The Dawn Star

by Catherine Asaro

  Cobalt started to stand, his face darkening with a familiar rage. Mel grabbed his arm and held him in his chair. He could have easily thrown her off, but instead he took a slow breath and settled back down.

  With stiff control, Cobalt asked, “Has Mother arrived?”

  The king considered him. “She is here.”

  Relief washed over Mel. At least one person here would properly welcome Cobalt.

  “That’s good,” Cobalt said. His posture relaxed a bit.

  “Yes, I imagine so,” Stonebreaker said.

  Mel’s tension began to ease. Perhaps this would be all right if they kept to neutral subjects.

  “How is Mother?” Cobalt asked.

  “As well as can be imagined,” Stonebreaker said, “given that you killed her husband.”

  Cobalt stared at him, unable to hide his shock. Mel had no love of Varqelle, but she knew Cobalt’s grief. Watching his father die from wounds taken in battle had nearly destroyed him. Her anger brought out her words before her caution could stop them.

  “You go too far,” she told the king.

  “Perhaps it is you who goes too far, wife of my grandson.”

  Cobalt rose to his feet, drawing Mel up with him. “We will attend you later, Grandfather.” The iron control in his voice tore Mel apart. With one sentence, Stonebreaker may have undone months of healing.

  “I didn’t give you leave to go,” the king said.

  “Nevertheless, we are going.” Cobalt bowed, stiff in his anger. Stonebreaker could have imprisoned him for that defiance. He let it go—for now. Mel had no doubt he would retaliate in ways that made him look noble and Cobalt appear vicious.

  After they left the suite, Mel sagged against the wall of the corridor. She said nothing, aware of Stonebreaker’s guards at the entrance. Cobalt urged her forward. They followed an icy hall, so white and brilliant and beautiful, with blue mosaics along the vaulted ceiling. So lovely. So cold.

  Mel was upset enough that several minutes passed before she realized they weren’t alone. Four bodyguards in white and blue accompanied them, a few steps to either side or behind. Distracted, she looked up at Cobalt. He seemed as far away as the mountains.

  “Cobalt?” she asked.

  His voice matched their cold surroundings. “What?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “My rooms.” His face was unreadable. The husband she had come to love was gone and a stranger had taken his place.

  Mel held back her questions. This wasn’t the time. She felt the loss of her former life like a physical pain. Applecroft glowed in her memory, an unattainable dream of warmth. The humble name referred to her parents’ orchards and estate in Harsdown. Her mother Chime had been a farm girl who married a prince, for a Dawnfield heir had to wed the most powerful mage he could find among Aronsdale’s eligible women. Chime had grown up taking her personal freedom for granted, and she raised her daughter the same way. Somehow Mel had to adapt to the icy formality of the Diamond Palace without losing herself.

  In pastoral, warm Shazire, she and Cobalt had grown close. Here in the place of his emotionally impoverished childhood, he had withdrawn. He had spent his life both hating Stonebreaker and struggling to prove his worth to his grandfather. She doubted he would ever understand that jealousy drove Stonebreaker to crush his sprit. The king would never forgive Cobalt for being more than him. He would never grant his heir the validation Cobalt sought. Mel feared this visit would tear open Cobalt’s wounds and destroy his hard-earned peace of mind.

  What that meant for the two of them, she couldn’t yet see, but she felt as if she were grieving the loss of the man she had known in Shazire. If this visit shattered Cobalt—if it let free the tyrant within him—the citizens of three countries would suffer the consequences of his despair.

  Jade met her hostage in a place that gave her advantage. It was an instinctive choice, but she knew her instincts well enough to trust them. She sat on her throne in the Audience Hall, with its golden walls and columns of rose marble. The ceiling was so high, birds flew beneath the skylights. A Kazlatarian carpet extended from the doors to the dais where Jade sat. Her cousin Baz stood by her side, impressive in his gold-and-crimson general’s regalia. She wore a gold silk tunic and pants, and a dagger on her belt.

