The Misted Cliffs

by Catherine Asaro

  “She deserted me, you know,” Varqelle said.

  Cobalt shifted in his saddle. “I know.”

  His expression hardened. “In Harsdown, the penalty for such desertion used to be execution.”

  Cobalt stiffened. “You will not harm my mother.”

  Varqelle made a visible effort to relax. “I have no wish to harm her. But understand, son, I was angry for years. It is hard to forget.”

  Cobalt hesitated. “It has been a long time. Perhaps now you and she can find some common ground.”

  “Perhaps.” Varqelle didn’t sound optimistic. “Does Muller Dawnfield still rule in Harsdown?”

  “Aye.” It relieved Cobalt to change the subject. “He sits on your stolen throne.”

  “Castle Escar is the worse for it.”

  “He and Queen Chime don’t live in the castle.” Cobalt knew of the mountain retreat only through Dancer’s descriptions. She said it reminded her of the Misted Cliffs. It sounded stark and remote, a fortress high in the mountains, away from the fertile plains and gentle countryside. Such a place could appeal to him.

  “Where do they live?” his father asked.

  “On a farm.”

  Varqelle laughed. “How dignified.”

  “It is a rich estate,” Cobalt said. “Its output would increase your coffers if you were king again. As you should be.”

  His father gave him an appraising look, the planes of his face thrown into relief by the moonlight. “I am pleased you would have me back on the Jaguar Throne. But what army will put me there? I find it hard to believe that after eighteen years of letting me rot in the Barrens, the Harsdown army will come thundering to my side to overthrow that silly fop who thinks he is their king.”

  “Muller Dawnfield is surprisingly well liked,” Cobalt admitted. “I don’t see why. He seems weak. He is reputed to have talent as a military commander and strategist, but that may be Aronsdale propaganda.” Judging from what Cobalt had heard, Dawnfield spent most of his time worrying about trees and clothes. The man’s life had spoiled him with too many emotional riches. Strength came from learning to overcome the hells a person lived. Cobalt knew. His life had made him strong. Rage often filled him, too, and a hunger to ride and fight. Perhaps now that he had freed his father, his spirit would calm.

  Varqelle spoke dryly. “The Dawnfields did manage to keep me locked up for all those years.”

  It felt like a rebuke, though Cobalt heard no censure in his father’s voice. “I should have come sooner.”

  “You came when you could. And you did well.” For the first time, Varqelle smiled with ease. “It pleases me. You are a fine son, a man to make his father proud.”

  A fine son. The unexpected compliment left Cobalt at a loss for words. He never heard such from his grandfather. Stonebreaker made no secret of his scorn.

  Regardless of what his grandfather thought, though, he wanted Cobalt to inherit the Jaguar Throne. It would increase the influence of Stonebreaker’s line. He had declared Cobalt crown prince to the Sapphire Throne of the Misted Cliffs. His daughter, Dancer, should have inherited the title; in lands where royals had only one child, women often held a throne. But Stonebreaker refused to consider her. He wasn’t the first king to modify the expectation of “one heir” to “one son.” But his queen had died, and he had never remarried. That left only Cobalt to inherit. No matter how worthless Stonebreaker considered him, the fact remained: if Varqelle regained the Jaguar Throne, they could unite Harsdown and the Misted Cliffs and greatly increase their family’s power.

  The Chamberlight king, however, had no love for Varqelle. He claimed his son-in-law had sorely abused Dancer until she fled home to her loving father. Cobalt knew better. His grandfather disliked Varqelle because, for a short time, the Harsdown king had replaced him as the primary force in Dancer’s life. Cobalt doubted his grandfather cared if Varqelle had taken a rough hand with his wife; Cobalt had felt the force of Stonebreaker’s blows plenty in his childhood. So had Dancer. She and Cobalt had lived in fear. But she never told him why. In fleeing Varqelle, she had gone home to a monster, and however much Cobalt might love his mother, a part of him could never forgive her for the price her decision had exacted.

