The Misted Cliffs

by Catherine Asaro

The bishop unrolled his scroll and the musicians stopped playing. Then the bishop read the ceremony. He kept it short and simple, which relieved Cobalt. When the older man finished, he turned to Cobalt. “Do you have a token to give your bride?”

  Cobalt stared at him blankly. “Token?”

  “A ring?” he asked. “Bracelet? Heirloom?”

  “No,” Cobalt said. No one had told him he was supposed to give her something.

  The bishop flushed. But he continued with the ceremony, his voice awkward. “Cobalt Chamberlight Escar, do you declare for this woman, as her husband?”

  “Yes,” Cobalt said. At least he knew that part.

  “Melody Headwind Dawnfield,” the bishop said. “Do you declare for this man, as his wife?”

  She spoke softly. “Yes.”

  “It is done.” Although the bishop kept an appropriately dignified demeanor, his posture relaxed slightly. He rolled up his scroll. “You may kiss her now.”

  Kiss her? In front of everyone? He never touched anyone in front of other people. He looked at Melody’s bowed head. He couldn’t kiss her here, in enemy territory. Saints above, her parents were watching.

  With no warning, she looked up at him with her vivid blue eyes. So much color! He couldn’t move. Fighting a battle or climbing a mountain was easier than this.

  After a moment, Melody looked away. Cobalt released the breath he had been holding.

  The bishop cleared his throat. “Well.” He spoke awkwardly. “You are now wife and husband.”

  Then it was done. Cobalt was consort of the heir to the Jaguar Throne. It should have been his father’s throne, not that of the yellow-haired man who was now his father-in-law, but this would have to do. Only time would reveal if his ill-conceived marriage could stop a war.

  7

  The Starlight Engagement

  Mel sat on a banquette in the hearth room. When everyone else had filed into the dining room for the buffet, she had stolen away to her bedroom seeking the comfort of Fog. Now she sat here with the kitten curled in her lap while her guests ate and carried on stilted conversations in another part of the house. She wondered what her large husband was doing. He really was as big as the tales claimed. She hoped the rumors of his cruelty weren’t as accurate.

  She laid her hand on circles carved into the wooden arms of the banquette. When she concentrated, gold light glistened around her. The sparkles cloaked her body with one of the best golden spells she had ever managed, and Fog began to purr loudly. The spell didn’t help her, though. Maybe it was the color; orange spells soothed pain and yellow soothed emotions. Gold was somewhere between the two. Mel strained to shift the hue. She felt as if she were trying to train with an improperly balanced sword or sew with a needle that was too thick. Gradually, though, the spell brightened into yellow, as if sunshine had come inside the house even here, where it couldn’t reach from the window. The spell was like velvet brushing across scar tissue; she knew it was there, offering comfort, but it couldn’t smooth away the rough edges of her mood.

  A sigh escaped Mel. A yellow spell couldn’t heal, it could only warm her mood. Right now she wasn’t even certain what she felt aside from confusion. She let the spell fade until no color remained in the air.

  Footsteps sounded by the door, and Mel looked up as Brant Firestoke entered the room, elegant in his white silk shirt and gray velvet finery. His silver hair gleamed.

  “A good evening to you, Lord Firestoke,” she said.

  “And to you, Your Highness.” He bowed. “May I sit with you?”

  “Yes, please.” She patted the cushioned bench. Fog growled and started to stand up, a prelude to jumping to the floor. He paused when Mel scratched his ears, then settled back into her lap with a wary look at Brant. Apparently the lord met with the kitten’s grudging approval.

  Brant sat next to her. “I wish this day could have been a time of joy for you.”

  “Perhaps it will all work out.” She doubted it, but she didn’t want to say that. She tried not to think of Aron, her former betrothed.

  “Perhaps.” He didn’t look as if he believed it, either.

  “Can you tell me more about Prince Cobalt or his family?” she asked. “You’re the only one of us who has met them all.”

  He grimaced. “They damn near executed me.”

  “Saints, Brant, why?”

