The Misted Cliffs
Page 1
THEMISTEDCLIFFS
Catherine Asaro
To my nephews
Nathan and Owen
With love
Contents
1 Citadel of Rumors
2 Cobalt the Dark
3 Castle of Clouds
4 Storm Tower
5 The Jaguar Groom
6 The Skybell Bride
7 The Starlight Engagement
8 Borderland Glade
9 The Airlight Room
10 The General
11 Fists
12 The Tiled Pool
13 Chamberlights
14 The Sphere Tower
15 The Living Sea
16 The Citadel Within
17 Blueshire
18 Flame Caller
19 The Qzure Fields
20 The Mortal Spell
21 The House of Zerod
22 The King's Brother
1
Citadel of Rumors
They called him the Midnight Prince.
Cobalt the Dark, the only son of Varqelle Escar, stood on a ridge and looked out across the Barrens. In the distance, the blurred towers of a half-hidden fortress made black silhouettes against the darkening sky. The Citadel of Rumors. It guarded a bleak, northern landscape.
This sunset would finish far more than one day. An era would soon end. For the last eighteen years, the people of Aronsdale, Harsdown, and the Misted Cliffs had lived without hostilities among their three countries. Tonight, the Midnight Prince would destroy that peace.
For eighteen years, his father had been a prisoner in these desolate Barrens. For eighteen years, Varqelle, the king of Harsdown, had lived in the Citadel of Rumors against his will, captured by the Aronsdale king, guarded by Aronsdale cavalry and troops, locked here in isolation while an imposter sat on his throne in Harsdown.
Now that would end.
Cobalt mounted his horse, a powerful charger. He had left Admiral, his travel horse, back in camp. This one stamped and snorted, straining to run. His advisers had cautioned him to wait for morning, but Cobalt had waited and planned for years. He would delay no longer. He drew his sword and stretched his arm straight up with the blade pointing at the sky. Behind him, six hundred warriors would be leaning forward in their saddles, ready to charge. His men would thunder out of the crimson sunset like avenging angels.
He intended to free his father—no matter what the price.
Melody Headwind Dawnfield went by the name Mel, and woe to anyone who called her Princess Melody. She sat astride Tangle, a horse from the royal stables, and rode through the orchards on her family’s estate in Harsdown. The practice sword at her hip had interlocking polygons engraved on its hilt. Her yellow hair caught leaves, and she knew she ought to tie it back. She would have preferred to cut it off, but she had promised her father to reconsider.
Mel sighed. Her father was an admirable king, a great army commander and swordsman, but he cared about fashion too much. She preferred to tramp about the orchards and hike in the woods. Her behavior would be considered scandalous for a woman of the royal court in Aronsdale, the country of her father’s birth, but here on their farm in Harsdown it was only odd. Her father often grumbled about her lack of decorum, but Mel knew he enjoyed her free spirit. Although she had no desire to conform, she also wished to do well in her role as heir to the throne. Someday she would have to follow the dictates of protocol more closely, but for now she had the liberty to be herself, and she relished that freedom.
She reined Tangle to a stop under an apple tree rich with green and gold autumn leaves. She loved this fertile country far more than the stark mountains to the north or the humid southern climes. The horse snuffled and shook its head, then settled down to nibble at straggles of grass. Mel sat in the saddle and braided her hair. The last rays of the sun slanted through the trees, and many shapes showed in the patches of light and shadow on the leaf-strewn ground, a triangle here, a circle there. One caught her notice in particular, an almost perfect square. It glowed with light, so bright she had to squint. Oddly enough, it had a red tinge—
The leaves within the square caught fire.
“Hai!” Mel swung off Tangle and stamped on the flames. The horse stopped grazing, but otherwise didn’t seem concerned. This wasn’t the first time he had witnessed her mishaps. Fortunately, only a few leaves caught fire, and she easily put out the small blaze. Tangle went back to grazing.
