Chime drifted into the wind, spreading out, as free as light and air. Lovely music tugged her mind. It receded and she began to fade. Then it began again, pulling her back, back, back…
“…back, please.” The voice, the music, became words. “Please come back to me.”
She couldn’t bear the grief that drenched that beautiful voice. With a silent farewell to the floating pyre, she let the voice pull her back…
Chime opened her eyes. Muller was kneeling next to her, his face drawn. “Please come back.” Tears slid down his face. “Chime, I cannot be without you. Come back.”
The sun had risen. She was lying on her side at the top of Mount Sky, her cheek against grass drenched with dew. The light of the rising sun slanted across her face.
She answered in a whisper. “Don’t weep, my love.”
“Gracious Saints.” Muller pulled her into his arms, leaning over her, his body shaking. He kept saying her name over and over, rocking back and forth.
Sitting up, holding him close, Chime laid her head on his shoulder. The funeral pyre had been Anvil’s spirit, shepherded to its final rest, gone forever from their world, freeing them from his rage, his cruelty—and his agony.
“I thought you were gone,’ Muller whispered.
Pulling back, she touched his beloved face. “I cannot leave, dear Muller.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Then who would scold you for worrying too much about your clothes?”
He laughed unsteadily. “We mustn’t let that happen.”
She cupped her palms around his face. “I am so glad to see you.”
Muller kissed her. “Why did you come out here?”
“Anvil—”
“No!” He grasped her shoulders. “What did he—”
Chime laid her fingers on his lips, stopping his words. “I came here to meet him. We had to finish our business, he and I. He wouldn’t leave this world until we did. I caught his spirit and sent it home.”
He searched her face. “Are you hurt?”
“Nay, love.” She touched his temple and traced the line of his cheek. “He was kin to you and Jarid.”
He stared at her. “Impossible.”
A voice rumbled behind them. “That cannot be.”
Startled, Chime looked up. Jarid, Iris, Arkandy, Sam Threadman, and several military officers were gathered around on the grass. It was Jarid who had spoken.
Chime and Muller rose to their feet. Although they let go of each other then, Chime felt as if his arms were still around her.
“It is true,” she told the king.
Jarid’s voice darkened. “It cannot be.”
“It would explain his power,” Iris said.
Muller shook his head. “But we have no kin in Stonce.”
“I don’t know how you are related.” Chime recalled Anvil’s mind as it drifted into oblivion. “He genuinely believed what he told us about his family, how they died.”
Muller spoke quietly. “You speak as if you no longer do.”
“I saw it all. His life. It was nothing like what he describes. His friends, family, the villagers, they all treated him well. His mind, it—it buckled.” She struggled to express what she had felt in his dying, as he escaped the insanity that had tortured his life. “He was a mutant.”
“He was born without green ability?” Della asked.
“No. The opposite.” Chime spoke in a subdued voice. “He had too much. He lived in a constant mood spell. It all poured into him.” Her voice caught. “He was just a little boy. Every pain, agony, torment anyone suffered, he suffered, too. It was a nightmare that never ended. He didn’t understand. Neither did his parents; they only saw him become more and more withdrawn.” She folded her arms around herself, feeling cold. “He burned out the green within himself so he could bear to live. Then he never had to feel again. Nothing. But it drove him insane. He ran away when he was eleven, convinced he had lost his family. They probably never knew what happened.”
“Saints almighty.” Muller’s face paled.
Iris came forward. “It took compassion for you to guide his spirit on its last journey. Not many would have done such.”
“I wouldn’t call it compassion. I wanted to make sure he left.” After a pause, she added, “But even the darkest soul deserves to rest from a life that devastated.” She grieved for the child Anvil had been, a mage of unimaginable sensitivity destroyed by his own gifts.
“I have no compassion for this man,” Muller said. “He would have destroyed my country, killed my king and cousin, and stolen my wife and unborn child.”