  The day had come in his youth when Cobalt had fought back against his grandfather. It had enraged Stonebreaker, and he had beaten Cobalt harder. But Cobalt had continued to grow, and to train with a sword and in hand-to-hand combat. When he reached his full height and weight, he towered over all other men. He had become so large that even a man as physically powerful as Stonebreaker no longer dared hit him. Cobalt had sworn to his grandfather that if the king ever touched Dancer or him again, Cobalt would retaliate. Even now, Cobalt continued to train, obsessively, with single-minded determination, as if sheer physical power could overcome the nightmares of his youth. He hated himself for the violent fury that simmered within him, ready to flare, for he believed it made him no better than the man who had taught him that rage.

  Stonebreaker had backed away from his worst violence, but his verbal attacks had never stopped. Cobalt suspected his grandfather supported this expedition in part because he hoped Varqelle would help him control his grandson. Or maybe Stonebreaker felt the years pressing on him. He had no other kin, and Cobalt’s grandmother had died years ago from a fall in the cliffs. In his darker moments, Cobalt wondered if Stonebreaker had lost control during a rage and killed her. Cobalt hated him—but the king of the Misted Cliffs was the closest he had ever known to a father.

  The one light in Cobalt’s life was his mother. From her, he learned that love could exist within a family. Fragile and easily broken, it suffered always, yet somehow it survived. If not for Dancer, he might have become so hard that nothing human remained within him. Only she could have convinced him to call off this mission. She never asked that of him, and he could only guess at what it cost her. But she understood; he had to face his father if he was ever to appease the doubts that haunted his life.

  Cobalt needed to know this man, Varqelle Escar, or he would never know himself. He had to come to terms with what it meant to be Cobalt Escar; otherwise, he feared one day he would snap from the brutal loneliness he called life and kill either himself or his grandfather.

  3

  Castle of Clouds

  The messengers from Aronsdale arrived late in the day. They had ridden hard, and dust covered their horses and clothes. Mel saw them pound into the yard behind the farmhouse, in front of the stables. As they surrendered their exhausted mounts to stable hands, members of the house staff ran out to them.

  Her parents met with the visitors in her father’s study, and Mel waited in the antechamber outside. She had changed into blue silk leggings and tunic, more formal attire, for she had recognized the white and indigo livery of the riders. They came from Castle Suncroft, the home of her cousin, King Jarid.

  After an hour, her father opened the door. His expression disquieted her; it was as if an avalanche were thundering out of the mountains and he saw no way to stop it from burying them.

  “You can come in,” he said.

  Uneasy, Mel went with him into the study. Shelves with books and scrolls lined the walls, as did star charts and maps of Harsdown. The two riders were rising from high-backed chairs near the desk, with its clutter of scrolls and ink bottles. They bowed to her parents and to her, and then left the room. Muller closed the door behind them. It all happened with an eerie quiet that chilled Mel.

  Her mother stood by an arched window across the study, her yellow hair loose, flowing down her back to her waist. Chime’s vibrancy was muted today, and Mel had never seen her face so drawn. Sphere-General Samuel Fieldson stood with her. He was a burly man, strongly built, with graying hair the color of granite. He had been a Cube-General during the war against Harsdown and had helped lead Aronsdale to its narrow victory. Now he served as her father’s chief military adviser.

  Skylark, the mage mistress, was standing by the hearth. The decades had lined her face, but her
blue eyes remained alert. Her braid hung over her shoulder, thick and full, completely white. Along with Fieldson and Chime, she served in the inner circle of the King’s Advisers.

  A portrait of the royal family hung above the fireplace. It had been painted when Mel was six. Curls tumbled around her shoulders and her blue eyes matched those of her parents. Right now, neither of her parents had anything resembling the serene smiles in that portrait.

  “What happened?” Mel asked.

  Muller walked over to the desk. He gazed down at a scroll held open by a paperweight sculpted in the shape of an ice-dragon. Chime pressed her palm against the window as she watched them.

  “Father?” Mel asked.

  He turned and spoke quietly. “Cobalt Escar led a company of men against the Citadel of Rumors. They wiped out most of the defenders and freed Varqelle Escar. King Stonebreaker has granted Varqelle asylum.”

