Charmed Destinies

by Mercedes Lackey

  Jarid had turned toward her, though his eyes were directed to her right. He reached out until his hand brushed her skirt. Taking a pinch of silk, he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. For the first time since she had met him, a smile played around his mouth, easing his dark manner. It made her want to take him into her arms. For all that they couldn’t converse, they somehow communicated. She didn’t know how to define the way he made her feel; she had too little experience with these emotions he evoked. She only knew she wanted to be near him.

  With care, Iris sat next to him and laid her palm over his other hand, where it rested on his crown. He tensed, but then he curled his fingers around hers. They sat for several moments, neither moving, Iris barely breathing. A blush warmed her face. Did he realize this was his wedding night? That she found him attractive didn’t mean he felt the same toward her. How could he? He knew nothing about her, not even her name or age.

  When Jarid moved, Iris thought he would withdraw. But he only set his crown on the bed. Her pulse quickened when he took her face in his hands and moved his thumbs along her cheeks. His skin scraped hers, rough with calluses he would have never developed had he lived the life expected of a prince and heir to the realm. She felt him struggling with his thoughts. He had returned home, lost his foster father, become king and married, all in a matter of days. It left him reeling.

  Jarid exhaled, a breath she felt on her cheeks rather than heard. He touched her face, exploring, and she held still, letting him. His feather-light touch sent tingles up her neck. When his fingertip lingered on her lips, he smiled, just the barest curve of his lips, but the room seemed brighter.

  Uncertain how to behave with him, Iris traced her finger over the dimple in his chin. With an inaudible sigh, Jarid drew her hand into his lap, running his thumb over her knuckles. When he touched the ring on her fourth finger, with its distinctive arrangement of gems, his grip tightened. He hadn’t given it to her; the Bishop of Orbs had done it for him, sliding the ring on Iris’s finger during the ceremony. Now she felt Jarid recognize the band. Yet he showed no surprise that she wore a wedding ring from among the heirlooms that belonged to his family.

  Lifting her hands, Jarid pressed his lips against her knuckles. She inhaled, aware of the emotions tumbling within him, an engaging mixture of boyish wonder, sensuality, elegance, roughness and luminous inner strength. She also picked up the reason for his uncertainty; he had never touched a woman except as a small child, when he had hugged his mother. Iris had no experience with men, either, unless that peck on the cheek a valet had given her last year counted.

  Iris slid her palms to his shoulders, wishing she understood him better. She could feel his moods, but nothing more specific. Softly she said, “I wish you could tell me what you are thinking.”

  Jarid didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to know she had spoken. He moved his fingertip around her ear, exploring, arousing her in the process of “seeing” her. Shy but curious, she laid her hands on his arms. His muscles felt firm under his rich garments. She wondered if he had any idea how fine he appeared. Unlike Muller, who knew his golden beauty well and expected everyone else to notice, Jarid seemed to have no inkling of the devastating figure he cut.

  He caught her hand and touched her fingers to his lips. Then he mouthed one word: queen?

  Iris’s breath caught. Could they talk this way? Delicately, she put his fingers against her lips. “Yes.”

  He brushed his fingertip over her bottom lip.

  “What happened?” she asked. “You spoke as a child. You saw. You heard. Why is that lost to you now?”

  Although he still touched her lips, he didn’t seem to understand. He drew her close, his arms around her waist, his embrace uncertain. When he rubbed his cheek against the crown of her head, his breath stirred her hair. He slid his hand down her back, and she sensed how much he liked her waist-length curls. She closed her eyes, pleased, and surprised, too, because she had always thought of her abundant curls as wild rather than beautiful.

  Iris wanted to let him know she liked his touch, but she didn’t know how to tell him. Tentative and unsure, she put her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. If only she could reach him through his darkness and isolation.

  Try, she thought.

  Just as she had done in the Great Shape-Hall, so now she formed a healing spell. An orange mage could sooth physical injury, but that only eased pain. It took a blue mage to heal wounds. Iris had never believed she had such abilities, but she tried to put aside her doubts and to concentrate, focusing through the cylindrical room.

  Nothing.

  She struggled with her frustration. This was exactly as it had always been when she tried spells. And yet…she had succeeded lately, a little, during the coronation tonight and even more in the forest. Drawing on those memories, she strove to reawaken the mental state that freed her gifts. She imagined herself surrounded by the sphere of greenery, her refuge in the woods.

  Mage power stirred within Iris. Her spell became a waterfall, sparkling and bright—but instead of flowing into Jarid, it skittered off him like water splashing on rock.

  Iris’s head began to throb, warning that she was pushing too hard. She had to relax her focus and let the spell fade; otherwise she could injure her mind. Disappointment welled within her. She didn’t know if her attempt had failed because she wasn’t adept enough or because Jarid’s defenses were too strong.

  Jarid continued to stroke her back. He gave no sign that he realized she had tried a spell on him, but his mood had calmed, the last of his agitation subsiding. His mind shone, an inner radiance far more beautiful than the sunlight he never saw. Locked within his darkness, he had spent years developing his mage light, free of external influences, creating a purity of soul that graced her life.

  Drawing back, she touched his cheek. “So beautiful, my husband.”

  His lips curved into a smile—a full smile, the first he had shown her—and it changed his entire face. Instead of a brooding stranger, suddenly he looked his age, a youth of twenty, hardly more than a boy. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he had heard her compliment. Of course she would never tell a man he was beautiful if he could hear.

