Breezes cooled his face, a welcome change after his imprisonment in the castle. He would have sung his joy at such freedom, had he owned a voice. The woman had brought him here. Now she guided him through heavy foliage, though to where he had no idea.
His wife. These madmen had crowned him. And given him a queen. He had known the moment his grandfather died, three months ago, but he had never expected anyone to search for him. He felt surrounded now, caught, trapped. Suffocated.
Branches snagged his clothes and he stumbled. He was about to balk when the woman pulled him free of the foliage, into an open place.
Jarid froze.
Spheres jumped in his mind, spinning, spinning, spinning, throwing off sparks of light. He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples, dizzy with the beauty. He recognized this place; the woman had been here when she had reached across Aronsdale to find him.
Mist sprayed his face, hinting of a waterfall. The fresh scent of water and the fragrance of shape-vines tickled his nose. He drew pure air into his lungs.
His wife took his hands. He longed to know her, all of her, but he was lost in his darkness and silence and couldn’t find his way. She put his fingers against her mouth, those lips he wanted to kiss until she moaned, though he would never hear her pleasure.
She spoke against his fingers. Jarid. Husband. Her full lips tantalized. The scent of soap and flowers hung about her like perfume.
He mouthed two words. Your name? When puzzlement came from her mind, he tried again. Name?
Iris.
Iris. It made her more real, a woman of colors he felt rather than saw: the ruddy flame of her touch; the gold of her emotions; the sunlight of her intellect; her serenity, like velvety leaves in spring; the open spaces she gave him tonight, as blue as the sky he never saw; and her indigo moods, her sadness when she came to him.
Unable to speak, frustrated in his attempts to fathom the disruptions in his life, he pulled her close, harder than he should, speaking with his body, his confusion mixed with desire until he couldn’t separate the two. Anger and love, tenderness and rough edges: they jumbled within him. Alarm sparked in Iris, but he didn’t want to stop. Not now. He needed her. He needed. He didn’t know what to do with that need, how to satisfy it without hurting her, how to make her want him.
Then her hands moved, stroking his arms. Her spells flowed over him, calming, and he took an uneven breath, struggling for control. It bewildered him that she offered this trust, for he had known her so little these past days, only as an enigma he could neither see nor hear, only feel when she touched him.
Moving stiffly, he knelt on the ground, drawing her with him. The grass felt cool and prickly under them, its smell itching his nose. He had been a child when he lost contact with the world; he had no idea now what to do with a woman. He knew only that he wanted to clench her, press against her, fill her until he sated his driving hunger. He reached out and pulled her to his body, squeezing her in his arms, his muscles straining.
Iris stiffened and pushed against his shoulders. He was frightening her. But it was so hard to let go. He forced himself to ease his grip enough so she could jump to her feet and escape. To his unmitigated surprise, she stayed put. Instead she relaxed her hands on his shoulders and took a deep breath.
Let me, he thought to her. Even if he could have spoken, he knew none of the sweet whispers a woman would wish to hear. They were strangers; this fragile bond they were forging could fall apart if he let his true nature show. He was no king, no one to claim this woman. His guilt went too deep.
Iris moved her hands on his face and chest. He would have groaned if he could have; instead, he grabbed her wrists, his restraint crumbling. Pushing her backward, he unbalanced them both so she tumbled onto her back in the grass. Before she had time to react, he stretched out on top of her, grasping her small waist, the silk and brocade of her dress flimsy under his hands.
When she stiffened, Jarid knew he had pushed too hard, too fast. But no—she was caressing him, sweetly unskilled but with urgency. She wanted him. Him. He would have known if she acquiesced only because she was his wife; just as he felt the moods of others, so now he felt her excitement, her desire all the more arousing because he excited her. Him. No one else.
Jarid kissed her neck as he remembered seeing his father once do with his mother. No doubt he was too rough; surely a man came to his wife more gently. But he had no experience and so few memories. It astonished him that she accepted him despite everything. It made no difference that his world was dark; he saw her with his hands and felt her light-drenched moods. It mattered not that he lived in silence; he spoke with his touch, a language older than any verbal tongue, his callused hands scraping on her soft skin.
