Cobalt laid his large hand on his mother’s shoulder. “If we don’t try, we will regret it.”
The former queen’s posture sagged. To Mel she said, simply, “Please try.”
A solitary light burned in Stonebreaker’s suite, a lamp on the nightstand by his canopied bed. He lay on his back among voluminous covers, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, his body seeming to have collapsed in on itself.
The elderly physician was in a chair by the bed, dozing, his bag open in his lap. With his white hair and wrinkled face, he seemed as frail as his patient. Quill touched his shoulder, and the doctor opened bleary eyes. “Eh?”
“His Majesty’s family is here,” Quill said.
The doctor squinted past him to where Cobalt stood with Mel. He rose to his feet, awkward with sleep and age, and his bag fell to the floor. Grabbing for it, the doctor lost his balance. Quill put out a steadying hand to catch him, then retrieved the bag.
“How is my grandfather?” Cobalt asked.
The doctor spoke heavily. “He barely lives.”
The dim light gave Cobalt an even darker aspect than usual. “Do you know why he had another attack?”
The elderly man blanched, and sweat beaded his forehead. “Your Majesty, please believe I have done my absolute best for him.”
Mel knew Cobalt wasn’t blaming him. But Stonebreaker’s staff lived in fear of censure. Nothing could always go perfectly, and when mistakes occurred, Stonebreaker always assigned blame regardless of whether or not it was deserved. In his reality, he never erred; he only meted out punishment, anything from dismissal of his staff to the whippings Cobalt had endured as a child.
Mel spoke gently to the doctor. “I can tend His Majesty.”
The physician’s gaze flicked to Mel and back to Cobalt. He stumbled over his words. “Your grandfather—I…I have done what I can. But he—please give him his last hours.”
Then Mel understood. The doctor feared she meant to speed Stonebreaker’s death. She held her medallion, concentrating on a spell to soothe emotions, and yellow light surrounded her hand. The doctor stepped back, his gaze panicked. Then the spell began to affect him, and some of the fear left his eyes.
“It’s all right,” Mel murmured. The light remained around her hand, but the spell enveloped the doctor, Cobalt and Dancer, Quill, and the bodyguards. “I can help him,” she said. “Ease his pain. Give him more time.”
The doctor stared at her, his eyes like silver coins, flat and hard. Then he took a breath and his shoulders came down from their hunched position. Dancer stood with Cobalt, her face drawn and pale. Aware of them watching, Mel went to the bed. No one stopped her. Stonebreaker was near this side, and she sat down by his still figure. She imagined a luminous sky, wildflowers scattered across a meadow, her mother’s blue eyes, and the deep, deep lakes of her home. Blue light spilled over Stonebreaker as Mel gave her spell to him. His body glowed in the radiance.
Slowly, so slowly, his lashes lifted. He stared at the canopy, his gray eyes pale in the blue light. His whisper rattled. “Dancer?”
“I am here.” Dancer stepped forward, her silks rustling. Mel moved away from the bed to give her privacy. As Dancer sat by her father and gently brushed the hair back from his forehead, blue light flowed around them.
Stonebreaker took her hand. “Farewell, daughter.” His voice sounded like parchment crinkling. “Remember me…”
A tear ran down her porcelain face. “I will.”
He patted her hand. “You have been a good daughter to me.”
Her voice broke. “Thank you.”
“Is Cobalt here?”
Cobalt stepped forward into the blue light. His face had a clenched look, as if everything within him, every emotion and memory, had tightened into a fist. “Here, Grandfather.”
“Closer,” Stonebreaker whispered. “Just you.”
Dancer hesitated, her forehead furrowed, her gaze going from her father to her son. Cobalt stood like a statue.
“I must speak to my heir,” Stonebreaker said.
No, Mel thought. She knew Dancer didn’t want to leave Cobalt with him, either. But who could deny the king his dying request to speak with the man who would follow him on the throne? And maybe, just maybe, Stonebreaker would offer some words of peace, as he had done with Dancer.
