His intensity unsettled her. “You think Wareman spied for Varqelle?”
“I’m certain of it.” He stood and walked to the window. Bathed in moonlight, he seemed more spirit than human. “But why attack Chime?”
“She is a powerful mage. Or she will be, someday.”
“So are you, more so. And you are queen.”
Iris went to him. “Chime is more vulnerable.”
“Yes. But it is more than that. He needs her.”
“Why?”
“I wish I knew. Somehow she is the key.” His pain sparked, magnified by the patterns on the frame of the window. “We are so vulnerable—you, me, Chime, Muller. Varqelle seeks to demoralize us. To wear us down.”
“Ask Brant and Fieldson for help.” Iris wanted to reach out to him, but she held back, knowing he couldn’t handle so much human interaction this soon, after so many years of isolation. “They have experience. Wisdom.”
Jarid rested his forearm on the wall by the window and gazed at the starlit countryside. “That night, after our coronation, you helped me to unlock my prison. But I remain lost. I have sight now, but I cannot see what to do. I listen, but I do not understand what I hear.”
“Let your advisors interpret for you.”
“I have no trust in them.” He glanced at her. “Muller is my cousin. I loved him when I was a small boy. I trust him now, even if he has no trust in himself.”
She spoke softly. “And me?”
His voice roughened. “You terrify me.” Taking her into his arms, he laid his head against hers. “You make me confront my nightmares. If you were to desert me, I would wither.”
Her voice caught. “I won’t desert you.”
“I cannot see my path.” He held her close. “But again and again, my spells turn me toward Harsdown.”
“Hai, Jarid.” Iris had no answers, for she feared he was right.
Harsdown waited, dark beyond the mountains.
23
The Golden Halo
Anvil the Forged walked with Varqelle along the top of a fortified wall that wound through the cliffs above Castle Escar. The air was noticeably thinner up here and the sky a dark blue. Cold seared his lungs, exhilarating in a way he never experienced in the humid, overly fertile lands of Aronsdale.
Varqelle, however, looked less than pleased. “I fail to see how that slip of a girl escaped my agent. She has no use to me as a hostage if she runs away so easily.”
“Chime Headwind is a mage,” Anvil said. “She used a spell against him.” It annoyed Anvil. Varqelle had sent one of his best men to catch the girl, a soldier with expertise in infiltrating even the most fortified refuges.
Varqelle tapped his long fingers on the hilt of the sword at his hip. “You assured me those incompetent children can create no worthwhile spells.”
Anvil shrugged. “She instinctively defended herself. That is different from using her abilities in a military capacity. However, her spell was apparently rather crude. She was lucky. This time.” Varqelle’s man continued to hide in the countryside around Suncroft.
The king stopped at a crenellation in the wall. “They bedevil me, these people of Aronsdale.” He motioned toward the distant countryside of Harsdown, far below the mountains, spread out like a game board, brown on brown. “My people starve. Aronsdale has more than we do. It troubles me, troubles me greatly.”
It troubled Anvil, too, though for different reasons. He had wearied of his travels. At thirty-one, he was no longer a boy hungry for adventure. He desired a permanent home. Riches. Servants. A woman. It didn’t decrease his need to strike at Aronsdale, but it changed the slant of his intentions. Aronsdale had robbed him of his home and family; it would give back to him now, make him rich.
He jerked his chin at the mountains in the opposite direction, toward Aronsdale. “The people beyond those peaks live in wealth while your people starve.”
Varqelle snorted. “They may have more than we do, but I would hardly call it wealth.”
“They are a boil on the face of the earth,” Anvil growled.
Varqelle’s laugh put an uncharacteristic smile on his face. “A colorful but perhaps apt description.”
Anvil decided to probe for information. “I can see why you have such a history of problems with their kings.”
“What history?” Varqelle asked curiously.
Anvil took a guess. “King Daron wronged you.”
“Did he now?” Varqelle tilted his head. “How?”
Anvil could see this wouldn’t work. Varqelle was too savvy to reveal anything unless he wanted it known. So he switched to a straightforward approach. “Isn’t that why you have such difficult relations with Aronsdale?”