  Varqelle free and the men at the Citadel dead? It couldn’t be. Mel had heard tales about Prince Cobalt from travelers. Some called the Chamberlight heir a brute, others named him a demon, but none disputed his cruelty.

  “What does it mean for Harsdown?” Mel asked.

  Her father pushed his hand through his hair. “Varqelle will demand I return his throne.”

  Mel stared at him. “He cannot!”

  General Fieldson spoke. “Then he will come for it himself. His son has a well-trained force and a reputation as a formidable military leader. Stonebreaker must have supplied the men for the strike against the Citadel of Rumors, which means he is willing to take an aggressor’s stance now. I doubt they will stop with the citadel.”

  “You mean we will fight the Misted Cliffs?” Mel asked.

  “I don’t know,” her father said. “We have lived in peace with them for centuries. They took no side in our war with Harsdown eighteen years ago. But Cobalt is King Stonebreaker’s grandson and will be the heir of two kingdoms if Varqelle regains his throne. And he has had many years to convince his grandfather to ally with his father.”

  Mel absorbed his words. If King Stonebreaker supplied Varqelle with an army, they would ride against Harsdown. Her father would go to war. Maybe die.

  “No.” More loudly, she said, “No! It must not happen.”

  Chime came to the desk and laid her hands on it as if drawing strength from the place where she signed documents as the queen of Harsdown. “If he invades, we have no choice but to fight.”

  “We must prepare,” Fieldson said.

  “Can we survive against the Misted Cliffs?” Mel asked. “Their army is large.”

  Her father answered grimly. “It is more than strong enough to defeat ours. We will also have Aronsdale support, but even if Jarid and I combine our armies, we aren’t evenly matched with the Misted Cliffs. If my men start deserting back to Varqelle, their former commander, we will be in trouble.”

  “Harsdown has been under your rule for eighteen years,” Fieldson said. “Your army is loyal.”

  Skylark spoke. “And we have mages.”

  “No!” Muller’s voice exploded. “I will not see my wife and daughter ride to war. Nor you, Skylark. Gods, you’re a great-grandmother. You should be knitting on your rocking chair.”

  Skylark smiled dryly. “I would die of boredom.”

  Chime came around the desk to him. “I must go. The mage queens have always ridden with the army.” Her melodic voice had an underlying steel. She was far more than the lovely vision in that portrait above the hearth. The painter had seen her as a golden-haired angel, but this strong-willed woman had a power beyond what he had captured in the picture.

  Mel went over to them. “I will also go with the army.” Although she had never faced anyone in genuine combat, she had always known, in the back of her mind, that her day-to-day training was preparation to kill. Until this moment, it hadn’t seemed real. But she could never remain here in safety while her parents risked themselves.

  Her father looked as if he were dying inside. “Were you my son, I could no more refuse you than I could myself.”

  “Son or daughter,” Mel said. “It makes no difference.”

  “But it does to me,” her father said.

  Fieldson spoke. “Muller, your wife has gone into battle before. Her help was invaluable. And your daughter is as well trained as any of the junior officers her age.”

  Muller regarded him with a chill gaze that Mel hoped he never turned on her. “What man encourages another to send his wife and daughter to their deaths?”

  “I would have none of you go into combat,” Fieldson said. “Not Mel, not Chime, not you. But what would you have us do? You lead the army and we cannot win against the Misted Cliffs without other mages. Even with them, we might lose.”

  Muller scowled at him. Then he swung around to Skylark. “What say you, Mage Mistress?”

  “If you go to war,” she said, “someone has to stay here and govern Harsdown.” She nodded to Chime. “The queen.”

  “Yes.” Muller nodded. “You are right.”

  “And it is true I am elderly,” Skylark said. “I would slow down the army.”

  Muller gave Fieldson a pointed look. “It appears my mage mistress does not agree with you.”

  “I agree about Mel,” Skylark said. “She should go. She has the ability and the training.”

  “I will not send my heir to die,” Muller said flatly.

  Fieldson shook his head. “If only Jarid had executed Varqelle.”