Dancer twisted her hands in her sleeves as she stepped away from the bed. A deep fatigue was spreading through Mel. If she held this spell much longer, she would slip into a death trance like the one she had suffered when she tried to heal King Varqelle.
Cobalt sat on the bed and leaned into his grandfather. Stonebreaker’s lips moved as he whispered to his heir, and Mel saw the bewildered anguish on Cobalt’s face. No! she thought. Don’t hurt him. Desperate, she tried to reach them with a mood spell, but she had stretched her power too far, and she had nothing left. She was a blue flame, flickering, losing its essence. The room rippled in a haze.
As Mel collapsed, Dancer tried to catch her. The doctor hesitated, confusion and suspicion warring on his face, and Mel slipped out of Dancer’s grip, crumpling to the floor. She could no longer see Stonebreaker, the doctor, even Dancer—only Cobalt. He left the bed and came to her in slow motion, his face contorted with fear.
Come back. Cobalt knelt down and gathered her into his arms. He held her head against his chest. His voice seemed to echo in her mind though she was certain he was speaking aloud. Stay with me, Mel.
Suddenly the world jolted back to normal, and with a gasp, she sagged against him.
A rustle of robes came from nearby, and the doctor spoke. His voice trembled. “Your grandfather—”
Cobalt rose to his full height, drawing Mel to her feet as well. The doctor stared up at him, fear in his gaze. Dancer was sitting on the bed next to her father, her head bent, one of his hands in hers.
Her shoulders shook as she wept.
Standing behind Mel, Cobalt gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging into the layers of her tunic. She was too stunned to react. It couldn’t have happened. Not yet. Incense permeated the air, though earlier she had smelled nothing. She knew that smell. It was the scent of passing, the scent of endings.
The scent of death.
In the Misted Cliffs, along the sea, across the valleys and hills, people burned a certain incense to mourn a passing from life into the realms beyond. Tonight, in these vaulted rooms of wealth and power and bitterness, a king had taken his final breath and entered the long path walked by spirits.
Quill stepped back from the brazier where he had lit the incense. No one else moved, not Cobalt nor Dancer nor the doctor nor the guards. Mel didn’t know what Stonebreaker had told Cobalt, but she had seen her husband’s anguish. He had never come to terms with his agonized memories. If Stonebreaker had exacerbated that pain on his deathbed, all the settled lands might pay the price of Cobalt’s torment.
Dancer slowly lifted her head. She stood up, her face streaked with tears. Her dark eyes blazed, though whether in anguish or triumph, Mel didn’t know.
Then the queen knelt to her son.
Cobalt’s voice rasped. “What are you doing? Get up.”
She rose to her feet in a graceful motion. “Hail, Your Majesty, King of Chamberlight and Alzire.”
The doctor jerked as if someone had yanked him out of ice. Then he, too, knelt, stiffly, slowly. In her side vision, Mel saw Quill and the guards going down as well. Cobalt froze, clenching her shoulders, and her fear increased.
It’s too late to show him honor, Mel thought. The damage has already been done. She had no illusions about her husband. He burned with the fire of a conqueror. If he never vanquished his inner demons, he would pour his anguish into the crucible of war and blaze through the settled lands. What cruelty had Stonebreaker bequeathed him from his deathbed? Nothing could ever appease Cobalt’s torment now, for from this moment on, nothing could ever force Stonebreaker to acknowledge his grandson’s worth.
Mel feared Cobalt would drive himself until no pl
ace and no country would be safe from the Midnight King—no matter what price they paid in blood.
5
The Midnight Throne
After two days with nothing to do except make futile escape attempts, Drummer wanted to climb the walls. His guards ignored his attempts to talk to them, so he had another desultory lunch by himself. The food was excellent, if unfamiliar, meat with curry, but as with every meal here, he ate alone. He was ready to shout with frustration at the loss of his coveted freedom.
With no warning, Kaj strode into the parlor and dropped a cloth bundle on the divan. As he turned around, a flap of cloth fell off the bundle, revealing a gleam of golden wood.
Drummer jumped to his feet. “My glittar!”
Kaj grunted.
