The Dawn Star (26 page)

The priestess beckoned to them. “Come out of the shadows.” Her voice was rich, though thinned a bit with age. “Let me look at you. I don't see so well—” She stopped as Spearcaster came up to her. “Oh, my. You?”

The craggy general knelt and bowed his head. She rapped him on the head. “Stand up, young man. Goodness, Ravi. Aren't you married yet?”

Drummer hung back in the shadows with Jade. “Ravi?” Amusement washed across his face.

“His personal name is Ravel,” Jade murmured. She was glad Spearcaster was here. She wished things could have been different with Baz, too, that he would have also stood at her side. And Firaz and Slate. They meant a great deal to her despite how they always argued with her, or maybe even partly because of that.

“Doesn't the priestess know who she's going to marry?” Drummer asked.

Jade shook her head. “It was a precaution. Ravensford dressed in old clothes and went to talk to her. He didn't say anything more than a ‘young man and woman.'”

The priestess surveyed Spearcaster as he stood up, looming over her. “I've never seen you so glossed up,” she said with approval. “You look quite the groom. But I would have thought a man in your position would want a formal wedding in Quaaz with all the pomp and the big temple.”

His face creased with an affectionate smile. “I'm not the groom, Blessed One.”

“No?” She raised her eyebrows. “These young folks must be quite something, to have you attend their wedding, especially at such an hour.” She peered into the shadows. “Well, well, I can't see anything. Come forward, all of you.”

Jade glanced at Drummer. “This is your last chance to escape marrying me.”

He smiled at her. “I'm not so easy to get rid of, Dragon Princess.” He used her dynastic title, from the ancient tales that named a queen of Taka Mal as a princess of the Dragon-Sun.

As they walked forward, holding hands, the priestess squinted. “Goodness! What a beautiful couple. Here, here, let me see bet—” She broke off as they came into the light. “Saints above,” she murmured. With a grace that belied her age, she went down on one knee before Jade.

“I am honored, Blessed One,” Jade said. She touched the priestess's head far more gently than the elderly woman had conked Spearcaster. “Please stand.”

The priestess rose and looked over their party, including Fieldson and Ravensford in their white and violet uniforms. She spoke quietly. “Are these the witnesses, Your Majesty? For a royal wedding, at least one other besides myself must be a citizen of Taka Mal.”

“I stand as her second witness,” General Spearcaster said.

The priestess nodded. “We are honored.”

“Have you prepared the scroll?” Spearcaster asked.

She indicated the parchment on the table. “Everything is here, as requested.”

“Shall we proceed, then?” Jade asked. Incredibly it looked as if this wild plot would succeed.

“Do you wish any extra readings?” the priestess asked.

“Nothing.” Jade spoke with gentle urgency. “The faster you can marry us, the better.”

“I see.” The priestess paled, and Jade didn't doubt she understood the significance of a royal wedding done in secret, in the depths of the night, while three armies faced each other across a narrow strip of land that defined the border.

With Jade and Drummer standing before her, the priestess sang the Dragon-Sun chant in High Alatian, a ceremonial language with stricter rhythms than modern speech. It was a prayer to the spirits of the sky and the wind and the flames of life, wishing love and good fortune for the wedding couple.

When the priestess finished the chant, she lifted a string of fire-opal blossoms off the table. They glowed as vibrantly as Jade's silk dress. She touched Drummer's forehead with the petals. Softly she said, “What is your name, son? I need the formal version.”

“Drummer Creek Headwind,” he said. “Son of Appleton by blood and kin to Dawnfield by marriage.”

The priestess's hand jerked, scraping the petals across his forehead, but to her credit she showed no other shock to the news that she was about to wed a Dawnfield to a Quaazera.

“Drummer Creek Headwind,” she said. “Her Majesty, Vizarana Jade, Queen of Taka Mal, would take you as the Topaz Consort, her husband and the father of her heir. Do you accept?”

“Oh, yes.” Drummer's face had a glow Jade had seen only twice before—yesterday when she revealed her pregnancy and tonight in the Sunset Room. He exuded a joy she would never deserve, not if they lived a century. As her consort, he would see grief and war and death, politics and deceit, treachery and violence. He had lost forever the days when he could wander the dales of his home with no concerns except to feed and clothe himself. She could offer him a throne and her kingdom and shower him with gems and gold, but she could never give him back that freedom. Perhaps if she loved him well enough and long enough, someday she would earn this joy that he gave so freely, without condition.

