“We are not at war,” Jade said.
“You don’t think so?” Baz beckoned to someone among the warriors in the dimly lit temple.
Jade had been wrong that no other would come forward, for one of the men approached, tall and broad shouldered in his black leather and iron-gray breastplate. A massive sword hung on his belt, and a black plume topped his shadow-dragon helmet. Then he removed his helmet, and she knew this was no ordinary warrior who dared the wrath of the Dragon-Sun. The Atajazid D’az Ozar had come to her wedding.
He spoke in a shadowed voice. “When Cobalt descends on your country and your life, Vizarana, you will fight him alone.”
“If Taka Mal falls,” Jade said, “you are next.”
“Escar will come,” Ozar said, “for as people must breathe, so he must conquer. He will ride across Taka Mal like the Dragon-Sun’s fire, burning all in his path. He will make Taka Mal pay for this alliance you committed tonight, until he has burned Quaaz to the ground and cut your head from your body.”
Jade met his hard stare. “You words cannot terrorize me.”
“He will massacre your people.”
“You can’t have me, Ozar, even if you threaten Taka Mal with annihilation.” Her gaze never wavered. “Abandon Taka Mal now and you will lose your throne as well. If you think otherwise, you know nothing of Cobalt, and all of Jazid will suffer for it.”
“You know my terms.”
Her fist clenched, small and delicate compared to the warriors around them. “I have given my vows to another.”
“Then fix it.” Ozar’s face hardened as he turned to the man at her side. “If your consort has to die so that you can fulfill your obligations, so be it.”
With that, the Shadow Dragon Prince spun around and strode away, his boots ringing on the stone floor. He swept out of the temple and left his threat hanging in the air like a blade poised above Drummer’s head.
22
The Violet Storm
Dawn was seeping through cracks in the walls as Mel dragged herself awake. She couldn’t remember why she was lying on the floor of a rough shack.
Her memory stirred painfully. She had escaped Ozar’s fortress and run, her bare feet slapping on stone. The cell had finished its collapse, and the thunder of its destruction had followed her as she raced down a corridor with its walls toppling behind her. She sped down the spiral staircase of a tower while the stairs above her fell in a traveling wave of wreckage. Just before the tower crashed down into rubble, she had run out into a courtyard beneath an overcast sky.
Mel remembered shivering in an underground storage bin with daggers and maces. She had hidden in an armory on the other side of the courtyard while Ozar and his men investigated the ruins. She couldn’t even remember now what supplies she had taken from the armory. When night came, she had slipped past the wreckage of the fortress and run through the barren terrain, run and run, clenching the handle of the spiked metal ball in one hand and her stolen gear in the other.
With a groan, Mel rolled onto her side. Black leather armor was piled up nearby, with a Jazid breastplate and a Shadow Dragon helmet. She wondered dully at her priorities. She had taken a sword, belt, and dagger, but no food or water. Filled with her mind-slamming rage, she had thought only of fighting.
Of killing.
In the past, Mel had never believed the accounts of those ancient war mages. The histories were thousands of years old. Surely time had distorted and magnified the tales. Now she knew otherwise: The years had softened the truth. She had never desired the power to destroy, but she would bring down every fortress in the settled lands if that was what it took to protect her child.
She didn’t understand how she had survived the collapse of her cell. Huge chunks of rock had fallen, yet miraculously none hit her. Perhaps the spell protected its maker. It made a grim sort of sense. Those mages whose spells kept them alive were more likely to have children who would carry on the trait.
Mel had found no wounds on Shade’s body. She would never truly know how he died, for the destruction had buried him. Ozar probably thought she had died as well. She didn’t think any stone had hit Shade, but that left only her spell. It made her sick to think she could wreak violence with gifts meant to heal.
Violet. The power of life and death. Mages felt the spells they made, not as intensely as those they created it for, but enough to matter. She knew warmth from her red spells and health from the blue. She should have felt Shade die. But she remembered nothing of his passing. Did flawed spells distort away from their wielder? It was a horrific prospect, for it suggested she suffered the least for using the worst of her abilities. The power had surely been bred into her ancestors to counter those kings who sought to contain the war mages. In the centuries since, the marriages of Dawnfield kings to the strongest mages they could find had concentrated the mage abilities. For centuries this particular trait had slept within the Dawnfield line, gathering strength.
