it away. Even when he tried to focus, he couldn’t see more than a shimmer of heat and merciless sun.
“What are we—?” Drummer lost his thread of thought.
“We will set up a tent,” the soldier said. “You rest. Your horse, too. Sleep out the heat. We start back this evening.”
Drummer swayed. “Baz will…kill me?”
The man caught his elbow. “Saints, no.”
Drummer didn’t know whether to be relieved—or terrified of why Baz might want him alive. His legs were melting. The Taka Mal warrior caught him as he collapsed.
The envoy from Harsdown clattered through the Sentinel Gate, the largest entrance in the wall that surrounded the Topaz Palace. The powerful riders, the stamp of their horses, the plumes of their helmets waving in the hot wind—oh yes, it was an impressive sight. Jade didn’t miss the intended message, the subtle threat of more to come if these negotiations failed.
She and Baz stood on a balcony in a tower far enough removed from the yard that their visitors wouldn’t see them clearly. The overhang of the tower’s onion bulb shaded them from the morning’s heat, but the palace baked in the sun, a gruesome reminder of what Drummer faced in the Rocklands. Jade had gone beyond worrying; she felt sick. His betrayal no longer mattered. She didn’t want him to die. She wanted him back. Unfortunately, what she wanted was moot. He wasn’t here, and they had run out of time.
A man on a magnificent silver stallion was leading the envoy. He wore a helmet shaped like the head of a jaguar. The deadly cats weren’t native to these lands; legend claimed merchants from across the sea had brought them to the Misted Cliffs thousands of years ago and sold them to an ancient Harsdown king. Now the cats stalked the warmer regions of Harsdown, hunted and hunting, the symbol of the throne. The name Escar meant jaguar in High Alatian, a language spoken long ago. Farmers and woodsmen had always hunted the jaguars, but the House of Escar limited the number they could kill and so managed to keep the cats from dying out.
Baz indicated the man she was watching. “Sphere-General Fieldson.”
“So that is the infamous general,” Jade said. “Why Sphere?”
“Ranks in the Dawnfield army are based on geometry.” Baz leaned on the balcony wall and studied the men below. “Shapes subdivide each rank. The more sides a shape, the higher the rank, except that all two-dimensional shapes are lower than all three-dimensional shapes. A square-lieutenant holds a higher rank than a triangle-lieutenant, but less than a triangle-captain because all captains outrank all lieutenants.”
“It must take ages to progress through the ranks.”
Baz shrugged. “Not really. Shape promotions don’t take long. I don’t think they include every possible shape, either. Just up to eight sides, and also circles and spheres.”
“How strange,” she said. “But logical, I suppose. The sphere is a three-dimensional shape with an infinite number of sides, yes? So sphere-general is highest rank.”
He nodded. “Fieldson is the only one.”
“They have such pastoral names,” she mused. “Dawnfield. Harsdown. Aronsdale. You would never think they would be so imposing.”
Baz narrowed his gaze at the general. “Never underestimate that one.”
Jade watched the riders with foreboding. Harsdown had sent its most formidable general to discover that she, Jade, had misplaced his queen’s brother.
12
The Redwing
Until Mel saw the Chamberlight army gathering below the King’s Spring, she hadn’t fully comprehended its size. They spread across fields and trampled meadows in every direction. Soldiers were setting up camps with the help of day-tenders, the men and women who came with an army to look after their needs while the warriors trained and fought.
As Mel watched the ocean of people and horses, a fierce exultation stirred within her. She fought it; she wanted peace rather than conquest. But she would defend what was hers. And she would train with the army as had mage queens of ancient times.
Cobalt’s conquest of Shazire had swelled the ranks of his army. Many of the survivors had sworn allegiance to the new king. Some refused, however. Cobalt could have executed them, but he exiled them instead. Mel’s father had done the same with the Harsdown soldiers who refused him allegiance nineteen years ago, after Aronsdale defeated Varqelle and took over Harsdown.
The Chamberlight army numbered eight thousand, five thousand here and three thousand in Shazire. Cobalt divided them into companies of a thousand each: Carnelian, Andalusite, Alexandrite, Aquamarine, Sapphire, Tanzanite, Iolite, Diamond.