Jarid’s voice rumbled. “He gravitated toward Chime.”
“Of course he did,” Muller said. “She’s an angel.”
Chime smiled, tears in her eyes. “Not that you’re biased.”
Iris spoke gently. “Anvil knew you could help him.”
“I don’t know that anyone could have helped him,” she said. “Perhaps I am sorry for him. But I cannot regret his passing. He would never have rested, no matter how much he destroyed. His inner demons drove him too hard.”
The clank of mail came from behind them. As Jarid and the others turned, Archer and a hexahedron-major approached them, climbing the hill. They stopped and bowed to Jarid.
“What is the situation?” Jarid asked.
Archer answered. “King Varqelle wishes to meet with you, Your Majesty.”
Jarid tensed. “Did he say why?”
“His emissaries chose their words carefully.” Archer gave a grim smile. “But I think he wishes to surrender.”
“After what happened this morning,” Fieldson said, “I would be surprised if he felt otherwise.”
“Very well.” Jarid spoke quietly. “Tell King Varqelle I will meet with him.”
Chime stood in an alcove of the Starlight Wing in the castle, looking out the window there, up at the nearby Starlight Tower. The top chamber had ceased to exist last night, blasted into rubble. Fortunately they could rebuild it. The tower had sound construction and the rest of it remained firm, including the portion of the Star Walk that led to its upper level.
The Mage Tower had fared less well; the collapse of the upper level had also weakened the lower levels. Chime could see across Suncroft to its remains, jagged and black in the daylight. But rebuild they would, including the two rooms at the top, both the chamber of perfect shapes and the chamber of flawed shapes.
In the fields below the castle, the Harsdown army was preparing for their journey home, guarded now by the Aronsdale army. Everyone had a subdued quality. She felt it herself, though she was among the victors in this unwanted war. It would take a long time for their countries to heal from the powers unleashed here.
A rustle sounded behind her. Turning, she saw Jarid in the arched entrance to the alcove.
“Your Majesty.” Chime bowed.
“Jarid,” he reminded her. “We are kin. You must learn to treat me as such.”
She wondered if either of them would ever feel comfortable with court protocols. “I thank you. But I also wish to show respect for your title.”
“And yours.” He came forward.
“Mine?” She couldn’t imagine answering to Princess Chime. She grinned. “Tree Climber, perhaps?”
He laughed gruffly. “Perhaps.”
She wasn’t sure how to interpret his mood. “Will you speak with King Varqelle soon?”
“I just finished.”
“Already?”
“At his wish, yes.” Jarid indicated the Harsdown warriors outside. “He didn’t want me to attack his army as I did Anvil.”
“But you didn’t attack Anvil.”
Jarid shrugged. “He thinks I did.”
“And you let him believe it.”
“Yes.”
“So he surrendered.”
“I would have, too, in his place.” His gaze seemed to turn inward. “Nor am I sure I wouldn’t have done exactly what he feared. I have too little control.”
“You have more than you
know.”
Jarid shook his head. He stared out at the hills beyond the castle, his silence her only answer.
After a moment, Chime said, “Did you want to see me?”
He glanced at her. “I came to talk about Muller.”
It didn’t surprise her. The news had traveled like wildfire this morning; Muller Dawnfield is a mage. Astonishment rippled through the castle, tangible to Chime. Muller would spend the rest of his life learning to deal with that truth.
“I thought he was with you,” she said.
“He was. He went to the stables, to see his horse.”
“Then Windstrider is all right?”
“Yes. Fine. Anvil left him with Varqelle’s men.” He sounded odd, as if he were taking great care with his words.
“Is he still at the stables?” Chime asked.
“No.” It seemed Jarid would say no more. But then he added, “Now Muller speaks with Brant, Della, and Fieldson.”
“Your advisors.” She wondered why.
“Yes. Also his, for the next few months.”