The priestess anointed Jade on the forehead with the fire opal. “Vizarana Jade Quaazera, do you accept this man as the Topaz Consort?”

“Yes.” Jade wanted to tell the stars. “I accept.”

“No!” The shout came from behind them.

Jade whirled around. Warriors were pouring into the temple, armored men with swords and snarling dragon-sun helmets. They strode up the aisle, weapons clanking, boots thudding on the stone floor—led by their commander, her cousin, Baz Quaazera.

“You're too late,” Jade said. “The ceremony is done.”

Baz had his gaze fixed on Drummer. He unsheathed his sword, and it glittered in the candlelight.

“Baz, no!” Jade was aware of Spearcaster, Fieldson, and Ravensford drawing their weapons. Her voice echoed in the spaces of the temple. “Think well before you wield arms against your queen and her consort, for you would be committing treason.”

The warriors stopped around the table, cutting off escape but coming no closer. Except Baz. He strode into the candlelight. With dismay, Jade realized she may have underestimated how far he would go to stop this marriage. Seeing the desperate rage on his face, she knew he was capable of killing Drummer.

“Baz, no.” She started forward, but Drummer and Spearcaster both grabbed her by the arm, one on either side of her, and pulled her back. Every man in the temple had drawn his blade, and she knew they were going to fight. Someone would die here, and whoever survived would face execution for murdering a queen's officer—or for assassinating her consort.

Then Drummer pulled his cube out from a pocket of his vest. He extended his arm forward at chest height with the cube resting in his open palm. With his gaze on Baz, he said, simply, “Stop.”

“You cannot fight me with a little block of metal,” Baz said.

With no warning, gold light flared around Drummer's hand. Baz took a fast step backward.

“It is the Dragon-Sun,” Drummer said, his minstrel's voice full and resonant. “The sunset has blessed this marriage.”

The light around his hand intensified and filled the temple. It turned fiery orange, then red, and finally the deep crimson at the end of the sunset as day passed into night. It lit them all with its ruddy glow.

“The Dragon breathes to protect the queen,” Drummer said, and flames erupted from his hand. Jade felt their heat, yet they had no effect on him. He stood bathed in their light and stared at Baz as if challenging him to defy the dragon in its own temple. Baz didn't move.

Gradually the flames faded, leaving only candlelight. Drummer lowered his arm. Everyone stared at him; no one moved or spoke. Even Jade, who had seen his “parlor games,” was frozen. This was no trick. Either her husband truly did have the blessing of the Dragon-Sun or else she had just married one of the notorious Dawnfield mages. Apprehension swept over Jade, for she didn't believe Drummer had miraculously communed with the Dragon-Sun. By the saints, what had she done? Her new husband was a sorcerer.

Baz let out a long breath. He slid his sword into its curved sheath, and at his action, the other warriors sheathed theirs. He came forward then, and Jade knew her cousin truly was a man of great courage, for she doubted any of his warriors would approach Drummer right now.

Baz spoke to Jade. “The marriage is done?”

She answered in her throaty voice. “It is done.”

“Then I will mourn.” His sense of betrayal was written on his face. “And tomorrow Taka Mal will fall to Cobalt the Cruel.”

“We are not at war,” Jade said.

“You don't think so?” Baz beckoned to someone among the warriors in the dimly lit temple.

Jade had been wrong that no other would come forward, for one of the men approached, tall and broad shouldered in his black leather and iron-gray breastplate. A massive sword hung on his belt, and a black plume topped his shadow-dragon helmet. Then he removed his helmet, and she knew this was no ordinary warrior who dared the wrath of the Dragon-Sun. The Atajazid D'az Ozar had come to her wedding.

He spoke in a shadowed voice. “When Cobalt descends on your country and your life, Vizarana, you will fight him alone.”

“If Taka Mal falls,” Jade said, “you are next.”