Every company trained in many disciplines, but each had a specialty. Carnelians were superb archers. Alexandrites fought well at night and were torchbear
ers as well as soldiers, which was why Cobalt named them for a mineral that changed color in different light. Andalusites had many martial arts skills, just as andalusite showed many shades of orange. Historically, Aquamarines had specialized at sea warfare, but now they were foot troops. Iolites excelled as swordsmen. Tanzanites rode as cavalry, as did the Sapphires, including the king’s flag bearers. Mel trained with the Sapphires. The Diamonds included all classes of soldier and guarded the palace and the Misted Cliffs. Cobalt had sent the Carnelians, Alexandrites, and Sapphires back to the Misted Cliffs after the Shazire campaign, to join the Diamonds and Aquamarines.
Mel wondered if he realized the names followed the same color scheme as mage spells, from red through violet. Cobalt had reorganized and renamed the other companies this past year. That he chose rare minerals made sense to her; they were hard, valuable, and striking, especially diamond, the hardest known substance. But the names had a certain harsh poetry she hadn’t expected from Cobalt.
Today she wore the scuffed armor she donned for sword practice. Leather pants protected her legs, and she wore a leather vest. An undertunic covered her arms. Her boots came to her knees but were supple to allow for motion. Her sword hung in a tooled sheath on her belt. The quiver on her back held arrows she had brought from Harsdown, and she carried her bolt-bow.
Mel was standing on a walkway on top of the palace wall. She went to a doorway in a nearby guard tower. Inside, the watchman was sitting on a stool by an arrow-slit, gazing out the narrow opening. He glanced over as she came in and stood up to salute, knocking his fist against his rib cage. He froze in midgesture as he registered Mel’s face.
The guard bowed with a jerk, his fist still against his breastbone. “Your Majesty!”
She smiled at him. “My greetings of the morning.”
“My honor, ma’am.” He seemed bewildered. She was growing used to such reactions; in Stonebreaker’s court, women never took part in what the late king had called “affairs of import,” which as far as she could tell included everything in existence except sex, child rearing, planning balls, and liaising with the domestic staff.
Mel ran down the stairs that spiraled inside the tower. At the bottom, she entered a small courtyard. Matthew was waiting on his horse, Hawkspar, an amber-hued beauty from the Goldstar breeders in the south. He handled the high-spirited horse with a confidence that calmed the animal. He had also brought Smoke.
Matthew smiled as she came over to him. “You look like an avenging angel with all that gold hair and black leather.” He handed her Smoke’s reins. “For someone with such an aversion to war, you outfit yourself quite well for it.”
“I have an aversion to invading innocent lands.” She swung into Smoke’s saddle. “Not to defense.”
A soldier cranked open the gate and they left the yard. Mel donned her helmet, but she left the faceplate open. Within moments, they were riding through the outskirts of the army. She wanted to get a feel for this immense force her husband was gathering, just in case, as he put it. She didn’t believe him. One didn’t bring thousands of men together “just in case.”
Soldiers glanced up as she and Matthew passed and some nodded to them, but Matthew was the one they called by name. Mel doubted most even realized she was a woman rather than a youth. Not many of these soldiers knew their king’s wife rode with the army.
“Cobalt told me that you counseled him to negotiate for your uncle,” Matthew said.
“I did.” Mel scowled. “He is amassing this army anyway.”
“It seems so.”
“I’m worried for Drummer.” Then she admitted, “Saints know, if harm comes to him, my heart will want vengeance.”
“I’ve never met your uncle,” Matthew said. “But I know the drive to protect one’s own.” In a voice that reminded her of Varqelle, he said, “That fire can consume everything in its path.”
“Aye.” Mel thought of the child she carried, and a fiercely protective instinct came over her. She would do anything to protect the life within her.
Some fathers bequeathed their home to their children. Others might leave a farm, a dairy, a smithy. Almost all sought to provide a legacy for their family.
Mel doubted Cobalt had consciously defined that idea in his thoughts. He would tell himself that he took his army forth in case the negotiations for Drummer failed or Taka Mal decided to resume the war they started two hundred years ago. But his drive had a more ambitious edge now that pushed him even harder than before. He sought a legacy.
He would leave his child an empire.
In the Urn Parlor, Sphere-General Fieldson sat across a table from Jade. Tall vases stood in every corner, priceless works glazed in amber and yellow hues, set with turquoise, rimmed in gold. Fieldson’s iron-gray hair and severe uniform made a jarring contrast to this place where Jade entertained dignitaries. He seemed primed with energy, like a jaguar ready to strike.