Drummer grinned at the bad-tempered gambler. “I shall compose a song of gratitude for you.”
“Try it,” Kaj growled, “and your harp will be in little pieces all around you on the floor. That’s what happens when you break something over someone’s head.”
Drummer regarded him innocently. “Do people break things over your head so often that you know the pattern?”
Kaj’s face purpled. “You are fortunate the queen wants you alive and happy.” He stalked from the room.
“Nice to see you, too,” Drummer said, but he waited until Kaj was gone.
He sat on the divan and picked up his glittar. Its curving frame fit perfectly in his hand. He tuned the harp and was gratified to hear its mellow sound. They had even polished the wood and cleaned the strings. Apparently someone here appreciated fine instruments.
Carrying the harp, he wandered through his suite, searching for a place to practice. None of the rooms felt right. Too confining. Finally he went to where he could feel fresh air on his face, a balcony he had missed his first day because it was behind a door that resembled a wall panel. The balcony was high up a tower, with a four-story drop to the ground. Drummer had thought for all of two seconds about trying to climb down and realized he valued his life too much. The wall had no handholds, fingerholds, or fingernail holds, and a fall from up here would splatter him all over the royal courtyard.
He loved the balcony, though. He could look out over the palace and city. Quaaz teemed with life—vendors in the streets, carts rolling, children running, news criers shouting and palace guards tromping along the alleys.
Drummer sat on the retaining wall of the balcony. He wouldn’t fall; the brass railing on the wall was high enough to lean against. He sat in a corner, his arm resting on the rail, and settled the glittar against his body. When he plucked the strings, notes rippled through the air. It pleased him to have the means of his livelihood back, even if he had no one to play for.
After warming up his voice and his fingers, he eased into a country song that many a fellow had asked him to play for his girl:
On the slide of sweet night,
In the time of drowsing,
In the silvery light,
And the stars carousing,
Beneath a wistful moon,
On the mosses sighing,
O kiss me softly soon,
Love is never dying.
“Such lovely words,” a woman said. “False, but pretty.”
Drummer nearly jumped off the balcony. Only the rail kept him from plunging to his untimely death. He hopped down from the wall and held his glittar like a shield while he faced the invader who menaced him from the doorway.
The queen of Taka Mal had come to visit.
She wore a silk tunic and trousers the color of topaz. The outfit did nothing to hide her voluptuous curves. Her dark eyes tilted upward, and their lush fringe of lashes made her large eyes look even bigger. Black curls framed her face and tumbled to her shoulders. His jailor had arrived without her scowling generals—in breathtaking form.
Drummer finally remembered himself and bowed. “Your Majesty.”
“You play well,” she said.
He strummed an impromptu melody and sang. “She glides into the night, or actually my noon/She’s really quite a sight, I think I’ve met my doom.”
Laughing, she winced. “That’s terrible poetry.”
“Thank you. I wrote it while you were standing there.”
“I don’t know whether to be insulted or complimented.”
He answered slow and lazy. “Take your pick.”
Her lips curved upward. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“When are you going to let me go?”
“I don’t know. It depends on your relatives.”
At least she was honest about it. He held his glittar in one hand and stepped forward. Her subtle perfume distracted him. Lifting his hand, he almost touched her dark hair.
“If I have to be hostage,” he murmured, “I couldn’t ask for a more fascinating captor.” He was as incensed now as the day her men had abducted him, but when she came near him like this, his ire stirred him to do foolish things. He wasn’t sure how much was anger and how much came from a different passion altogether. With the audacity that had so often landed him in trouble, he said, “I’d die for one kiss from those wine-plum lips.”
Her eyes closed slightly, giving her a sensually dangerous look. In a low voice, she said, “You most certainly would.”
He lifted a curl of her silky hair and brushed his knuckles on her cheek. “Are you going to call the guards?”
“To protect who? Me?” She moved his hand away from her face, but she held on to it for several moments before she released him. “Or you?”
“Do I need protection from you?”
“I think you need it from yourself.”
“I always have.” It was true.
“You could be locked in a cell for touching the queen.”