  “Do not criticize my cousin and our king,” Muller said. But he sounded tired. They all had to be having the same thought.

  “It might have made no difference,” Chime said. “Had Jarid executed Varqelle, Prince Cobalt probably would have raised an army anyway, to avenge his father’s death and regain his throne.”

  “But why would Stonebreaker want a war?” Mel asked. “Surely he must see there would be no real winners.”

  “They will consider it a victory if Varqelle regains his throne,” Chime said grimly. “No matter what they destroy.”

  “Jarid sent an envoy to the Misted Cliffs,” Muller said. “Perhaps the situation can be resolved without combat.” He looked around at them. “But we must prepare the army. Just in case.”

  The Castle of Clouds stood atop a massive cliff, part of a wall of cliffs that stretched to the north and south for many leagues. They towered over the lowlands and marked the western border of Harsdown with the larger country of the Misted Cliffs. Almost no one lived in that desolate region. The castle was inaccessible except to those few who knew the convoluted path to its apex. It took its name from the clouds that swirled around its parapets and walls.

  Centuries ago, a Chamberlight king had built the castle for his wife. It consisted of towers—only towers—surrounded by a high wall. The white stone blended with the clouds. Spires topped the domes, and pennants snapped in the wind, each with a filled-in blue circle on a white background. The circle was drawn to resemble a sphere, the symbol of the House of Chamberlight. Flying buttresses braced the walls, and bridges arched among the towers. Two statues of ice-dragons guarded the path to the main gate. The keep had a courtyard and stables, but little else within its wall. No other construct existed like it in any of the settled lands, not in Shazire to the south, Jazid or Taka Mal to the east, Aronsdale and Harsdown in the central lands, or here in the western lands of the Misted Cliffs, which stretched from Harsdown to the western coast, where the Blue Ocean rolled to the horizon.

  Above the castle, the River of Diamonds flowed through the mountains and fell in a long waterfall into the Lake of Ice. The land around the lake supported the only cultivated fields in this region. With its remote location, the castle had to sustain itself. It served as a sentry on the border, but nothing more; the royal court presided over by King Stonebreaker was in the Diamond Palace in the heavily populated lowlands west of the cliffs.

  Dancer Chamberlight Escar lived year round in the Castle of Clouds. Cobalt knew she had chosen this retreat as a refuge from
the court. He also loved the fortress. In his childhood, his grandfather had only let them spend part of the year here, away from him. Cobalt had treasured those times of freedom from violence and acrimony. Then he could almost put aside his bewildered anger. He had never understood why his mother had left Varqelle for the nightmare of Stonebreaker’s violence, and she had always refused to discuss the subject. She claimed she was protecting Cobalt, and he never doubted she meant it. Why go to Stonebreaker, then? True, his grandfather would never have allowed her another retreat; he would have sent his army for her if she had fled to anyone else. But he had arranged her marriage. He wouldn’t have ripped her away from her husband if she had chosen to stay.

  Dancer would say only that he was better off here. Was his father such a monster? Varqelle’s blood flowed in Cobalt’s veins. Cobalt had freed him because it was a son’s duty to his sire and king, but his wish to know his father often pressed on him more than those more traditional reasons.

  Cobalt and his mother had agreed he would bring Varqelle to the castle first, instead of to the Diamond Palace. Dancer wanted to face her estranged husband in the safety of her retreat. It would be difficult enough for her to see him without also having to deal with Stonebreaker.

  So Cobalt took his father to the clouds. Before dawn, they headed up a trail into the cliffs. As they went higher, fog curled around them, wet against his cheeks. Wind tugged his dark hair in its warrior’s queue. His father constantly scanned the austere landscape, and Cobalt didn’t doubt he was memorizing the route. Varqelle had never been here before; after Dancer left her husband, Stonebreaker had forbidden Varqelle to see her.

  They reached the castle in the afternoon. Its wall stood four stories high and surrounded a wonderwork of towers. Sentries on top of the wall had watched their approach, and as Cobalt and his men arrived, the massive gate creaked open.

  Varqelle tilted his head back to view the towers clustered at different heights. “Pretty.”