“Yes.” Anvil made a conscious effort to stop gritting his teeth. “We are supposedly revered, but the truth comes out in wilder reaches of the country. We terrify people.” He grimaced, his face flushed. “I lived that terror.”
“But you survived.”
His voice hardened. “They used my sister. When she died, it was my turn. But one of them had brought a sphere he looted from my parents’ room. I focused through it.” Anvil didn’t flinch as he spoke. “And I killed them.”
Stonehammer continued to watch him intently. “I have heard a mage cannot do such deeds.”
Anvil wondered if he could ever explain the horror of that day. “I wanted to live.”
“And to avenge your family.”
“Yes.”
The general stretched his arms, cracking the joints. “I regret, Anvil the Forged, that your life has given you such pain.” He lowered his arms. “But if the misdeeds of your people have sent you to us, it is to our benefit and their downfall.”
“A price must be paid.”
“You demand a high one.” The general jerked his chin in the direction of Aronsdale. “It is a small country, but a fine one. Govern it well for King Varqelle.”
Anvil inclined his head. He doubted Stonehammer trusted him any more than before, but the general hadn’t reached his high position by misjudging situations. Whatever he thought of Anvil personally, he would recognize his motivations. The language of vengeance crossed all borders, universal in its reach.
“This woman you want, though.” Stonehammer shook his head. “Why is she worth so much trouble?”
“She is a valuable hostage.”
“Not as much as the royal family.”
Anvil smiled slightly, thinking of hair as yellow as corn and skybell eyes. “You have not seen her.”
“I have heard rumors of her beauty.” Stonehammer snorted. “Also of her stupidity.”
Anvil’s amusement flickered. “Her brain isn’t what interests me.”
“I hear she is a powerful mage.”
“Indeed. As will be our children.”
Stonehammer cocked his head. “I have been unable to place more agents in the castle. My last one left Croft’s Vale months ago. Security there has become too tight for him to stay in that region.”
“Then we will take her when we take Suncroft.” Anvil could wait for his bride. He didn’t like it, but he could be patient.
“Other hostages might be more valuable.”
“No!” Even the suggestion of his losing Chime made Anvil sweat. “It must be her.”
Stonehammer gave him an odd look. “Why?”
“It just must!”
“And if she has already wed this princeling of hers?”
Anvil had to make a conscious effort not to grit his teeth. “They will never waste her on Muller Dawnfield.”
“Then she will marry someone else.”
“And I will remove him.” Anvil became aware he was clenching his fist. He opened his hand.
“So many deaths.” Stonehammer wouldn’t relent. “Where do you stop?”
Anvil understood what the general sought to learn. “I have no desire to kill.” It wasn’t true, but Stonehammer would trust him even less if he realized Anvil had no remorse in taking lives. “But if my talents can help King Varqelle bring Aronsdale under his guidance, I am at his service.”
“Obsession has many forms. It can drive a man to great deeds. But it can also destroy him.”
Anvil felt as if the general had punched him in the stomach. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Perhaps.” Stonehammer’s eyes glinted. “In any case, the rewards in taking Aronsdale are great.”
“So they are,” Anvil said. “So they are.”
Muller circled Jarid in the Octagon Yard, his focus narrowed to his cousin. He lunged and Jarid evaded with unexpected skill. Then Jarid broke through his defenses and jabbed him in the side with his blunted sword.
“Hai!” Muller stumbled back, caught off guard by the parry from his usually less adept cousin.
Jarid looked undeniably pleased with himself. When they had begun working out, six months ago, Muller hadn’t needed to defend himself at all. Although Jarid had natural aptitude and excellent physical fitness, he had little experience with a sword. However, Muller was discovering the hard way how fast Jarid learned. The king worked with single-minded intensity, training many hours a day. He had already surpassed many of the pages and even a few youths close to his own age. Muller knew he needed to pay more attention; his overconfidence could have ended his life if they had been using real blades.
Jarid lowered his sword. “Shall we try hand to hand?”
That gave Muller pause. They had never trained together without weapons. It was a good idea, though. If the army went into combat, Jarid could benefit from experience with hand to hand techniques.
“Yes, let’s do.” Muller motioned to a triangle-page, a boy of eleven. The fellow ran over and took their practice swords. Then Muller fell into a fighting pose, his fists up as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He reminded himself to hold back so he didn’t injure his cousin.
Jarid lunged.
The moment they grappled, Muller knew he was in trouble. Someone had taught Jarid to fight—and taught him well. He had greater strength and reach than Muller, and far more skill, though Muller had worked out all his life as a boy on his father’s farm, a page here at Suncroft, and as a prince destined to be king.
Jarid evaded every move Muller tried, deflected his momentum, or otherwise stymied his efforts. He blocked Muller’s swings but landed most of his own. Had the king not held back, Muller knew he would be bruised and aching. Hell, he probably would be anyway. He was lucky Jarid hadn’t broken any of his bones.