“Escar will come,” Ozar said, “for as people must breathe, so he must conquer. He will ride across Taka Mal like the Dragon-Sun's fire, burning all in his path. He will make Taka Mal pay for this alliance you committed tonight, until he has burned Quaaz to the ground and cut your head from your body.”

Jade met his hard stare. “You words cannot terrorize me.”

“He will massacre your people.”

“You can't have me, Ozar, even if you threaten Taka Mal with annihilation.” Her gaze never wavered. “Abandon Taka Mal now and you will lose your throne as well. If you think otherwise, you know nothing of Cobalt, and all of Jazid will suffer for it.”

“You know my terms.”

Her fist clenched, small and delicate compared to the warriors around them. “I have given my vows to another.”

“Then fix it.” Ozar's face hardened as he turned to the man at her side. “If your consort has to die so that you can fulfill your obligations, so be it.”

With that, the Shadow Dragon Prince spun around and strode away, his boots ringing on the stone floor. He swept out of the temple and left his threat hanging in the air like a blade poised above Drummer's head.

D
awn was seeping through cracks in the walls as Mel dragged herself awake. She couldn't remember why she was lying on the floor of a rough shack.

Her memory stirred painfully. She had escaped Ozar's fortress and run, her bare feet slapping on stone. The cell had finished its collapse, and the thunder of its destruction had followed her as she raced down a corridor with its walls toppling behind her. She sped down the spiral staircase of a tower while the stairs above her fell in a traveling wave of wreckage. Just before the tower crashed down into rubble, she had run out into a courtyard beneath an overcast sky.

Mel remembered shivering in an underground storage bin with daggers and maces. She had hidden in an armory on the other side of the courtyard while Ozar and his men investigated the ruins. She couldn't even remember now what supplies she had taken from the armory. When night came, she had slipped past the wreckage of the fortress and run through the barren terrain, run and run, clenching the handle of the spiked metal ball in one hand and her stolen gear in the other.

With a groan, Mel rolled onto her side. Black leather armor was piled up nearby, with a Jazid breastplate and a Shadow Dragon helmet. She wondered dully at her priorities. She had taken a sword, belt, and dagger, but no food or water. Filled with her mind-slamming rage, she had thought only of fighting.

Of killing.

In the past, Mel had never believed the accounts of those ancient war mages. The histories were thousands of years old. Surely time had distorted and magnified the tales. Now she knew otherwise: The years had softened the truth. She had never desired the power to destroy, but she would bring down every fortress in the settled lands if that was what it took to protect her child.

She didn't understand how she had survived the collapse of her cell. Huge chunks of rock had fallen, yet miraculously none hit her. Perhaps the spell protected its maker. It made a grim sort of sense. Those mages whose spells kept them alive were more likely to have children who would carry on the trait.

Mel had found no wounds on Shade's body. She would never truly know how he died, for the destruction had buried him. Ozar probably thought she had died as well. She didn't think any stone had hit Shade, but that left only her spell. It made her sick to think she could wreak violence with gifts meant to heal.

Violet. The power of life and death. Mages felt the spells they made, not as intensely as those they created it for, but enough to matter. She knew warmth from her red spells and health from the blue. She should have felt Shade die. But she remembered nothing of his passing. Did flawed spells distort away from their wielder? It was a horrific prospect, for it suggested she suffered the least for using the worst of her abilities. The power had surely been bred into her ancestors to counter those kings who sought to contain the war mages. In the centuries since, the marriages of Dawnfield kings to the strongest mages they could find had concentrated the mage abilities. For centuries this particular trait had slept within the Dawnfield line, gathering strength.

Now it had awakened—with a vengeance.

She pushed into a sitting position. Her wounds hurt miserably, and her legs ached from her long run. She had scrambled in the dark, afraid to fall into a crack or crevice, even more afraid to make light lest someone see. The half-moon had appeared and disappeared behind streaks of cloud, her only guide.

She slowly limbered up, working through the aches and pain. Then she put on the armor. Her supplies were spotty; she had no water, but she had grabbed two pairs of leggings when she only needed one. At least she had chosen better with the armor. The leather was old and supple and fit her well. She pulled the pants over her leggings, then tugged on a vest and fastened the breastplate over it, leaving her arms bare except for the wrist guards and armbands. Metal studs riveted the belt together. The leather boots were scuffed and pitted. The armor was designed for a man of her height, but with broader shoulders and chest, which was fine; she needed the extra space in the breastplate for its namesakes.

