Charmed Destinies

by Mercedes Lackey

  7

  The Power of a Life

  Iris sank down on a large boulder by a stream. Jarid wasn’t anywhere. She had searched for hours. The tears that had streaked her face were dry now, but nothing could ease her heart. Last night she had thought she reached him, but it had all backfired; now he was gone, without food, shelter or warm clothes, unable even to ask for help. She had done this, insisting Brant Firestoke and the guards leave; now she had to go back and ask for their help in finding her husband, their king. She doubted Jarid would forgive that betrayal of his trust.

  Last night she had thought they discovered a place together, a place where they both belonged, where they could discover what love meant. Jarid reached out to her in a way no one had done before. It didn’t matter to him that she had no name except those borrowed from the Larkspurs, a foster family that didn’t want her, or that she was the illegitimate daughter of a mother who had deserted her at birth. She and Jarid lived in their own solitude, different, yet they each recognized the loneliness of the other, the kindred spirit, building their trust.

  Now she had to ruin it.

  The woods were lightening; soon dawn would come. Weary, she rose to her feet and trudged toward the castle.

  Jarid awoke. It was hard to tell if he had nodded off for a few moments or slept soundly, but the air felt different from when he had collapsed on the mossy ground. The scent of night-blooming flowers had dulled. From the force of habit, he opened his useless eyes.

  Green.

  For a long time he simply lay, absorbing it. His darkness had turned green. For years he had seen no colors except in his mind, and over time those had leached into shades of gray. Yet now, everywhere, he saw green.

  Gradually he became aware of details in that living tapestry: a twig, gnarled and brown, poking through moss; dark soil, rich and loamy under the ragged carpet of leaves; a red pyramid-blossom in the pearly light that heralded the approach of dawn; iridescent dew clinging to leaves.

  Jarid slowly rose to his feet. A pressure built in his chest until he thought he would burst. He turned in a circle, unable to believe. If he could have made a sound, any sound, a sob would have caught in his throat. His world remained silent—but he could see it.

  He could see.

  Forest surrounded him, hoary trees draped in moss, with more shades of green, gray and brown than he could count. Shape-blossoms added yellow here, violet there, a splash of orange. Tilting back his head, he saw slivers of gray sky between the overhang of high branches. He went to a tree and pressed his palms against its trunk. Beetles scuttled away and a miraculous line of ants wound along the bark.

  Jarid didn’t realize he was crying until a drop of water fell onto his arm. Pushing away from the tree, he wiped his face with the ripped sleeve of his shirt. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to shout his astonishment, but no sound came. The emotions welled up inside him and spilled down his cheeks as tears.

  His walk through the woods was a miracle. Every sight seemed touched with magic, every leaf, bird and twig. He climbed a knoll, making his way through trees until he came out onto an open slope. When he reached the hilltop, he could look over the countryside in all directions. Woods and meadows rolled away everywhere, and in the north the castle stood on a higher peak, draped in shadows, waiting for the rising sun to turn it gold. Memories welled within him and made his eyes sting; he had often stood on this knoll as a child, cherishing this view.

  Then he spotted a figure; to the north, in a meadow, a woman in a yellow gown was trudging toward the castle.

  Iris.

  Apprehension and anticipation leaped within him. It had to be her. Iris had long, full hair and so did the woman below, her mane gloriously unbound. He remembered enough from his childhood to know that women at balls wore their hair up on their heads. But Iris let her curls hang down her back, another reason she captivated him.

  Last night, he had retreated from her, afraid she would melt the protective ice around his heart. He had no defenses against her. He knew she could hurt him, but now he could think only of seeing her face. This morning, in the pure light of dawn, he fought against his fear. He wanted to live again, not just exist.

  Jarid started down the hill, tripping on rocks because had so little experience taking himself anywhere. The world was too full of sights for him to absorb it all.

  Birds chirped.

  They sang everywhere, proclaiming the onset of morning. Grass crackled beneath his feet. As he gained confidence, he increased his stride, until he was running down the hill.

  Iris heard the rustle just before the hand touched her shoulder. With a jump, she spun around.

  “Jarid!” Before her fear of rejection could stop her, she threw her arms around him. He enfolded her in a hug and they stood together in the predawn light, holding each other so tightly, she could hardly breathe. This wasn’t like last night, when he had clenched her with desperation; now his embrace seemed filled with joy.

  It wasn’t until Iris felt sunlight on her arm, where her sleeve had torn, that she came to herself. Pulling back, she looked up at him. He stared back at her, his gaze caressing her face.

  His gaze.

  Iris’s breath caught. He was looking at her. When she gaped at him, his lips curved in a smile. Then he mouthed, You are beautiful, Wife.

  “Lord Firestoke, wait!”

  Brant Firestoke turned from the search party gathering in the entrance hall of the castle. A triangle page was running toward him, his young face red from exertion.

