“Ozar’s men might catch you,” Jade said.
“I’m willing to risk it,” Jason replied.
“The Chamberlight queen may even be here,” Tumbler said. “She often travels with Cobalt’s army.”
Jade’s interest perked up. “Then it is true what they say? She is like a man?”
“She fights like a man,” Tumbler said. “Sure as blazes doesn’t look like one.”
Jade wanted to meet this queen who defied the strictures of the Misted Cliffs. “I shall appreciate being her kin.”
“Like hell,” Baz growled.
“Well and all right, let the major go,” Slate said. “Let us find out what Jarid Dawnfield has to say.”
Jade spoke with respect to Jason. “You have our gratitude.”
He awkwardly bent his head. “I will do my best.”
“It could be a while before he gets back.” Firaz peered at Jade. “How soon before, ah…” He cleared his throat.
Jade held back her smile. Apparently Firaz didn’t mix well with women’s matters, even as a father of four. “I’ve a few months before I begin to show.”
“Ah.” He flushed. “That leaves a bit of leeway.”
It wasn’t much. They needed to know if Jarid was willing to make this pact. If he refused, and Cobalt attacked, she might have to accept Ozar’s proposal. Bah. She would rather suffer the raging hives. Ozar might refuse her, given her condition, but she doubted it. He coveted her throne too much. He would want her child gone, though. She suppressed a shudder. He might try to force a miscarriage. If she carried to term, she could send the child to live with Drummer in Aronsdale.
If Drummer survived this mess.
“Very well,” Jade said. “Let us see what King Jarid says.” She met Drummer’s radiant gaze and wished to the saints their prospects weren’t so bleak.
19
The Onps Chamber
Nothing lit the cell. It had to be completely enclosed, for even after her eyes adjusted to the dark, Mel could see nothing.
She couldn’t move. Her hands and ankles were chained to a distorted loop of metal rammed into the floor. She had spent hours kneeling by the wall with her arms pulled behind her back, semiconscious and nauseated. She couldn’t reach the ring that hung around her neck inside her tunic, couldn’t touch, feel, or see it—which meant no spells.
Mel had only blurred recollections of the trip here. They had drugged her with wet cloths over her nose and mouth. She drifted in and out of awareness, sick most of the time. True to his word, though, Beard kept the others from assaulting her.
She wasn’t certain how long the ride had lasted. Days, more than the five it would take to reach Jazid, maybe enough to reach Taka Mal, but not as far as Quaaz. She was either in western Jazid or else in the Rocklands of southern Taka Mal. It was certainly hot enough in this saints-forsaken place to be the desert. Sweat drenched her clothes and trickled down her face.
Mel had no idea of the time. She had awoken here, her mind fuzzed, her body aching. She was no longer gagged or blindfolded, but she could barely move and shouting had produced no results. Slumped against the wall, she prayed to Azure, the saint who brought healing, for the well-being of her child.
The scrape of stone came from nearby.
Lifting her head, she looked toward the sound. Another scrape came, louder this time, hard on the ears. It reminded her of Tadimaja opening secret doors in the Alzire Palace. A vertical line appeared in the darkness. It was only gray, but after the absolute black of the past hours, it seemed bright. The line widened until it became a tall, jagged opening.
It took Mel several moments to interpret the scene. A lopsided slab of rock had opened like a door about ten paces away, and two figures were entering, one holding a candle. They moved forward like wraiths. The one in front wore a black-and-white Scribe’s robe, but he was otherwise gray, his hair, his eyebrows, even his essence, it seemed. His skeletal face had skin stretched over bone, and his eyes were hollows of shadow. He had a stooped posture, but even with his back bent, he was taller than most men. The sleeves of his robe draped from his wrists. He carried the candle, and it lit the bottom of his face as if he were a ghoul.
A second man walked behind him, larger and taller, even more threatening in his size. Where the first man was bent and gaunt, this one stood straight, with a warrior’s carriage. Shadows hid his face, but the outline of a large nose showed, hooked and prominent. He was darkness and hard glints, from his black hair to his dark clothes studded with metal.
