Two sphere-majors flanked him. Although they gave no overt sign they were guiding him, Chime could tell they were helping with a nudge at his elbow or simply their presence at his side. They managed well; had she not known he was blind, she would never have realized it now.
She concentrated on Jarid, focusing through the eighteen-sided ball she wore around her neck…and his mood leapt in her mind. Fear. Enemies surrounded him and he didn’t know what they wanted. His anger and confusion sparked, ready to blaze. He controlled himself only with a phenomenal resolve. His inner strength was tangible, an iron will that must have carried him through fourteen years of a nightmare.
Incredibly, no outward sign of his turmoil showed. He continued with his retinue, approaching the dais, his head high. Iris’s spell swirled in the hall, diffuse and unpolished, its warmth overflowing. With fledgling, uncertain attempts, she wove a spell to soothe Jarid.
Chime would have rejoiced at Iris’s realization of her power if it hadn’t hurt so much. How could Chime have ever believed herself the stronger mage? Iris’s gifts had an unmatched purity and power. For one brief year, Chime had been the future queen, someone more than the wayward daughter of an orchard keeper. Now that was gone forever. She tried to feel gladdened that Iris was blooming with such grace, but she grieved over what she had lost.
Jarid’s retinue ascended the dais and proceeded to its center. They didn’t stop until he was standing with his bride, the two of them gazing at each other. Chime suspected she was one of the few people in the hall who realized Jarid wasn’t looking directly at Iris.
Iris took his hand. Her gesture appeared charming, but Chime felt Jarid’s mood roiling like a storm. He wanted to fight this inexplicable situation, but he held back—for he recognized his ancestral home. Memories jumped in his mind, so vivid that Chime caught them as part of his mood. In that instant, she knew his identity without doubt, for he remembered playing here as a boy, as the heir to the throne. Then anger and fear swamped his memories, threatening to explode.
Iris offered a spell of soothing, like rain misting over flames, calming Jarid. But when she tried a healing spell, it slid off him with no effect. Apparently whatever had hurt Jarid went too deep for even a sapphire mage to heal.
The Bishop of Orbs opened a book written in a gilded script Chime could see glimmering even from so far away. A gold tassel hung down from the tome. Iris and Jarid stood while he spoke ancient words in his resonant voice. When he finished, he asked Iris and Jarid to kneel. A sphere-major reached for Jarid, to guide him—and Chime froze. She felt Jarid’s tension; he barely had control of his fear. He would snap if a stranger touched him.
Iris must have also sensed it. She shook her head at the major, and he hesitated, his hand above Jarid’s shoulder. The others on the dais had gone still. Jarid tilted his head, the tendons in his neck as taut as cords.
Chime became painfully aware of everyone in the hall watching. She glimpsed Muller across the room, his gaze fixed on the dais as if he were mesmerized. The silence felt tangible. If someone didn’t respond soon, the guests would realize something was amiss with Aronsdale’s long-lost heir.
A new spell flowed out from Iris, its power untutored but radiant. She offered friendship to Jarid. He paused, his head tilted as if he were listening to a sound no one else could hear. Then he knelt with her, stiff and slow. Both he and Iris bowed their heads, though Chime thought Jarid did it more out of instinct than anything else.
The Bishop of Orbs turned to the boy who held the tasseled cushion. With care, the bishop lifted the larger of the two crowns and set it on Jarid’s head. It sparkled, its amethysts and diamonds catching the candlelight. He repeated the procedure with the smaller circlet, placing it on Iris’s head.
Jarid’s bewilderment swirled through the hall, so tangible, Chime wondered that no one else seemed to feel it. He understood the weight of that crown. An immense grief for his grandfather’s death came from him, but he didn’t seem surprised.
Then the bishop read the marriage ceremony, his words rolling through the Hall of Kings while Jarid and Iris knelt before him. And finally it was done: Jarid and Iris were wed. Aronsdale once again had a king and queen.