Now it had awakened—with a vengeance.
She pushed into a sitting position. Her wounds hurt miserably, and her legs ached from her long run. She had scrambled in the dark, afraid to fall into a crack or crevice, even more afraid to make light lest someone see. The half-moon had appeared and disappeared behind streaks of cloud, her only guide.
She slowly limbered up, working through the aches and pain. Then she put on the armor. Her supplies were spotty; she had no water, but she had grabbed two pairs of leggings when she only needed one. At least she had chosen better with the armor. The leather was old and supple and fit her well. She pulled the pants over her leggings, then tugged on a vest and fastened the breastplate over it, leaving her arms bare except for the wrist guards and armbands. Metal studs riveted the belt together. The leather boots were scuffed and pitted. The armor was designed for a man of her height, but with broader shoulders and chest, which was fine; she needed the extra space in the breastplate for its namesakes.
Mel hung the dagger sheath from her belt and strapped the helmet to her back. She hefted the sword, as she had done during those long hours while she sweated in her hiding place. The blade felt well balanced and suited to her upper-body strength, which was less than that of many warriors. She compensated for that lack with her fast reflexes, but she needed a weapon light enough to utilize her advantage.
The spiked ball lay on the floor, glinting where a trickle of sunlight hit one of the sharpened points. Mel picked it up by the metal handle and swung it over her head. The chain clinked as the ball whipped in a circle. Although it was heavy, she had no problem wielding it as a flail. But for her, its greatest value lay in another aspect; its shape could unleash her mortal spells.
She wrapped the ball with the extra leggings so it wouldn’t gouge her thigh, and then she fastened it to her belt. A search of the shack turned up a strip of smoked meat, a water bag, and the snares of a trapper. The bag was empty. With an apology to whoever used the shack, Mel hung the bag from her belt. She had seen oval-leaf bushes outside last night, which meant there had to be water nearby. She would fill the bag and break her fast with the meat and whatever game or edible plants she could find.
Finally, Mel peeled a strip of bark off the wall and sat down to whittle it with her dagger. She needed an exact shape, and she had trouble cutting one. Her disks and polygons came out crooked. The square was better, and it caught her spell, glowing with blue light. The weak spell barely lit up her hands, but it was better than nothing.
Mel sat with her back to the wall and cradled the square in her palms. Running her fingers along the shape, she imagined blue sky. Blue water. Blue silk. Blue eyes. Like Drummer’s. The glow around her hands deepened. With no formal training, she didn’t know if she could direct her spell to specific injuries. She thought of her wounds—and the light flowed into her body like a river filling a vessel. With a sigh, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
She struggled to maintain the spell, however. To use such a high color, even with a low-level shape
, wore her out. Finally she released the spell and opened her eyes. The last of the blue light faded from her hands. But…her aches had also receded. When she stood up, her muscles didn’t protest as much. The whip had cut deep gashes yesterday, and dried blood hadn’t even finished flaking off her arms, yet the wounds looked as if they had been healing for several days.
Mel let out a long breath, steadying herself. It was time to leave, to face her precarious future. Sword in hand, she opened the door. A rocky clearing fronted the hut, and several oval-leaf bushes jutted out of the ground. Beyond the clearing, the mountains cut downward in a panorama of angular slopes. To her left, peaks sheered upward; on the right, they dropped down in ridge after knife-edged ridge. She could see for leagues, and everywhere the land stuttered in the jagged-teeth formations that gave the range its name. It was beautiful in its harsh grandeur, and it took Mel’s breath.
A waterfall cascaded down the peaks behind the shack. After she drank deeply and filled the bag, she ate some bitter oval-berries. She saw no wildlife; the world seemed deserted. Wind keened among the peaks and through the deep gullies between them. The sky had shed its clouds and stretched above, parched and blue.