Then Jarid caught him in a hold that left Muller bent over, staring at the ground. He caught Jarid around the waist, but he couldn’t exert enough force either to throw the king or break his hold. As Jarid drove him across the yard, pain lanced through his side where Jarid had struck him earlier. They staggered over a tiled circle, the royal seal, a silhouette of Suncroft against a yellow sun. The circle was imperfect, cut by the castle…
Like fire on oil, Muller’s power flared. A spell burst out from him, but instead of helping his own injury, it slammed Jarid.
“Hai!” Jarid stumbled back as Muller let go of him. The king clamped his hand over his side in exactly the same place on his body where Muller ached from the blow from Jarid’s sword.
“Saints, no!” Muller swore loudly. “Your Majesty, Jarid, I didn’t mean—”
His cousin held up his other hand, stopping the words. He heaved in breaths, rapidly at first and then more slowly. Finally he lowered his arm. “I’ve never felt a healing spell turned inside out before.”
Muller wished he could turn into a dust mote and blow away. Although Chime had told him Jarid knew about his warped powers, his cousin had never said anything. It had lulled Muller into believing his secret remained just that, a secret.
“You know about me,” Muller said.
“Almost since the day I came here.”
Muller had no idea what to say. He and Jarid regarded each other, the tiled circle with its imperfect sun between them.
“Do your spells often reverse that way?” Jarid sounded curious rather than critical. “You meant to heal yourself, yes? Instead you injured me.”
“I never meant to hurt you—”
Jarid waved of his hand. “I know.”
“My spells always go awry,” Muller said. “They never work right.” He was grateful he and Jarid had moved far enough away so the other men training in the yard couldn’t overhear.
“Do you make the spells on purpose?”
“Sometimes.”
“You should learn to do it properly.”
Muller would have laughed if this hadn’t all hurt so much. “If only it were that easy.”
“Have you tried?”
He spoke tiredly. “My
entire life.”
Sympathy showed on Jarid’s face, the last expression Muller had expected. “Several times, I felt you trying.”
Muller tensed. “You knew when I was making them?”
“I haven’t been sure before today. But yes.”
“You never spoke of it.”
Jarid exhaled. “Speaking…is hard.”
Muller wondered if it would ever come easily to his cousin. This was certainly one of their longest conversations. “Do you remember the time Unbent and I found you asleep in the woods?”
“Yes.”
“I tried a spell then.” He thought back to that day, six months ago. “It didn’t work at first, but then it snapped into focus. And it was right. No distortion.”
“Good.” Jarid didn’t seem to realize the full significance of Muller’s words.
“Never in my life have my spells worked.” Muller wondered if he could even explain that incredible moment. “But twice since you’ve come, you’ve straightened them.”
Jarid seemed bewildered. “I have?”
“That time, I think,” Muller said. “And earlier that day. You were in the Starlight Tower, watching us train. I had made a mood spell, but it didn’t work. But you—well, you touched it. Somehow. Then it worked.”
“I remember you and Arkandy practicing, but nothing else.” Jarid spoke awkwardly. “I felt overwhelmed then. I wanted to reach out to you, my cousin, but I didn’t know how. Perhaps it came through to you as help with a spell.”
Muller hadn’t realized Jarid had wanted to connect with him then. “I am glad you did.” It was an understatement, to be sure.
Jarid rubbed his side, a wry smile on his lips. “Would that today I could have made your healing spell work before it hit me.”
Muller winced. “Sorry.”
“Cousin.”
“Yes?”
“If your spells go awry during battle—” Jarid left the sentence unfinished.
Muller had dreaded this question. For all his doubts, it meant a great deal to him that Jarid had given him command of the King’s Army. He valued that show of confidence. He didn’t want to lose it now.
“I’ve learned to suppress the spells,” Muller said.
“You said you can’t control them.”
“Once they start. But I can usually hold them down if I’m prepared.”
“What do your men think about it?”
Muller stared at him. “I never tell them.”
“No one?”
“Saints no. Just Chime.”
Jarid scratched his chin. “Why?”
Why? It seemed obvious to Muller. “Would you speak of killing Murk?”
Jarid’s expression darkened. “No. But you have killed no one.”
He answered quietly. “Not yet.”
“Ah, Muller.” He spoke roughly. “You and I have much to face, eh?”
“Aye.” He smiled wanly. “Iris believes if we all work together, we can muddle our way through.”
Jarid grinned, a rare expression. It lit up his face, calling to mind the joyful boy Muller had known so long ago. “Iris has good sense.”
“She does indeed.”
“Come, my cousin.” Jarid indicated the castle. “Let us go back. Perhaps we can play a game of chess.”
Muller blinked, surprised. “I would like that.”
As they walked back, Muller thought of how close he and Jarid had been all those years ago. He would never forget the way six-year-old Jarid had looked up to him, seeing past his failings. Muller had mourned the loss of that kinship for many years.
Perhaps he and Jarid could find a way back to each other.
With a groan of relief, Chime lay down under the tree, glad to rest after hiking through the hills. She had spent the morning gathered herbs for Skylark, the castle healer. Aria and Reed had settled a few paces away and were chatting while they sorted the plants Chime had found into different baskets. It amazed Chime how little the staff at Suncroft knew about ordinary plants. She could find those herbs with her eyes closed, practically, but Aria and Reed had exclaimed with gusto over every one she pointed out. They seemed genuinely impressed.