Mel winced. “Sorry about that.” At least a horse didn’t chastise her for losing control of the spell. It was more than she could say for Skylark, the elderly mage mistress who was training Mel.
She knelt by the ashes. Apparently she had exerted more control than she realized, for the fire had burned in an exact square. She focused on the square and thought of the color hierarchy of spells, from lowest to highest level: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo—like the rainbow created when light shone through a prism. She imagined the next color after red—and the square glowed orange, adding its luminance to the fading light of a gorgeous autumn day. Refocusing on yet another spell, Mel imagined the orchards in a season when their trees were thick with green leaves and green foliage carpeted the hills. The light within the square turned green—and suddenly Mel knew how much Tangle enjoyed the succulent grass.
“Hey!” Mel grinned at the horse. He lifted his head to look at her, then returned to his meal. She sat back on her haunches. Amazing. Would Skylark believe Mel had felt the mood of a horse? Green spells worked mainly on human beings, revealing their emotions. They might conceivably work on an animal, but usually only an experienced mage could achieve that level of nuance. Mel had come into her abilities relatively late in life, only within the past few years, and she had a great deal to learn.
“What do you say?” she asked Tangle. “Shall I try a blue spell?” Mel doubted she could go as high as blue, the color of healing. She struggled when Skylark worked with her on such spells and had yet to create one. Mel’s mother, Chime, was a green mage, one color below blue, and Mel suspected green would be her highest color as well. Her father, King Muller, was an indigo, but he could use only flawed shapes. They damaged his spells, with unpredictable results. For that reason, he rarely called on his power, lest his spell go awry and hurt someone.
She attempted the blue spell, with no result. Well, she was only eighteen. Perhaps she needed more time for her mage talents to finish developing. Skylark had her own theory about why Mel couldn’t do blue spells. The mage mistress claimed it was because Mel preferred “hefting swords and dashing about on horses” to the more serene pursuits of healing and meditation. The theory aggravated Mel. A swordswoman needed the ability to heal just as much as did a scholar or mystic, and she deeply regretted that she couldn’t manage the blue spells.
In ancient times, mage queens had ridden with the army. Sometimes a wildness stirred in Mel, deep in the night, and the fire of those ancient queens burned within her. In her dreams, she thundered across the land on a charger with her sword held high. Her people had fought no war for eighteen years and had no reason to think they might soon, but she was the only child of the king and queen of Harsdown, and regardless of what she did with her mage heritage, the day would come when she inherited the title of mage queen.
Mel had been born only months after the war with Varqelle Escar had ended and he lost his throne. Her parents became the king and queen of Harsdown. Mel had known a life of warmth and serenity, and she loved it here. Sometimes she chafed at the weight of her duties, but she also savored the challenge of her future as heir to the Jaguar Throne of Harsdown. Such a startling name, though; jaguars weren’t native to the settled lands but had been brought here by sea merchants long ago. The great black cats stalked the warmer regions of south
ern Harsdown, rare and deadly, far too cruel a beast to symbolize her family. When she became queen, perhaps she would call it the Sun Throne.
Her mood dimmed. She would become a queen only after her parents died, a thought she never wanted to entertain. They were the suns in her life. For all that they often exasperated her, they were also the two most loving people she had ever known.
She couldn’t imagine her life without them.
No scouts had detected Cobalt’s company as they crossed the desolate northern lands. They had come east from the Misted Cliffs and ventured through remote passes in the Escar Mountains. Then they traversed the icy northern tundra and headed into the Barrens. They started out each morning before dawn. During part of the day, they rested themselves and the horses, both those mounts they rode for travel and the chargers they used in combat or when chasing bandits in the Misted Cliffs. Each evening they headed out again and rode in the fading light, hidden, covert, silent.