  “I didn’t say what they wanted to hear.”

  “Then why this wedding?”

  “Prince Cobalt suggested it as they were about to toss me in their dungeon.”

  It made a twisted sort of sense. “Do you think they planned it that way to ensure you would carry his proposal?”

  “I suppose.” He hesitated. “My impressions are probably nothing more than an old man’s uncertainties.”

  “You’ve a mind as keen as a knife, Brant.”

  Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Your father didn’t think so at your age.”

  She had heard tales about her father’s lack of enthusiasm in his youth for his role as a Dawnfield heir. It made her smile. “I’d like to hear what you think.”

  “What I think is that Cobalt came up with this marriage idea to stop them from killing me.” Brant rubbed his chin. “He had a rather odd exchange with his grandfather.”

  “Odd, how?”

  “Stonebreaker spoke as if Cobalt had already rejected the idea of marriage. Cobalt acted as if Stonebreaker was the one who rejected it.” He shook his head. “I don’t think either of them had considered it prior to that moment.”

  Mel knew little about Stonebreaker; he was the only leader in the settled lands she hadn’t met. He would interact only with the Dawnfield men and apparently let no men speak with his daughter. “Why would they pretend otherwise?”

  Brant shrugged. “Perhaps because it is a good idea and both wanted credit.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I will tell you more, but only in confidence.”

  “You have it.” He knew her word was good.

  Brant spoke slowly, seeming to think through his words. “Stonebreaker is off kilter somehow. I don’t trust him. And he is intensely jealous of his grandson.”

  “Cobalt is…” She searched for a word without negative connotations. “An impressive man.”

  “He’s dangerous, Mel. So are his grandfather and father. Especially his father. Varqelle wants the throne.” Brant laid his hand on her forearm. “Your marriage is all that holds him in check.”

  “You think he will try to separate me and Cobalt?”

  His gaze never wavered. “Or have you killed.”

  Her hand tensed on Fog, and the kitten mewed in protest. “Brant, don’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s true. You must be careful.”

  Mel loosened her hold, and Fog jumped down, then ran under the banquette. She looked back up at Brant. “I will remember what you’ve told me.”

  They left the farmhouse at sunset. Cobalt’s new in-laws asked him to stay the night, and he knew they wanted more time to say goodbye to their daughter, but he couldn’t bear to wait, even if it meant traveling in the dark. He was exposed here. Unprotected. It wasn’t just that he was in hostile territory. Had that been the only reason, he would have stayed one last night. But his emotions were at risk. The warmth in this house came from more than lowland humidity. The people created it. He had no context to understand his bride’s family, and it left him anxious to escape. How these gentle people could bring him harm, he had no idea, but he had to leave.

  His bride hugged her parents on the veranda of the house. They were all crying. Cobalt waited by the open door of the carriage, so uncomfortable that he wondered if something was wrong with him. The thirty men in his honor guard surrounded his carriage, all of them on horseback, including Matthew. Cobalt had already gone over strategies with General Cragland and his men for protecting the carriage during the trip back to the Misted Cliffs. He had nothing to do now but watch his bride weep with her parents.
>
  Mel finally came over, carrying a wicker basket on her arm. She looked up at him, her face wet with tears, and he wanted to crawl under the carriage and hide from those vivid eyes. She was too alive for him; he was dead inside, though he hadn’t realized it until now. She stepped up into the carriage, then turned and waved to her parents, also to the girl who had stood up for her in the wedding and was on the porch now with Chime and Muller.

  When his bride had gone into the carriage, Cobalt started to follow. He paused with one leg up, though, the hairs on his neck prickling. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Muller Dawnfield standing behind him.

  Cobalt stepped back down from the carriage. “Yes?”

  Muller spoke in a quiet voice. “Treat her well. Or you will answer to me.”

  Cobalt almost didn’t respond, as with threats from his grandfather. But no, he should answer. Muller had reason to speak in such a manner. So he said, “Yes.”

  “Good.” Muller’s face was creased with lines of strain. “Be well, Your Highness.”

