The Dawn Star

by Catherine Asaro

  Drummer jolted awake as the wagon bumped to a stop. After fourteen days in the tedious silence of his guards, any change was welcome. He opened his eyes into the dim sunlight that diffused through the cloth sides of the wagon. His captors had left his wrists tied too long, and his arms ached. Three of the fake merchants were in the wagon, one peering out the back and the other two guarding him. Some cretin had taken off his boots while he slept and bound his ankles as well.

  Drummer scowled at the man who sat on a bench across from him. “You must all find me fearsome indeed, that you need so many warriors to guard an unarmed man whose hands and feet are tied.”

  “You talk too much,” the man said, his voice drawn out in the accent of Taka Mal.

  “Where are we?” Drummer asked.

  “Here,” the man said.

  “That was helpful,” Drummer grumbled. When the guard dropped his hand to his sheathed dagger, Drummer closed his mouth.

  The man at the back of the wagon moved aside as someone opened the flaps. A man was standing outside. “You can go in,” he said.

  Drummer squinted out and glimpsed a wedge of sky. Onion towers and stone walls the color of amber gleamed in the rich sunlight. He swore under his breath. He knew of only one structure built from stone that color, with such magnificent architecture: the Topaz Palace of Quaaz.

  Drummer had a sudden memory from another time he had ended up in serious trouble when he had been fourteen. He snuck out one night to the mill. He just wanted to climb on the wheel. It was fun. But he had fallen onto a stack of grain sacks, which toppled into another, and that into another, until many sacks had spilled. Mortified, he had spent hours trying to clean it up. But one boy could only do so much. In the end, he had confessed and asked for help. It had taken his and the millers’ families all day to put the mess right, and Drummer had spent several days in jail, eating gruel and feeling stupid. When they let him go home, his father had dourly informed him that if he didn’t quit misbehaving, he would end up with a life of doom. His father had been big on overly dramatic proclamations, but now Drummer wished he had paid more attention, for he had apparently landed in even worse trouble. Surely this couldn’t be just because of Tardy Town. But he had no idea what else he had done.

  The wagon rolled forward, its back flaps open enough that he caught glimpses of their surroundings. They were rolling through a yard full of people in exotic silks or colorful robes. The wagon stopped so its back faced two doors with black metal braces. The doors creaked loudly as men heaved them open. The driver brought the wagon around and drove into the dim place beyond the door. Cool air seeped into the back, along with the faint scent of wine. Drummer couldn’t see much, but he would have bet his glittar they were riding past kegs of fine, aged wines.

  Come to think of it, where was his glittar? The soldiers had left the instrument lying on a pile of rugs in the wagon, but now it was gone. Alarm surged in Drummer. His glittar was the one possession he truly valued. His sister Chime had given it to him years ago, after he wrote a song for her praising her daughter Mel.

  He turned to the man on the bench. “Where is my glittar?”

  No answer. It was the same every time he asked questions.

  “You can’t take it,” Drummer said.

  “Your little harp is fine,” the guard growled.

  “Can I have it back?” Drummer asked.

  “Flaming hell if I know.”

  Drummer thought of the stories his mother had told him about hell. It had no colors. Demons lived there. It contrasted with the Land of the Spirits where saints, angels, and deities lived, and especially the spirits of the departed. Spirits only landed in hell if they had committed truly evil misdeeds in their life. Right now, Drummer felt like nominating his guards as prime candidates.

  “How about you untie my feet?” he said. “My ankles hurt.”

  The man gave a snort. “Think you can run, eh? Think again.”

  Oh, well. He hadn’t expected it to work. He wondered how they planned to get him out of the wagon. They had probably tied his feet because the wagon was going slowly within a city, making it easier to escape. However, he couldn’t walk wherever they wanted him to go, either. He hoped they didn’t intend to carry him. It would be mortifying.

  The wagon jerked to a stop. Voices rumbled outside, too low to understand, especially with that Taka Mal drawl. Then someone whipped aside the cloth at the back of the wagon. More soldiers waited in the dim cellar.

  A hand grasped Drummer’s arm.