Cobalt’s spies had determined that no “mages” defended the Citadel of Rumors. It didn’t surprise him. He had thought long on the subject and listened to the scholars in his grandfather’s royal court. He had weighed their debates about the validity of mage powers and come to the conclusion shared by many of his people. Mages were tricksters.
The country of Aronsdale—deceptive, treacherous Aronsdale—claimed only six mages of any significant power: King Jarid and Queen Iris; their cousins, Muller and Chime, the false king and queen of Harsdown; and two elderly mage mistresses. Such claims added mystique to tales of their royal House, but none of them fooled Cobalt. Perhaps they might manage a few minor spells, but he suspected they were adept at herbs and chants rather than magic. Even if they had genuine powers, it didn’t matter. He was resolved to see his father given justice, and he would overcome a thousand witches if necessary.
His army gave the Citadel of Rumors no warning. They came hard and fast out of the dusk, six hundred shadows. The men at the fortress responded with admirable speed, given the surprise, but not soon enough to stop Cobalt’s men from wheeling in their battering ram. Arrows rained on the invaders from the walls above, volley after volley, and then flaming oil, but it was too little and too late. Cobalt’s archers returned the volleys even as his other men assaulted the massive gate. They brought it crashing down as dusk spread its cloak across the Barrens.
Cobalt’s cavalry thundered into the stronghold, hundreds of mounted warriors, and also his lightmen, the riders who carried torches. As they engaged the Aronsdale forces, his troops strode behind them, their war cries ringing off the walls. They broke through to the central building and smashed open its great doors, toppling the stone dragons that had guarded the entrance for centuries. The statues shattered on the flagstones.
Cobalt’s cavalry rode straight into the hall beyond. Pillars filled it, hundreds of them. Each pair of columns rose up over ten feet, then joined in a circular horseshoe arch. The circle shape supposedly focused the power of a mage, if one believed the tales. Glistening mosaics covered the arches, and red crystal spheres hung from their apexes on gold chains. Row after row of arches filled the hall, a forest of columns. Very few of the Aronsdale defenders remained and most seemed to have reached this hall. They faced the invaders, swords in hand, desperate in their final stand.
The battle raged among the pillars, and the exquisite arches toppled. One of the larger columns that held up the ceiling also fell, and a portion of the ceiling collapsed to the floor.
When several of the defenders retreated toward the far side of the hall, Cobalt’s pulse leapt, for he knew they would kill his father rather than let Varqelle escape. He went after them, but a giant warrior on a black horse blocked his way. Fired with battle rage, Cobalt swung his blade through the air in a wide arc. Their swords clanged, and the force of the blow shook through his arm. Although the man had good training and fought well, Cobalt had more than just training. He had spent years leading his men while they tracked, fought, and captured the bandits and killers that made their living in the mountains and borderlands of the Misted Cliffs.
His opponent delayed just a second—and Cobalt’s sword found its target. His challenger jerked from the thrust through his chest, his mouth opening as if he couldn’t believe it had happened. Cobalt yanked back his sword, and the blade smashed a column covered with gilded mosaics. Broken tiles flew into the air and added their debris to the wreckage on the ground. Dust swirled. The Aronsdale man toppled from his horse and collapsed on the floor, then lay crumpled amidst the shattered tiles.
Breathing hard, his heart pounding, Cobalt looked around. No Aronsdale man remained standing. Cobalt mourned the death and destruction they had wrought here, but the courage of his opponents and the beauty of this citadel had hidden a crime too heinous to allow.
Now that would change.
Cobalt rode deeper into the hall, accompanied by eight of his men. His charger stepped over debris and bodies. He passed under a large arch and into a wide corridor. His spies had mapped the citadel, and he had memorized its layout as he had memorized every fact they gleaned about this place. He had a good guess where he would find the man he sought, for he had read everything ever written about his father and questioned anyone he could find who had known Varqelle. His father was a renowned sovereign, infamous after his failed invasion of Aronsdale. Although Cobalt had never met him, he knew more about Varqelle Escar than most anyone else alive.
