“I hope so.” Muller kept holding her. “I know you think I’m shallow and fickle, but I’m not. It’s you I want. Not someone else.”
“I never said you were shallow or fickle.”
“You’ve thought it.”
Puzzled, she said, “But I haven’t.”
“You say I should use my gifts. Well, I have. That is what they tell me.”
“Then they’re wrong.”
“Of course they’re wrong,” he said matter-of-factly. “All my spells are wrong. But they always have a seed of truth.”
She hesitated, unsure how to express herself. “What I have thought, Muller, is that you have a great more to you than you let people see, even yourself.”
He shifted his weight. “I’m not suited for this king business. I don’t like governing.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You do seem to spend a lot of time avoiding your uncle.”
His grin suddenly blazed. “Would you like to be king? I will abdicate in your favor.”
She laughed. “I don’t think it works that way. Besides, I wouldn’t know how to be a king.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’ve trained for years.”
“Yes, well, heredity and aptitude aren’t the same.”
Chime started to protest, but another knock at the door stopped her. She went to open it, aware of Muller standing behind her, an unchaperoned man in her suite. No betrothal had yet taken place.
When she opened the door, she forgot protocol and propriety. Della’s circle-maid waited outside, her round cheeks flushed from running. “Milady!” She looked quickly from Chime to Muller, her face turning brighter red. “And Your Highness!”
Muller came forward. “Yes?”
“Mistress No-Cozen is back.” The maid stopped to catch her breath. “She brought the new mage.”
Muller resolutely took Chime’s hand as they entered the Receiving Hall. Sunshine poured through the windows, slanting over Della.
A young woman stood at Della’s side.
Chime felt as if bands were constricting around her chest, making it impossible to breathe. The girl looked about eighteen, with cheeks flushed a fetching pink, large brown eyes, and an incredible mane of chestnut curls that fell in waves to her hips. She was taller than Chime and had a much curvier figure, the voluptuous form men always seemed to notice. She glowed with health. Chime suddenly felt like a pale imitation. She glanced at Muller, certain he would have second thoughts about his hastily made oath to her a few moments ago.
Muller, though, didn’t look intrigued by this new mage. In fact, he seemed bewildered. He hid it well, but Chime felt his puzzlement.
“Your Highness.” Della bowed to Muller.
The new mage glanced from Muller to Chime to Della. When the girl bowed uncertainly, Chime realized that she, too, was new to court protocol. It helped a little with Chime’s raging insecurity.
Della had made an extra effort to find a second mage. The mage mistress had apparently spent years recording all rumors, no matter how insubstantial, about mages; this year she had begun following up leads. After she located Chime, it hadn’t been so urgent she keep looking—until Chime hesitated.
With dismay, Chime realized that even if she said yes now, the betrothal wasn’t automatic. What if the King’s Advisors decided she wasn’t fit compared to this new mage? Chime wasn’t ready to give her answer yet; agreeing to become queen was too overwhelming. But she didn’t want the choice taken away, either. Given her behavior since Della had found her, though, the king and his advisors had reason to question her suitability.
Chime decided then and there that she would become a paragon, with no lock of hair or wisp of thread out of place. She couldn’t make her intellect or experience any greater, but if no flaws showed in her appearance or conduct, maybe it would be enough. She would know the truth, that she was a fraud; nothing would change that. But perhaps her lacks wouldn’t be so obvious to others—especially to this new mage.
Della brought the girl forward to Muller. “Your Highness, may I present Iris Larkspur of the Tallwalk Mountains. She will be studying with Chime.”
“My honor at your presence, Your Highness.” Iris’s voice lilted with the lyrical accent of the Tallwalks.
Using mosaics on the walls, Chime fumbled to make a mood spell. To her unmitigated astonishment, she discovered that Iris felt no attraction to Muller, either. The other girl considered him too fashionable, too pretty, too everything. She preferred the strapping lads in her hamlet.
