The Dawn Star (2 page)

“He loved you,” Mel said.

He had no words for that miracle. Cobalt the Dark, hated by so many, especially his grandfather, had been loved by his father.

He held Mel close and looked over her head at Shazire. He had hoped that, like his new realms, his wife would be lush and fertile and give him a son. Or daughter. But still she carried no child.

“Cobalt,” Mel said, her voice muffled. She no longer sounded pleased with him.

“What?” he asked, distracted. In the distance, a group of riders were galloping across the countryside.

“You're suffocating me.”

Startled, he let her go. “I don't mean to do that.”

Her lips quirked upward. “You spoke.”

“I speak all the time.”

With a soft laugh, she said, “You grunt.”

Cobalt almost grunted in response, but he caught himself in time. He squinted against the sunshine. Riders were definitely approaching the Alzire Palace. He wished he had his spectacles, so he could see better. He didn't like wearing glasses, though. Whoever heard of a warrior king in spectacles?

Mel watched the riders. “They've traveled a long way.”

“Can you see the pennant?”

“It's the Chamberlight sphere, blue on a white background.”

The sphere. Saints almighty! They came from his grandfather, Stonebreaker Chamberlight, king of the Misted Cliffs.

He dreaded to learn what new malice the king had for his despised grandson.

Mel waited with Cobalt in the Hall of Oceans, and her thoughts roiled with her unease. Saints willing, the envoy from the Misted Cliffs wouldn't bring unwelcome news. Cobalt had healed so much here in Shazire, away from his grandfather. But they were never completely free of Stonebreaker.

She and Cobalt stood on a dais of sea-green stone next to the Alzire Throne, a chair embedded with abalone. She couldn't deny the imposing figure her husband cut, long legged and broad shouldered, menacing with his extraordinary height, his muscled build, and that scar on his cheek. He wore a dark tunic, and his trousers came down over heavy boots. His black hair, straight and thick, fell to his shoulders. Beneath his dark brows, his gaze smoldered.

The Hall of Oceans stretched before them, with its vaulted ceiling and geometric mosaics. Prince Zerod, the emir of Shazire, had held audiences here—before Cobalt deposed him. Cobalt had sent the prince into exile; had he killed Zerod, it would have set the countries of Jazid and Taka Mal against him even more than they were already. Mel had also entreated him to spare Zerod.

Down the hall, men in the aquamarine livery of Alzire heaved open the doors. The visitors from the Misted Cliffs entered with a swirl of motion, ten riders in leather armor and metal breastplates, each carrying a plumed helmet under his arm. Cobalt's men accompanied the envoy, as did Tadimaja Pickaxe, who was one of the few aides Cobalt had kept from Prince Zerod's staff.

The warriors strode down the hall. Mel recognized the man in front: General Agate Cragland. He had stood with Cobalt at the wedding, when the Midnight Prince took Mel as his wife. Agate had iron-gray hair and a hearty physique unmatched by warriors half his age. He stopped before the dais with his men and they each went down on one knee, bowing their heads. Mel knew they knelt to her husband, Stonebreaker's heir and now king of Shazire and Blueshire. They tolerated her only because she was his wife.

“Please stand,” Cobalt said.

Agate got back to his feet, his motions stiff. “I bring greetings from the Misted Cliffs, Your Majesty.”

“Is my grandfather well?” Cobalt asked.

When Agate paused, Mel's unease grew. Then the general said, “I have a message from him.”

Cobalt regarded him with a look Mel would have found hard to read a year ago. Agate's phrasing disturbed him. She understood. What could Stonebreaker want that required a party of ten men, including the highest-ranked commander in his army?

“I look forward to hearing it,” Cobalt said. Mel didn't believe him and she doubted Agate did, either, but for once Cobalt was trying to be diplomatic. He invited Agate to share wine with him after the general had a chance to change his riding clothes. It was an accepted protocol for receiving messengers, to offer succor before requesting the message, and Agate expressed appreciation. Mel wasn't fooled. None of them wanted to be here.