“Actually, Daron tried to improve them.” Varqelle waved his hand. “He thought I would let his trade caravans go through Harsdown.”
“It could be lucrative,” Anvil admitted.
“I have no interest in enlarging Dawnfield coffers.”
“Even if it enlarges yours?”
“Taking Aronsdale would enlarge them more.” Varqelle scrutinized him as a strategist might study a map. “You are looking for a great passion in my wish to conquer them. A drive for vengeance or a burning hatred. What you seek isn’t there. Aronsdale is a fertile land, one that would enhance my realms. If they gain strength through trade agreements, it makes it that much harder to overcome them.”
“So power drives you.”
“It has much to speak for it.” Varqelle raised his chin. “I would see myself as king over more than Harsdown and Aronsdale.”
That fit more with what Anvil had expected to hear. He intended to make himself so necessary to Varqelle, the king would believe his plans of conquest could never succeed without his mage. Anvil would rise among the elite of Harsdown until he was a power within his own right.
“They call you Varqelle the Cowled now,” he said. “Someday it will be Emperor Varqelle.”
Varqelle waved his hand. “To rule an empire is neither simple nor easily realized.” His voice quieted. “Sometimes the way seems clear. Take Aronsdale and move on from there. Other times I have questioned the wisdom of this course. Profit exists in trade with Aronsdale. It is far less than I would gain by conquest, but it would be immediate.” He drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “Aronsdale has an army of a thousand men. I have more, but not much. I don’t think I can overcome theirs unless I tax my people enough to hire mercenaries from the outlands. But these soldiers for hire are misfits, unreliable, criminals. And my people would suffer if I require more from them. They survive the taxes now, but they can little afford more.”
Anvil tensed. He had no wish for peaceful resolution. Aronsdale was too full of mage power, too fecund. He felt ill there. He could never forget how his family had died, murdered by the people of Stonce, the hamlet where he had grown up. He wanted them to pay, all of them, every bigot and hate-filled native of that country. He had no doubt they loathed mages, despite the supposed respect accorded them by the royal court. If Varqelle sought peace, Anvil would lose his vengeance.
Varqelle fooled himself, though, if he didn’t think his people already suffered under the current taxes. Anvil had seen it during his travels. He had thought to speak to the king on the subject, if an appropriate opening came up, but now he changed his mind. He had no wish for Varqelle to reconsider his plans to move against Aronsdale.
Besides, peace could never work. Jarid Dawnfield couldn’t even make decisions for himself, let alone his country. “It might not take as much as you think to overcome Aronsdale,” Anvil said. “This long-lost grandson who wears the crown isn’t even sane.”
Amusement flickered in Varqelle’s eyes. “Perhaps he will simply give away his country, eh?”
“One can never tell.” Anvil paused. “Sire, your people need more than any trade agreement can give.”
Varqelle rubbed his chin. “It is a pretty country, Aronsdale.”
“It should be yours. Without conditions.??
?
“Yes, well, it isn’t.” The king leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “How does your magecraft compare to that of this plethora of mages they have spawned out there at Suncroft? Four of them, isn’t it?”
“Yes, four.” That hardly constituted a plethora, but Anvil didn’t contradict the king. Other mages might exist in Aronsdale, minor ones, perhaps able to draw on low-level shapes in two dimensions and warm colors, red, orange, more rarely yellow. But mages of real strength were rare. The elderly castle healer at Suncroft and the wife of late King Daron were the only full ones known in their generation; Della No-Cozen and Jarid’s mother were the only ones in the following generation; and Della had found only two in the current generation, despite scouring the country and chasing every rumor she heard.
Had she followed rumors of him?
Anvil shuddered and pushed away the thought. “The Suncroft mages are nothing. The girl Chime is a delectable piece, but she has no brain. The healer is elderly and weak, and the mage mistress is a harridan. The queen is intelligent but untutored.” Iris Larkspur had a figure too full for his tastes, but he had seen the voluptuous concubines Varqelle preferred. “She is well made, though. You might enjoy her for yourself.”