Chime blinked. Good graces, how had she known all that? Genuine green spells were welling up within her.
Muller inclined his head to Iris. “It pleases me to meet you, Mage Larkspur.”
Iris murmured a response, her face red.
Chime spoke with awkward formality. “Welcome to Suncroft.” To Della she said, “And welcome home, ma’am.”
Iris managed a self-conscious smile. Then Muller spoke again, welcoming Iris with the verbal grace Chime had always admired in him.
So a new mage came to Suncroft. Chime walked with Muller through the castle. He spoke thoughtfully. “How odd.”
“Iris?” Chime asked.
“She isn’t what I expected.”
“She is a mage. I felt it.” Relief flowed through Chime. “But not as strong as me.”
“No, I think not.” He wouldn’t look at her.
“Well. So.” Chime suddenly felt magnanimous. “It will be nice to have someone to study with.”
“If she can study.” Muller rubbed his chin. “Her powers are shrouded. Something is wrong.”
“Wrong?” Chime’s unease stirred. “How?”
“I don’t know.” He gave her a forced smile. “Perhaps I imagined it.”
“Perhaps.” Chime earnestly hoped so.
Anvil paced with King Varqelle along a walkway atop the high wall of Castle Escar. The mountains dropped away in magnificent peaks to the south and rose ever higher to the north, cliffs in many shades of blue stone. In the slanting sunrays, they looked polished, as if a giant had sculpted them.
“Can you create moods spells to read the Aronsdale generals?” Varqelle asked.
Anvil walked slowly, his hands clasped behind his back as he endeavored to appear deep in thought. He couldn’t reveal his inability to do mood spells; it would cast doubt on his claims to be a mage of great power. He had spent years living by his wits as he wandered Harsdown, never staying long in one place, doing odd jobs, his mind and body strengthened by his labors. He had told no one of his powers until he had come here, to Varqelle. But during all those years he had sought knowledge about magecraft from the histories and folktales of the villages he visited. He knew how to uncover secrets. He could learn what the king wanted to know just by going to Croft’s Vale as a spy.
“Spells dissipate over distance,” Anvil said, which was true. “If I focus through a sphere, I can reach across this castle, but at greater distances the spell becomes tenuous. Across the mountains is much too far.” He paused as if pondering. “I need to go to Aronsdale.”
Varqelle looked surprised. “You would do this?”
“If it pleases, Your Majesty.” Anvil had never hidden his hatred of Aronsdale from Varqelle. He had left his home twenty years ago, as a lad of eleven. Mages were feared and reviled in those remote heights of the Boxer-Mage Mountains. He would never forget. The people of Stonce, the tiny hamlet where he lived, had called him pariah, monster, abomination, and in the end they would have killed him if he hadn’t run away. Given the chance, they or others like them would finish that job—just as they had murdered his parents, sister, and brothers, who had done nothing more than reveal their mage power.
Except he could fight back. Unlike other mages, Anvil could reverse his powers without harm to himself. He felt nothing: no remorse, no regret, no dismay. Perhaps he had never possessed such powers of emotion; or perhaps those years of violence and cruelty in his childhood had scorched it out of his hea
rt. Whatever the reason, he escaped his tormentors by using his spells against them.
The people of Aronsdale would never tolerate a mage who lacked the weakness they called remorse. If his ability to reverse spells without consequences became known, King Daron might order his execution. The sovereign wanted his mages powerless. But Anvil knew another truth: he was better than them all. They refused to acknowledge his superiority, but that would change. They would know better—and honor him as he deserved—after Harsdown conquered Aronsdale.
He spoke quietly. “If I return to Aronsdale, my life as Anvil the Forged could be forfeit without the protection of your army. But I can assume another identity.”
Varqelle gave him an approving look. “A disguise.”
“Yes.” Although Anvil didn’t relish the prospect, his great purpose required setting aside personal preferences. “I will need specifics on what you would like done.”
