The Misted Cliffs

by Catherine Asaro

  Matthew wiggled his fingers. “Poof. You are a roach.”

  Cobalt glowered at him. “Did you come here this morning to torment me?”

  “Actually, no.” Matthew cleared his throat. “I request that you take me on your journey to Harsdown.”

  Cobalt had intended to ask, but he hadn’t been certain Matthew would come. Stonebreaker wanted Matthew to take extra care of the stables in preparation for the bride. “Are you sure you can leave your work here?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Matthew hesitated. “Your Highness…”

  Cobalt groaned. “Whenever you say ‘Your Highness,’ I know I am in trouble.”

  “No trouble. Not for you, anyway.”

  “Surely you aren’t in trouble.” That would be a first.

  “Not now.” Matthew spoke awkwardly. “I was one of the people who helped your mother leave Harsdown all those years ago. Back then, I worked in the stables of your father’s castle.”

  Ah. Cobalt had long suspected as much, though his mother had never told anyone, not even him. No guarantees existed that Varqelle wouldn’t someday return, and she had always acted to protect those servants who had risked their lives and his wrath by helping her leave Harsdown.

  “Has my father said anything to you?” he asked Matthew.

  “I don’t think he remembers me. But I fear he will.” Matthew grimaced. “The more I avoid his presence, the better.”

  “I will arrange it.” Cobalt put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I will let no one bring harm to you.”

  “My thanks.” Matthew started to say more but then stopped.

  “Yes?” Cobalt asked.

  “Forgive my presumption,” Matthew began.

  Cobalt snorted. “Since when has my forgiveness or lack thereof stopped you from presuming?”

  “It is just—I couldn’t help but notice you have somewhat confused responses to your sire.”

  Cobalt glowered. “I am never confused.” It wasn’t true and they both knew it. He had nothing to say because Matthew was right. Cobalt’s reaction toward Varqelle had always been too convoluted for him to untangle, and he felt no more able to talk about it now than he had any of the other times Matthew had tried to draw him out over the years. He might need a lifetime to figure out his emotions in this, but at least now he had the chance.

  He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in this attempt at a truce with the House of Dawnfield. A part of him wanted to fight. He had pledged his fealty to Varqelle, and he would keep that word. He finally had his father, after thirty-three years, and he didn’t want to lose him.

  If this marriage didn’t work, they would still go to war.

  Mel and Shimmerlake had been friends for as long as Mel could remember. They had played together as toddlers, run through the orchards as children, snuck out at night to swim in the lake, commiserated on the embarrassing names their parents had inflicted on them, and shared their secrets. Now Shim was helping her prepare to leave home, and Mel feared she would never see her friend again.

  Shim arranged Mel’s silk dress. It fell in blue drapes around her body, layered and soft, with gold under-panels that glimmered. By tradition, a royal bride wore the color of her mage power. In making the cat spell, Mel had shown she could access the power of a blue. They didn’t know what sublevel yet; different shades of blue corresponded to variations of power.

  “You look gorgeous,” Shim stated.

  Mel grimaced. “I look like an idiot.”

  They were in Mel’s bedroom. The sunbask walls glowed in the sunshine that poured through the windows. Light and air; that had been her life until now. Mel couldn’t believe it would end, with marriage to someone named “The Dark” and “Midnight” no less. She hoped he didn’t look as monstrous as his reputation claimed.

  Shim turned her toward the mirror on one wall. “Look.”

  Mel did so. A stranger stared back at her. Shim had brushed Mel’s hair into a yellow fall of curls that spilled over her shoulders and arms to her waist. Her friend had even twined blue flowers into it, skybells, which grew only in the lowlands. A pendant hung around Mel’s neck, a twenty-sided sapphire in a gold claw. Mel didn’t know yet the number of sides she could draw on as a mage, but her mother could use a faceted ball with up to twenty sides, so Skylark considered it a good guess for Mel, also. Mel thought it was overly optimistic, but she didn’t have the heart to tell her mentor.