Her best hope of survival was to find the Chamberlight army. If they were where she expected, she had more than a day’s journey on foot, and to reach them, she would have to go through the Jazid forces. As long as she hid her yellow hair, she might blend in with the other soldiers. Her face didn’t look masculine, but with the helmet on she could probably pass for a youth.
Mel set off, heading north.
Seventeen thousand strong, four armies gathered in a great confluence of men and horses. Cobalt rode Admiral up and down the lines as his companies trained, but he spoke to no one. He barely contained his agitation. Mel was out there. Her kidnappers had slithered past the armies, probably east into Jazid and then north into Taka Mal. His search parties had found nothing, and it would be days before his men returned from Alzire with news. His wife could be anywhere, and it was killing him.
As of yet, he had given no order to strike Taka Mal. Rumors abounded: Queen Vizarana had killed Drummer, she had brought him to the Sun-Dragon citadel, she had left him in Quaaz, she had sent him home. Cobalt hadn’t intended to attack if Taka Mal negotiated in good faith. Now he no longer cared. Even if Drummer walked up to him, it wouldn’t matter. Taka Mal had gone too far when they took his pregnant wife and left behind her blood.
Matthew galloped across the camp and came alongside of Cobalt. “You must prepare! We’ve spotted an envoy headed here from the Dragon-Sun citadel.”
Cobalt gazed past the solitary peak with the citadel to the much more distant eastern mountains. Quaaz lay beyond that barrier. Was Mel there?
“Listen to me!” Matthew grabbed Admiral’s reins and pulled the horse to a stop. Admiral neighed in protest, but he knew Matthew well enough that he didn’t rear or bolt.
Cobalt spoke in a hard voice. “Let go of my horse.”
Matthew gave him back the reins. “You don’t know that Taka Mal had any part in Mel’s disappearance.”
Cobalt realized he was gritting his teeth. He forced his jaw to relax. “Have Agate Cragland bring the Taka Mal envoy to me.”
“You must treat them as emissaries,” Matthew said. “Not prisoners of war.”
Cobalt wanted to pull his sword and fight, not Matthew, but someone. Anyone. It took a concentrated effort to keep his voice even. “I will treat them as appropriate.”
Matthew didn’t look reassured. His gaze went beyond Cobalt. “That was fast.”
Cobalt brought Admiral around to face the way Matthew was looking. Agate and several Chamberlight officers were approaching him. An unfamiliar soldier rode in their midst, a man in the gold and red of a Taka Mal lieutenant. Cobalt rode forward, aware of Matthew at his side, and they all gathered in a group, their horses stamping and snorting.
Cobalt looked from the lieutenant to Agate. “Only one man?”
“He isn’t the envoy,” Agate said. “He came from the south.”
Cobalt narrowed his gaze at the man. “Why are you here?”
The lieutenant spoke with the drawn-out Taka Mal accent, exotic in its unusual rhythms, different from the cool, clipped tones of the Misted Cliffs. “Your Majesty, please accept my humblest pleas for your mercy. I set my life before you and beg your beneficent compassion for myself, your lowly servant.”
Cobalt had never mastered the flowery, convoluted language of court intrigue. Beneficent compassion, indeed. What the blazes did that mean? If this fellow had done something wrong, he should just say so.
“Why do you need mercy?” Cobalt asked.
“I have done no evil!” The man paused. “No, that is false. I have committed a great crime. I deserted my post to come here.”
Either the fellow was a consummate actor or he genuinely felt agonized. “Why did you desert?” Cobalt asked.
“I couldn’t stand by while—while such atrocities—” He took a ragged breath. “I had to choose between my conscience and my post. I chose my conscience.”
Cobalt frowned. “How do I know you aren’t a spy sent by Queen Vizarana to infiltrate my camp?”
“Ask the envoy,” the man said. “It will be here soon.”
“I will,” Cobalt said. “Now tell me why you came.”
He blanched as if Cobalt had asked him to impale himself on his own sword. “Please know, I am only a messenger—”
“If you don’t tell me soon,” Cobalt said darkly, “my beneficent compassion will be all used up.”
The man reached for his saddle bags, but stopped when the Chamberlight men drew their swords.