“Get close to Daron’s generals. Learn their plans.” The king’s eyes glinted. “Make them ill. Strike them with grief, sorrow, pain.”
Anvil absorbed that suggestion. It had a certain appeal. He could certainly do spells to agitate rather than soothe, to hurt rather than heal. Aronsdale had caused him misery; now he would return the favor.
Yes, the idea had appeal.
Iris and Chime sat with Della at a table in the mage mistress’s cottage. Colored sunlight slanted across them and lit the parchment they were studying.
Chime wished she could hide under the table.
“It is a simple spell,” Della said, obviously trying for patience. “Concentrate on the drawing of the ring and use the techniques you studied last night to focus. Then make a spell of light. You can imagine the light, make a rhyme, think of heat, anything that helps.”
Chime felt her face reddening. “I can’t remember the techniques.” She had studied hard, struggling to memorize the list so she would be prepared for her first class with Iris. But she was no better at these studies than any other schoolwork she had ever done.
“Surely you recall some.” Della looked hopeful.
Chime spoke slowly. “Imagine light shining through the shape, yes?”
“Not through the shape, exactly,” Iris said. “You imagine the ring focusing the light.”
Della looked relieved. “Yes, good.”
Chime stiffened. Iris couldn’t have studied last night; the king’s staff had kept her busy moving into a suite adjacent to the one where Chime lived. Chime had heard them while she plodded through her work.
“Now show me,” Della told Iris. “Make a spell.”
Iris caught her lower lip with her teeth and averted her gaze. “All right.” She stared at the ring on the parchment, her forehead furrowed.
Nothing.
Iris lifted her head. “I can’t.”
That puzzled Chime. Quite frankly, she didn’t see why Della wanted them to remember techniques for making spells. Either spells worked or they didn’t. She stared at the drawing and it began to glow.
“Hai!” Iris gaped at Della. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t.” The mage mistress glanced at Chime. “It was you, yes?”
“Yes.” Chime shifted in her chair, aware that Iris had tensed. She hadn’t meant to embarrass the other girl. As a peace offering she said, “Maybe if you had a real ring to focus your spells, you could make light.”
When Iris stiffened, Chime didn’t understand. Then she realized she had insulted Iris by suggesting she couldn’t make a spell where Chime had succeeded, that Iris needed more concrete help.
Flustered, Chime ran her finger over the ring on the parchment. She hadn’t intended to make a green spell, but it surged within her, revealing Iris’s mood. The other girl reacted to Chime as she had to Muller; Iris thought Chime cold, too exacting in manner and dress. Arrogant. Seen through Iris’s eyes, Chime didn’t much like herself, either.
Chime felt heavy. No matter what she did, she offended people. If she behaved as she had at home, people here considered her common, crude, wild; if she did her best to copy court behavior and dress, they saw her as vain or proud. Chime knew she had faults, certainly more than her share, but surely she couldn’t be as bad as people thought.
While Chime mentally floundered, Iris spoke to Della. “I memorized the images for focusing light through shapes last night. But when I try it, I canna make a spell.” Her accent lilted more when she was upset.
It bewildered Chime that Iris could so easily learn Della’s methods, yet she couldn’t make a spell. Chime could barely remember the methods after studying all night, yet the spells came easily. She had no control, though. No technique. Maybe Iris had the opposite problem; with too much emphasis on technique, she lost some natural quality.
“Maybe you think too hard,” Chime suggested.
Both Della and Iris blinked at her. Then Della cleared her throat. “Well, yes, uh, I’m sure thinking too hard can cause problems.”
“I’m sure,” Iris said under her breath.
Hai! Now they thought she was stupid. Chime decided she would be better off if she kept her mouth shut.
After an awkward moment, Della said, “Maybe we should call it a day, eh? You two come back tomorrow morning.”
Relief swept over Chime. “Yes, ma’am.”
Iris practically jumped up from the table. “Aye.”