  Mel bit her lip. After today, she would have no one to help her learn magecraft. Cobalt Escar had made it clear no one could accompany her to his home. What reasonable prince refused his bride even one lady-in-waiting or companion? Mel had intended to ask Shim and one or more of the housemaids to come with her, and one of the red or orange mages who studied with Skylark. But Cobalt the Dank and Dismal forbade it. She hoped his carriage broke an axle on the way here and fell over a ridge.

  “I look silly.” She frowned at her reflection. “That isn’t me.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Shim put her hands on her ample hips. “But most brides don’t stomp to their wedding in riding boots, wool leggings, and an old tunic.”

  “I ought to,” Mel muttered. “Maybe it would scare him away.”

  A clatter came from beyond her window. Mel went to peer out. At least thirty riders in dark livery were headed to the stables behind the house. They were leading more horses, probably spares so they could travel faster without overworking their mounts.

  “Ho!” Mel said. “He’s here!”

  “Are you sure?” Shim joined her. “Black livery? How unsuitable. It doesn’t match your gown.”

  “Oh, Shim. Who the hell cares if it matches my gown?”

  “He should have worn sky blue.”

  “That livery has blue lining,” Mel offered.

  “Cobalt blue,” Shim said darkly.

  “I don’t see any carriage,” Mel said. Her groom had sent word he would arrive in one. Perhaps this wasn’t him after all.

  The riders gathered in front of the stables, their horses stepping and snorting, stirring up dirt. Stable hands were running out to meet them.

  A carriage rolled into view.

  It was black, all of it, with the Escar jaguar emblazoned on its side, visible only by the narrow blue border that set it off from the rest of the black surface. Black horses pulled the carriage. The reins, bridles, and uniform of the driver were black. Even the carriage wheels were black.

  “If that is supposed to scare me,” Mel said, “it doesn’t.” Never mind that her voice shook.

  Shim laid a hand on Mel’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  “He’s in there, Shim. I’m sure of it.”

  “Do you think he is as grotesque as they say?”

  Mel frowned at her. “As who says?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Everyone who?”

  “If you are asking, do I know anyone who has actually seen him, the answer is no. But, Mel, rumors like that don’t start out of nothing.”

  “Thanks, Shim,” she muttered. The longer the carriage sat there, the more her pulse sped up.

  A Dawnfield groom came over and reached up to the carriage door. Before he touched it, though, the door swung outward, creaking on its hinges. A large, muscular man with a shaggy mane of gray hair jumped out. He wore gray riding clothes of a fine cut, though without the elegance that Mel was used to seeing on her father. Then again, probably no other man alive had Muller Dawnfield’s style.

  “He’s big,” Shim said.

  Mel studied him. It was true, he was taller than most men, with a bulkier physique, but he wasn’t as huge as she had heard. Although he wasn’t handsome, he had regular features and a pleasant mien. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, she would have described his expression as kind.

  “He isn’t monstrous,” Mel said, relieved.

  “He doesn’t look so bad.” Shim smiled at her. “If that’s him, then perhaps you will be all right.”

  “Wait.” Mel caught a flicker of motion beh
ind the man. “Someone else is still in the carriage.”

  “Can you see him?” Shim asked.

  “Not yet. He’s coming—”

  The second man stepped out into the yard.

  “Saints almighty,” Shim whispered. “You’re dead, Mel.”

  6

  The Skybell Bride

  He was the tallest man Mel had ever seen. He towered over everyone in the yard. His broad shoulders, heavily muscled frame, and long legs made her think of a powerful charger. His hair fell to his shoulders, thick and black. His dark clothes had no adornment save one: his cape bore the jaguar crest of Escar, which only a king or prince of that House could wear. His face would have been handsome if it had held even a hint of compassion, kindness, anything to make him seem like a man rather than stone. But no trace of humanity eased those hard features. Nothing. Combined with his monstrous size, it made him look inhuman.

  Her groom had arrived.

