The bed shifted, sagging with a new weight. Fingers brushed his arm and he jerked back, instinctively raising his fist. Then his mind caught up with his reflexes and told him that surely it was the woman who touched him, not a soldier. He lowered his arm.
She withdrew her hand, but after a moment she laid a clay tablet across his lap. Baffled, he ran his fingers over the tablet. Its disk shape helped focus his thoughts. He pressed the clay, noting its cool, grainy texture, making dents in it with his fingertips.
Her long fingers touched his hand, sending a chill down his back. That shiver had to be anger; her touch couldn’t give him pleasure. He refused to let that happen. He would retreat into the fortress of his mind, which kept out pain.
The woman pressed her fingers into the clay, her hand moving against his so he could feel her actions. Then she brushed his hand over the dents she had made. It took Jarid a moment to understand; many years had passed since he had touched such shapes. Words. Pictures. She was writing to him.
Jarid shifted his weight, uneasy. It was true that by the age of six, he had learned some basics of reading. But he had done nothing since then and he recognized only a few of her symbols. The disk itself sharpened his mind, though, stirring memories. He traced one picture, a circle within a cluster of lines—no, an orb within crossed swords.
His family crest.
No! Jarid hurled the tablet away. He had no way to hear its crash, but he felt the woman scramble off the bed. He couldn’t bear the truth she brought him, not after all these years—not after what he had done. His guilt was too big, the guilt he wouldn’t say even in his own mind. But however much he fought it, deep down he had recognized the truth the moment he smelled the orbs-bud candles.
They had brought him home.
4
The Dais
Iris retreated across the room, watching as Jarid slid off the bed and rose to his feet. The tablet lay in pieces, strewn across the floor. She knew Brant Firestoke would insist she bring in the hexagon lieutenants now that Jarid had awakened. But she didn’t move. This wasn’t the time to inflict more strangers on Aronsdale’s heir. Jarid was standing next to the circular nightstand by the bed, his hand resting on its surface, his head lifted as if he were trying to catch an unexpected scent.
The creak of an opening door came from across the room.
Iris jumped, whirling around. Ah, no. Muller stood in the open doorway like a prince of light, radiant in his white-and-gold clothes. Whatever Iris might have said to him died in her throat, lost to the intensity of his concentration on Jarid. He slowly crossed the chamber, never taking his gaze off of his cousin.
Jarid remained utterly still by the nightstand. When Muller stopped in front of him, the only sign that Jarid realized he faced a person was the way his forehead wrinkled. He and Muller were the same height, with similar features. They stayed that way, frozen in a tableau, the golden lord and the dark prince, one splendid in his perfection, the other wild and untamed. Light and dark.
Muller waved his hand in front of his cousin’s eyes—and Jarid didn’t even blink. He stood like a wild stag mesmerized by fire.
“Can you hear me, Cousin?” Muller sounded as if he were wound as tight as a coil.
Jarid’s hand stiffened into a claw gripping the table. Even now his eyes weren’t quite directed at Muller. Iris felt certain he knew someone stood before him, but she had no idea if he could recognize his cousin.
“Won’t you speak?” Muller asked him.
Jarid tilted his chin, but he made no other response.
Muller turned to Iris. “It is true, then. He has no sight. He hears nothing.”
Iris nodded yes, disquieted by his fierce concentration.
“He has no voice.”
“None,” she said, sensing Muller’s conflicted doubts. If he changed his decision now to give up the crown, and revealed why, it would throw Aronsdale into a turmoil. Yet who could blame him?
He gave Jarid a long look. Then he spoke in a numb voice. “May your reign be long and full, my cousin.” With that, he spun around and strode from the chamber.
Jarid reached out to touch his cousin, but he found no one.
The Great Shape-Hall of Castle Suncroft gleamed like the interior of a sun’s ray. Hundreds of candles flickered in chandeliers and candelabras, and orb-lamps on stands added their luster. The high ceiling gleamed with gold-and-white mosaics and starlight glimmered outside, beyond the tall windows. Hundreds of guests mingled here tonight, the gentlefolk of Aronsdale, glistening all, the men in fine tunics of ivory and gold, their trousers tucked into polished boots; the women in close-fitted gowns that swept the floor, each dress a single color, making a rainbow throughout the hall.
Iris felt like a fraud. She had no business doing this. She was no one. No matter what Della and Brant said, it felt wrong for her to stand here as if she deserved the title of queen.
Her new shape-maids had dressed her in a radiant yellow gown that clung to her body, and they had piled her chestnut hair high on her head, threading it with topazes. She stood now with Brant Firestoke and Della No-Cozen at the head of a reception line to greet their guests. She would have rather hidden in the stables.
Iris had balked when they had tried to put her in the blue silk of a sapphire mage. She had no right. A normal woman could wear any color she chose, but a mage dressed in the hue of her power. Iris couldn’t wear blue when she had yet to light a room, the simplest spell. She felt foolish in yellow, but at least it was more realistic. Della claimed she had achieved a great deal more by reaching Jarid’s mind, but Iris didn’t even understand what she and Jarid had done in that incredible moment.