  Three guards brought in her prisoner. Drummer Headwind was less imposing than she expected. His shaggy gold curls needed trimming and had no business being so appealing. He was dressed too informally to meet a queen. He hadn’t even fastened his shirt, for saints’ sake; she could see his leanly muscled chest halfway to his navel. He had a sensual walk, lithe and supple. Her pulse surged, but she tried to ignore it. His large blue eyes gave him an innocent look. Bah. She wouldn’t trust that angelic face as far as a thirsty soldier could spit.

  His guards—Javelin, Havej, and sullen Kaj—brought him to the dais and bowed. Drummer stood gaping at Jade until Kaj shoved his shoulder. Drummer went down clumsily on one knee, finally bending his head in the expected deference.

  She let him kneel for a while. Then she said, “You may rise.”

  He looked up, his face flushed. Then he got stiffly back up to his feet. Sweat had beaded on his brow. Either he wasn’t used to kneeling, which seemed unlikely given his relatives, or else his trip here had drained him more than it should have. That troubled Jade. A great difference existed between keeping a hostage a bit off balance and mistreating him. The soldiers who fetched him had better not have abused him. He was a tool to use against Cobalt Escar, and his freedom would depend on how well his family negotiated, but she had no wish to hurt the fellow. She hoped eventually to release him, and she didn’t want him taking home tales of inhumane treatment.

  Jade knew he was trouble, though, with that face of his and his reputation for mischief. She should be done with him as soon as possible. And yet, it pleased her to know he was hers for a time.

  “Welcome to Taka Mal, Goodsir Drummer,” she said.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” He didn’t look at all grateful. “I’m afraid I don’t merit the title Goodsir, however. I’m not gentry.”

  “You are the youngest brother of Chime Headwind Dawnfield, are you not?”

  His face paled. “Yes.”

  Good. He didn’t deny the obvious. She got up and went down the stairs. Baz came with her, the jeweled hilts of his swords glinting on his belt. She stopped in front of Drummer. She was average height for a woman of Taka Mal, but the heels on her boots put her eyes level with his. She smiled and he looked alarmed.

  “You will be my guest for a while,” she said.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “You needn’t trouble yourself with that.”

  “I’m a hostage for Cobalt’s good behavior, is that it?” A bead of sweat ran down his temple. “If he doesn’t attack Taka Mal, I get to live.”

  “You are one of several strategies,” Jade allowed.

  An audacious glint came into his eyes. “I’ve heard the queen of Taka Mal is a great strategist. No one ever told me she was also a great beauty.” He made his words a challenge rather than a compliment.

  She gave him an unimpressed look. “Don’t bother trying to soften me up with flattery. I’ve heard it from the best of them.”

  His grin flashed, an expression so dazzling Jade wondered her hair didn’t sizzle. “It’s not flattery. Just truth.” His smile vanished. “Your men took my glittar. I would like it back.”

  “Your what?” She was still recovering from that brilliant smile.

  “My glittar. It’s an Aronsdale harp.”

  “Why should they give it back?”

  He considered that. She thought he would get angry, but then he tried a different tack. His honeyed voice poured over her. “I will compose a ballad in honor of your beauty.”

  Jade knew his words were calculated to unsettle her, flattery yes, but also a challenge to her authority. He wielded them like a velvet-coated mallet. But when his lashes lowered halfway over his eyes, she d
idn’t think he knew he was doing it or how sensual he looked. She could see why he had a reputation for inspiring women to seek his kisses.

  Bah. Foolish women. “Why ever would I want to hear you sing?” she asked.

  “Because,” he murmured, “my voice is ambrosia.”

  “You certainly have a high opinion of yourself.”

  “Only when I’m inspired.”

  Baz spoke tightly. “Take your blighted inspiration elsewhere.”

  Jade knew that tone. If Drummer didn’t watch out, he would end up with a knife between his ribs. She motioned to his guards. “You can take him back to his suite.” Inclining her head to Drummer, she added, “It has pleased me to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mutual,” he said. “It would please me even more if you would let me go.”

  Ha. Now he told the truth. “Why? I thought I inspired you to create great music.”

  His voice softened. “More than you know.”

  Jade blinked. That sounded more genuine than calculated. Flustered, she spoke formally, distancing herself from him. “Goodman Headwind, I hope you enjoy the hospitality of my court. You may go now.”