  “Hai!” Startled nearly out of his skin, Drummer jumped up. He couldn’t stand on his bound ankles, so he immediately fell over. Pain stabbed his ankles. The guard who had grasped his arm held him upright with a strong grip.

  Drummer glared up at the husky behemoth. “It would be a lot easier if you untied me.”

  “Sit down,” the man said.

  The warrior looked vexed enough to flatten him. He was also a head taller than Drummer and probably twice his weight, with all those muscles. Drummer sat.

  The guard said nothing more. He did, however, crouch down and untie Drummer’s ankles. With an exhale of relief, Drummer stretched his legs. They prickled with returning sensation, but at least they were free. His arms didn’t hurt much, mainly because they had gone numb.

  “How about my wrists?” Drummer asked as the guard stood up.

  “No.” The man indicated the back of the wagon. “Go.”

  Drummer stood more slowly this time. His legs throbbed, but he managed a tentative walk. Although he felt clumsy with his arms behind his back, he had a good sense of balance. When he couldn’t earn his way as a minstrel, he did acrobatics. He sang better than he tumbled, but he wasn’t bad at either, if he did say so himself. Right now he wasn’t saying anything, though, given how much it annoyed his guards.

  Three large warriors waited outside the wagon. One had a ring of keys hanging on his metal-studded belt. Drummer couldn’t climb out with his wrists bound, so the guards lifted him down. Drummer wished they didn’t loom so much. Why bother tying him? He was no match for even one of them. Then again, he could duck, dart and run faster than anyone. Just let them untie him! They would see how fast he vanished into the city.

  His three new guards, however, showed no more inclination to untie him then had his kidnappers. One prodded his back with the hilt of a knife. Gritting his teeth, Drummer limped forward in his bare feet. They took him past rows of barrels, all redolent with the fragrance of wine, lovely wine. He inhaled deeply and thought he could get drunk just from the fumes. Eventually, though, they reached a large door with iron braces. One guard unlocked the door and heaved it open, and another nudged Drummer forward. At least these three weren’t as rough as the ones who had kidnapped him.

  The alcove beyond startled Drummer. It had six walls, like a hexagon. Mosaics tiled every surface in sea-green colors, as if he were underwater. The shapes fascinated him—

  The mood spell came without warning. Suddenly he knew what his guards felt. The man with the ring of keys was angry and impatient. Drummer had a sense the fellow wanted to go gamble, though the spell wasn’t specific enough for him to be certain. The burly guard felt thirsty and the third guard missed his wife.

  Drummer blinked. He mostly ignored his spells, for everyone knew men couldn’t be real mages, except for the royal Dawnfields, of course. Centuries of marrying the strongest mages in the land had concentrated the talents until they manifested in the Dawnfield men, too. Drummer had experienced hints of ability since adolescence, but nothing significant, just minor spells like this green one he had made. As the impatient man prodded him forward, he pondered the information the spell had given him about his guards. He wasn’t sure what use it had, but one never knew.

  After they went through the sea chamber, his spell faded. They came out into a corridor framed by arches. He loved the mosaics on the walls. They started with the indigo of the predawn sky. As he walked down the hall, the colors shaded into the blush of dawn,
then into a sunrise, and finally the pale blue of morning.

  “This is beautiful,” Drummer said.

  The guard who liked to gamble grunted at him. “They told me you talk too much. Don’t start babbling or I’ll gag you.”

  And you can rot in a crap house. Drummer kept the thought to himself, though. These guards were also a lot bigger than him.

  Unexpectedly, the lonely-husband guard said, “We aren’t going to gag anyone, Kaj.” He glanced at Drummer. With a smile. “And yes, it is beautiful. The whole palace is like this.”

  Drummer was so amazed by the courtesy, he was momentarily without words. When he recovered, he said, “Do you mind if I ask your name?”

  “Javelin,” the guard said. “And you are Drummer?”

  “That’s right.” He hesitated. “Why am I here?”

  “Even if I knew, I couldn’t discuss it.” Javelin motioned him into an alcove, this one tiled in desert hues with a sun on the ceiling. No clouds. No shade. He felt hot just passing through. They went up tiled stairs and followed more tiled halls. Before this, he had only experienced such opulence on his visits to Castle Suncroft, home to King Jarid of Aronsdale. Drummer’s sister Chime had married Jarid’s cousin.