Her spell curled around him, released by the power in this place. Earlier tonight, in the castle, she had tried to reach him with a healing spell, but he had been stone. Her spell had skittered off the armored surface of his heart. Here in the forest, in this charmed sphere, he could be more open. After so many long years, he could let go. Her gift poured through him, into him, with tenderness.
Jarid stroked her and she responded with sweet passion. They explored each other, tentative at first, then with more urgency. So they joined together, protected within a sphere of life, misted with water. Her pleasure answered his, and their moods blended as they made love.
Some time later, he lifted his head. He was lying on his side, tangled in Iris’s arms, flush with the afterglow of their joining. She slept beside him, her mind tranquil. He should have been content—
But he was breaking inside, the way ice on a creek in the high forest cracked after a long winter. His passion had flared like a catharsis, a great release of emotional energy he couldn’t control. He didn’t understand what was happening; he knew only that he was shattering. He thought of Iris and the pain grew worse. This pleasure came at too great a price; she weakened his defenses and left him vulnerable. He would have cried out, but he had no words.
Jarid lurched to his feet, pulling on his clothes. The strange forest sphere vibrated with energy, focusing his mind until he thought he would explode with the power coursing through him. A memory came from long ago, from the night his mother had woven her final spell to protect him: the power of a life.
No! He walked off, not even trying to lace his shirt. Dimly, he was aware of Iris coming awake, of confusion replacing her contentment. He stumbled into the pool and slipped, falling to his knees. Angered by his inability to see, he scrambled to his feet, splashing water. Then he strode away, swinging his hands in front of him as if he were fighting the air.
A branch jabbed his palm. Ripping the foliage out of his path, Jarid plunged forward, into the bushes that surrounded this place. He thrashed through the barrier, unheeding that it tore his clothes and gashed his skin.
Then he was free and running through the woods, his outstretched hands scraping trees as he escaped the unbearable radiance of Iris’s mind.
Iris sank down on a boulder by a stream. Jarid wasn’t anywhere. She had searched for hours. The tears that had streaked her face were dry now, nothing could ease her heart. She had thought she reached him, but she had failed. Now he was gone, without food or warm clothes, unable even to ask for assistance. She had no choice but to return to Suncroft and request help in finding him. She doubted Jarid would forgive that betrayal of his trust.
Last night she and Jarid had found a haven together. Despite her many lacks, he had reached out to her in his own way. She had been foolish enough to believe she might help him recover from the nightmares that haunted his life. She had even dared to hope their differences wouldn’t matter, that he wouldn’t care if she came from a poverty-stricken hamlet of the Tallwalk Mountains, fostered by a family that didn’t want her, that she had been born the illegitimate daughter to a mother who deserted her at birth. She and Jarid each lived in their own solitude, yet recognizing the loneliness of the other. Together they might begin to heal.
But sh
e had to face the truth. He was a king. No matter that he had spent most of his life in an existence even harsher than hers. No matter that she had given him a few moments of pleasure in the woods. He had been born to his title. He knew she had nothing permanent to offer him.
The sky was lightening; soon dawn would come. Weary, she rose to her feet and trudged toward the castle.
Jarid thought he had slept for several hours. In his perpetual darkness, it could be hard to tell if he nodded off or slept soundly, but he felt a difference in the air from when he had collapsed on the mossy ground. The scent of night-blooming flowers had faded. From force of habit, he opened his useless eyes.
Green.
For a long time he lay, absorbing it. His darkness had turned green. For years he had seen colors only in his mind, and over time those had faded. Yet now, everywhere, he saw green.
Green.
He became aware of details in that living tapestry: a twig, gnarled and brown, poking through the moss; dark soil, rich enough to buy a kingdom, under the ragged carpet of leaves; a red pyramid-blossom opening in the pearly light that heralded the dawn; iridescent dew clinging to leaves.