As Cobalt and Agate spoke, Mel concentrated on the mosaics in the ceiling. The geometric shapes were too far away and too small to give much power, but she managed a faint green spell. Anything more could create a problem; her spells manifested as light, which tended to upset people. Only the barest green shimmer gathered in the air, faint enough to blend into the sunshine slanting through the emerald-glass skylights in the ceiling.

Agate's dread snapped against her mood spell like a hard blow on a drum skin.

Cobalt watched Mel pace in front of a tall window in the Hexacomb Alcove. It troubled him; he rarely saw her so tense.

“What did you pick up from Agate?” he asked.

“He's afraid,” Mel said.

He shook his head. “Agate isn't afraid of anything. Except my grandfather.”

She glanced at him. “He fears you.”

Surely not. But Cobalt could never be certain. Although he had known Agate all his life, he had little idea what the general thought of him. When Cobalt had been small, Agate had stood by while Stonebreaker whipped his grandson. Yet sometimes after the king locked Cobalt in a closet, Agate brought him food or water. The general had risked repercussions even with that; if Stonebreaker had found out, he could have broken Agate, imprisoned him, even executed him. Stonebreaker commanded the loyalty of his army because he was an intelligent leader and savvy in politics, but his top people knew his cruelty. Most had chosen to protect themselves rather than intercede on behalf of a crying boy. Cobalt gritted his teeth. They had stood by and watched a hardened warrior batter a helpless child. He wondered if they had really understood that someday that beaten, angry boy would be their king.

“Why does Agate fear me?” he asked.

Mel kept pacing, agitated and unsettled. “His emotions aren't simple. More than anything, he is cautious.”

“About me?”

“Yes. He has bad news, I think.” She came over to him. “But his wariness of you goes deeper than that.”

Cobalt grimaced. “Everyone feels that way about me.”

She took his hand and pressed her lips against his knuckles. “You condemn yourself for the sins others committed against you.”

He watched her, as bewildered today as on the first day he had met her. She married him to stop a war. After Cobalt freed his father from prison, Varqelle began to raise an army so he could invade Harsdown and reclaim his throne. Desperate to stop the invasion, Mel had agreed to wed Cobalt and bring the throne back into his line. She ought to hate him. Yet she treated him with a softness no one had ever given him before, and she never broke, never splintered, never shrank away. He didn't understand why she loved him, but he never wanted her to stop.

“I will remember your warning,” he said.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes.”
Idiot,
he told himself.
You can do better for her.
He tried to smile. It pulled the muscles of his face in ways that felt strange but had become more natural this year. He could think of nothing to say, though, that wouldn't sound foolish. After a moment of trying to smile, he gave up.

Mel laughed tenderly and touched his cheek. “You have a dimple, you know.”

He stared at her, aghast. “Warriors do not have dimples.”

“I'm sure not.” She took his arm. “We should go meet our guest. He must be done freshening up.”

In Cobalt's experience, men didn't “freshen up.” Still, Agate was probably making himself more presentable.

“Very well,” he said. “Let us see what he has to say.”

Braces covered in gold leaf supported the arched ceiling in the Ivory Room, and mother-of-pearl filigree gleamed on the walls. The pale furniture was upholstered in ivory and gold. Cobalt, Mel and Agate sat in armchairs by graceful tables where they could place their goblets. The beauty of the room only increased Mel's disquiet, for none of this belonged to them. They had stolen it from Prince Zerod. She had never wanted to conquer Shazire. Even though she knew this land had once been part of the Misted Cliffs, the war lay heavily on her conscience. She dealt with it by being the best leader she knew how to be, but it didn't lighten the weight.

Mel spoke to Agate with courtesy. “Is the vintage to your liking, General?”

He sipped his wine. “It speaks well of your wineries.”

Cobalt downed his wine in one swallow and clunked the goblet on the table. “So.” His deep voice jarred with the genteel room. “How is my grandfather?”