  Finally they opened up a locked suite of rooms. The entrance foyer was gorgeous, with aqua mosaics on its walls. A lamp shaped like a butterfly hung from the domed ceiling and glowed with sunrise colors.

  Javelin and the other guard checked the suite while Drummer waited with Kaj, the gambler. Still annoyed with the crack about gagging him, Drummer said, “I’ll bet you’ve never guarded an Aronsdale minstrel before. Aren’t you lucky?”

  “Shut up,” Kaj told him.

  “Don’t you like to talk?” Drummer asked innocently. “Good conversation is like ambrosia to the human intellect.”

  Kaj squinted at him. “What?”

  The other two guards came back into the foyer. “Everything is in order,” Javelin said, with a sharp glance at Kaj. He escorted Drummer into a parlor and indicated a divan upholstered in sunrise colors. “Have a seat.”

  Drummer had no objection. He was exhausted. As he sat down, Kaj spoke curtly. “Sideways.”

  Drummer turned to the side, and Kaj sat behind him. When Kaj untied his wrists, Drummer barely restrained his groan of relief. His shoulders ached, and his limbs felt like dead slabs, but he had no doubt sensation would return with a vengeance. He would have winced, except he didn’t want Kaj to see his discomfort.

  Kaj stood up and looked down at him with his arms crossed. “Don’t make trouble. These rooms have no windows and only one exit, which is locked and guarded.”

  Javelin frowned at Kaj, then spoke to Drummer with courtesy. “You may rest. This suite and everything in it is for your use.”

  “What will happen to me?” Drummer asked.

  Javelin hesitated. “I don’t think you will be harmed.”

  That statement hardly rang with confidence. “Does that mean I might be?”

  “Enough!” Kaj said. He spoke to Javelin. “Havej and I can stand guard here while you attend Her Majesty.”

  So Havej was the third guard, the one who wanted a drink. Drummer sympathized. He could use a good strong one himself.

  “Can I get my glittar back?” Drummer asked.

  Kaj’s face flushed with anger, but Javelin spoke quickly, before the other guard could respond. “I’ll check.”

  After the guards left, Drummer lay on the divan. Closing his eyes, he silently cursed his fate. After a few minutes of dramatic brooding, he decided his time would be better spent exploring his sumptuous prison.

  The rooms were gorgeous, with golden furniture and sunrise mosaics. For a prison, he could have done worse. He had, in fact, many times. At least in those cases, he had known he would be released soon. He had no idea why he was here, though he would lay odds it had to do with his sister being queen of Harsdown. He couldn’t imagine any other reason for Taka Mal to bother with him. It scared him, despite his facade of nonchalance with his guards.

  He found a bowl of fruit and feasted on bananas, grapes, and oranges. He supposed he should have worried about poison. If they had wanted to kill him, though, they could have already done it plenty of times. In the bathing room, he washed up in the pool, which was tiled with designs of blue roses. His guards apparently didn’t consider him dangerous, for they had left the razor on a stand in the bathing room. He shaved the stubble on his chin. Then he wandered naked into the bedroom.

  Drummer didn’t know whether to be flattered or worried that the clothes in the closets fit him perfectly. Someone had planned his abduction in detail. The garments were far more elegant than his usual attire, they were similar in quality to what he wore when he visited Castle Suncroft in Aronsdale, where he tried not to embarrass his relatives by dressing like a scrubby minstrel. These trousers were deep blue and tucked into boots tooled with vine designs. The silk shirt was white. It fastened at the neck, but he didn’t like tying it, so he left it open halfway down his chest. The vest he tried felt constraining, and he put it back in the closet. When he finished dressing, he felt better.

  Noises came from the foyer. He went to investigate and found his three guards.

  “Greetings,” Drummer said.

  They regarded him with impassive expressions.

  “The queen will see you now,” Javelin said.

