The Misted Cliffs

by Catherine Asaro

  “You lost the war,” Firestoke told Varqelle. “Why, then, should we relinquish the throne?”

  Varqelle answered in a shadowed voice. “You will not win another war. The Jaguar Throne has been held by the House of Escar for over a thousand years.”

  “No longer,” Firestoke said.

  “For now,” Varqelle said. He and Cobalt had both worn black to this meeting: boots, heavy trousers, tunic, and shirt, all black. It was the color of the jaguar. Cobalt had never seen his father in any other color, except for the studs in his ears, the blue diamonds. They came from the colors of Escar, black with blue accents. Cobalt blue. It was the origin of his name. The colors would fly again in Harsdown when the House of Escar regained the throne—if they didn’t obliterate Harsdown, Aronsdale, and the Misted Cliffs in the process.

  Stonebreaker sat back in his chair. “We are three old men arguing about a war that we are too old to fight.” He waved at Cobalt. “There is your general. The Midnight Prince, a man without a conscience. The lord who never speaks.” He leaned toward Cobalt. “What say you, Grandson? Shall we descend on Harsdown and destroy all the gains they have made in the past eighteen years?”

  Varqelle stiffened and his jaw clenched. Cobalt shook his head almost imperceptibly at his father, hoping he understood the caution to restrain himself. Stonebreaker was perfectly aware he had insulted his son-in-law. Parrying his verbal sallies would only escalate the exchange. One of Stonebreaker’s greatest “gifts” was the ability to manipulate other people into tearing each other apart while he sat back and listened.

  Cobalt had never heard his grandfather admit he was wrong about anything. When Stonebreaker erred or hurt someone, he turned around and accused them. He was an expert at it. He could stir up anger until everyone believed that the person wronged had committed the offense. Cobalt had reached the point where he never responded to his grandfather unless it was absolutely necessary. His silence was his protection.

  Now, however, he had to answer or lose face. He had set these events into motion and he would gladly fight for the Jaguar Throne, but he didn’t want to wipe out Harsdown in the process. His father’s people shouldn’t have to die so they could become his people again. Unfortunately, Cobalt saw no alternative that would return the throne to the House of Escar.

  Cobalt spoke quietly. “I have no wish to destroy anything.”

  “You refuse to lead your father’s army?” Stonebreaker asked.

  Cobalt gritted his teeth. Grandfather knew damn well that wasn’t what he had said. He could tell Varqelle was growing angry.

  “My father is a brilliant leader,” Cobalt said. “I will support him however he sees fit.”

  “Will you?” Stonebreaker glanced at Varqelle, then at Firestoke. “It seems my grandson will ride on Harsdown.”

  Cobalt knew what Stonebreaker was doing. The king didn’t want blame as the one who declared war, but neither did he want the House of Chamberlight to lose its claim on the Jaguar Throne. Varqelle couldn’t retake the throne without an army, but if Stonebreaker supplied those forces, it would end centuries of wary peace between Aronsdale and the Misted Cliffs. The Chamberlight king wanted Aronsdale to believe other people agitated for this war. Not him.

  Varqelle spoke to Firestoke. “You have our response for King Jarid. Return the throne or we will take it by force.”

  “You failed the last time you sought to break Aronsdale.” Anger edged Firestoke’s words. “Will you try again and destroy three countries?” He jerked his head toward Cobalt. “Aronsdale has already seen what violence your general is capable of.”

  Cobalt clenched his fist under the table, on his knee. He had set himself up for this, for it had been the only way to enlist his grandfather’s support. Stonebreaker would get the power he wanted and his grandson would have the notoriety. Cobalt’s large size and forbidding nature didn’t help; just by themselves, they darkened his reputation. He would regain the throne if he could, but damned if he would let Stonebreaker make him look like a monster.

  “I do not wish to see three countries ruined,” Cobalt said.

  Firestoke met his gaze. “Yet you threaten us—surrender or fight. We will not submit to these demands. This will be true no matter how many threats you make.”

  “We have given you our terms,” Varqelle told Firestoke. “Take them to your king. We will await his response.”