Agate spoke carefully. “I bring you news, sire.”

“What?” Cobalt asked.

Mel inwardly groaned. If Cobalt couldn't learn more tact, he would antagonize even his allies.

“I have news of your grandfather,” Agate said. “He is ill, Your Majesty.”

Cobalt visibly stiffened. “What happened?”

“His doctors say a blood vessel burst in his brain.”

Cobalt stared at him in shock, an emotion he almost never revealed. His lapse lasted only a moment; then his mask of impassivity snapped back into place.

“Is he alive?” Cobalt asked.

Agate took a deep breath. “He survived. But his left side is paralyzed. We don't know if he will recover.”

Cobalt fell silent. Mel knew he hated his grandfather, and yet, he had also craved Stonebreaker's approval his entire life. The conflicts of his tormented relationship with the king had left deep wounds. He was recovering here, but she had no idea what it would do to him if Stonebreaker died. Would he grieve or rejoice—or hate himself for doing both?

Mel spoke to Agate. “We are sorry to hear of His Majesty's illness and pray for a full recovery.”

Relief flickered in Agate's eyes. “The people of the Misted Cliffs share your prayers.” To Cobalt, he said, “We honor the House of Chamberlight.”

Cobalt's voice went cold. “The way you honored the Chamberlight Heir while you watched him being beaten senseless?”

Agate looked as if he felt ill. “It was no honor, sire.” In a low voice, he added, “It was a nightmare.”

Mel froze, afraid of what Cobalt might do. Agate was the only one of Stonebreaker's officers she had ever heard admit the truth. Of all the adults in Cobalt's life, only two had regularly sheltered him: his mother, Dancer, and a stable hand named Matthew Quietland. Dancer had taken Stonebreaker's violence on herself by interceding when Stonebreaker abused the boy; Matthew had hidden Cobalt in the stables or even his home and borne the vicious brunt of the king's rage when Stonebreaker couldn't find his grandson.

Mel spoke into the strained silence. “You have done well to bring us the news with such speed, General Cragland.”

“I am sorry it isn't better news,” Agate said, his face pale.

“Yes.” Cobalt stood abruptly. “Good night.”

Both Mel and Agate jumped to their feet, and Agate bowed deeply. Cobalt glanced at Mel, and she could tell he wanted her to come with him. Then he strode from the room.

She spoke quietly to Agate. “Thank you, General.”

“I deserve no thanks, Your Majesty.”

The title disquieted Mel; she was the reluctant queen of Shazire and Blueshire. Would Cobalt soon rule the Misted Cliffs as well? It would make him the most powerful sovereign in the settled lands, similar to the legendary Dragon-Sun Queen in Taka Mal who had lived two centuries ago. She had allied with Jazid, and they had descended on Cobalt's ancestors with their wild, fierce armies, severing Blueshire and Shazire from the Misted Cliffs.

After Mel and Agate parted, she walked to the suite she shared with Cobalt, preoccupied with her thoughts. She knew the lure of the desert lands for Cobalt. Jazid and Taka Mal. It was more than righting the wrongs of an ancient war. Taka Mal and Jazid were prosperous countries. Taka Mal caravans were famous for precious silks, spices, pottery, and jewels, and its architects spread their exquisite works across the settled lands. Jazid had mines rich with ores and gems. How long before Cobalt turned his conqueror's eye to those rich lands? When he spoke of his dreams of empire, it stirred a ferocity deep within Mel, the wildness of her ancestors. She didn't want the temptations he offered, but she couldn't deny the lure of that seductive power.

Cobalt had once told her:
If ever I go too far, pull me back.
She didn't know if she was capable of being the conscience of a tyrant. At his core, he was a profoundly decent man. But for all that he had controlled his darkness, it simmered within him.

Waiting for a rebirth.