  Be well? People never said such to him, especially not anyone with good reason to hate him. He didn’t know how to answer, so he just nodded. Then he swung up into the carriage. Within moments they were on their way.

  Melody—no, they called her Mel—sat across from him in the seat that faced backward. She held the basket in her lap. He stretched out his legs and his feet hit her bench, but he managed to avoid tearing the silk drapes of her gown. So bright, that blue and gold. Belatedly, he wondered if he should have given her time to put on travel clothes. He had worn his to the wedding, but women seemed to change their clothes a great deal. He was glad that she hadn’t though; it felt good to see her in that dress.

  Her face was turning pink. “Are you going to stare at me for the entire trip?”

  Cobalt jerked. She had spoken; he should answer.

  “No,” he said.

  “Oh.” Her blush deepened.

  They sat for a time as the carriage rumbled along. The ride was reasonably smooth compared to some journeys Cobalt had taken. This was a popular thoroughfare and well tended. The driver had lit his lanterns, but shadows were filling the carriage as the evening deepened.

  “Would you like me to make some light?” Mel asked.

  Cobalt tapped the lamp in its claw on the wall. “I can light this. But it is smoky. I tend to leave it out.”

  A silence followed his words. Then she said, “That was incredible.”

  Cobalt blinked. “The lamp?”

  “No. You. That was three sentences. I haven’t heard you say that much before.”

  He felt a flush spread in his face. His anger stirred, but then it subsided, just as it had during the wedding. Usually when the anger came, it stayed. But not with her. She obviously wasn’t mocking him. She sounded relieved. Sweet, even. Had he been that closed since meeting her?

  “Do you want me to light the lamp?” he asked.

  “No. This is fine.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “No. I’m fine. Really.”

  Cobalt scratched his ear. He didn’t know what to do with this wife he had acquired. His body knew, though; he recalled well how her dress had fit her curves. “Come sit here.”

  Her voice wavered. “Next to you?”

  He slid over and laid his hand on the seat. “You will fit.”

  She clutched her basket and stared at him with eyes large in her face. Her dress rustled as she stood. She had to stoop to keep from banging the top of the carriage. Cobalt knew that problem; he had it in most places. She was small and probably rarely had to bend her head, but this ceiling was low.

  She almost fell on top of him as the carriage lurched. Cobalt caught her arm and helped her sit down. When she inhaled sharply, he let go, afraid he might bruise her the way Stonebreaker so often bruised Dancer.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Y-yes.”

  Only moonlight came through the window, but even in that dim glow her hair glimmered. He picked up a length and pressed it against his cheek. “So odd.”

  She sat like a statue. “Odd?”

  “Your hair is like silk.” He carefully arranged the lock back over her arm. “Even softer.”

  “Have you never felt long hair before?”

  “My own.” It only went to his collar, though, and was much coarser than hers. He thought of the courtesans he had known. “A few other women. Not like you.”

  “Oh.”

  He touched the basket on her lap. “Is that food?”

  “Saints, no. It’s Fog.”

  He squinted at the basket. “It doesn’t look foggy.”

  To his unmitigated surprise, she laughed. “Fog is my kitten.”

  Cobalt barely heard her answer. Her laugh riveted him. It sparkled. It was music. And he had caused it. That had never happened to him. It was astonishing.

  After a moment, he recovered enough to respond. “Your kitten is quiet.”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Ah.”

  Mel said nothing else, and Cobalt had exhausted his supply of conversation ideas. She sat by his side, her back erect, her hands gripping the handle of her basket.

  Eventually, her head nodded forward and she slumped. At first he thought she was hurt. When he bent toward her, he realized she had fallen asleep. Moving with care, so he didn’t wake her, he put his arm around her shoulders and settled her against him. It was pleasant. He wished they could have spent their wedding night at the Castle of Clouds. They needed their own place; he couldn’t have stayed their first night together in her childhood home. Unfortunately, they had only this carriage and he hardly intended to do anything here. He hadn’t expected he would want her so much. This could have been a dismal wedding night, but oddly enough, he felt content.

