Jarid had no idea how he appeared to other people, but he thought he must be hateful and hideous. He had felt that way since his parents died. Stone seemed to find him tolerable, but in the harsh reality of their lives, anything that wasn’t actively lethal was tolerable. Jarid knew he should have prevented the crash that killed his parents, but how, he had no idea. He was a mage. He should have helped his parents. His mother had the power to save one life—and she had used it for her son.
She had died so he could live.
Moisture gathered in his eyes. Angry, he wiped it away. Struggling to banish his memories, he filled his mind with images. His thoughts expanded outward. And yet…today something was different. Tension built within him, a sense of straining, of reaching. His mental shapes blurred into a luminous rainbow fog.
Straining.
Reaching.
Seeking.
A tendril curled through the fog. Sweat broke out on Jarid’s forehead. What invaded his solitude? He clenched the rough cloth of his trousers. Unaware and unknowing, the invader came closer, closer…
Leave me alone! The cry reverberated in his mind, and he suddenly felt foolish, reacting with such dismay to his own thoughts. For surely this “intruder” was no more than his own fevered imaginings.
But…he did feel it seeking, coming closer, so close. A green sphere vibrant with ferns wavered in his mind, a waterfall of light pouring through its brightness.
Beautiful sphere.
Sphere mage.
Rainbow.
And then he touched her mind.
Muller stood in the circular chamber atop the Mage Tower of Suncroft, across from the Starlight Tower in the southwest corner of the castle. This room was only a few paces across, with one window and walls made from polished silk-stone the color of pale violets. He hadn’t come to look out, though. He had come for the shapes.
A thousand years ago a sculptor had carved these walls with a vine of shapes: a dot, a line; flat shapes from triangle to circle; three-dimensional shapes from pyramid to sphere. The engravings curled around the chamber at waist height, with vines of smaller forms rising and descending along the walls. The effect mesmerized Muller—and frustrated him painfully, for he could never focus with them. He had spent his life trying to achieve perfection in himself to counteract his mage flaws, but his every attempt failed.
Yet he never gave up. He kept hoping someday it would be different, that someday he would straighten the twists of his gift. Now he sat in the middle of the chamber and closed his eyes. Gradually his mind relaxed. When he had submerged into a trance, he opened his eyes and gazed at a hemisphere engraved on the wall in front of him. Light, he thought. He imagined the circular shape focusing it as a lens would focus sunlight.
Nothing.
After a while, Muller let his mind relax. He felt odd today, as if he stood on the edge of an abyss. He kept thinking of Iris, and it made him uneasy. Why did he feel as if she pushed him to the rim of that chasm?
The shapes on the curving walls intensified, until he saw them with a surreal clarity. Their power surged around his mind, a tangible force, but one denied to him. He reached for it, straining, and it eluded him.
Muller jumped to his feet, feeling as if he would burst. He heaved open the door and strode across the tower to another door. It opened into a room exactly like the one where he had just been—except imperfect shapes curled around the walls of this chamber, their forms either incomplete or distorted. Historians claimed the ancients had made the first chamber to help mages intensify their power and this one to imprison mages, trapping them with flawed shapes that diverted rather than focused their gifts.
Muller had his doubts. He had always wondered if other mages among his ancestors had also been born with this curse he suffered, an inability to use true shapes. His “talent” had to be in the Dawnfield line; mage traits were hereditary, another reason the queen had to be a powerful mage. This room could have been designed for them.
Again he sat cross-legged on the floor and centered himself. Power rose around him, erratic, dangerous, jagged. Opening his eyes, he focused on a shape, another hemisphere, this one with a chiseled gash in its upper arc. His power surged and he struggled for control, to focus the spells that wavered at the edges of his power.
Iris.
Why did he sense her? He searched with flawed spells, straining to understand. Incredibly, she was reaching with her mage gifts, not toward him, but across Aronsdale. Iris had finally harnessed her power. Dismayed, he fought the urge to lash out with his damaged spells and stop her before anyone realized her ability. He could never deliberately hurt anyone, especially Iris.
He felt the Other.
A power stirred unlike any Muller had known. It was impossibly far away; he should never have sensed it from here. But it was also impossibly huge. Unformed, untrained, and untamed, it filled the mountains like an immense bank of clouds. Iris reached across the valleys and mountains and rivers, beyond the forest and beneath the bowl of the sky, reaching, reaching, reaching—and touched that power.
Muller’s world exploded in light.
Chime ran through the castle, her feet pounding on the stone floors. Muller’s soundless scream reverberated in her mind, magnified by the uncontrolled burst of power that had torn through him. She took the spiraling stairs of the Mage Tower two at a time, never slowing as she passed landing after landing.
She came out at the top into an open area between two doors. Without hesitation, she heaved open the door on her right.
Muller lay sprawled inside the chamber.
Chime dropped down to kneel by him. He was lying on his side, his hair falling across his face. For one terrifying moment she thought he had died.
“Muller!” She shook his shoulder.
He rolled onto his back, opening his eyes, and she inhaled sharply, with relief. He stared up at the domed ceiling, his face dazed.