Mel hung the dagger sheath from her belt and strapped the helmet to her back. She hefted the sword, as she had done during those long hours while she sweated in her hiding place. The blade felt well balanced and suited to her upper-body strength, which was less than that of many warriors. She compensated for that lack with her fast reflexes, but she needed a weapon light enough to utilize her advantage.

The spiked ball lay on the floor, glinting where a trickle of sunlight hit one of the sharpened points. Mel picked it up by the metal handle and swung it over her head. The chain clinked as the ball whipped in a circle. Although it was heavy, she had no problem wielding it as a flail. But for her, its greatest value lay in another aspect; its shape could unleash her mortal spells.

She wrapped the ball with the extra leggings so it wouldn't gouge her thigh, and then she fastened it to her belt. A search of the shack turned up a strip of smoked meat, a water bag, and the snares of a trapper. The bag was empty. With an apology to whoever used the shack, Mel hung the bag from her belt. She had seen oval-leaf bushes outside last night, which meant there had to be water nearby. She would fill the bag and break her fast with the meat and whatever game or edible plants she could find.

Finally, Mel peeled a strip of bark off the wall and sat down to whittle it with her dagger. She needed an exact shape, and she had trouble cutting one. Her disks and polygons came out crooked. The square was better, and it caught her spell, glowing with blue light. The weak spell barely lit up her hands, but it was better than nothing.

Mel sat with her back to the wall and cradled the square in her palms. Running her fingers along the shape, she imagined blue sky. Blue water. Blue silk. Blue eyes. Like Drummer's. The glow around her hands deepened. With no formal training, she didn't know if she could direct her spell to specific injuries. She thought of her wounds—and the light flowed into her body like a river filling a vessel. With a sigh, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

She struggled to maintain the spell, however. To use such a high color, even with a low-level shape, wore her out. Finally she released the spell and opened her eyes. The last of the blue light faded from her hands. But…her aches had also receded. When she stood up, her muscles didn't protest as much. The whip had cut deep gashes yesterday, and dried blood hadn't even finished flaking off her arms, yet the wounds looked as if they had been healing for several days.

Mel let out a long breath, steadying herself. It was time to leave, to face her precarious future. Sword in hand, she opened the door. A rocky clearing fronted the hut, and several oval-leaf bushes jutted out of the ground. Beyond the clearing, the mountains cut downward in a panorama of angular slopes. To her left, peaks sheered upward; on the right, they dropped down in ridge after knife-edged ridge. She could see for leagues, and everywhere the land stuttered in the jagged-teeth formations that gave the range its name. It was beautiful in its harsh grandeur, and it took Mel's breath.

A waterfall cascaded down the peaks behind the shack. After she drank deeply and filled the bag, she ate some bitter oval-berries. She saw no wildlife; the world seemed deserted. Wind keened among the peaks and through the deep gullies between them. The sky had shed its clouds and stretched above, parched and blue.

Her best hope of survival was to find the Chamberlight army. If they were where she expected, she had more than a day's journey on foot, and to reach them, she would have to go through the Jazid forces. As long as she hid her yellow hair, she might blend in with the other soldiers. Her face didn't look masculine, but with the helmet on she could probably pass for a youth.

Mel set off, heading north.

Seventeen thousand strong, four armies gathered in a great confluence of men and horses. Cobalt rode Admiral up and down the lines as his companies trained, but he spoke to no one. He barely contained his agitation. Mel was out there. Her kidnappers had slithered past the armies, probably east into Jazid and then north into Taka Mal. His search parties had found nothing, and it would be days before his men returned from Alzire with news. His wife could be anywhere, and it was killing him.

As of yet, he had given no order to strike Taka Mal. Rumors abounded: Queen Vizarana had killed Drummer, she had brought him to the Sun-Dragon citadel, she had left him in Quaaz, she had sent him home. Cobalt hadn't intended to attack if Taka Mal negotiated in good faith. Now he no longer cared. Even if Drummer walked up to him, it wouldn't matter. Taka Mal had gone too far when they took his pregnant wife and left behind her blood.