  He was growing drowsy. He took Mel’s basket with its misty kitten and set it on the floor. Wedging himself into the corner where the seat met the side of the carriage, he slid his leg behind his slumbering wife, his knee bent since the carriage wasn’t wide enough for him to stretch out. He braced the boot of his other leg against the floor and shifted Mel so she was sleeping against him, between his legs, her head on his chest.

  Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  A jostle awoke Mel. Her neck ached from sleeping in an odd position and it took her a moment to orient to her surroundings. Cobalt was reclining against one side of the carriage, asleep, with her lying against his chest. One of his boots was braced on the floor; the other leg was behind her. He had his arms around her, muscular arms, strong and solid, as a bride might desire from her groom. In his sleep he held her more naturally than when he had touched her hair earlier, with that exaggerated care. His strength made her tingle as if she were afraid, but it wasn’t unpleasant. If she hadn’t been so groggy, she might have jerked back from him, but she was only half awake, and he seemed less imposing when he was asleep.

  His vest rubbed her cheek. She had thought earlier today that it was unadorned, but now she felt embroidery. The thread was dark, hard to see on the black. She traced the designs on his chest, circles and hexagons in interlocked chains. Running her finger around them, she envisioned fields of grass. The shapes began to glow a rich green. As the mood spell intensified, she focused on Cobalt, but she couldn’t reach him. She felt as if she were straining to draw more power than a two-dimensional form could give. Perhaps she needed more experience or a higher order shape. She questioned how much either of those would help, though. His emotions were distant, out of reach. Mental armor protected them.

  Mel let the spell fade. She lay in his arms, acutely self-conscious, and wondered about him. Such a strange man. Would she spend the rest of her life in conversations of one or two words, perhaps a few sentences now and then? His coldness toward her family at the wedding troubled her. He had shown almost no reaction to any of them, not even when her mother entreated him to stay one last evening rather than venture into the darkness.

  However, Mel
felt no hostility from him, either. He might hide it behind the impenetrable armor that defended his mind, but if that were true, he could be hiding gentler feelings, too.

  The carriage jolted and Mel’s elbow hit the paneling behind them. As Cobalt stirred, the carriage lurched to one side. She would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t tightened his arms around her. Outside, someone shouted.

  “What?” Cobalt set her upright, then sat up and rapped on a trap door in the roof. He didn’t even have to stand to touch the top of the carriage.

  “Matthew!” he called.

  The trap door opened and starlight filtered into the coach. A man peered down at them, the gray-haired fellow who had first come out of the carriage when Cobalt’s party arrived at her parents’ farm, and who had stood up with Cobalt at the wedding. No trace of gentleness showed in his expression now.

  “There are at least thirty of them,” Matthew said.

  Cobalt swore. “My sword.”

  Matthew withdrew from sight.

  “Thirty?” Mel asked. “Are they attacking?”

  Matthew reappeared and lowered a sword belt to Cobalt. As the prince buckled it around his hips, the carriage lurched to an abrupt stop. Mel’s foot hit the basket and a distressed mewl came from within.

  Cobalt turned to her. “Stay here. My men and I will be protecting the carriage.”

  “Do you know what is happening?” Mel asked.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the door and jumped out into the night. Beyond him, a melee of men on horseback surged in the starlight. The clang of metal hitting metal rang out. Mel heard him call out orders to his officers, and then he slammed the carriage door.

  Fog wailed, and Mel leaned down to the basket. “Shush. Don’t draw attention.” She comforted the frightened kitten, then closed the basket and hid it under the protection of the seat.

  Outside, a man cried out, but it cut off abruptly. Mel felt the blood drain from her face. She knew where Cobalt’s men had packed her belongings on the carriage, in the back. She stood on the seat and pushed open the trap door. Although small, the opening was large enough. Grabbing its edges, she hoisted herself up. Her gown caught and then tore as she clambered out onto the top of the carriage.