“Are you all right?” Chime struggled to form spell of soothing, but the engravings in the room disrupted her focus. Her spells ripped on their jagged edges and fell apart.
“Iris?” Muller asked groggily.
Chime wondered if she should be offended. “I am not Iris.”
His eyes focused. “No, you aren’t.” A smile curved his lips. “But you are truly a welcome sight.”
“Hai, Muller! You scared me.”
He sat up slowly. “Iris found him.”
Chime looked him over for injuries. “Found who?”
“A mage.”
“No! She discovered your secret?”
“Not me. Another mage.”
“But where?”
“I’m not sure.” He took a ragged breath. “We better find her. Everything just changed.”
Muller paced in the Receiving Hall, his boots thudding on its tiled floor. He didn’t see the sun-drenched room with its tessellated mosaics, didn’t see anyone but Iris in the high-backed chair, her hands folded in her lap. He wished he felt even a fraction as calm as she looked.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Aye, Your Highness,” Iris said.
“But Jarid is dead!” Muller stopped pacing. “My cousin, may he rest in peace, has been dead for fourteen years.” He feared to believe her. When Daron had died, Muller had lost the last person he could call kin. To hope his cousin lived—no, he didn’t dare.
Della was standing by Iris’s chair, her hand resting on its high back. “His body was never found.”
Muller resumed pacing, unable to stay still, his gait agitated. The floor was tiled in white hexagons, with blue hexagons nested within them, all the shapes too perfect to cause him trouble. “The rescue party thought he was thrown from the carriage when it went over the cliff. He could have fallen in any crevice. The caves and chasms in those mountains are a maze.”
“It does seem impossible he survived,” Della said.
Iris remained unperturbed. “Nevertheless, he did.”
Muller stopped and frowned at her.
“If that were true, he would have come home.”
“How? He was a little boy.”
“Not anymore. So where is he?” Muller demanded, probably louder than necessary. He so desperately needed to believe Jarid would have come back had he been able.
“I donna know,” Iris said.
Her composure flustered him. He ought to quit bellowing; it wasn’t helping. A good leader would encourage his people, win their confidence. But he didn’t know how to be a good leader.
In a quieter voice, he said, “You say he exists, yet you don’t know where.”
“I can find him.” Her face paled, making him suspect she had little desire to repeat her spell.
Muller wished Daron were here to advise him. He missed his uncle so intensely, he hurt inside. Although he could seek counsel from Brant, he had never been comfortable with the elder man, mainly because Brant had so many doubts about Muller’s ability to rule. Knowing the saturnine lord was right didn’t help Muller’s confidence.
He came to a decision. “Very well,” he told Iris. “Find him. Bring him here.”
“Your Highness—” She hesitated.
Would she refuse? Worry made him stutter. “Yes, yes, speak up.”
“Prince Jarid is the heir,” she said.
“I know that.”
“He can claim the crown.”
“I doubt you will find him, but if by some incredible chance you do, he can have the title.” The words came out before Muller had time to think them through.
Everyone froze, staring at him. He knew he shouldn’t speak of his desire to give up the crown. It weakened his already shaky relations with the royal court, which would remain his court if Iris had made a mistake about this, which seemed likely.
“Your coronation is in ten days,” Della said. “That hardly gives us time to look.”
“Delay the coronation.” It wouldn’t be the first time. He had struggled these past months with an internal battle, dreading the crown but knowing he couldn’t wed Chime until he accepted his title. If he had thought he was good enough for her, and for Aronsdale he would have set the coronation for tomorrow.
“It’s been months,” he said. “A few more days won’t matter.”
“It’s been too long.” Della pushed back the tendrils of silvery hair that had escaped the roll at her neck and were curling around her face. “Saints, Muller, you know the people are mourning King Daron. We’ve just come through a hard winter. They need the coronation as a symbol that life will continue. And Aronsdale needs a committed leader.”
At the mention of his uncle, Muller felt bereft, missing a part of himself. He knew she was right, but he couldn’t answer.
“The bishop canna coronate Lord Muller,” Iris said calmly. “Prince Jarid is the heir.”
Muller squinted at her. She had never called him “Lord” before. Unlike in the surrounding realms, in Aronsdale only the heir to the crown and his brothers used the title of prince. Muller had come into it only after Jarid died. Except Jarid wasn’t dead, or so Iris claimed. How could this tale be true? No matter how long it took or how painful the truth, he had to know.
He took a deep breath. “If my cousin is alive, bring him to me.”
13
The Lost Refuge
Unbent heard the strangers on the mountain before they came into view. Even if they were trying to hide their approach, their party was too large to keep secret. He waited at the edge of the clearing and listened to the clatter of hooves, of horses struggling for purchase on the steep ground. He didn’t understand how they had found his cottage. No path led here through the stunted forest.
Maybe they hadn’t found him. It could be coincidence they came up here. Perhaps a hunting party had gone astray in their search for game and had no idea anyone lived in this forsaken place. But that hope stretched even his credulity too far; these desolate woods had no game to entice a hunting party.