Anvil stood in the gardens and watched the coronation through the open doorway. Jarid Dawnfield fascinated and repelled him. Anvil’s spying had revealed much about this new king. They could clean his hair, wash his body, and dress him in brocades, but none of that would make him any less insane.
Far more interesting were the dignitaries and officers at the ceremony. Lord Brant Firestoke made a striking presence, imposing in his silver leggings and blue tunic, his silvered hair swept back, his gaze fiercely protective. Cube-General Fieldson was just as impressive in his dress uniform, a sharply pressed tunic and leggings in the king’s colors, indigo and white, with plenty of gold on his shoulders and the cuffs of his tunic. His sword glinted at his side, sheathed but no less deadly for that.
Four other generals were in attendance and many lesser officers. They fascinated Anvil. He had been invited tonight because several nobles among the court had taken a liking to him, including Lady Chime. But he took care not to intrude too much, lest he could draw unwanted attention. Better to be inconspicuous.
He found it easier to blend in than he had expected. Although he had left Aronsdale nearly twenty years ago, it was disturbingly easy to fall back into the accent and customs. Being unobtrusive, fading into the background, he caught a wealth of snippets and rumors. Mood spells would have given him even more advantage, if he could have made them, but he did well enough without. He knew how to sort and store details, having spent a lifetime wandering by himself. He had learned to read situations of all kinds, including those that could mean his life or death.
Here in Suncroft, Anvil had learned a great deal that would interest King Varqelle. Many injuries weakened Aronsdale: a crippled king, a demoralized army with little confidence in their new sovereign, and a mage queen with neither the experience nor heart to rule. They put on a good show, but it didn’t fool him. He understood what hid under their glitter and pomp. Aronsdale was in trouble.
The time was ripe for attack.
Lost in thought, Chime followed a corridor tiled in skybell patterns, carrying a candle in a silver holder. She longed to see how Muller fared, how he was handling Jarid’s ascension tonight, but she held back, aware of how it would look if she visited him this late. Nor was she sure where she stood with him. He used many fine words to reassure her, but he also broke propriety by inviting her to his rooms. They both knew he no longer had to marry her. Despite his pretty words, he wouldn’t be the first lord to take a common woman as mistress and wed a noblewoman. She had no intention of being part of such an arrangement.
But still. He hadn’t suggested she be his mistress, any more than she had suggested what women sometimes did in rural Aronsdale, taking the male version of a mistress. She would never dishonor Muller that way.
Despite her uncertainty, she found herself headed to his suite. She went around the back, along a narrow hall to a recessed doorway, a discreet entrance used by Muller’s servants. She disliked that her visit had to be hidden, but she knocked anyway, her heart beating hard. The candle flame wavered in the drafts, making her shadow flicker on the wall. It seemed forever she stood there, praying no one happened by to see her.
Then the door opened, framing Sam Threadman in the entrance. He must have been in bed; he had on sleep trousers under his robe and a white floppy cap with a fuzzy ball at the end of it. Chime expected him to frown or regard her with disdain. Instead he looked relieved. He held a candle much like hers, its light casting a glow on his face and shoulders.
“Lady Chime.” He stepped aside. “Please. Come in.”
Her face warmed with her blush. She entered a small room painted off-white, fresh and spotless. Three mops leaned against one wall by a pail. Sam murmured apologies as he hurried her across the chamber and into a nondescript hallway the same color. As t
hey followed it to other halls, and yet others, she realized Muller’s “suite” was an entire wing of the castle. Within moments they had reached wide corridors graced with mosaics in tessellated patterns of gold, blue, indigo, and white.
“How is Prince Muller feeling?” Chime asked.
Sam wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Lord, milady.”
She glowered at him. “Prince. He is Jarid’s heir.”
“Oh.” Sam brightened. “Yes, you are right.” He gave her a rueful look. “He’s as well as can be imagined, under the circumstances.”
“I saw him talking to Della at the ceremony.” She recalled his stiff posture. “He didn’t seem happy.”