Although the king smiled, his expression had nothing of pleasure in it. “I have a wife. I sent her away.”
Anvil had heard the rumors of Varqelle’s bride. He married a princess from the Misted Peaks, one of the western provinces, to strengthen ties between their realms—and she had fled back home less than a year later, taking his infant heir with her.
Tales abounded as to why the queen of Harsdown left her husband, most rife with rumors of Varqelle’s brutal appetites, but one thing was clear: to bring her back, he would have to fight the Misted Peaks, a more powerful realm than Harsdown. Although Anvil believed in taking a firm hand with a woman, he couldn’t countenance brutality. However, Varqelle’s predilections were the king’s business, not his. If Varqelle knew a prize awaited him at Suncroft, it might add an extra enticement to invade.
“You wouldn’t marry Iris Larkspur,” Anvil said. “Just enjoy her.”
“Perhaps.” Varqelle sounded bored, but Anvil knew him well enough to realize he was intrigued.
“As for the Suncroft mages,” Anvil continued, “You have nothing to fear in terms of their ability to plan or defend against your forces.”
“What about the king? I have heard he is a mage.”
Irritation surged in Anvil. “The Dawnfields have long claimed male mages in their line. It is a legend, no more.”
“You claim such power.”
“I am unique.”
“Perhaps not.”
Anvil loathed acknowledging the possibility, but he couldn’t deny it, not as long as other mages lived. “Very well. Let us assume this king is a mage. Unless he is stronger than myself, he couldn’t hide his power from me. And I felt nothing significant from him.”
“Perhaps he is stronger than you.”
“Even if true, the point is moot. The fellow is mad. He can’t rule.” Anvil had no intention of allowing another mage to have superiority over him. The day Harsdown subjugated Aronsdale, Jarid Dawnfield would die.
Varqelle seemed unimpressed. “Right now the power in Aronsdale doesn’t reside with the House of Dawnfield. They aren’t the ones we need worry about.”
Anvil knew he meant the King’s Advisors. “His mentors may have wisdom, but it will do no good if the king ignores them.” He laughed harshly. “Saints, Your Majesty, the idiot put Muller Dawnfield in charge of his army. I can’t imagine what the prince will do. Dress the men in pretty clothes, perhaps.”
Varqelle’s gaze glinted. “Perhaps he could lead the knitting circle.”
Anvil smiled. But then he said, “Muller Dawnfield does have skill with a sword.”
“My concern is the Cube-General. If Prince Muller has sense, he will listen to Fieldson.” Varqelle studied him closely. “You say your power can help bring me Aronsdale. Yet I have doubts about what you can do.”
Anvil held back his anger. Varqelle didn’t threaten or belittle him, which Anvil loathed. Instead the king questioned the extent of his ability. Anvil would have done the same in his position. It didn’t offend him—much.
He placed his hand over a circular depression in the stone wall. Half closing his eyes, he focused, letting his power cycle through the colors, a trick he had learned over the years: red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo.
As Anvil’s spell built, he sighted on the spire atop a jagged tower of Castle Escar to their west. Heat surged through him and he swayed.
Lightning cracked across the clear sky and hit the tower with an explosion of indigo light, shattering the spire. Debris rained over the castle and down the cliffs, echoes of its passage vibrating in the chill air.
Anvil raised an eyebrow at Varqelle.
“An impressive display.” The king’s voice hardened. “Do not damage my holdings again.”
Then never question me again, Anvil thought. He had paid a high price for his gifts; he intended now to reap their benefits. “Think of it as a promise. I could reduce Suncroft to rubble if you so desire.”
Varqelle surveyed the ruined tower. “It must take a great deal out of you to use such power.”
It exhausted Anvil more than he would admit. A tower, a house, an outcropping; he could destroy such as those, but anything more taxed his limits. In his childhood, he had usually fallen asleep after such exertion. Even now, he couldn’t sustain that level of power for more than a few seconds. He had no intention of telling Varqelle, however.