Unbent strode back to the cottage and opened the creaking door. He heard Dani inside working on thatching for the roof. The youth could do it by touch faster than Unbent had ever managed with sight.
A call came from behind him. “Ho! You there.”
Unbent froze. Desperate, he reminded himself this wouldn’t be the first time visitors had stumbled upon his cabin. He would do as always, introducing Dani as his son. Most people went out of their way to avoid the foreboding youth who could neither hear nor see. He turned slowly—
And knew he had trouble.
Eight soldiers were leading their horses across the clearing. The quality of their mounts and gear would have warned him this was a royal party even if they hadn’t been wearing the king’s colors, indigo, gold, and white. Their tunics and leggings, their chain mail and heavy boots, the insignia on their shields—it marked them as officers, seven hepta-lieutenants and a circle-captain. Three others came with them: a tall man with gray hair swept up from his forehead, surely a lord of importance; an older woman with a no-nonsense aura of authority; and a lovely young woman whose golden-brown curls framed her face and fell down her back.
Unbent stood in the doorway, his hands braced against the door frame. Icy wind blew his hair back from his face.
Within moments, people and horses were swirling before his cottage. The circle-captain came to him. “Good morn.”
“My greetings.” Unbent swallowed. “What brings the king’s men here?”
The gray-haired lord walked forward with the older woman. The man stood taller than Unbent, indeed taller than anyone else there. He spoke with an aura of authority. “We come in friendship, Goodman—” He let the title hang like a question.
“Unbent.” He could barely say his name.
The man nodded to him. “My greetings, Goodman Unbent. I am Brant Firestoke.” Although he gave no title, Unbent could hear the “Lord” that should precede the name.
Firestoke indicated the woman with him. “Della No-Cozen, Shape-Mage Mistress of Suncroft.”
Dizziness swept over Unbent. The mage mistress at the castle stood extraordinarily close to the king. And now that he thought about it, Firestoke sounded like the name of the king’s highest advisor. Somehow he made his voice work. “King Daron honors me to send such notables to my home.” He felt panicked rather than honored.
His guests regarded him oddly. Firestoke said, “King Daron passed away over three months ago.”
Ai! Unbent thought he should quit now and curl up on the floor. “My—my apologies. I meant no offense.”
“None given,” the mage mistress said briskly. “We come to see your companion.”
His companion? Dani, perhaps, though he didn’t see how they could know he had a foster son. Perhaps they were guessing, trying to discover information. He spoke carefully. “I am pleased to help King—” He hesitated, unsure who to name. “King Muller. But I don’t know who you mean by my companion. I have no wife.”
Firestoke’s voice crackled like parchment. “Prince Muller has not yet had his coronation.”
Saints above. Unbent hadn’t believed a person could blunder so often in so short a time. “I am sorry. Terribly sorry.”
The young woman came over and inclined her head with respect, which flustered him even more. No one nodded that way to him. She dressed as a noble woman, in a fine velvety tunic and sky-blue leggings, with a gray riding cape and a billowy hood that covered about half her hair. But she spoke with the cadences of the Tallwalks, a mountainous region here in western Aronsdale.
“My name is Iris,” she said. “May we see your ward?”
Unbent felt as if he were withering inside. How could they know about Dani? They couldn’t take his son. It would kill him. “I’m sorry.” His voice shook. “I don’t know who you mean.”
Firestoke glanced at the captain. The officer nodded in response and then approached Unbent. “We regret intruding on your privacy. However, we must see the youth who lives here.”
Unbent wanted to refuse. “I have no—”
“Good
man Unbent.” The captain spoke firmly. “We must see him.”
Unbent knew then that if he denied them entrance, they would come inside anyway. With courtesy, perhaps, but without hesitation. Feeling bowed under a great weight, he walked into his house. Boots and mail clanked as they followed. He stopped at Dani’s room, but he couldn’t go inside. He couldn’t do it.
A hepta-lieutenant stepped past him and pushed open the door, which had no knob. It swung inward, creaking on rusted hinges. Dani was sitting on the floor across the room, his back to the wall, his head lifted, his unfocused gaze turned in their direction.
“I’m sorry,” Unbent whispered to him. Unfamiliar smells filled the cabin: dust and mud, wet wool, leather. Dani would know people had arrived.
The youth lurched to his feet, his fists clenched in front of him, alarm on his chiseled face. Unbent tried to go to him, but two lieutenants grasped his arms, one on each side, firmly holding him back.
Unbent strained in their grip. “Don’t hurt him!”
Another lieutenant stepped into Dani’s room, but then Iris spoke. “No. Let me go.”
The officer glanced at Firestoke. When the lord nodded, the officer stepped back, letting Iris move by him. She walked toward Dani, slowly, her tread muted on the rough planked floor. The soldiers tensed, their hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords. Attuned to mages after so many years with Dani, Unbent felt Mistress No-Cozen’s spells swirl in the room. Soothing spells. For his son.
Dani stretched out his arms, his palms outward as if to push back the invaders. Iris stopped a few paces away. She took an audible breath and then continued on, right up to him. The officers followed, ready to protect her.