“I’m already in a cell.”
“A dungeon,” she said in a voice that was somehow sultry and menacing at the same time. “With chains.”
He answered in a low voice. “Your chains are as sweet as they are brutal, desert queen.”
“Never brutal. Not for you.” Her voice poured over him like thick, dark honey, and her eyes had a glossy look, though whether it was a challenge or an invitation, he was afraid to guess. He wondered if she even realized how she appeared to him.
Softly, he said, “You chained me the moment you took my freedom.” He knew he should grab her, use her as a hostage, bluff his way free. The guards were outside the suite, but she had come in without their protection. Why? He leaned forward, and she watched as if daring him to touch her. So he did something even more perilous than taking her captive.
He kissed her.
For one astonishing instant, her lips softened. Then she gasped as if jolted back to reality. She gave him a hearty shove and sent him stumbling back into the balcony wall. Drummer stared at her, his heart beating hard. He couldn’t believe he had been such a fool to take that liberty. Ah, but what a liberty. Eyes blazing, Vizarana Jade stepped up to him, and she was truly an unparalleled sight.
Then she slapped him.
Her palm hit his cheek before he recovered his wits enough to block her strike, and his head jerked to the side. He stared at her, his hand over his smarting cheek.
“Either you have a suicide wish,” Jade said, “or your brain is addled.”
Drummer knew he should stop. This wasn’t some prank that would get him a few nights in jail. But by the saints, what a woman. He coaxed a ripple of notes from his glittar, as erotic as they were sweet. “That’s for you.”
Jade’s cheeks turned red. “I shall be relieved when I can send you back to your poor, put-upon family.” She spun around and stalked away like a wildcat, graceful even in her annoyance.
Drummer sagged against the wall. He felt as if he had just stepped out of a whirlwind. Taka Mal’s queen was a force of nature that left him spinning.
Jade sat on a polished stone bench. Trellises looped with vines and royal-buds surrounded her. Weeping fronds hung from puff-top trees and brushed the paths that curved through her priv
ate garden. Sculptures of cats peeked out of the bushes. It was lush for a desert garden, kept that way by water piped in from underground and fed to the little waterfall.
Today the serenity of the gardens did nothing to calm her. She had a lot to do. Her meeting with the Zanterian caravan masters was in an hour. She had to study a design for aqueducts with the city planners this evening. And she needed more strategy sessions about Jazid. She had no time to brood over ill-mannered minstrels. She ought to have him clapped in chains and locked in a cell.
Either that, or in her bed.
“Bah!” Jade ripped a royal-bud off the nearest vine and hurled it into the waterfall. Mist wafted across her face, but it couldn’t cool her mood. Bed, indeed. She wouldn’t touch that scoundrel if the House of Dawnfield offered her a thousand urns of gold hexa-coins to take him off their hands.
Leaves rustled. As she looked up, Baz appeared around a stand of trees barely taller than himself. He wore his field outfit today rather than the dress uniform encrusted with medals.
“Light of the morning,” her cousin said.
“It’s afternoon,” Jade grumbled.
His grin flashed. “Glad to see you, too.” He sat on the bench and motioned at the ring she wore, with its large topaz. “Your secretary is looking for you. Some scrolls need your seal.”
“Yes. I’ve work to do.” She was talking to herself more than to him. “I’ve been thinking about Ozi.”
He spoke dryly. “By whom, I take it, you mean His Magnificence, the Atajazid D’az Ozar of the House of Onyx.”
Jade waved her hand. “Yes. Him. Ozi.”
Baz leaned back on his hands. “Jade, my dear, I hardly think that calling our moody neighbor ‘Ozi’ will predispose him to ally with us against Cobalt Escar.”
Jade gave him an innocent look. “Why, Baz, whatever makes you think I wish to fight Cobalt Escar?”
“Maybe that glint in your eyes, like you want to pulverize someone.”
“Pulverize indeed,” she muttered, thinking of Drummer. “I would like to invite Ozi here as soon as possible. Tonight, in fact. The Zanterians can take the letter with their caravan.”