  “Yes, what is it?” Brant barely managed to hold his impatience in check.

  “Come to the Star Walk, Gracious Lord,” the boy cried. “Come see!”

  Brant wanted to put him off; he was too edgy about Jarid to let anything distract him from the rescue mission. But he knew this youth to be a steady fellow. The page’s unusual behavior struck him enough that he went with the boy.

  The Star Walk topped the great wall that surrounded the castle. It took its name from its star-shaped crenellations cut into the wall. Archers hid here during battle and fired through the openings, and the castle healer used the star shapes to focus her power when she tended injured soldiers. Brant prayed they wouldn’t soon need those stars to defend themselves against the armies of Harsdown.

  The page took him to a section above a meadow. “Look, Gracious Lord.”

  Gazing out, Brant saw two people crossing the grassy field, walking hand-in-hand. Iris and Jarid.

  Brant let out a long breath. “My thanks, young man.” He wondered if the depth of his relief was as obvious to the boy as to himself. At times like this it was hard to maintain his veneer of impassivity. When Iris and Jarid hadn’t returned this morning, his fear for Aronsdale had flared like mage-light. Nor was it only Aronsdale; over the past year he had grown fond of Iris, who reminded him of his daughter, and Jarid brought to mind the late King Daron, whom Brant had served with loyalty, respect and the love of a brother.

  Brant headed back to inform his men. As he descended the stairs, the clangs and calls of the waking keep came up from below. At the bottom, he walked out into the entrance hall—and found Jarid and Iris already there, surrounded by the search party. The two of them looked a mess, their wedding finery torn and stained with grass. Iris had a leaf in her hair.

 
Watching the newlyweds, Brant smiled. They seemed oblivious to everyone but each other. Exactly why Iris had wanted to take Jarid into the woods, or why Jarid had wanted to go, he wasn’t sure. The closeness of nature seemed to comfort them in a way the castle could never do. He had little doubt about the success of their nuptials, given the way they were beaming—

  Brant froze. Saints almighty, they were looking at each other, both of them, Jarid as well as Iris. Servants bustled about the couple, clucking at their disheveled state, having no idea of this amazing event because none of them had known their new king was blind.

  Muller’s voice rang out. “Jarid, what is this?” He stepped out of the shadows at the other end of the foyer, near the great staircase.

  The king jumped, his dark hair brushing his shoulders as he turned toward his golden cousin. Muller came forward, but stopped several paces away, his face stunned as Jarid met his gaze. The servants melted away, taking their cue from the tension in Muller’s body.

  “It can’t be,” Muller said. “You can’t see.”

  Iris answered with joy. “It is a miracle.”

  Muller swung around to her. “How could this happen?”

  “What do you mean?” Her smile dimmed at his dismay.

  Muller seemed to struggle with his words. “As long as he couldn’t lead Aronsdale, it would have been all right. But this—” His voice shook with emotion. “Now he can rule, but imperfectly. It is wrong. Wrong! It will destroy Aronsdale.”

  Iris stared at him. “How can you say such a thing?”

  Jarid was watching them, his miraculous gaze going from Muller to Iris, his expression darkening.

  “Fate must be laughing at us,” Muller said bitterly. “No matter what decisions we make, no matter how lofty our intentions, we pay cruelly in the end.”

  “I donna understand—” Iris broke off as Jarid left her side and strode toward the great staircase.

  By the time Iris caught up with Jarid, halfway up the stairs, she was running. She grasped his arm, pulling him to a halt—and in that heart-stopping instant, he spun around and raised his fist. But he didn’t threaten her. Instead he stretched out his arm, pointing at Muller, who had come to stand at the foot of the stairs.

  “My cousin is right.” Jarid’s deep voice rasped with disuse. “Ask Stone.”

  Their tread whispered on the pitted stone steps as they descended to the underground levels of the castle, Jarid and his guards on the narrow stairs ahead of Iris and Brant, with Muller and more guards behind them. Iris wanted to hit someone. It was wrong; she was a mage, a healer, a bringer of light, not a pugilist, but even so, right now she wanted to take a good, solid whack at Brant.

  It was bad enough that he had never told them he had ordered his men to bring Jarid’s foster father back here; even worse, they had thrown the man into the dungeon. Iris doubted Jarid would ever forgive them now. He had withdrawn into a place so deep, he would respond to no one.

  She spoke in a low voice to Brant. “You had no right.”

  “I had every right.” His gray eyes could have been granite. “That man kidnapped the Dawnfield heir.”

  “He took care of Jarid like a son.”

  Brant’s voice hardened. “He murdered Jarid’s parents.”

  Iris jerked. “What?”

  At her raised voice, several people looked back. Brant frowned until they turned away again. Then he spoke quietly, words only Iris could catch. “You heard me.”