Jarid slowly rose to his feet. A pressure built in his chest until he thought he would burst. He turned in a circle, unable to believe. If he could have made a sound, any sound, a sob would have caught in his throat. His world remained silent, but he could see it.
He could see.
Forest surrounded him, trees draped in moss, with more shades of green, gray, and brown than he could count. Shape-blossoms added yellow here, violet there, a splash of orange. Tilting back his head, he saw slivers of gray sky between the overhang of high branches. He went to a tree and pressed his palms against its bumpy trunk. Insects scuttled away, a miraculous line of ants that wound along the bark.
Jarid didn’t realize he was crying until a drop fell onto his arm. Pushing away from the tree, he wiped his face with the ripped sleeve of his brocaded shirt. He wanted to laugh, cry, shout his astonishment. Emotions welled within him and spilled down his cheeks as tears.
Walking through the woods was a miracle. Magic touched every sight, every leaf, bird, and twig. He had a hard time taking it all in, interpreting it all. He climbed a knoll, making his way through trees until he came out onto an open slope. At the top of the hill, he looked over the countryside. Woods and meadows rolled away everywhere, and in the north the castle stood on a higher peak, draped in shadows, waiting for the rising sun to turn it gold. Memories welled within him; he had often stood here as a child, cherishing this view.
Then he spotted a figure down in a meadow, a woman in a yellow gown hiking toward the castle.
Iris. His wife.
Apprehension and anticipation leapt within him. It had to be her. Iris had long, full hair and so did the woman below, her mane gloriously unbound. He remembered from his childhood that women at balls wore their hair swept up on their heads, but last night Iris had let her curls hang free down her back.
And last night he had run from her, afraid she would melt the ice around his heart. He had no defenses against her. He knew she could hurt him, but now he could think only of seeing her face. This morning, in the pure light of dawn, he fought his fear. He wanted to live again, not just exist.
Jarid started down the hill, tripping on rocks because he had so little experience taking himself anywhere.
Birds chirped, calling the onset of morning.
Grass crackled beneath his feet.
As he gained confidence, he increased his stride, until he was running down the hill.
Wind rustled the long grasses around Iris, enough so that she didn’t know anyone had approached until a hand touched her shoulder. With a cry, she spun around.
“Jarid!” Before her fear of rejection could stop her, she threw her arms around him, so relieved to see him safe that she forgot everything else. He enfolded her in his arms and they held each other close. This wasn’t like last night, when he had clenched her in desperation; now his mood seemed full of joy.
It wasn’t until the light of dawn warmed Iris’s arms through her torn sleeves that she came to herself. Pulling back, she looked up at her husband. He stared down at her, his gaze caressing her face.
His gaze.
Iris’s breath caught. He was looking at her.
His lips curved upward. Then he mouthed: You are beautiful, wife.
18
The Power of a Life
No one saw Muller.
A great staircase swept down from the upper levels of the castle into the entrance foyer where servants milled around Iris and Jarid. The foyer had the shape of an imperfect hexagon, the wall with the doors to the outside longer than the other five. The curve of the stairs shadowed an interior door, another imperfect hexagon, its shape obvious but elongated. As Muller pushed open that door, his power surged. Desperate for control, he clamped it down.
Muller stopped when he saw the queen and king. Grass stained their fine wedding clothes, which had become ripped and tattered. Iris had a leaf in her hair. But despite it all, the newlyweds glowed. They stood in the dawn’s light slanting through the open doors, staring at each other while servants bustled about them, clucking at their disheveled state.
Staring at each other.
Muller felt as if he were drowning. No man could look at a woman that way unless he was really seeing her. None of the servants seemed fazed by their king’s newfound sight, but then, none had known he was blind.
In another time and place, Muller would have rejoiced for his cousin. But all he could think now was that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake, one that would end with the fall of Aronsdale.