In a pause between greeting people, Iris glanced up and glimpsed Muller and Chime strolling hand-in-hand, glowing like sunlight. They paused to peer at themselves in a mirror and then went on, out an archway to the gardens. They seemed happier than Iris had seen them in a long time. She had secretly hoped Muller would challenge Jarid for the crown, but neither he nor Chime showed any inclination to reclaim the weight of responsibility that Iris’s one flash of mage power had lifted from their shoulders.
After the last person passed through the reception line, Iris drew in a shaky breath. She glanced uneasily at the dais at the end of the hall. She had no idea if Jarid had understood what she had tried to explain earlier today with the clay tablet. She shuddered, remembering his wrath as he hurled away her tablet. This stranger she would soon marry had shown no sign he wanted anything to do with her. Why should he? In his darkness, he probably saw her better than all these people who might be fooled by her elegant clothes and the court manners she had learned this past year.
And yet…Jarid drew her. Beneath his tangled hair, his torn and disheveled clothes, and his scarred neck, he had a beauty that had nothing to do with outer form. It came from within. He reached her in a way she didn’t understand, making her want to brush back his matted locks, to press his long fingers against her lips.
One of Brant Firestoke’s men, a disk-captain, came up to them. The officer wasn’t a mage; his title came from his position in the King’s Army. Each military rank subdivided into shape-ranks, with triangle as lowest and orb as highest. All captains outranked all lieutenants, so an orb-lieutenant had a rank lower than a triangle-captain but higher than a triangle-lieutenant. Tonight the disk-captain wore a dark blue dress uniform with darker boots. He and Brant spoke in low voices.
&nb
sp; “Prince Jarid is calm,” the captain said. “But we aren’t sure how long it will last. The major wants to proceed now, while we can.”
Brant nodded. “Very well. Begin immediately.”
Iris stiffened, barely holding in her protest. I’m not ready.
The captain bowed to them and took his leave. As Brant offered his arm to Iris, he gave her an encouraging look. “Shall we?”
She wanted to run, but somehow managed to nod instead. Taking his arm, she walked with him down the hall, doing her best to respond gracefully when people greeted them. As they reached the dais, the power of the great disk vibrated through her. For the first time since her gifts had awakened in the woods, she dared trying to focus her power. The dais gave less strength than the sphere formed by her hidden retreat in the woods, but it was enough to weave a spell of soothing. Whether or not her fumbling mage attempts would actually work, she had no idea.
They went to the center of the dais: Iris, Brant, Della and a military retinue. The Bishop of Orbs joined them, regal and tall, his white hair swept back under his miter. Two pages accompanied him, one carrying a tasseled cushion with two crowns. The gold circlets glittered, inset with diamonds and amethysts. Iris stood stiffly, aware of everyone in the Great Shape-Hall watching. All conversation had stopped.
The moment stretched out, seeming endless. Just when Iris thought surely they would all snap with tension, another retinue appeared in an archway at the end of the hall. With stately progress, they approached the dais. At first Iris didn’t recognize the tall man walking in their center. Then she froze.
It was Jarid.
Two shape-soldiers walked on either side of him, guiding him with touches on his arm, their help so discreet that had she not known he was blind, she wouldn’t have realized they were helping him.
Her breath caught. Jarid was resplendent, a well-built prince shining in the light from hundreds of candles and orb-lamps. His gold brocade vest fit snugly over a snowy-white shirt with belled sleeves, and his ivory-colored breeches tucked into gold boots. Gone was the ragged hair that had tangled down his back; now glossy black locks grazed his shoulders, trimmed and brushed. It enhanced the classic lines of his face, his straight nose and handsome features. His unkempt hair had half hidden his eyes before, but now she could see their dramatic violet color. They were larger than she had realized and framed by a thick fringe of black lashes. The scar that ran down his neck added an edge to his breathtaking appearance.
“Goodness,” Della said at her side.
“Aye,” Iris murmured. Jarid dazzled.
However, she doubted he felt as splendid as he looked. This whole business had to be disturbing for him. Concentrating, she used the dais to focus her spell. Jarid’s emotions came to her, blurred and hazy; he was angry, bewildered, lost. He kept control of himself with an effort of will so great, Iris sensed it despite her inexperience as a mage. His inner strength was tangible, a strength that had carried him through fourteen years of a nightmare.
As Jarid’s retinue joined hers on the dais, Iris felt as if she were a kite caught in a rushing wind, unable to stop her headlong passage. She and Jarid faced each other. He wasn’t looking at her, but slightly to the side, his gaze unfocused. When Iris took his hand, his posture went rigid. She thought he would jerk away, but instead he clutched her fingers, his grip so tight it hurt. His confusion flowed over her; he had no idea who had brought him here. He wanted to fight his way free. He held back because he knew he was in his ancestral home, but his alarm and anger were rising, threatening to explode.
Iris offered him a spell of calming, like rain misting over flames. She tried a healing spell, too, but she had too little knowledge to make it work. Or perhaps whatever had hurt him went too deep for her to reach.