  Cobalt longed for the nightmare to end.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave his horses with stable hands in hostile territory. He had no wish to be on this land of his enemy. Everyone looked as if they believed he would curse them with demonic spells. He just wanted this over with, so he could load his unwelcome wife into his carriage and return to the Castle of Clouds, where she could live in another tower and he would never have to deal with her.

  Her home bewildered him. It was beautiful, built from an astonishing golden wood that almost seemed to glow, but it was a farmhouse. He supposed a royal family didn’t have to live in a castle. This was foolish, though. If someone attacked, this place had no wall, battlements, moat, chasms, cliffs, or other means to protect it. Just trees. Many trees. He had ridden past row after row of pear and apple trees. Yes, Muller Dawnfield had a regiment of the army here, but even so. Cobalt would have chosen to live in Castle Escar in the Blue Peaks of the Escar Mountains.

  They held the wedding in a large parlor. Arched windows let in copious sunlight, and rugs warmed the parquetry floor. Cobalt stood with Matthew on one side of the hearth, Cobalt in black, Matthew in gray. One of Stonebreaker’s top officers, General Cragland, stood on Cobalt’s other side, crisp in his military white and blue surcoat, trousers, and blue boots. Protocol required his presence, but he also served as an unspoken reminder to the Dawnfields of the alternative to this marriage.

  Muller and Chime stood on the other side of the hearth with Sphere-General Fieldson. The royal couple left Cobalt feeling as dark and as dour as his name. The king was resplendent in gold trousers, a white and gold vest, and a snowy shirt with gold embroidery. His queen shimmered in green and gold silk, with her yellow hair swept up on her head and threaded with emeralds. They looked utterly beautiful and utterly exhausted. Dark rings showed under their eyes. Neither smiled. Cobalt didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t have wanted to marry his daughter off to someone like him, either.

  Ten rows of high-backed chairs filled the room, with an aisle in the center. People occupied all the chairs, and more guests sat on banquettes in the back or against the side walls. Cobalt recognized no one but Lord Brant Firestoke, who represented King Jarid. Firestoke had brought the documents for the treaty established by this marriage. Earlier today Muller, Chime, and Cobalt had signed all of them except those that Cobalt and his bride would complete after this ceremony.

  By mutual agreement, on Stonebreaker’s advice, neither Jarid nor Varqelle had attended. Too many hostilities lay between them from the war. Given that each would have liked to kill the other, their presence here seemed a less than spectacular idea.

  Dancer had planned to come, but Stonebreaker convinced her it would be unwise to travel into hostile territory, where she would be a target for abduction or assassination. All the royals were, though Stonebreaker hadn’t mentioned the risk with his grandson. Obviously, Cobalt had to go to his own wedding. As a sign of good faith, Stonebreaker had suggested Cobalt go to fetch his bride rather than demanding she come to him. That his grandfather advised it had almost made Cobalt stay home, but he had to admit the idea had merit. He didn’t want his antipathy toward his grandfather to prod him into bad decisions. So he went.

  Stonebreaker, however, did stay home. If it wasn’t safe for Jarid Dawnfield to travel to the Misted Cliffs, it obviously wasn’t safe for the king of the Misted Cliffs to enter Dawnfield territory. But it meant no member of Cobalt’s family attended his wedding. He didn’t want to believe his grandfather had set it up that way, but he had known Stonebreaker too long to be naive. Cobalt refused to let anyone see how much it hurt. Nothing bothered him. He was stone that no one could break.

  Now he waited for his bride to appear. She was taking a lot of time. Why? She needed only come in here and repeat the blasted vows, and then they could be done. He doubted she had any desire to prolong this business, either.

  People shifted in their seats. Conversation trickled among them, but no one spoke loudly. The Bishop of Orbs stood a few paces away, by a display case with figurines and vases. He was going over the scroll he would read for the ceremony. His long robes, white with indigo embroidery, were patterned with designs of spheres. In a back corner of the room, four musicians were warming up, a man with a harp, a woman with a violin, another woman with a star-harp, and a man with percussive instruments.