They brought shadows. The cell turned gray, its blurred outlines half-hidden, and murk gathered in the corners. The chamber wasn’t normal. The walls met at odd angles and the ceiling sloped. Every surface was unrelieved black. None had the geometric designs so popular in other places. Several tables stood nearby, and none had a symmetrical cut. The shadowed objects on them had jagged outlines. Nothing in the room offered one of the most common features of human architecture—a pure shape.
This cell had been designed to hold a mage.
Whether the intent was deliberate or the architect had been crazy, Mel had no idea. But in centuries long past, the queens of Aronsdale had ridden as war mages and used their spells in ways of violence that the histories only hinted at. If an atajazid had wanted to imprison such mages, he would need such a cell.
The gray man set his candle on a table. The other man strode forward, his boot heels thudding on the stone floor. He stopped in front of Mel, and she looked up, trying to see his face. She felt ill, and she would have thrown up, but she hadn’t eaten in so long, she had nothing to lose, and damned if she would give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
He spoke. “So it is Chime’s little girl, grown up.”
Mel knew that voice. The gravelly rasp and low timbre were distinctive enough to recognize even after ten years.
“Ozar?” she asked.
He knelt down, coming out of the shadows. The Atajazid D’az Ozar had changed little in the past decade. His high cheekbones were more pronounced and new lines showed around his mouth, but his face had the same arrogantly chiseled look she remembered from ten years ago. They had met at the Topaz Palace when he and her family were guests during a negotiation about export rights. He had frightened her then and he terrified her now.
“Mel Dawnfield.” His face showed no trace of emotion.
“Why have you brought me here?” Mel asked.
He stood again, his upper body receding into shadow. Then he turned to the other man, who waited by the table. “Put her up.”
What did that mean? Mel twisted her hands in the chains, but it did no good. Her efforts only sent pain shooting up her limbs.
As the older man came forward, he took a ring of keys from within his robe, which he wore over a tunic and trousers. The ring was deformed, squashed from a circle. Ozar understood better than the grain merchants how to neutralize her spells. He needed no blindfolds or gags: just keep her away from pure shapes.
The ring that Beard had given her was inside her tunic. She couldn’t see it, and she barely felt the metal against her chest. Closing her eyes, she tried to sense the shape and make a spell.
Nothing.
Think. She had to find a way to touch or see the ring. But if she did, she would have the advantage of surprise only once. Her first spell would have to defeat them. How? She could reverse a blue spell and cause injury, but that little ring wouldn’t provide enough power to do serious damage. If might only antagonize them.
The robed man knelt behind her and unlocked the manacles that held her ankles and wrists. Her arms were shaking. As soon as they fell free, before she could otherwise move, the gray man grabbed her upper arm and heaved her to her feet. She gasped as fire stabbed her shoulder and through her body.
“Why are you doing this?” she rasped. Surely they knew Cobalt would crush Jazid for this. Ozar was deliberately provoking him.
They dragged her into the center of the cell. As Ozar reached for a shadowed o
bject hanging in the air above them, the gray man pulled her arms over her head. He held her hands with the palms outward, and Ozar snapped manacles around her wrists. The metal locked with a clink that echoed.
Mel hurt so much she sagged, hanging from the manacles. As they stepped back, she strained to see their faces in the shadows. The older man turned toward the wall, she couldn’t see what—
A harsh grating filled the room and Mel’s arms jerked. Terrified, she looked up. All she could see was the chain hanging out of the darkness. The grinding intensified, and with a wrench, the chain hoisted her into the air.
“No!” Mel gasped from the pain. She was in some madman’s hell. She had no dispute with Ozar. Neither did Cobalt. Why would Ozar take actions guaranteed to put him at war with them?
It was excruciating to be lifted by her arms after she had been chained for so long. She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from screaming. When the gears stopped, she was hanging from the manacles by her wrists. Ozar came back and stood considering her, his eyes level with hers, which meant her feet were dangling more than a hand’s span off the floor.