It took only moments to reach the Hall of Arcs. King Jarid, the Aronsdale sovereign, gave audiences here when he was at the citadel. Now Jarid was many days’ ride to the south, at Castle Suncroft, the hereditary estate of his family. The hall should have been empty.
Cobalt rode through the great entrance. The Hall of Arcs stretched before him, its walls, ceiling, and floor built from rare violet marble and engraved with interlocking circles. At the far end, six steps led up to a dais, which supported a cushioned bench where Jarid would sit with his queen or advisers during an audience. No one sat there now—but Varqelle stood in front of it, his head lifted, his eyes dark, his shoulders broad. Black hair swept back from his forehead and fell to his shoulders. The years had added streaks of gray.
Although Cobalt had seen portraits of his parents at the Diamond Palace where his grandfather lived, he had never met his father. But he had no doubt whom he faced. He rode down the hall, aware of silence behind him. His men waited outside. They knew this meeting was only for the father and the son.
As Cobalt neared the dais, he saw Varqelle more clearly, the gaunt face with a strong chin and nose, the dark eyes and brows, the high cheekbones of his royal heritage. Lines creased his face. He wore a dark gray tunic and leggings tucked into black boots, and a gray cape. A warrior’s sword with a massive hilt hung from his leather belt. Cobalt knew then that he and his men weren’t the only ones who had killed today; Varqelle’s captors would never have willingly allowed the deposed king such a weapon. If they had tried to kill Varqelle, as Cobalt feared, then they had died instead.
Varqelle watched him with a dark, unreadable gaze. Sweat broke out on Cobalt’s forehead. Would his father recognize him? Varqelle had no way to know who had attacked; neither Cobalt nor his spies had managed to send a warning. Varqelle had never known his son. Dancer, his queen, had deserted him only months after Cobalt’s birth and fled with her child back to the Misted Cliffs. Cobalt had been fifteen by the time Varqelle had built up his army enough for an invasion, but his father still hadn’t had sufficient force to take on the Misted Cliffs. Dancer believed Varqelle had attacked Aronsdale because he perceived it as the weakest country among the settled lands, that when his army was strong enough, he would march on her country. Someday Varqelle would have come for his heir. Instead he had lost his throne and his freedom—until now.
Tonight the son came for the father.
Cobalt reined in before the dais, then dismounted and dropped the reins. He knew this horse enough to trust that it wouldn’t desert him within these walls.
Varqelle watched him with no emotion on his ascetic face. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Cobalt kept his arms at his sides as he climbed the dais. At the top, he was four steps away from Varqelle. He stood a head taller even than his father, who had a height greater than most men. It was hard for Cobalt to imagine his pale, delicate mother as queen to this man. The years had weathered Varqelle and added to his aura of power. He would crush those he deemed weaker than himself.
Varqelle said, “Well done, my son.”
Cobalt’s breath stopped. The silence of the citadel seemed to roar in his ears. His father knew him.
Cobalt had anticipated this moment for decades. He knew Varqelle’s notorious reputation, knew his mother’s fear of her husband, knew his grandfather’s distrust. But Varqelle was the only father Cobalt would ever have, and in the parched emotional fields of his life, his need to know this man had become a compelling force in his life.
Cobalt went down on one knee, folding his immense frame before his sire. Then he said the phrase he had practiced in his mind a thousand times, since he had been old enough to long for a father.
“I pledge to you my loyalty,” Cobalt said.
“I accept.” The king’s voice rumbled. “Rise, Cobalt.”
He stood, and a crystalline power seemed to fill him, as if the cold northern air seared his lungs and heart clean of emotional debris he had accumulated over the decades. He felt strong.
“I have many men,” Cobalt said. “We will take you to the Misted Cliffs. King Stonebreaker offers sanctuary.”
Varqelle’s gaze darkened. “Why? He has no love for me.”