  “I thought highwaymen attacked the carriage,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Including Stone?” She spoke the name Jarid had used for his foster father.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  Brant tilted his head toward the soldiers with Jarid. “This ‘Stone’ matches the description given by those two. They were the guards that the highwaymen knocked out during the attack on the carriage.”

  “You canna be sure this Stone is the same man, especially after fourteen years.”

  “He admitted it when my men questioned him.”

  Iris thought of Jarid’s desperate loneliness. “Why didna you tell me Stone was a prisoner here? You let us believe he intended to follow us to Suncroft.”

  “I didn’t want to upset the king.” Brant spoke quietly. “You’ve had an empathic link with Jarid from the start. I couldn’t risk your knowing. I’m sorry.”

  Iris sighed. “It surely is a mess.” She watched the rigid set of Jarid’s back. Did her husband know his foster father had been involved in the accident? She guessed yes; Jarid didn’t seem surprised by Stone’s imprisonment. She couldn’t fathom how he could have lived all these years with a man who had helped kill his parents. It must have been a nightmare.

  At the bottom of the stairs they entered a rough hall lit with torches. The head guardsman took a hexagon of keys off a peg and led the way to a heavy door. While the guard unlocked the door, Jarid waited with several soldiers, his posture so stiff that Iris wondered he didn’t crack. How would he respond, seeing for the first time one of the men who had destroyed his life? Stone may have spent fourteen years atoning for that crime, but nothing could give Jarid back what he had lost, neither his parents nor his childhood.

  After the guardsman heaved open the door, two soldiers filed into the cell. Instead of following, Jarid turned to the people crowded behind him. When he held his hand out to Iris, her pulse leaped; it was the first time since Muller’s outburst this morning that Jarid had shown any wish for human contact.

  Stepping forward, Iris took his hand. His face was set with lines of pain he should never have had at his young age. His grief saturated her senses.

  They entered a cell with rough stone walls. It was clean but bare, with no furniture or amenities except for a chamber pot in the far corner. Iris had thought they were underground, but the far wall must have been set in a slope on the northern side of the castle. Its barred window let in sunlight.

  A ledge stretched along the wall to her right—and she recognized the man who sat there, watching them with the taut posture of someone who expected to soon face his execution. His mane of granite-gray hair swept down his neck and bushy gray eyebrows arched over his gray eyes. Stone. But this was no stone-hearted man. When he saw Jarid, he made no attempt to hide his joy. The six-sided cell focused Iris’s mage gifts and she felt Stone’s mood; he loved his foster son deeply—and he feared he had lost Jarid forever.

  Jarid walked over to him, his face unreadable. Stone waited, his hands clenched on the edges of the ledge where he sat. And then, while everyone watched, the King of Aronsdale went down on one knee to a prisoner in his dungeon.

  “What is this?” Stone spoke in such a low voice, Iris could barely hear him. “You kneel to me? Surely not.” He was speaking to himself rather than Jarid; he obviously expected no response.

  Jarid lifted his head. Then he answered in his rusty voice. “Surely yes.”

  Stone froze. “Dani?”

  “Dani?” Emotion roughened Jarid’s voice. “Is that what you named me?”

  “I—yes, yes, I did.” Wonder showed on Stone’s face. “What miracle is this, son?”

  Brant Firestoke spoke harshly. “Do
not presume to call His Majesty your son.”

  Stone jerked up his head. “His Majesty?”

  Saints almighty. Had they told him nothing about Jarid? It seemed impossible Stone couldn’t have known. Only someone completely secluded after the death of Jarid’s parents wouldn’t have heard about their accident and the loss of their son.

  And yet…remembering the desolate mountains where they had found Stone’s cabin, many days’ ride from any town, Iris realized it was possible he could have been that isolated, if Stone had chosen to withdraw from the rest of humanity. But why had he kept Jarid hidden for so many years? To protect himself?

  Muller answered Stone, his voice icy. “Yes. His Majesty. That night you murdered the heir to Aronsdale.”

  Jarid rose to his feet. He started to answer, then stopped. Everyone remained silent, waiting while he struggled to do what most people took for granted—speak. Finally he responded, his voice rough. “Stone did not kill my parents. Murk was the one who drove us off the road.”

  “But I was there.” Stone stood up next to him, watching the king with painful compassion. “I, too, am responsible.”

  Jarid raised his hand as if to touch Stone’s face, the man who had taken care of him for so long. “Any sin you committed, even that Murk committed, was far less than mine.”

  His foster father answered in a low voice. “No.”

  “Stone—” Jarid’s voice caught.

  “Stone?” His father sounded subdued. “Is that how you thought of me?”

  Jarid nodded. “For strength. A contrast to Murk.”

  “I don’t understand,” Muller said. “Who is Murk?”

  Jarid tried to answer, then shook his head.

  “Murk planned the robbery,” Stone said. “He was the other highwayman.”