Her staff had set fire-lily incense on the mantel, and plumes curled up from fire-dragons enameled in sunset colors. The scent was subtle but astringent, none of the cloying fragrances favored in many noble houses. Fieldson was a warrior. She would honor him with an appropriate scent. Besides, she abhorred those sugary flower smells.
Jade knew Baz was standing behind her chair, imposing in his red-and-crimson uniform. A Dawnfield man stood behind Fieldson, sober in gray and violet. Quaazera, Dawnfield and Chamberlight officers stood around the walls of the room, their uniforms reflecting their countries: Taka Mal bright and hot, full of vigor; Dawnfield elegant and more severe; and Chamberlight, icy and gem-hard.
A bid-boy served them dark red wine in crystal goblets shaped and colored like fire-lilies. The decanter was a larger version of the fiery blossom. Fieldson waited until the boy left and then said, “So where is Goodman Headwind?”
Jade sipped from her goblet with forced calm. “His party will return from his tour tomorrow or the day after.” By the Dragon-Sun, she hoped that was true! If Baz’s men hadn’t found Drummer, it could mean he had reached Aronsdale—or expired. Fieldson’s concern over the minstrel’s absence couldn’t come close to what Jade felt. She didn’t know whether she was angrier that Drummer had taken actions that could start a war or that he had risked his life. If he died, she would never forgive him.
“I am sorry he wasn’t here when you arrived,” Jade said. “We hadn’t expected you so soon.”
Fieldson was studying her closely. She met his gaze with the same outward confidence she presented to her own generals when they sought a weakness in her defenses. He set his goblet on the tiled table. “I will tell you something, Your Majesty. I’ve never been a political man. The convolutions of royal intrigue are beyond me.”
Jade doubted he would have reached such a high rank if that were true. She sipped her wine. “We are in accord, then. I have never had much patience with intrigue.” Which was true. It didn’t make her royal court any less saturated with it, unfortunately.
“Then I will speak plainly.” His gaze hardened. “Drummer should be here.”
Jade gave him a look that could make even her most seasoned officers pale. It never worked on Spearcaster, but it could rattle Generals Slate and Firaz. She spoke coldly. “It is not yours to decide who should or should not be in my palace.”
He didn’t flick an eyelash. “It was not yours to kidnap my queen’s brother.”
“You misunderstand.” She settled back in her chair. “He is touring my country as my esteemed guest. When he returns, you may speak to him.”
He didn’t smile. “I await your fulfillment of that promise.” His hand tightened on the end of his chair’s arms. It was a nuance Jade might have missed in her younger days, but she hadn’t kept her throne by being oblivious. People said a great deal more than they realized with gestures, facial tics, and tone. Fieldson was angry. And worried. He had probably expected her to be more solicitous. But until Drummer returned, this was a gamble, and her game had better be good. First be hard, then generous. It kept people
off balance. She had learned that from her parents, who kept each other unbalanced for their entire marriage. Theirs had been a union born of economics, joining the royal family with the powerful Zanterian nobility that owned the caravan guilds. It greatly benefited both Houses, but her parents had never liked each other, and they had spent their years in a constant battle of wills.
She switched smoothly into her role as host. “General, in honor of your visit, I am holding a feast tonight. My staff has prepared our best guest suites for you and your men, where you can rest and prepare.”
Fieldson gave her a long, considering look. “Very well, Your Majesty.”
Very well, indeed. At least he didn’t keep insisting she produce Drummer. For tonight, she had a reprieve. But if Drummer didn’t show up tomorrow, she would have serious trouble.
Jade was on her way to meet Baz, her escort for the feast, when her ginger-maid came running. A woman in her early forties, she had been Jade’s companion for decades. Her family had named her Clovemoon because she was born under a full moon the night before they sold the cloves for their spice trade. Her blue tunic and trousers fluttered in drapes bordered by silver stars, and a blue scarf covered her dark hair.
Jade waited in the corridor while the maid caught up with her. She always felt better with Clove. In fact, Jade liked her far more than her “friends” among the nobility.
“A redwing!” Clove cried out. “At your window.”
That spurred Jade into motion. She headed toward Clove. “Does it come from the army?”
“I think so.” Clove hurried along the hall with her. “It flapped about the window. Then it went into the loft.”
Jade tried not to hope. Any bird could fly to the recessed window in her tower, but only the trained birds knew how to enter the Message Loft, a chamber in the tower wall. To open the loft, a bird had to peck a code on the mesh that blocked the entrance. The army used redwings because they learned to tap patterns as easily as parrots learned to repeat words.