“His?” She stared at him, dismayed, able to think of only one reason the King’s Advisors would suddenly answer to Muller. “No! You must not leave! We need—”
“Chime, wait.” His face lit with a smile, his teeth bright against his sun-roughened skin. Suddenly he looked his age, barely a youth of twenty. “I am going nowhere.”
“But why…?”
His smile faded. “Varqelle attacked my realms. He lost. I won.”
“Yes.” Her voice hardened. “I am glad he lost.”
“I also.”
She searched his face, trying to understand. “He will leave with his army, yes? He will bother us no more?”
His voice had a shadowed sound. “You see the world in so much purer terms than the rest of us.”
She flushed. “I don’t understand.”
“Varqelle tried to conquer Aronsdale and kill me. I cannot let him go.”
It was a truth that nothing would change. “Will you execute him?”
“Brant and Fieldson wish so. Muller says no.” Jarid rubbed his eyes, then dropped his arm. “I can imprison him. I could send him to a holding in the north, in the Barrens. With guards. He could never leave.”
“It seems the compassionate choice.”
“Or the foolish one.” He sounded tired. “As long as Varqelle lives, he may escape and rise against me again.”
“Hai, Jarid.” Chime didn’t envy him the decision. “What will happen to Harsdown?”
When he didn’t answer, she wondered what she had said wrong. It seemed she would forever stumble over her words and offend people. She resisted the urge to make a mood spell using the wall mosaics; she wouldn’t intrude on her king and kin that way.
Then, unexpectedly, he said, “That is why I speak with you now and why Muller is with my advisors.”
She didn’t see what he was trying to say. “I know nothing of Harsdown.”
His mood was quiet today. “I would like you and Muller to be my representatives there. To rule Harsdown.”
She stared at him. Lead a country that size? “No! Muller maybe, but I could never do such a thing.”
He smiled. “You sound like your husband. And like him, you do sorely underestimate yourself.”
She didn’t know where to put the immensity of what he asked. It would make ruling Aronsdale seem easy, and she had never believed herself up to that responsibility. To take on a country with so many problems would be an insurmountable challenge. “I cannot.”
His voice cooled. “And yet I, after fourteen years in isolation, with no preparation, am to lead Aronsdale?”
Her face heated. “I am sorry. I don’t mean to shirk my duties. But I am not you. I cannot do this.” The obstacles were too great.
“You misjudge yourself. You can surmount much greater obstacles than you believe.”
Chime regarded him warily. “Are you putting mood spells on me?”
“I need no spell,” he said dryly. “Your face tells me your thoughts.”
She put one hand on her hip. “Then it must be yelling that I cannot be queen of Harsdown.”
Jarid motioned to the window, indicating the armies. “Fieldson is taking a contingent of the King’s Army to Harsdown. He will govern there during the transition. Muller has said that if you agree, the two of you can join Fieldson after preparing here with Brant and Della.”
She slid her hand over her abdomen, which had yet to begin swelling. “My child isn’t due for seven months.”
“The transition would take at least a year.” His violet eyes were vivid in the sunlight. “I need people I trust in Harsdown. And its people need to learn better uses of their land. Schooling in agriculture and animal husbandry could go a long way toward ending their poverty. Varqelle hasn’t given them that.” He regarded her steadily. “I think you and Muller could. You both have the background and a love of the land.”
It was true she had always wanted to run the orchards. Muller came from an estate that took its prosperity from farming. But loving such a life and being able to guide a country were two very different prospects.
“Would Brant and Della come with us?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I need them here. But Fieldson will be there. Skylark has also offered to go, since Iris can be healer at Suncroft.”
“Iris is sapphire?” Chime’s mood lightened. “It is hard to understand her talent. I don’t know what it means to be a rainbow mage.”
He hesitated, thoughtful. Then he said, “When you make a spell, it uses one color, yes?”
“Always.”