He said only, “I have plenty to spare.”
“So you claim.” The king nodded to him. “Help me gain Aronsdale and you will become its lord.”
“A fitting bargain.” It was no more than Anvil had expected, given their previous discussions. “However, I have one other condition.”
Varqelle frowned. “You have too many conditions.”
“But I have much excess energy.”
The king waved his hand. “Go practice swordplay.”
“This is a different sort of energy.”
“And what might that be?”
“When we take Aronsdale, I want the woman Chime.”
Varqelle gave a hearty laugh. “Ah. That energy.” He clapped Anvil’s shoulder. “Take her as you please.”
He ran from the highwaymen, gasping, pain knifing his side. Someone screamed, his mother, his father…
Muller bolted upright, the velvet bed covers flying. His heart beat too fast and sweat plastered his hair to his head. Saints almighty, that nightmare had felt so real.
After a while his pulse slowed. He slid out of bed and grabbed the robe he had thrown over a chair, pulling it on over his sleep trousers and bare chest, belting it around the waist. He could barely see in the moonlight coming in a tall window. Restless and agitated, he padded out of his suite in bare feet.
With no interior windows in his suite, Muller could see nothing. Was this how Jarid had lived, in blackness? It disturbed Muller. Chime had used her gifts against her would-be kidnapper last night. As an emerald mage, she couldn’t heal, which meant she couldn’t injure, either, but she could make heat, and heat burned.
In the entrance foyer of his suite, faint light made the stained glass windows glow. Muller crept past a square-butler who had fallen asleep in a chair. He inched open one of the double doors—and made an unwelcome discovery. Two guards stood outside in the light of a torch on the wall, hepta-lieutenants it looked like.
Annoyed, he closed the door, quietly, so he wouldn’t alert his dozing butler. After what had happened to Chime last night, it didn’t surprise Muller that Brant assigned him bodyguards, too. Brant had probably ordered others to guard Iris and Jarid in the Royal Suite, too. Muller had sent guards to Chime’s suite himself. But he loathed losing yet more of his privacy. It all weighed on him: his worry for Chime, his loneliness, the demands of his duties.
He shoul
d go back to bed, to rest for the morning when he would resume life, preparing to command the army. But when he thought of going on as usual, something inside of him snapped. Instead of returning to bed, he prowled through his suite, restless, until he reached the quarters for his servants. The rooms were freshly painted and spacious, with quality furnishings. He hadn’t consciously planned to come here, but now that he had arrived, he knew what he wanted.
Loud snores came from Sam’s bedroom. Sam had always claimed he slept silently, but his magnificent rumbles were vibrating throughout the hall. Muller snuck into a parlor outside Sam’s bedroom, his footsteps drowned out by the noise. Floor-to-ceiling panels decorated the room, each about five hand-spans wide and framed by scalloped moldings. On one, he nudged aside a painting of a cottage surrounded by trees with red, gold, and yellow leaves. The picture hid a cluster of nail holes. Moving stealthily, Muller pressed the holes in a pattern his uncle had taught him twenty years ago, just as Daron’s father had taught Daron.
The panel swung inward.
Hah! Muller grinned. It had been so long since he played in these tunnels, he hadn’t been certain he would remember how to reach them. He readjusted the painting, then slipped out and closed the secret door behind him.
Chime opened her eyes into darkness. She wasn’t sure what had awoken her, but she had a strange sense, as if the night had taken on a personality. Her songbird trilled, then fell silent in its gold cage, which hung from a hook on the wall by her wardrobe.
Her fear sparked. She wasn’t alone. Someone was in her room. She tensed to strike out, but she made no sound, lest she alert the intruder. If she had to fight, she wanted the advantage of surprise. Reaching silently to the nightstand, she closed her hand around a glass vase. It would break well against a person’s head.
“Chime?” a man whispered. “Are you awake?”
Saints almighty. A tickling sensation in her throat replaced her fear. “Muller?” She set down the vase and sat up, peering into the dark. A dark silhouette, tall and lithe, stood by her bed. “What are you doing here?”