  4

  Heart of Ice

  Mel and Cobalt entered Stonebreaker’s huge bedroom together. The room was full of people. Mel recognized none of them, neither the guards posted around the dais nor the servants seeing to the king’s every need. Stonebreaker was sitting up in bed, discussing a scroll with his scribe. The king’s silvered hair swept back from a face of noble lines with a strong nose and chin. He was a handsome man, proud and aristocratic, and even in his sickbed, he had a presence that commanded.

  She could see a resemblance between Stonebreaker and Cobalt. But everything about Cobalt was more. It wasn’t only that he was taller and more powerfully built than his grandfather. He had a vibrancy that the king lacked. More intelligence. A stronger sense of self. More strength of character, from what Mel had seen. Cobalt simply surpassed the king.

  The aides and guards bowed to Cobalt. They darted glances at Mel, but averted their gazes when she caught them watching her. She knew the staff bowed to the royal family, but she was almost certain that when a member of the Chamberlight family arrived at the palace after an absence, people were supposed to kneel.

  Cobalt’s expression tightened. The older servants had seen him beaten and whipped by the king in his childhood, and she knew he brooded on their lack of intervention. He didn’t care if they knelt, but it mattered to him that they gave respect. She had no doubt they feared Stonebreaker, especially now, when the king could misinterpret any honor they showed his heir. If they knelt to Cobalt, his grandfather could take it as a deliberate slight, a wish to see him dead and Cobalt on the throne.

  The king, however, looked fine. Mel didn’t know whether to feel relieved for his health or angry that he had pulled Cobalt across four countries to attend him. She saw no sign of paralysis. His face seemed normal and he was using both arms as he held the scroll. He looked up as Cobalt and Mel came forward, and he registered neither surprise nor pleasure at the sight of his heir. He just set down his quill. He waved his hand and the men attending him left immediately, pausing only to bow to Cobalt.

  When everyone was gone except for the guards posted around the walls, the king beckoned to his grandson. He didn’t acknowledge Mel with even a glance, so she stayed back.

  Cobalt went to the bed and bowed, as expected of the heir to the king. “I am pleased to see you looking so well, Grandfather.”

  “Are you?” Stonebreaker’s voice was almost as resonant as his heir’s. Almost. He motioned to a dark wing chair by the bed. “Sit. Tell me about your trip.”

  Cobalt glanced at Mel. She shook her head slightly and hoped he wouldn’t press the issue of Sto
nebreaker’s discourtesy to her.

  The king spoke dourly. “I see you brought your wife.”

  “Yes.” Cobalt held out his hand to Mel.

  Her face was growing hot. She came over and bowed to the king. “It is an honor to attend you, Your Majesty.”

  Stonebreaker narrowed his gaze at her. But then he indicated another chair. “Bring that one over.”

  Relieved he hadn’t found reason to take offense, Mel moved her chair next to Cobalt’s. Then they sat, stiff and formal.

  “You look improved,” Cobalt told his grandfather.

  “How would you know?” Stonebreaker asked. “You weren’t here.”

  Cobalt’s jaw tensed. “General Cragland told me of your illness. I am glad the paralysis wasn’t permanent.”

  “Well, then, it wasn’t paralysis, was it?” Stonebreaker studied him as if Cobalt were a bug under a magnifying glass. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

  A muscle twitched in Cobalt’s jaw. “Of course not.”

  Mel spoke. “May we do anything for Your Majesty?”

  “Like what?” Stonebreaker asked. “Take over my duties? I’m not dead yet, girl.”

  Mel stared at him. In the same moment that she said, “I would never—” Cobalt said, “Don’t talk to her that way.”

  Stonebreaker turned a hard gaze on his grandson. “You should have left her in Shazire. You only had to marry that rube. You didn’t have to inflict her on us.”

  Cobalt clenched the arms of his chair. “You will not speak of my wife in that manner.”

  Stonebreaker leaned forward. “And you will not speak to me in that manner, boy.”

  “I haven’t been a boy for twenty years.” Cobalt’s voice grated.

  “You consider yourself a man?” Stonebreaker asked. “Why? Because you have a pretty wife?” He gave Mel an appraising glance that lasted too long for courtesy, and she sat under his scrutiny with her face burning. To Cobalt, he said, “So where is your heir, hmm? You’ve been wed over a year and I see no sign of any success on your part to father one.”