Sam sighed. “This is difficult for everyone.” The lines around his eyes crinkled with a kindly look. “It was gracious of you to understand that he needed—” He paused as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase what Muller had needed during the ceremony.
“To face it on his own,” she said.
“He feels he failed you. And himself.”
“But he hasn’t! Iris will be a good queen.” She didn’t have to add, Better than I. Even if no one said it, everyone knew the truth. She wished it wasn’t so hard to admit.
Sam stopped at an arched doorway bordered by gold and white mosaics. He knocked twice on the varnished wooden door, paused, and knocked again. Then they waited.
When the door opened, Chime expected another servant. But Muller stood there, holding a candle, still in his finery from the ceremony, his golden hair shining in the candlelight.
“Sam? Is something wrong?” He peered at his valet, then past him. When he saw Chime, his face warmed. Earlier tonight he had looked as if he had aged a decade, but now, as he smiled, the years dropped away.
“I am glad you came,” he told her.
She tried to smile, but her lips trembled.
“Will you visit for a while?” he asked.
This time she managed an answer. “For a little.”
His shoulders relaxed. He grinned at Sam and the valet beamed. Sam bowed to Muller, then to Chime, and then bustled off, his slippers whispering on the tiled floors.
Muller beckoned to Chime, and she walked into his room, wondering if he could see how nervous she felt. As he closed the door, she looked around, unable to meet his gaze. Her breath caught. His rooms were like him; ivory and gold, perfect, beautiful. Blue-glass vases with skybells added accents of color. The upholstery on the gilded chairs bore the seal of Aronsdale, an indigo silhouette of the castle superimposed on the sun. The room smelled of fresh flowers and orb-candles.
Finally she turned to the man at her side. He had gone still, like a nervous stag uncertain whether to run or stay. Unexpectedly it reassured her. Had he been smooth, confident, sure of himself, she would have wanted to escape, afraid he entertained women here often, making her only one of many. Instead, he seemed as unsure of himself as she felt.
“Do you like my suite?” he asked.
“It is lovely.”
“Only because you are here.” Then he reddened.
Her face relaxed into a smile. “Thank you.”
Muller ushered her to a circular table with two round-backed chairs. A decanter of red wine sparkled there, with two goblets made from Rosedale crystal. He pulled out her chair, then sat across from her and poured wine for them. Raising his glass, he said, “To our new king and queen.”
Chime lifted her goblet. “Iris and Jarid.”
He wasn’t smiling. “May they have productive lives.”
“Hai, Muller.” She set down her glass. “I know you wish them well. You needn’t force out the words.”
“Wish them well?” He took a gulp of wine. “I would have died if they had made you wed that madman.”
She spoke with care. “To marry a king is an honor. I am glad for Iris.” Glad that Iris had the honor instead of her.
His lips quirked. “You are becoming a diplomat.”
She laughed ruefully. “I’m trying.”
He reached across the table for her hand. “I haven’t spoken properly. I am making a mood spell right now, and it tells me that what I haven’t properly said agitates you. But my spells are fractured. I am unsure whether your disquiet comes from wanting me to speak or fearing that I will.” He made a visible effort to fortify himself. “But speak I must.”
Chime had no idea what he was about. “To say what?”
He inhaled deeply. “I would ask that you marry me.”
His words caught her off guard. “You do?”
He looked like a man falling off a cliff. “I can no longer offer you a crown. But you will have a good life on my country estate.”
Relief flooded Chime. She had thought she would have to make an unwelcome decision tonight, either give him up or consent to a liaison she would regret. Instead he made the honorable offer. Not that misbehaving with Muller would be disagreeable; she had begun to think it was high time she misplaced her virginity. His existence was exceedingly distracting. But it meant more than she knew how to say that he wanted to do this right.
His grip on her hand tightened. “You are so quiet.”
Chime curled her fingers around his. “I would be honored to be your wife, here at Suncroft, in the country, or anywhere else. You need no crown to woo me.” She dimpled at him. “With all these beautiful clothes you wear, who would notice a crown anyway?”