  “I already know his response,” Firestoke said. “He will never surrender Harsdown. That is why he sent me here.”

  “Then it is decided.” Varqelle’s voice rumbled. “And you are fools.”

  Firestoke rose to his feet. “We will defeat you again, Lord Varqelle.”

  Cobalt’s father stood as well. “You would do well to remember that the man you address will soon be your king.”

  Firestoke faced him across the table. “You will never rule in Aronsdale. Not as long as I live.”

  “I wager that will not be long,” Varqelle said.

  “You threaten my life?” Firestoke asked, his tone hard.

  A muscle jerked in Varqelle’s cheek. “You are here only on our tolerance.”

  Stonebreaker was watching the confrontation with an avid interest that sickened Cobalt. The Chamberlight king glanced at Varqelle, who met his gaze. Then Varqelle beckoned the guards posted at the door. “If you would escort Lord Firestoke to a place of custody.”

  Damnation! Cobalt knew exactly what such “custody” meant. They would kill the envoy as a message to King Jarid. The situation was spinning out of control. Even if the Houses of Chamberlight and Dawnfield had already declared hostilities, murdering such an honored emissary would inflame an already volatile situation.

  Cobalt stood up. “No.”

  Everyone turned to him.

  “You would proceed in another manner?” Varqelle asked.

  “Yes.” How? Cobalt thought fast. He had to get Firestoke safely out of the country, but in a way his father wouldn’t see as a betrayal.

  The answer came to him with sudden, blinding clarity. By freeing his father and setting up this situation, he had forced the House of Dawnfield into a corner. They knew what Stonebreaker’s armies could do to them. They would be desperate. It gave him the perfect chance to take what they would never otherwise give. He suddenly knew how he could attain his goal—Harsdown—without destruction.

  Both triumph and foreboding filled Cobalt. “I have a proposal for your king,” he told Firestoke. “I would have his answer without delay.” They had to let the envoy return to Aronsdale if Cobalt wanted him to carry the proposal.

  Firestoke went very still. “Yes?”

  Cobalt regarded him with an unwavering gaze. “I propose that I marry Muller Dawnfield’s daughter, the current heir to the Jaguar Throne.”

  5

  The Jaguar Groom

  In the silence that followed Cobalt’s words, he thought he could hear his own pulse. His insane proposal made perfect sense. If he married Melody Dawnfield, she became Melody Dawnfield Escar. Their child would inherit the Jaguar Throne. It would return the title to the House of Escar without shedding one drop of blood.

  Varqelle stared at Cobalt as if his son had grown a second head. For once Stonebreaker seemed at a loss for a comeback.

  Brant Firestoke narrowed his gaze at Cobalt. Then he said, “I will carry your proposal to King Jarid.”

  Stonebreaker slowly rose to his feet. “So you have come around after all,” he told Cobalt.

  After all? Cobalt could have socked him. Stonebreaker wanted it to sound as if he had suggested the marriage and his grandson had resisted until now.

  Cobalt crossed his arms. “I hope you won’t continue your attempts to talk me out of this, Grandfather. My decision is made.”

  A muscle twitched in Stonebreaker’s cheek. He didn’t like his own duplicitous methods turned against him. Well, he could live with it. Either that, or he could start a verbal war right here and weaken their position.

  Stonebreaker turned to
Firestoke. “My men will escort you to the border. We await King Jarid’s response.”

  Relief washed over Cobalt, though he schooled his face to keep it hidden. He had no wish to marry a Dawnfield, especially not a woman who reputedly looked like a man, but it would achieve their ends. The proposal probably wouldn’t satisfy his father; it would put his grandson on the throne, not him. But Varqelle surely saw the advantage of protecting Harsdown—his country, his people, and his home. Although the idea wasn’t perfect, it just might work.

  If Dawnfield agreed.

  The creak of stable doors awoke Mel. She lifted her head from her pillow and peered into the darkness. Predawn light sifted through the window nearest her bed. The stamp of hooves and the snort of horses came from outside.

  Mel got up and went to the window. A short distance behind the house, men were dismounting from horses. They wore the livery of King Jarid at Castle Suncroft. Her father was out there as well, a robe over his sleep shirt and trousers as he spoke in a hushed voice with the visitors.