“I do regret this,” he said.
Mel swallowed past the dryness of her throat. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m afraid I have to hurt you.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. Not for you.” He turned to the other man. “Leave evidence. Marks. Many bloodstains on her clothes.”
“Why won’t it matter to me?” Mel’s anger and terror surged, for herself and for her unborn child. “Ozar, answer me!”
He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her body. “I hardly think you are in a position to give me orders.”
Mel groaned from the pain. “At least tell me why.”
Ozar spoke bluntly. “After we hurt you, I will enjoy you, leaving evidence of my acts. Then Shade will kill you.” He shook his head. “I would have rather kept you for myself. A woman like you should be enjoyed, not executed in a war. Nevertheless, we will have a war, and you will be its first casualty.”
“Why?” The horrific death he described petrified Mel. If he intended to inflame Cobalt, his method would work beyond question, better than he probably realized. When Cobalt and his army were done, Jazid would be a wasteland.
Mel thought of her child and an ancient rage stirred within her. It had come down through the Dawnfield line, through the millennia, from the misty age when a mage’s battle cry inspired terror. The fury rose from a buried place. It piled up like the giant waves in tales told by aging mariners, the tsunamis that towered in monstrous cliffs of water. She wouldn’t war for power, wealth or land—but she would protect her child even if it meant laying waste to a thousand kingdoms.
Ozar was watching her uneasily. Mel had no idea how she looked, and hanging from chains she was no threat. Yet he moved back from her.
“Do it,” Ozar said.
Shade stepped into the light holding a long-handled whip. Mel inhaled sharply, and that was all she had time to do before he cracked the weapon. It struck her around the torso, and she screamed from the pain.
You will die, Mel thought as he drew back his arm. He struck her again and again and again, on her arms, her torso, her hips, her legs, and she screamed and screamed. It went on forever, and she thought surely she must die, because she could bear no more. But she didn’t die, and the agony continued.
When Shade finally stopped, Mel was sobbing. Shade stood watching her as if he were hungry and she was feeding him.
Ozar spoke from the shadows. “I’ll need her clothes.”
Shade set the bloodied whip on a table. Then he came to Mel. When he was near enough, she spit on him. She was shaking, tears running down her face, but she would spit on him a thousand times.
He slapped her across the face.
Ozar’s voice rumbled in the darkness. “Just get her clothes. Hurry. I want my messenger to leave soon, and I want to be back with the army by tonight.”
Shade ripped off the bloodied scraps of her tunic and pants. His gaze was avid as he touched her body, and it nauseated Mel. But when he uncovered her torso, he freed the ring around her neck. She could see it by looking down. In that instant, she formed a spell. She had no time for finesse; she just blasted him. Flame leaped from the ring, and he gasped and stumbled back. His pain reverberated in Mel, but she hurt so much already, it hardly made a difference.
“Get the ring!” Ozar shouted.
Shade looked around, confused.
As Ozar strode forward, Mel hurled another burst of flame. She hit him with it, and his overshirt caught fire, a blaze that threw the cell into sharp relief. He kept coming even with his clothes burning. Grabbing the ring around her neck, he yanked and snapped the cord. With the ring hidden in his fist, her spell flared and died, leaving only his burning clothes.
Ozar tore off his overshirt and threw it to the ground, then stamped on the flames with his boots. Shade stood to the side, stooped and bent, staring at him.
“She is a witch,” Shade said. “Evil.”
Ozar swung around to him. “Never let her near a perfect shape. Never! Do you understand?”
Shade’s answer whispered in the cell. “Yes.”
Ozar took a deep breath and ground his boot in the last of the embers. Then he faced Mel, and his gaze burned. He held the bloodied remains of her clothes in one fist. “Shade,” he said, never taking his gaze off Mel. Malice crackled in his voice. “I’m going to take these rags to the messenger. While I’m gone, you have my leave to make her pay for her deeds in any way you wish.”