Jarid looked like a wild animal, his clothes wrinkled and torn, his hair disarrayed. What royal couple spent their wedding night in the woods? Muller stepped out of the shadows. “Jarid, what is this?”
The king turned with a start.
He could hear.
Muller struggled to breathe, to overcome his growing dismay. He walked forward and Jarid watched, his violet-eyed gaze never wavering. The servants melted away, taking their cue from the tension.
“It can’t be,” Muller said. “You can’t see.”
Iris answered with a smile, tears on her face. “It is a miracle.”
Muller swung around to her. “How could this happen?”
Her smile dimmed. “What do you mean?”
“As long as he couldn’t lead Aronsdale, it would have been all right. But this.” Muller wrestled with his fear. “Now he can rule, but imperfectly.” As if to mock him, his own power sparked, erratic and flawed, stoked by the imperfect foyer, making his anger hurt, adding unwanted vehemence to his voice. “It is wrong. Wrong! It will destroy Aronsdale.”
Iris stared at him. “How can you say such a thing?”
Grief spread through Muller. In abdicating, he had made yet another flawed choice, this one possibly fatal for his people. “Fate must be laughing at us,” he said bitterly. “No matter what decisions we make, no matter how lofty our intentions, we pay cruelly in the end.”
“I donna understand—” Iris broke off when Jarid left her side and strode toward the staircase. He stared at Muller as he came forward, his gaze haunted, his joy gone. Then he started up the wide steps.
Iris caught up with Jarid midway up the stairs. She grasped his arm, pulling him to a halt—and in that heart-stopping instant, he spun around and raised his fist above her. Muller ran to the stairs, intending to sprint after them, but he stopped when he realized Jarid wasn’t threatening her. Instead the king stretched out his arm, pointing at Muller.
“My cousin is right.” His deep voice rasped with disuse. “Ask Stone.”
They descended into the underground levels of the castle, their tread muted on pitted stone steps. Muller’s thoughts whirled. Ask Stone. Why would those be Jarid’s first words? Now the king refused to acknowledge anyone. He could hear and see, incredibly, but he had withdrawn into himself and spoken no more.
Jarid went first on the stairs with two guards, followed by Iris and Brant, then Muller and more guards. Muller needed no spells to know Iris was furious. Brant had let them believe Jarid’s foster father had stayed in the mountains, in custody. Brant had lied. Muller knew he shouldn’t be surprised they dealt with Unbent in secret. But Muller was the king’s cousin, still heir to the crown. Brant should have told him.
Iris spoke to the lord in a low voice only he should have been able to hear. But the imperfect stairs magnified Muller’s power, giving him bits and pieces of a discussion he had no wish to overhear.
“You had no right,” Iris told Brant.
“I had every right.” His voice was barely audible. “That man kidnapped the Dawnfield heir.”
“He took care of Jarid like a son.”
“He murdered Jarid’s parents.”
Iris jerked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I thought highwaymen attacked the orb-carriage.”
“That’s right.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “Including Stone?”
“Yes.” Brant motioned toward the officers with Jarid. “Stone matches their description. They were the two guards knocked out during the attack on the carriage.”
“You canna be sure Stone is the same man.”
“He admitted it when my men questioned him.”
“Why didna you tell me he was a prisoner here?” Iris folded her arms and rubbed her palms on them. “You let us believe he intended to follow us to Suncroft.”
“I didn’t want to upset the king.” Brant exhaled. “You’ve had an empathic link with Jarid from the start. I couldn’t risk your knowing, Iris. I’m sorry.”
It tore at Muller that Jarid had thought of his foster father as “Stone.” To a six-year-old boy who had lost his parents, their killers must truly have seemed like stone. That Unbent had cared for Jarid during the next fourteen years didn’t change the immensity of his crime. Muller recalled Jarid as a small boy, laughing as he ran across the meadows outside Suncroft, his hands held out to his cousin. It was hard to reconcile that joyous child with this injured man. Jarid’s face was set with lines of pain he should never have had at his young age.