The Bishop of Orbs read the ceremony. Iris bowed her head, listening, while he spoke the ancient words in a resonant voice. The entire time she felt Jarid struggling to control his apprehension and anger. Strangers surrounded him, enemies who had taken him from his home by force. His grip on her hand never eased.
After the bishop finished, he asked Iris and Jarid to kneel. A hepta lieutenant on Jarid’s other side reached out, obviously to guide the prince. Iris froze; Jarid might snap if a stranger touched him now. She shook her head slightly at the lieutenant, hoping he understood.
The officer hesitated, his hand above Jarid’s shoulder. Everyone on the dais had gone still. Jarid tilted his head, turning toward the lieutenant, the tendons in his neck as taut as cords.
We are friends, Iris thought to her groom. Friends. She squeezed his hand and tugged downward.
Jarid drew in a sharp breath, turning toward Iris, his gaze still unfocused. She tugged his hand again, carefully, as if she faced that wild stag in the forest. He shuddered and took a deep breath—and then he knelt with her, his motions stiff and uncertain, the two of them in front of the bishop. Relief swept over Iris. She bowed her head, aware of Jarid doing the same, though whether it was from instinct or a memory of his past, she had no idea. He had probably absorbed some court protocol as a small boy, but he had never seen a coronation.
Iris heard rather than saw the bishop place the crown on Jarid’s head. She could imagine it sparkling in the candlelight that filled the hall, but she couldn’t bear to look, to see that final symbol of the upheavals that had disrupted their lives. Jarid’s confusion swirled around her—and also his understanding of what the weight of that crown meant. An immense grief came from him for his grandfather’s death.
She barely knew when the bishop set a crown on her own head. The words of the marriage ceremony swirled over her like fog.
Then it was done: she and Jarid had become the king and queen of Aronsdale.
5
Shape Light
One candle lit the tower room with dusky light. It had been Iris’s idea to bring Jarid here after the ceremony; now, alone with him, she felt less certain. She couldn’t stay; at least one of them had to return to the Great Shape-Hall. Given Jarid’s situation, that he had been lost for so many years, she hoped people would accept his withdrawing from the celebrations early. They would be less tolerant if neither of the newlywed couple attended their own festivities.
Although very few people knew Jarid couldn’t see, hear or speak, it must have been obvious during the ceremony that something was wrong. All in Aronsdale were waiting to see how this strange twist of events would play out, whether it would result in a better age for the realm or the fall of the royal family.
No one had wanted to leave her alone with her new husband. She had needed a calming spell focused by this circular room to allay Brant’s fears, and she suspected her success had been less than complete, given the way he had told the guards outside they must enter here if they heard the slightest sound. At least he didn’t seem to realize she had used a shape-spell on him. Even knowing she had become mage queen, everyone—including herself—seemed to have a hard time thinking of her as other than the apprentice who had yet to learn even a lighting spell.
I belong here. Perhaps if she repeated those words enough to herself, she would come to believe them. Belonging. That hope seemed like a diaphanous floating bubble out of her reach.
It said a great deal about the lack of confidence the king’s advisors had in the sovereign they had crowned, that they feared to leave him with his wife, lest he attack her. Iris knew Jarid n
eeded this time to himself, without their interference; she felt him holding on to his control by a mere thread that could break. She didn’t intend to subject him to any more strangers.
Jarid was sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed, still in his wedding finery, his face shadowed by the sweep of his hair. He held his crown on his lap, running his fingers over its edges and gems. The sight broke her heart; no justice existed in a universe that would trap such a vibrant man in a prison where he could communicate with no one, save by the nebulous touch of his mage gifts.
Iris walked closer to Jarid, and he turned his head as if he sensed her approach. She set her crown on the round table by the bed. She wanted to reach out to her husband, but she hesitated, unsure how he would react.
Jarid raised his arm, his palm facing outward toward Iris. He cupped his hand as if to grasp a sphere. Tilting his head, he closed his eyes and slowly turned his hand over until his cupped palm faced the ceiling. Then he extended his hand to Iris as if to offer her the invisible sphere.
Touched, Iris folded her hand over his cupped palm. A tingle went through her, as if he actually held a sphere of power. He stiffened, and she feared he would rebuff her again, as he had done earlier today when he had broken her tablet. But this time he only opened his hand, relinquishing the imaginary orb to her. Calm spread through Iris as if she had absorbed a spell of healing. Her loneliness and her longing for her home in the mountains receded. She didn’t stop missing her home, but it became more bearable, not the anguish that had torn her heart.
“Thank you,” she whispered, uncertain about this remarkable gift he had given her. Had he soothed her pain—or healed it? Only an indigo mage could heal emotional wounds and no verifiable record of any such mage existed. Legends claimed the indigo gifts had long been dormant in the royal line, but Iris suspected those stories were fables concocted to increase the Dawnfield mystique. Even if such a mage did exist, he would need a real sphere to focus his power, not one he imagined in his hand.