Shade bowed deeply. “Thank you.”
Ozar spun around and strode into the tunnel. His clothes blended into the darkness until nothing showed. His footsteps faded to silence. Shade wet his lips, watching Mel, and she wanted to scream her protest. Mage power roiled within her, but it had no outlet. They had built this cell with nothing a mage could use.
Except.
She was the child of an indigo sphere mage—one who could use only flawed shapes. He considered it an aberration, for it also distorted his spells. But his court scholars had found hints in the oldest histories of other Dawnfield mages who wielded such power—ancient, furious mages whose spells blazed.
War mages.
Shade raked Mel with his gaze, and she hated him for the lust in his hollowed eyes. He didn’t pick up the whip. Instead he went to a table and selected another object. The blood drained from her face. She wouldn’t survive if he used that on her the way he had wielded the whip. It was a heavy flail, a large metal ball covered by spikes. A chain connected the ball to the handle that Shade gripped in his fist. He raised the ball over his head and swung it in a circle, around and around, catching glints of candlelight, letting her see what he intended.
If he meant to terrify her, he was succeeding. But Mel saw what he didn’t. A sphere. A misshapen sphere. The highest known shape, yet of no use to a mage because spikes deformed it.
But she was also her father’s daughter.
Mel’s fury built. Higher, higher, like a wave rushing toward the shore, the ancient power rose. Her spell grabbed the imperfect ball—and slipped. Shade swung the gruesome weapon toward her, and Mel reached—
Her spell caught the spikes.
Power exploded out of Mel in a burst of violet light so bright it blinded her. Unlike with perfect shapes, this spell didn’t hurt. It blazed through her as if she were a crucible for its terrible force.
A scream cut the air, not from her, from someone else, high and terrified. A thunderous crack shook the cell, and debris pelted her body. She dropped abruptly and landed hard on her knees. Her manacled hands slammed down in front of her. Mel went rigid, terrified the collapsing cell would crush her beneath tons of stone.
The violet light faded. Mel knelt in the dark while pieces of stone clattered around her. A shard of rock bounced off her cheek. Then all was still and dark. She choked in a breath. She couldn’t think about what had happened?
??what she had done. Not yet. Not until her baby was safe.
Feeling around, she realized she was kneeling in debris. She edged through the wreckage toward Shade. It took only moments to find his body. He had no pulse. As far as she could tell, nothing had hit him, but he was very, very dead.
Mel started to shake. Violet. Violet. It was a legend, the power to heal mortal wounds, to pull back the dying. To give life.
And to take it.
Tears slid down Mel’s cheeks. Her body had gone numb. She no longer felt the welts and gashes. Later sensation would return, and with it the full knowledge of what she had done. Now she couldn’t let herself think. She searched Shade’s body and found his squashed key ring. She tried to make a spell of light, but the ring was too bent and the spell slipped off it. She pushed and pulled, straining the metal. It still wasn’t a true circle, but better—
Her spell caught on the ring and light flared. With her arms trembling, she lifted them so she could see the manacles on her wrists. Maneuvering Shade’s keys into the lock with her palms facing outward was impossible. She rotated her wrists, gritting her teeth as the metal scraped her skin, until she could get in a key. The first one didn’t work, nor the second. She could almost feel the seconds rattling by; every moment brought her closer to discovery. This torture chamber was deep in the walls, probably so screams from inside couldn’t be heard outside. That might have covered the noise of the cell’s destruction, but Ozar would come back.
The fifth key unlocked the manacles, and Mel threw them on the ground. If she found a better shape than the key ring, she would try healing her injuries, but she didn’t dare with one this deformed; her distorted spell might hurt her or her child.
She forced herself to take Shade’s clothes. They were too big, but the trousers had a drawstring she pulled tight around her waist, and she rolled up the legs and the sleeves. She gave up on the boots. She took the spiked ball and stood over Shade, gripping the handle, the weapon hanging by its chain.
“That was for my baby,” she said.