“Let him get whatever it is,” Cobalt said.
His men lowered their swords, and the lieutenant exhaled. Cobalt didn’t think he was pretending to be afraid. The man opened one of his bags and pulled out a bundle of brown-and-yellow cloth. With shaking arms, he held it out to Cobalt.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“About what?” Bewildered, Cobalt took the bundle. It was rags, some yellow, some an ugly brown—
With a horrific sense of falling, Cobalt realized two things. The brown stains were blood. A lot of blood. And the rags were the remains of a pair of harem pants and a tunic.
Mel’s clothes.
A roaring began in Cobalt’s ears. He couldn’t see clearly, only brown stains on yellow silk. He raised his gaze to the man from Taka Mal. Cobalt didn’t know how he looked, but it wasn’t only the deserter who recoiled; all of the men, even Agate, went pale.
Cobalt spoke slowly and heard his voice rumble like a distant storm. “Where is the woman who wore these clothes?”
The lieutenant swallowed, tried to speak and failed.
“Answer me,” Cobalt said.
The man spoke in a burst. “She is dead, Your Majesty. She—she didn’t survive—what they did to her.”
“And who,” Cobalt said, enunciating each word, “did it?”
“The man I was expected to serve, but cannot,” the lieutenant said grimly. “General Baz Quaazera, at command of the queen.”
Thunder exploded inside of Cobalt. The roaring in his ears stopped as suddenly as it began and left him in a deadly calm. He had thought Stonebreaker injured him with his cruelty, but those decades of torment were nothing compared to this moment.
Someone was speaking. Agate Cragland. “What proof do you have that General Quaazera did this?”
“I saw it,” the lieutenant said.
“And who are you,” Agate asked, “to see such an act?”
“Lieutenant Feldspar Kaj, of Her Majesty’s personal guard.”
“Well, Kaj,” Agate said. “You are also a deserter. How do we know you don’t bring this story out of spite?”
Kaj indicated the silk Cobalt held. “She was wearing that when they brought her in. I watched them whip her to death. I was assigned to guard her uncle, the man called Drummer, and I have also watched them torture him. Call me what yo
u will, but I could not stay there after what I witnessed.”
Cobalt found his voice. “General Cragland, where is the envoy from the citadel?”
“I told the men to take them to your tent,” Agate said.
Cobalt jabbed Admiral’s flanks with his heels. Despite the unusual behavior, the horse took off with a practiced gait. They had been together a long time, he and this horse, and Admiral knew what he wanted. He raced through the camp. The other men came with Cobalt, but he ignored them, for if he spoke, his control would shatter. People stared as he galloped past: cooks looked up from steaming pots, grooms stopped tending their horses and watched him with the reins hanging in their hands, archers sharpening arrows rose to their feet.
Warriors crowded the area around Cobalt’s tent. His soldiers were guarding eight men in the fiery red-and-gold uniforms of Taka Mal. It took a concentrated effort for Cobalt to keep from drawing his sword. He reined in Admiral, and the black warhorse stamped up swirls of dust. As Cobalt dismounted, a groom ran up. Cobalt handed him the reins, never taking his gaze off the envoy. He strode forward, and Matthew and Agate joined him. Cobalt was aware of his men bringing Kaj, but he kept his attention on the emissaries. With a start, he realized one was General Spearcaster, a Queen’s Advisor.
Spearcaster bowed. “My honor at your presence, Your Majesty.”
“Is it?” Cobalt stretched out his arm and pointed at Kaj, who stood a few paces away with his Chamberlight escort. “Who is that man?”
Spearcaster frowned at the lieutenant. “Kaj? What are you doing here?”
Kaj lifted his chin. “I cannot serve commanders who commit what I have seen.”
Spearcaster visibly tensed. “What are you talking about?”
Kaj looked frightened. “I can’t countenance what is going on. Drummer Headwind—”
“That will be enough,” Spearcaster said sharply.
“It’s wrong,” Kaj said.
Cobalt turned to Spearcaster, and the explosion inside him swelled. “What is it that he thinks is wrong?”