V
izarana Jade, the queen of Taka Mal, felt great pride in her country. The sun beat down on a starkly beautiful land softened by green oases. Quaaz, its capital, was the oldest city in the settled lands, a place of spires, arches, and onion domes. Ancient lanes curved through its center, crowded with oxen-drawn carts, running children, and people on errands. Mosaics shimmered in stained-glass windows, around keyhole-shaped archways, and in columns that supported even the most modest houses.

As her father's only child, Jade had inherited the Topaz Throne. She intended to keep it, even in this country where most women had few rights. Her Topaz Palace rose above Quaaz, golden in the sunlight, a wonder of yellow stone surrounded by a great wall and protected by the Queen's Guard, warriors unmatched in skill or aggression. Today, Jade sat at a long table in the Dragon-Sun hall with her top generals: Spearcaster, her senior advisor, a mentor she had known her entire life; Slate, the least emotional of her advisors; Firaz from the tempetuous Southern lands; and her hot-tempered cousin, Baz Quaazera, General of the Queen's Army.

“What I don't understand,” Jade said, “is how the Atajazid D'az Ozar could sign a pact with Cobalt Escar and we didn't know about it.” Although the atajazid was a king, his title translated into Ozar, Shadow Dragon Prince of Jazid. Either way, he ruled Jazid.

“Prince Zerod took the message from Shazire to Jazid,” Baz told her. A large man with black hair, he was thirty-three, a year younger than Jade. Everyone expected her to marry him, but she kept delaying. Baz was like a brother, not a husband.

“I thought Zerod was dead,” Jade said. “And why would he carry messages for Cobalt Escar?”

Baz gave her one of his inimitable scowls. “Escar is holding Zerod's wife and son prisoner.”

“So Jazid signed a pact with Escar,” Jade mused.

General Slate spoke. “It is more an agreement than a formal pact, Your Majesty.” He looked tired today. The decades hadn't been easy on Slate; as he entered his sixty-fifth year, she worried that he might soon wish to leave the military. She would regret his loss, for she greatly valued his advice, his wisdom, and his even temperament.

“What does the agreement entail?” Jade asked.

“Jazid sent four hundred spearmen to support the Shazire army,” Slate said. “Three hundred forty-two survived the war. The message Zerod took to Jazid concerned them.”

Jade didn't know what to make of this news, which Jazid had tried to keep secret. Fortunately, her spies had discovered it, though it had taken them too long. She spoke wryly. “According to rumors I've heard, Cobalt Escar beheaded Zerod, raped and murdered the queen and hung Zerod's son.” Tales of Cobalt the Dark were rife with such lurid details.

“Well, hell,” Firaz said. “Maybe he tore down the Jagged Teeth Mountains, too.”

Jade smiled. “The last I looked, they were still there.”

Spearcaster, eldest of her generals and the one she trusted most, spoke in his gravelly voice. “Apparently Cobalt has done nothing worse than put Zerod's family under guard in their summer palace. In return for their safety, Zerod carried the message to Jazid.”

“What was in the message?” Jade asked.

Baz leaned forward, his fiery gaze intent. “Escar gave the Jazid spearmen a choice—swear allegiance to him or go to prison.”

Bah. Cobalt obviously had ulterior motives. Making Zerod a courier sent another message to Jazid: Cobalt had effectively stripped the deposed ruler of his power. Allowing the spearmen to live implied Cobalt offered conciliation to Jazid, less than if he returned the soldiers to their country but enough to suggest he would consider neutral relations rather than conquest.

Jade didn't like it. Within one generation, Cobalt would rule the Misted Cliffs, Harsdown, Blueshire and Shazire. Jazid and Taka Mal had tried to achieve a similar outcome two hundred years ago, when they attacked the Misted Cliffs, but they had failed.

“Cobalt and Zerod signed a pact,” General Spearcaster said. “Zerod swore not to seek military help from Jazid or Taka Mal. If he abided by the pact, then in two years he could go into exile with his wife and son.”