  She laid her hand against the diamond shapes engraved in the window frame. Closing her eyes, she imagined green leaves and lush grass. A spell grew within her, and she probed her father’s mood. The diamond was a weak shape, just two dimensions with only four sides, so her spell picked up only a vague sense. Something dismayed him—

  Her?

  Mel opened her eyes. She could think of nothing she could have done to trouble her father, at least beyond the normal state of affairs. She went to her bed and moved the sleeping kitten off her robe. As she pulled on the velvet dressing gown, she left her room and padded barefoot down the hall.

  It was cool outside. Mel walked through the gardens behind the house and approached the stables, where her father was talking to the messengers, and stable hands were seeing to their horses. In the flurry of all that activity, no one noticed Mel.

  “It is worse than her riding with my cavalry,” her father told one visitor, a craggy man with a sunburned face. Muller was clenching a scroll with the seal of Castle Suncroft.

  “King Jarid won’t force her to accept the decision,” the man said. “It is her choice.”

  “What choice?” Mel asked behind them.

  Muller spun around. When Mel saw his look of pain, she realized what had happened and a chill went through her. “It has begun, then? Varqelle has invaded?”

  “How much did you hear?” Muller asked.

  She pushed her hand through her tangled hair. “That you believe a choice I have to make could be worse than riding with your army.”

  He spoke with difficulty. “Mel—”

  “Tell me.” She felt as if she were about to fall.

  “Stonebreaker has a proposal that will avoid this war.”

  Such news should have overjoyed him. Why did he look as if he were attending a funeral? “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer. When the moment stretched out too long, Mel said, “Father? What do they propose?”

  He spoke in a dull voice. “That you and Prince Cobalt wed.”

  Mel waited for him to laugh. It was a horrendous joke, one she would never have imagined from him.

  He didn’t smile.

  Finally she found her voice. “This is a terrible jest.”

  He looked as if he had aged ten years. “It is no jest.”

  “No.” She couldn’t accept that.

  “It is the perfect solution.” Bitterness edged Muller’s voice. “Brilliant. The Misted Cliffs win. Chamberlight wins. Escar wins. Everyone wins.” Grimly he added, “Except us.”

  “No! Father, no.”

  “Gods forgive me, Mel, but I could never see you marry that man no matter how much it would mean for our people.”

  Mel folded her arms and shivered in the chill autumn morning. “Cobalt the Dark is crazy.”

  “They are all crazy,” Muller said, “if they think I would give you to such a monster.”

  “I am betrothed to Aron.”

  Her father lifted the scroll he held. “This includes a letter signed by both King Jarid and his son Aron. It releases you from your betrothal if you decide to accept the Chamberlight proposal.”

  Her mind whirled. “And if I don’t agree?”

  “The Misted Cliffs will invade.” His fist gripped the scroll. “They swear they will not stop until the House of Dawnfield is destroyed in both Aronsdale and Harsdown.”

  Mel felt ill. “They could succeed.”

  “It is a devil’s offer!” her father said.

  “What devil?” a sleepy voice asked.

  Mel spun around just as her mother ambled up to them, dressed in her robe and silk pajamas, her hair tousled. The queen smiled drowsily. “You are all up early.” As she looked from Mel to Muller, her smile faded. “What happened?”

  Muller told her, briefly, without comment. He needed none. His pale face said it all.

  “This is ludicrous.” Chime stared at him. “They believe we would sacrifice our daughter so they can steal the throne they lost through their own belligerence?”

  The world seemed to tilt around Mel. “If I tell them no, many of our people could lose their lives, lands, and homes.”

  Her father lifted his chin. “We can defeat any army the Misted Cliffs sends against us.”

  “Can we?” Mel felt as if a band were tightening around her torso, cutting off her breath. “They are so strong.”

  “We will find a way,” Muller said. His hollow expression belied the confidence he was trying to project.

  “At what cost?” Mel whispered.

  “Ah, saints.” Chime held out her arms, and Mel went to her mother. Chime held her, and Mel hugged her hard, unable to stop shaking.