  Before Drummer could say anything more, the guards swept him off down the hall. At the doors, he paused to look back at her. Then Kaj grabbed his arm and pushed him out the doorway.

  “That one is trouble,” Jade said. She had never met anyone like him. Men in Taka Mal glowered and strode boldly and menaced with their dark ferocity. Drummer’s differences fascinated her.

  “If he doesn’t take care,” Baz said, “he will never see home again.”

  Jade could almost feel him seething. She turned to her cousin. “Baz, he is my guest.”

  He scowled at her. “He’s not a toy. If you dishonor a queen’s brother, her family could consider it an act of war.”

  “Dishonor him?” She had to laugh, though it hurt. “An odd proposition, given how most men view women in this country.” Like property, though she wouldn’t say it aloud. She didn’t want to encourage such thoughts. “But I’ve no such intention.”

  “Well, you can’t marry him. He’s a commoner.”

  “Oh, for saints’ sake. I just met the man. Stop worrying.”

  He scowled at her. “Admit it, Jade. You liked him.”

  She didn’t know which irked her more, Baz’s assumptions or the idea that he might be right. He and Jade had grown up together, he the son of her paternal aunt. He knew her better than anyone.

  “Baz, listen,” she said. “I’m no naive girl to be swayed by a minstrel’s flattery. I think we should stop worrying about Queen Chime’s brother and work on our plans for Jazid.”

  He looked as if he wanted to keep arguing. After a pause, though, he said, “All right.”

  But as they headed to her study, where they plotted strategy, he fell silent. It made Jade uneasy. Drummer she could handle.

  Baz was the one who worried her.

  A pounding roused Mel from a fitful sleep. She peered groggily at the unfamiliar canopy overhead. Someone was knocking. As she sat up, a door opened in another room somewhere, followed by an urgent murmur of voices.

  Cobalt rolled toward Mel, restless even in his sleep. When she touched his shoulder, he sat up fast, knocking away her hand. She was used to his abrupt awakenings. His men thought it came from battle readiness, and perhaps that was part of it. But Mel knew the full truth; it was the legacy of a child who knew he could be dragged from his sleep and thrashed if he transgressed in the slightest against an endless and impossible set of rules.

  Cobalt pulled her into his arms and held her hard. Gradually the fast beat of his heart slowed. Finally he drew back, calmer now, though he never said a word. He rarely spoke of his nightmares or fevered wakings.

  “Someone was knocking,” Mel said.

  He nodded and left their bed, pulling on a robe he had tossed across the footboard. As he strode from the room, Mel dressed more carefully in a silk sleep tunic and pants, conscious of the rigid customs here for women. Then she went into the Silver Room of their suite. The moment she saw their visitor, her pulse stuttered. It was Quill, Stonebreaker’s scribe. He was speaking to Cobalt in a low voice while one of Mel’s sphere-maids hovered nearby. Cobalt had a strange look, as if he were ill.

  Mel went over to them. “Is it the king?”

  Cobalt turned to her. He seemed to have trouble breathing. “Another stroke.”

  Mel couldn’t imagine worse timing. Cobalt’s last words with his grandfather had been spoken in anger. If Stonebreaker didn’t recover, Cobalt would torment himself with guilt. Mel wanted to tell Cobalt that it wasn’t his fault, it had never been his fault; Stonebreaker was a monster who never deserved a child to raise. But Cobalt would resent her for speaking such words in front of others.

  So instead she asked, “May I come with you?”

  Something gathered in his eyes, moisture, from Cobalt the Dark who supposedly never wept. But Mel had seen him holding his dead father with tears pouring down his face.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Come.” Then he turned to Quill. “Wait here, please, while we dress.”

  Quill bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  A chill went through Mel. It was true Cobalt had that title, for he ruled Shazire. But it was a less powerful country than the Misted Cliffs. The heir to the Sapphire Throne outranked the king of Shazire. But as the Chamberlight heir, Cobalt was a Highness; only a king and his consort carried the title of Majesty. Mel remembered how Stonebreaker’s staff had responded when Cobalt first arrived at the palace, as if they feared to acknowledge his status. That Quill used the title now spoke volumes about Stonebreaker’s condition. Mel wondered if Quill even thought the king would survive the night.