Jade doubted Cobalt the Dark had suddenly developed great compassion. “Cobalt must have a motive.”

“He probably assumed his business with Jazid and Taka Mal will be settled by then,” Slate said.

Baz thumped the table with his palm. “If he expects to conquer us, he is a fool!”

Jade frowned. “He would be mad to seek retribution for a war our ancestors waged over two hundred years ago.”

“He's mad all right,” Firaz drawled. “With ambition.”

Slate's voice was grim. “He will come after Jazid and Taka Mal, don't doubt it.”

“The hell with him,” Firaz said. “We'll thrash his arrogant ass.”

“General Firaz,” Jade said, smiling. “You are ever the soul of poetic converse.” He raised a curmudgeonly eyebrow at her.

“Cobalt's agreement not to attack Jazid was only valid for a year,” Spearcaster said. “That year was done six days ago.”

“Did the spearmen swear allegiance to him?” Jade asked.

“Over three hundred of them,” Slate said.

Jade had hoped Escar was ignoring her country because he didn't seek more lands. Her spies had so far found no indications that he planned on going to war again. But if he had held back only because of a temporary pact with Jazid, that could mean trouble.

“How large is Escar's army?” she asked.

Baz nodded to Spearcaster, deferring to him for an answer. It didn't surprise Jade. Spearcaster had studied the militaries in the settled lands for decades. Baz was in charge of the army, and Jade considered him an excellent leader. But if the position had been determined solely by merit, without royal heredity as a factor, Spearcaster would be General of the Army. He had twice Baz's age and experience.

“Including the Shazire forces he has gained,” Spearcaster said, “I'd say Cobalt Escar has more than eight thousand men.”

Damn. She had only three thousand. Perhaps Cobalt expected Taka Mal to roll over for him. If so, his expectations were in for a battering. “And Jazid's army?” she asked. “Four thousand?”

“At least,” Spearcaster said.

“Perhaps,” Jade murmured, “I should invite the Atajazid D'az Ozar here for a visit.” The time might have come to end their chill in relations. Ozar loathed having to deal with a woman on the throne, but a mutual and bellicose enemy might give them cause to unite.

“It's a good idea,” Baz said. “But even if we combine forces with Jazid, we still wouldn't match Cobalt Escar's forces.”

“He may wish to avoid war,” Slate said.

“He damn well hasn't so far,” Firaz told him.

“He did, actually,” Slate said. “He married the heir to the throne of Harsdown rather than attack her country for it.”

“If we must fight this Escar king,” Jade said, “then we will. But we should bargain first.”

“Bargain with
what?
” Baz demanded.

“We need leverage,” Jade said. “Someone in his family.”

Spearcaster went very still. “You are talking about a hostage pact.”

“Of course.” It was a time-honored form of negotiation. In centuries past, sovereigns had regularly taken hostages from their enemies and negotiated peace for their release. Jazid and Taka Mal had avoided several wars that way.

“We probably can't reach his mother or his wife,” Slate said.

“His wife's a witch, anyway,” Firaz muttered.

“Oh, Firaz.” Jade had also heard tales of the woman forced to marry Cobalt the Dark. Rumors spread like fire about how she stopped the war in Shazire with a sword of flame that reached into the sky. Jade found it hard to credit. Why would the queen stop her husband from wiping out their enemies? It seemed more likely she knew tricks with light. She would be a difficult target, yes, but because Cobalt would keep her well guarded, not because she wielded fire magic.

Jade looked around at her generals. “We need to find someone we have a realistic chance of stealing.”

Baz's eyes glinted. “I have an idea.”

Drummer slunk to the window of Magistrate Sput's house. Tardy Town was quiet now, in this hour after midnight. He had played at the inn tonight to earn his supper. Unfortunately that meant he had been “graced” with hours of hearing Sput boast about his sexual conquests. Drummer sincerely hoped the stories were no more than Sput's fantasies; if the women really existed, he hated to think how they would feel to have their most intimate secrets bared in public. The magistrate had also denigrated a whole slew of people, including Tardy Town's visiting minstrel. Sput claimed to have a better voice than Drummer, and after a few pitchers of ale, he had demonstrated it to anyone ill-fated enough to be within earshot.