He grinned, his teeth flashing. “You make me a happy man.”
She gave a mock frown. “I must say, I don’t know how I will feel, knowing the groom is prettier than the bride.”
He glared at her. “I am not pretty.”
“All right,” she said amiably. “You aren’t.”
Muller laughed with an ease she hadn’t heard for days. “You don’t have to agree so easily.”
“You will always be handsome to me.”
“Well, of course.”
She smirked at him. “And humble, too.”
“That, too.” Then his grin faded. “I should like us to wed soon, before Brant and his cronies come up with some new and onerous duty that would preclude us from marrying.”
“They want you to stay here and help Jarid and Iris.” She took both his hands in hers. “It is the right thing, Muller. Iris has no background, and Jarid is furious and terrified. They need your help.”
He pulled away his hands. “You are as bad as Della.”
“Just think on it.”
For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he raked his hand through his hair, tousling the golden locks. Finally he set his hands on the table, clasping them carefully, as if he needed the security of their exact proper placement. With his hair disarrayed around his face, he looked vulnerable instead of exact, though. It made her want him even more.
He spoke in a subdued voice. “When Iris first said she had found Jarid, it seemed a boon from the heavens. Jarid would come, the unflawed king.”
“You aren’t flawed, no more than the rest of us.”
“I cannot hide from the truth.” His face paled. “But when they brought him home—he is wild. He could harm our country even more than me. Aronsdale is fortunate to have Iris.”
She spoke quietly. “It is no flaw to see only darkness and hear only silence.”
“It isn’t that.” Muller shook his head. “He is like an animal, Chime. It doesn’t matter why; the result is the same. No fatally flawed king, or king’s cousin, can be allowed to destroy Aronsdale. Our country is more important than either of us. We must protect our realm and our people.”
“You aren’t fatally flawed, Muller. You’ve never given yourself a chance.”
His sudden tension seemed to snap in the room. “You are saying I should not have abdicated?”
“No. Jarid is the heir. It was right for you to do. And Iris is the queen he needs.” She spoke firmly. “But you are a far better man than you let yourself believe.”
He still had one hand on top of the other, and the fingers of his upper hand clenched the bottom hand so har
d, his knuckles turned white. “Just as long as Jarid never rules.”
Chime didn’t know what to say. If she convinced Muller he was fit to rule, he would hate himself for giving up the crown; if she convinced him that Jarid was fit, he would despise himself for being less competent than his troubled cousin who had no preparation; if she said nothing, she felt disloyal to Jarid.
A knock came at the door.
Muller jumped like a startled cat. “That can’t be Sam. He was going back to bed.”
As Muller crossed to the door, Chime wondered if she should hide, so his visitor wouldn’t see her here without a chaperone. Only Sam knew she had come. Even if it wasn’t him, though, she didn’t feel like scurrying away. Noblewomen here put up with too many constraints. They needed to live in the country for a while. They would be a lot better off if they just refused to accept all these onerous customs and traditions. So she stayed put.
Muller sought to protect her reputation, though, even if she couldn’t muster alarm about being discovered. He opened the door only partway; as long as she remained at the table, she wasn’t visible to whomever stood outside. She could see the edge of a man’s blue and silver uniform. An unfamiliar voice spoke, low and urgent. Muller conferred with him, then bid him goodnight and closed the door. He came slowly back to Iris, his gaze distant.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Jarid. He and Iris have left the castle.”
“Whatever for?”
His forehead furrowed. “Apparently our new king is agitated. Brant and several guards tried to go with them into the forest, but Iris sent them away.”
Chime stood up. “What if Jarid hurts her?”
Muller met her gaze. “Pray he doesn’t.”
17
Dawn of Rainbows
Spheres turned in Jarid’s mind, spinning an endless dance. Never had they come with such clarity. They were even more beautiful than usual, but they gave him vertigo, which had never happened before. He shut them away, trying to clear his mind of everything but the woman.
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