  Mel didn’t know which she feared more—that Stonebreaker would live and continue to destroy his grandson, or that he would die and make Cobalt king of the Misted Cliffs.

  Dancer Chamberlight Escar had hair the color of a raven’s wing. Streaked with silver, it framed her alabaster face and fell to her waist. Faint lines creased the corners of her eyes, and her delicate cheekbones gave her an ethereal aspect. Tonight, a pale silk tunic and trousers draped her graceful build. The intelligence of her expression made it hard to look away from her face. As a girl, Dancer had been pretty; at fifty-one years of age, she was a great beauty.

  In the dark time of morning, three hours before sunrise, Mel and Cobalt joined Dancer. She had already arrived in the foyer outside Stonebreaker’s suite. Cobalt embraced his mother with awkward gentleness. She was small and fragile next to his massive form, and her head came only halfway up his chest. Tears leaked down her face. Then she pulled away, restrained again, and wiped away her tears with the heel of her hand.

  It was only the second time Mel had seen Cobalt and Dancer hug each other; the first had been when he returned from the war in Shazire. Now they stood together, the only kin of the man dying in the next room. Mel didn’t intrude on the complex waves of their grief. She folded her hand around the sphere that hung from her neck on a gold chain. It was as perfectly round as metalworkers could make the shape. Dancer and Cobalt had to decide if they wanted the nebulous aid she could offer as a mage.

  They spoke quietly for a while and then came to her. Cobalt stood behind Dancer, a wall at her back, and the former Harsdown queen regarded her daughter-in-law with dark eyes. She spoke in her moonlight voice. “My son says you are a mage. A healer.”

  “A little,” Mel said.

  “Can you cure my father?”

  “I cannot give him life if his illness is fatal,” Mel said. Only a violet adept had the power to heal mortal wounds. Only such a mage could use spells to give life—or take it.

  The queen spoke quietly. “I understand you helped my husband after the Alzire battle.”

  “I tried.” Mel’s voice caught. “I failed.”

  “Cobalt says you eased Varqelle’s pain as he died.” Her gaze never wavered. “And that the attempt nearly killed you.” />
  Mel just nodded, unable to speak. She had poured her last resources into the dying king, but his wounds had been too severe. Her best spells hadn’t been enough.

  “You had every reason to hate my husband,” Dancer said. “Yet you offered your life in an effort to save his.”

  “It is my oath as a mage,” Mel said. “To bring light. To heal.” No matter how much she abhorred the person.

  Cobalt spoke raggedly. “If you help Grandfather—” He either couldn’t or wouldn’t continue. But Mel knew his question; would she live?

  “I was too drained then,” Mel said. “I am rested now.” It was true. She didn’t say she had no more training in using her mage powers now than she had that night, for she couldn’t assure him it wouldn’t hurt her to use her ability.

  “I have heard other tales of your deeds that day.” Dancer’s voice had a distant quality, as if her words came across a field. “They say you walked through the battle wielding a sword of flame that touched the sky.”

  The stories had grown until Mel hardly recognized herself. She had done no more than create a simple red spell. She made light. But she powered it with a catapult ball. A sphere.

  The Chamberlight army had already won the battle—but then a Shazire warrior broke through to Varqelle and struck him down. In his enraged grief, Cobalt would have massacred every Shazire soldier on the field. To stop him, Mel had made her desperate spell. She held her sword high, and a pillar of light stretched from it into the sky. In the dusk, it lit the entire battlefield, throwing fighters into sharp relief. She walked among them and no one touched her. It stopped the fighting. Cobalt knew the truth, that she had created no more than light, but the tales of her “sorcery” burned far brighter than her actual spell.

  “I don’t know how much I can help His Majesty,” Mel said. “But I can promise I will do no harm.”

  “No harm?” Bitterness saturated Dancer’s voice. “He would live. What greater harm could you do?”

  Mel froze. Whatever Dancer thought of the king, she had never spoken of him in such a manner.