“She uses more.” He ran his finger along the mosaics that bordered the window, tracing out a design that were mostly blue, but with accents of other colors. “Her spells are like this. They depend mainly on one hue but include some of all. When she makes a healing spell, she soothes a little, feels her patient’s mood, gives a bit light. Her healing may have less power because of that, but she adds nuances we cannot achieve.”
“It sounds lovely.”
His face softened. “Aye. She is.”
She smiled at his besotted expression. “We all have much to learn about our gifts.”
“So Muller says.” The king shook his head. “He believes he is cursed.”
“Jarid, he is wrong. I have looked through many histories, trying to understand.”
Curiosity flashed in his gaze. “You have an idea?”
She hesitated, afraid to sound foolish. But she had to learn to express herself better, with more confidence. “I might. I believe some ancient mages used that room in the Mage Tower to concentrate their power.”
“Many of us did. But Muller never could focus through that room.”
“I didn’t mean the one you used. The other.”
“With the flawed shapes?” When she nodded, he said, “I hadn’t realized our histories recorded mages using that one.”
“Often they just say ‘the chamber.’ We’ve assumed it meant the one with perfect shapes.” She paused. “But I’ve found mentions of a view from the window that make it sound like the chamber of flawed shapes.”
He considered her words. “You think that room existed because other Dawnfields had powers such as Muller?”
“Yes.” She paused, seeking to speak well instead of stumbling. “I think long ago, your ancestors tried to breed Dawnfield mages who didn’t need actual physical shapes to focus their power. Instead they ended up with mages who used imperfect shapes. Like Muller. War mages. Perhaps that is why Anvil had an imperfect green power.”
Jarid stiffened. “No comparison exists between Muller and Anvil.”
Her voice softened. “Muller is light. Anvil is dark. I meant Anvil’s gifts were skewed. Perhaps those traits our ancestors explored can show up many generations later, changed by the passage of centuries, even millennia.” She had seen another truth in Anvil’s spirit. “Do you recall the incantation I dreamed?”
“Allar
—” He stopped. “I dislike the words.”
“I also.”
“‘Sphere-inside-out.’”
“Anvil used it to reverse spells. Perhaps it spoke to him because he was a throwback to those ancient mages.”
Jarid grimaced. “He should have left it in oblivion.”
“Aye,” she murmured. “Muller’s spells are different. They often do achieve good, but in strange ways.”
A smile eased the severity of the king’s face. “That cousin of mine is incapable of cruelty.”
It gratified her that he understood. “His spells go awry because he can’t control them. No one knows how to teach him.”
“He has learned some. He was so accident prone when I was little. Now he has less trouble.”
“Jarid—”
“Yes?”
She spoke quietly. “You make spells without shapes.”
“I always use shapes.”
“But you imagine them. They don’t have to be real.”
“Real shapes strengthen my spells.”
“Yes. But if your ancestors did try to breed mages who didn’t need real shapes, you are what they hoped for.”
He gazed out at the countryside, becoming distant. “I had little to do all those years except meditate.”
Chime couldn’t imagine the loneliness. She wanted to hate Unbent, but he had given Jarid unconditional love, making those years bearable. Without that, Jarid probably wouldn’t have survived.
“You refined your gift,” she said. “Purified it until you could tap into your power.”
He turned back to her, his gaze intent. “I need a magic now that only you can provide. Say yes. Say you will go to Harsdown.”
She twisted the cloth belt of her tunic. “I must talk to Muller.”
“All right. Do that.” He grinned. “Then say yes.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You are incorrigible.”
Mischief lit his eyes. “Perhaps I am.”
She hesitated. “I heard you sent emissaries to Stonce.”
“To find Anvil’s family, if they live.”
“I will weep for them.”
His jaw stiffened. “But not for him.”
Chime lifted her palm outward as if to splay it on his chest, but she held it a finger-span away from touching him, though no spell stopped her. She was too aware of the invisible shield he used to isolate himself.