  “What can I do?” Mel said.

  Her father clasped her shoulder, but his hand shook. No matter what he or her mother said, what reassurance could they give? Mel couldn’t say yes, but she didn’t dare say no. Her mother murmured her name over and over. Chime’s voice caught, and Mel felt the wetness of her mother’s tears against her hair and cheek.

  Every instinct urged Mel to run from this proposal. She wanted to go to Aron, her betrothed. If only they were already married. Although they weren’t in love, she had always been fond of him. Her feelings surely could have grown into more, given time. She couldn’t bear to think of losing him for a prince of night and terror. But if she said no, how many of her people would die beneath his sword and the ferocity of Escar vengeance?

  Mel’s voice cracked. “I have no choice.”

  Her parents both held her, the three of them forming a grief-stricken knot in the yard. The messengers and stable hands waited in silence, no one intruding. Tears slid down Mel’s face. She had known a good life here with a loving family and friends. Now that would end. In the rest of Harsdown, the sun was rising, but for her family, it was sunset.

  Cobalt gazed into his wedge-shaped bedroom. Here in the narrow end, the entrance curved in an elegant horseshoe arch. Curtains hung along the wall to his left, and oil lamps lined the other wall, though none were lit. The only light trickled from a single lamp on the wall outside. His bed stood across the room at the wide end of the wedge, its covers bunched up or thrown on the floor. Every night he went to sleep in a perfectly made bed and every morning he awoke with it torn to pieces. He tossed and turned throughout the night. And he was too big. His bed had to be tailor-made for his body; otherwise, his feet hung off the end.

  “Goodbye,” he said. It felt odd to speak; he rarely did it even around people. But today it seemed appropriate. This was an ending to the first half of his life. It called for something dramatic. A spoken word seemed to fit that requirement, though he supposed most people would find his conclusion amusing. Or perhaps not. Cobalt Escar and amusing weren’t concepts found in the same thought for most people.

  “Brooding on your soon-to-be-lost freedom?” a familiar voice asked.

  Cobalt turned around. Matthew stood behind him in the circular chamber in the center of his suite, here at t
he top of the tower where he lived in the Castle of Clouds. He smiled. It even felt natural. Matthew was one of the few people who actually seemed to like him. “My greetings of the morning.”

  Matthew bowed. “Is it all right that I’m here?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Thank you.” Matthew was wearing rough trousers and a homespun shirt. Cobalt knew he had finer clothes; after so many years with the Escar household, Matthew had a high status among the staff and was in charge of the stables. But he seemed to prefer simple garments and a simple life.

  “It is good to see you,” Cobalt said. “But unusual, eh?” Matthew was usually working in the stables at this early hour.

  “It is hard to believe you will soon leave for Harsdown.”

  Cobalt crossed his arms. “I would prefer not to believe it. But it seems I must do this. I’m the idiot who suggested it.”

  Matthew’s mouth curved upward. “Perhaps your bride will be comely and sweet.”

  “Or she might have two heads.”

  The older man laughed, a mellow sound. “Ah, well, I hope not.” His voice quieted. “It was a good idea.”

  Cobalt was just glad he wouldn’t lead his men into defeat. He had no doubt he could act as Varqelle’s general, and he wanted the chance to prove himself to his father. He had thought this driving need to seek challenges would calm after he freed Varqelle; instead it had grown stronger. But they couldn’t have won this damn war. His unplanned plan to conquer Harsdown without combat had worked out perfectly—except for one thing. He had to get married.

  He squinted at Matthew. “Rumor says Melody Dawnfield looks like a man.”

  Matthew chuckled. “Perhaps she is a pretty man.”

  Cobalt scowled at him. “Very funny.”

  “You need a wife,” Matthew admonished. “It shouldn’t have taken such extremes to make you propose.”

  “I don’t want a wife. Especially not this one. She is also said to be a sorceress. Saints, Matthew, what if she turns me into some vile creature?” Cobalt knew the “mage” powers probably didn’t exist, but he had no doubt his bride could find some way to bedevil him with arcane rituals.