  A stir came from the doorway at the back, and a young woman entered. Cobalt stiffened. Was this his bride? Relief washed over him. She didn’t look like a man, after all. She was above average height and had a sturdy build. Her brown hair gleamed with auburn highlights. She wore a simple dress, attractive without being showy, blue and yellow, with a snug bodice and a skirt that swirled around her legs. She was no great beauty, but tolerable enough. He could have done a lot worse.

  She barely glanced at him when she entered. He couldn’t tell if she wasn’t interested or if she was avoiding his gaze. Instead of coming down the aisle, she hurried to the musicians and conferred with them. They all stilled their instruments and nodded.

  Cobalt waited, wondering if and when the girl would acknowledge him. She didn’t; she left the room and closed the double doors behind her.

  Sweat ran down Cobalt’s neck and soaked into his collar. It was humid here in the lowlands and hotter than the cliffs of his home, hotter even than the lowlands of his country. He glanced at Muller, and the king inclined his head. Cobalt returned the nod. Maybe that girl hadn’t been the bride. She didn’t look much like either Muller or Chime, who both had yellow hair and blue eyes. It was hard to know, though. Children didn’t always have the same color hair or eyes as their parents.

  The quartet started to play. The sparkling song reminded him of the River of Diamonds above the Castle of Clouds. That water was cold and icy, though, whereas this dulcet melody had warmth. On another day, he might have enjoyed the music.

  A housemaid opened both doors at the back, and everyone turned to look. The girl with auburn hair came in again, and this time she did walk down the aisle. She was holding a bouquet of blue flowers. Cobalt flushed, then stood straighter and watched her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. She didn’t come over to him, either. Instead she went to stand by the king and queen. They nodded to her, but neither showed what looked like parental attention. Cobalt was confused. She had come down the aisle, but she wasn’t acting like a bride. Not that he knew how one normally acted.

  A stir came from the back of the room. Cobalt looked—

  And froze.

  Another girl stood framed in the doorway. He couldn’t absorb her presence. The colors! He lived in a colorless world. The castle, clouds, cliffs all were white. His mother tended to pale colors or white. The Diamond Palace was white. Chamberlight livery was white and blue like ice and shadows. Pale, blanched. He spent most of his time around soldiers, who never wore much color. His own life was dark. Black.

  The girl in the doorway overwhelmed him. Her dress was dyed such a vivid blue, he could barely take it in. Gold shimmered in the drapes of the gown. It clung to her, outlining her body
. She had incredible curves, full and buxom, with a small waist and a height that suggested long legs.

  Then he realized one of her gold drapes wasn’t a drape. It was her hair. It flowed over her shoulders, arms, and torso to her waist. Blue flowers adorned it, and she held a bouquet with more of them. As his mind adjusted to her colors, he finally took in her face. An angel’s face. No one could be so pretty. The curve of her cheek, the small nose, those large eyes as blue as the flowers in her hair—no, it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t absorb it all. This creature couldn’t be his bride.

  Matthew spoke in a voice only Cobalt could overhear. “I would say she doesn’t look like a man.”

  Cobalt couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move. He thought perhaps he might die right now, because surely if he touched that impossible creature it would kill him. Nothing as dark as the Midnight Prince could survive such light.

  She walked down the aisle, and she wouldn’t look at him, either. He finally recovered enough to glance at Muller and Chime. It told him all he needed to know about this apparition approaching him. Only parents would look so anguished at the wedding of their daughter to Cobalt Escar.

  The girl came to the hearth and stood next to him. She didn’t raise her head, she just stared at the empty fireplace. Cobalt gazed at her shimmering hair and thought he would never be able to feel it. Saints only knew how he might damage it. He had a tendency to break fragile things, not through any wish of his own, but because he had too much strength and too little sense of how to use it sparingly. He didn’t want her to break, and she might if he touched her.

  The bishop came over and bowed to Muller and Chime. Then he turned to the bride and groom. Melody glanced quickly at the older man and nodded, though still she avoided Cobalt’s gaze. His anger stirred, but he pushed it away. None of this was her fault.