Drummer winced at the memory. Then he clambered over the windowsill into Sput's house. He found himself in a den lit only by moonlight flowing through the open window. He padded into the hallway and started his search. Sput turned out to be fast asleep upstairs, sprawled facedown in bed, snoring loud enough to shake down the sky. The drunk magistrate had tossed his garments on the floor, presenting an opportunity of just the type Drummer had hoped for. Drawing on the square shape of a mirror across the room, he made a little orange spell. He used it to send soothing thoughts to Sput and sink the magistrate deeper into sleep. Then he snuck into the room and filched every item of clothing he could see.

Drummer skulked out of the house as silently as he had entered and stashed Sput's clothes in some bushes outside. Then he took off, headed out of town. As pranks went, hiding the magistrate's clothes was more extreme than his usual mischief, but it was fitting given the way Sput so crudely claimed to have removed the garments of the women he called “milk cows.”

Drummer cut across the plaza beyond Sput's house and jogged past the large bell the townspeople used to warn of fires. An idea stirred, and he grinned. No, he couldn't do that. Really. He couldn't. Then he thought,
Why not?
He paused by the bell and looked around the plaza. No one. So he grabbed the bell's rope—and pulled.

A deep clang cracked open the night. Drummer pulled hard and fast on the rope, filling the plaza with ringing until lights appeared in buildings all around it. Then he let go of the rope and darted off. He climbed the stairs on the side of a butcher shop with no lights inside. Then he sat on the top step with his pouch over one shoulder and his glittar on his back, and watched.

People ran into the plaza, calling in confused voices. Sput's door slammed open, and he dashed out—as naked as the day he had come into the world. He ran to the bell, the rolls of his large stomach shaking. “I demand to know who rang that thing,” he bellowed. “How dare you disturb my sleep? I insist someone put out this fire.”

“Magistrate Sput!” The gray-haired City Elderwoman stood by the bell stand in a robe and stared at him, her mouth open. “Sir!”

“Why aren't you doing anything about this?” Sput demanded.

“Good sir,” the elderly woman stuttered. “I do believe—I mean, that is—”

“You believe what?” Sput asked. “Get it out, woman.”

“You're unclothed, sir.”

“What?” He looked down at himself. Then he jerked up his head and stared at the people gathering around. “What is
going on
here?”

“No fire,” a man said, joining them. “Apparently the alarm was a mistake.”

“Mistake!” True to his name, Sput sputtered obscenities. Then, darkly, he added, “I'll bury whoever has done this.” With that, he whirled around and tried to sprint home. He waddled more than he ran, but it was the fastest Drummer had seen him move.

Softly Drummer said, “That's for all the people you hurt with your words, Sput-man.” Then he slipped down the stairs and set off in the dark, headed out of Tardy Town.

Within moments he had left the town behind. Under a waning moon, he jogged across the low hills. His glittar plinged a note every now and then until he repacked the instrument. He laughed and spread his arms as he ran for the sheer joy of his life. At twenty-eight, he had never held a steady job. During the harvest, he worked in his father's orchard and the rest of the year he wandered as a minstrel. He rarely had to remember that he was the youngest brother of the queen of Harsdown or that his niece had married Cobalt the Dark.

Soon he was alone under the stars, away from any homestead. He could shout as loud as he wanted and no one would hear. He felt gloriously free.

That was when the strangers grabbed him.

The wagon bumped along the rutted road. The cords that bound Drummer's wrists behind his back dug into his skin. He could barely make out his jailors; the canopied wagon cut out what little light came from the moon. This wasn't the first time he had been caught by someone irate over his mischief, but something was different this time, darker in a way he hadn't yet figured out.