They kept glancing at her now, concerned for some reason. When Chime waved her hand at them, they returned to their conversation, well aware she didn’t want anyone hovering over her.
Beyond the maids, one of Chime’s bodyguards paced under the widely spaced trees. Her other guard came into view, and the two octahedron-lieutenants nodded to each other, then parted again, continuing their patrol.
“Never alone,” Chime grumbled. Everywhere she went, maids and guards went, too. Maybe if she got them interested in each other, they would pay less attention to her. Brant would never let that happen, though; he had made it clear they must never leave her unattended.
As much as she chafed at having people about all the time, she appreciated their protection, for she dreaded even more the idea that whoever had come after her might try again. Even three months later, the death of her songbird left her chilled. Many people had been in her suite that night. Surely gas drifted from her bedroom into the parlor. That no one felt any effects suggested too little had gone into her bedroom to kill a person. It supported Muller’s belief that whoever had done it wanted her alive. They had probably escaped while the King’s Advisors were chastising her and Muller for their misbehavior.
Chime couldn’t fathom why someone wanted to take her. Jarid and Iris were worth more as hostages, both as royals and as mages. Skylark also wielded more mage power. Della had less power, but she had decades more experience, which made her more valuable than Chime. Nor did Chime have political power. Brant or Fieldson would be more useful to King Varqelle, if he was the one behind the kidnap attempts.
With a sigh, Chime closed her eyes, too sleepy to think. She lay under the rustling tree, warmed by the late summer sun, inhaling the perfume of the white star flowers scattered about. Grass prickled her skin through her yellow leggings and her silk tunic, poking through both the gold layer on top and the emerald layer underneath. It all reminded her of how she had loved to flop down on her back in the meadows of Jacob’s Vale. She missed her home so much. She wrote her family regularly, and they answered just as often, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to see them.
She thought often of the little things, the way her mother and father debated whether or not the Saint of Unfurled Leaves existed as a spirit that watched over orchards, as her father believed, or was a myth created long ago by monks who had drunk too much apple wine, as her mother claimed. She wanted to hear her brother, Hunter, singing as he filled buckets of water from the pump behind their house. He had such a beautiful voice. She longed to watch her youngest brother Drummer jumping down the stairs inside their house, seeing how many steps he could skip at once. She even missed the way Hunter and Drummer teased her.
As much as she longed to have her family here, though, she couldn’t ask them to move from Jacob’s Vale. The Headwind clan had tended those orchards for generations. Guilt tugged at Chime. Her parents needed help in the orchards. They had expected her to marry some strapping young fellow and bring him into the family. Probably she would have done exactly that if Della hadn’t shown up. Now here she was, pretending to be a noblewoman and missing them so much, her heart ached.
“Ma’am?”
Chime opened her eyes. Aria was kneeling next to her, her expression concerned.
“Yes?” Chime asked.
“How are you feeling?”
Chime wondered what she was about. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Aye, it is.” Aria hesitated. “Can we get you anything?”
“No, no. I’m fine. But thank you.”
Aria motioned toward Reed. “We’re here if you need us.” The other girl waved to them.
“Thank you.” Chime wished they wouldn’t fuss so. She liked being sleepy. For just a few minutes, she wanted to laze here in the grass, warmed by the sun.
After Aria left, Chim
e drowsed more. Some time later, she sensed someone else. Half opening her eyes, she looked through her lashes to see Skylark seated next to her, her white braids hanging over her shoulders.
“A fine morning,” Skylark said.
“Hmmm.” Chime thought it would be even finer if they would all leave her alone.
Skylark tried again. “You seem tired today.”
“Hmmm.” Chime closed her eyes.
“Are you sick?” Skylark asked.
“Just tired. Muller has a sore throat, though.”
“I saw him this morning. He was quite irate with the world.”
Chime’s lips curved upward. “He gets that way.”
“I helped his throat. Perhaps I can help yours.”
Chime yawned. “My throat is fine.”
“Shall I try a spell?”
Apparently they were going to pester her until she let them fuss. “Oh, all right.”
Skylark laid her hand on her forehead. “Tell me about your favorite place.”
Chime doubted “Muller’s bed” would be an appropriate response. So she said, “My family’s orchard.”
“Imagine yourself there, relaxing.”
Chime recalled the day King Daron’s party had ridden into Jacob’s Vale while she hid in the apple tree. Later, when she had come to know the king a little, she had discovered she liked him. She wished they could have spent more time together before he passed away.
Skylark sat with her for a while. Eventually she said, “Lady, are you awake?”
“I think so,” Chime mumbled.
“I’m afraid I can do little to help.”
Exasperated, Chime opened her eyes. “Well, I told you nothing was wrong.”
Skylark smiled. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how you feel about having a child.”
“Hai!” Chime sat up fast. When her maids looked over, she reddened and waved them away. Then she lowered her voice. “Are you sure?”
“I think so. When was your cycle?”
“I don’t remember. They come whenever they want.”
“No regularity?”
“Not much.”
Skylark chuckled. “It is fitting, yes, for you.”