Matthew galloped across the camp and came alongside of Cobalt. “You must prepare! We've spotted an envoy headed here from the Dragon-Sun citadel.”

Cobalt gazed past the solitary peak with the citadel to the much more distant eastern mountains. Quaaz lay beyond that barrier. Was Mel there?

“Listen to me!” Matthew grabbed Admiral's reins and pulled the horse to a stop. Admiral neighed in protest, but he knew Matthew well enough that he didn't rear or bolt.

Cobalt spoke in a hard voice. “Let go of my horse.”

Matthew gave him back the reins. “You don't know that Taka Mal had any part in Mel's disappearance.”

Cobalt realized he was gritting his teeth. He forced his jaw to relax. “Have Agate Cragland bring the Taka Mal envoy to me.”

“You must treat them as emissaries,” Matthew said. “Not prisoners of war.”

Cobalt wanted to pull his sword and fight, not Matthew, but someone. Anyone. It took a concentrated effort to keep his voice even. “I will treat them as appropriate.”

Matthew didn't look reassured. His gaze went beyond Cobalt. “That was fast.”

Cobalt brought Admiral around to face the way Matthew was looking. Agate and several Chamberlight officers were approaching him. An unfamiliar soldier rode in their midst, a man in the gold and red of a Taka Mal lieutenant. Cobalt rode forward, aware of Matthew at his side, and they all gathered in a group, their horses stamping and snorting.

Cobalt looked from the lieutenant to Agate. “Only one man?”

“He isn't the envoy,” Agate said. “He came from the south.”

Cobalt narrowed his gaze at the man. “Why are you here?”

The lieutenant spoke with the drawn-out Taka Mal accent, exotic in its unusual rhythms, different from the cool, clipped tones of the Misted Cliffs. “Your Majesty, please accept my humblest pleas for your mercy. I set my life before you and beg your beneficent compassion for myself, your lowly servant.”

Cobalt had never mastered the flowery, convoluted language of court intrigue. Beneficent compassion, indeed. What the blazes did that mean? If this fellow had done something wrong, he should just say so.

“Why do you need mercy?” Cobalt asked.

“I have done no evil!” The man paused. “No, that is false. I have committed a great crime. I deserted my post to come here.”

Either the fellow was a consummate actor or he genuinely felt agonized. “Why did you desert?” Cobalt asked.

“I couldn't stand by while—while such atrocities—” He took a ragged breath. “I had to choose between my conscience and my post. I chose my conscience.”

Cobalt frowned. “How do I know you aren't a spy sent by Queen Vizarana to infiltrate my camp?”

“Ask the envoy,” the man said. “It will be here soon.”

“I will,” Cobalt said. “Now tell me why you came.”

He blanched as if Cobalt had asked him to impale himself on his own sword. “Please know, I am only a messenger—”

“If you don't tell me soon,” Cobalt said darkly, “my beneficent compassion will be all used up.”

The man reached for his saddle bags, but stopped when the Chamberlight men drew their swords.

“Let him get whatever it is,” Cobalt said.

His men lowered their swords, and the lieutenant exhaled. Cobalt didn't think he was pretending to be afraid. The man opened one of his bags and pulled out a bundle of brown-and-yellow cloth. With shaking arms, he held it out to Cobalt.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“About what?” Bewildered, Cobalt took the bundle. It was rags, some yellow, some an ugly brown—

With a horrific sense of falling, Cobalt realized two things. The brown stains were blood. A lot of blood. And the rags were the remains of a pair of harem pants and a tunic.

Mel's clothes.

A roaring began in Cobalt's ears. He couldn't see clearly, only brown stains on yellow silk. He raised his gaze to the man from Taka Mal. Cobalt didn't know how he looked, but it wasn't only the deserter who recoiled; all of the men, even Agate, went pale.

Cobalt spoke slowly and heard his voice rumble like a distant storm. “Where is the woman who wore these clothes?”

The lieutenant swallowed, tried to speak and failed.

“Answer me,” Cobalt said.

The man spoke in a burst. “She is dead, Your Majesty. She—she didn't survive—what they did to her.”

“And who,” Cobalt said, enunciating each word, “did it?”