After they bade Della good day, Chime and Iris walked back to the castle, across the slopes above the valley that sheltered Croft’s Vale. Chime made another try at being friendly. “How do you like it here?”
Iris twisted a length of her hair. “It is so new.”
“Are you glad to have come?”
“Yes, I think.” Iris looked across the hills and meadows with longing. “It is so much prettier here. I don’t miss the Tallwalks.”
Chime couldn’t imagine not being homesick. She never really stopped thinking about her family. She wrote them constantly and they replied often, but it wasn’t the same. “Your parents must be sad that you left.”
Iris gave her a sharp look. “My foster parents barely tolerated me.”
“Oh.” Chime heard the pain in her voice. Knowing her clumsiness with words, she suspected she would make matters worse if she pursued the subject. She tried to think of something more cheerful. “You have vigorous hair.” It curled beautifully, so long and thick. “And quite the designs on your tunic.”
Iris smoothed her hair, seeming unsure how to interpret the remarks. “Thank you.”
Watching her, Chime admired the circles embroidered on Iris’s sleeve. It reminded her of her crafts work at home, embroidering pillows and tunics, or painting designs on carts. She also enjoyed building the carts.
The shapes on Iris’s sleeve sparked a mood spell in Chime; Iris wondered if Chime cared about anything besides hair and clothes. Disheartened, Chime turned away, looking up at the castle. She didn’t know how to present herself to these people. Maybe she really was as shallow as they thought. Only Muller seemed to understand. And she could lose him. It startled her to realize how much she had come to look forward to seeing him each day. She hoped she was right about Iris, that the other girl had less mage talent than herself.
After they had walked for a while, Iris tried again. “Do you think we will have a war with Harsdown?”
“I can’t really say.” Chime had no idea. She had never paid much attention to events outside her village.
“I have heard rumors.” Iris’s forehead furrowed, a line between her finely etched brows. “Messengers came through town, merchants, minstrels, men looking for work, families seeking new land. They told of Harsdown building up its army.” She gestured toward the northwest, where Harsdown lay beyond the mountains. “How can King Varqelle put so many resources into an army while his country starves? I donna know which would frighten me more, that it is true he takes so cruelly from his people or that he has more resources than we realize, enough to conquer us.”
Chime felt denser by the mo
ment. It had never occurred to her to consider such matters. “I’ve no idea.”
Iris glanced at her. Although she tried to smile, she came across as sad more than anything else. “You and Muller seem well suited.”
Chime didn’t think she was being complimented. She spoke stiffly. “I’m sure His Highness agrees.”
They continued on in silence.
Chime sat in the twilight, alone, on a bench curving around the window alcove at the top of the Starlight Tower. Tears rolled down her face.
“I’m not stupid,” she whispered. “I’m not superficial or small-minded or vain.” No matter how many times she said it, she couldn’t forget the look on Iris’s face, the same one she saw from Lord Firestoke or King Daron, even sometimes from Della. Only Muller didn’t see her that way.
Even after only one day, Chime knew the truth: Iris would make a better queen. In one conversation she had shown Chime more about Harsdown than Chime had bothered to notice in the previous eighteen years of her life.
She leaned against the window, a rectangular pane that stretched from the cushioned bench to the ceiling, with glass circles inscribed within it, one on top the other. The twelve sides of the alcove each had a window panel, and every one glowed with Chime’s green mage light, soft and fresh like leaves in the sun. Chime’s lips trembled as her tears fell. She spread her palm over a glowing circle and a sense of well-being spread through her. But it wasn’t real. No matter how many spells she made, nothing would change the truth. She wasn’t good enough to become queen.
“Why do you cry?” Muller spoke from the shadowed entrance. He came and knelt on the bench, flattening the velvet cushions with his weight as he gathered her into his arms. Chime laid her head against his shoulder and put her arms around his waist. His mood came to her, focused by the windows, though they had stopped glowing, leaving her and Muller in the fading light of dusk.
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