  A thought jolted Iris; if she could feel his emotions, he was probably absorbing hers, too. Hai! That was embarrassing. She imagined a wall hiding her thoughts.

  His smile widened. Then he drummed his fingers on the back of her hand.

  Iris gave a startled laugh. “Aye, sure, I know that game. We played it all the time in my village.” She turned her hands over so he was tapping her palms instead of her knuckles. That was the entire point of the game; to stop him from tapping the back of her hand. With a grin, Jarid flipped over her hands and caught her knuckles again.

  Charmed, Iris tangled her fingers in his. It delighted her that a prince would play a commoner’s game, but then, he had lived most of his life in mountains north of her home. He had probably learned the game from his guardian.

  His hands stilled, his smile fading. He mouthed a word: Stone?

  “Stone?” Iris brought his fingers to her lips. “What?”

  He formed another word: where?

  “I don’t understand.”

  He mouthed, Father.

  Sadness welled over Iris. “I am so terribly sorry about him, Jarid.” />
  He seemed puzzled. She didn’t understand why; surely he knew his father had died. A mage as strong as Jarid would have felt the loss intensely even at the age of six. It was hard to interpret his moods. If only she could breach his solitude. But his words were locked within him, trapped by his silence. Maybe one reason she felt so close to him, so soon, was that she recognized that sense of not belonging, of living with a crushing isolation from everyone else. She had known similar all her life.

  Iris traced the gnarled scar below his ear. The accident that had killed his parents and caused this wound might explain his hearing loss, but it came nowhere near his eyes. She cupped his cheek, and he turned his head, pressing his lips into her palm.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” she said. “ Perfect eyes. They have no scars, at least that I can see. Is it your emotions that were injured, never letting you see or hear or speak?”

  Jarid gave no indication that he knew she had spoken. He embraced her as if she were an anchor in his sea of confusion.

  “Hai,” she murmured. If only she could help. She wanted to believe he possessed the legendary indigo gifts of the Dawn-fields, but if he truly had such gifts, he could have healed himself. She pushed away the thought, refusing to acknowledge that her hope might well be useless. She had spent years unable to call on her mage light, unaware she even had such gifts; the same could be true for Jarid. Surely he might heal himself. She longed to see him regain what he had lost. She was grasping at mist, but it was all she had.

  Jarid seemed to have no sense of his own radiance; he lived in the darkness of his loneliness and endured a shattering guilt she didn’t understand. Why guilt? He had done nothing wrong.

  Trying another healing spell, Iris used every shape in the room to focus: orbs on the bedposts, a half-sphere lamp with its flickering flame, star mosaics on the walls. Nothing helped. Her spell ran off Jarid like water.

  “Why?” Moisture gathered in her eyes. “Why can I feel your emotions but I canna give you light?” She imagined his sight filling, his eyes opening to color and clarity: Gossamer dawn, brighten his life; tenuous hope, unlock his heart.

  Nothing.

  Iris buried her head against his shoulder and his vest soaked up her tears.

  “Look who has deigned to rejoin us.” Leaning against a pillar on the edge of the Great Shape-Hall, Muller raised his crystal goblet. “To our new queen.”

  Della followed his gaze. Across the hall, Iris was coming through an archway with her honor guard, a quartet of octahedron lieutenants. She glowed, from her yellow gown to the auburn curls tumbling down her back. But her eyes had darkened.

  “And look at that,” Muller added. “She’s alone. Where could our new king be?”

  His tone surprised Della. Here, with just the two of them, he revealed a bitterness he had hidden before. Until this moment he had given her no reason to think he regretted his decision to relinquish the crown.

  “It could have been your title,” she said.

  “I didn’t want it.” He was watching Iris intently.

  Della studied him, trying to fathom his mood. Although she was a green mage, her abilities were more jade than emerald; at her best, she could feel only vague emotions from other people. She touched the jade pendant around her neck; polished into a five-sided pyramid, it represented the highest shape she could draw on. It was too small to handle much of her considerable power, but it focused her gifts with a finesse she couldn’t achieve using a larger or simpler shape.

  When she focused on Muller, a general sense of his mood came through; he genuinely didn’t want to be king, but he had more conflicts about losing the title than he had let anyone see. She wished she understood why. She strove to deepen her awareness, but the pendant couldn’t carry enough power. She tried to draw on the Shape-Hall itself, but it had six sides, too many for her. Pain jabbed her temples. She released her concentration and the pain receded, much to her relief; she hadn’t pushed hard enough to injure her mind.

  Iris was moving across the floor, accompanied by Brant Firestoke, the two of them stopping often to converse with the guests.

  Della spoke quietly. “She needs your help, Muller.”

  “Whatever for?” He was clenching the stem of his goblet so hard, his knuckles had turned white. “You’ve all made it excruciatingly clear you consider me unfit for the job.”

  She glanced up at him. “I’ve never said such a thing to you.”

  He tapped his long finger against her temple. “Ah, but you think it, my dear Mistress No-Cozen.”

  Della didn’t know how to respond. Although she had questioned his suitability for the throne, she had told only Brant and Iris, and neither of them were likely to have repeated it, especially to Muller. He had to be guessing her thoughts, rather than sensing them with a spell; her strongest gift was the ability to recognize other mages, and she felt no power in Muller.

  She covered her unease with silence. She couldn’t lie to him, but neither did she want to alienate him or undermine his confidence. They needed him. And she had always liked Muller. She had known him since he was a sunny toddler running across the meadows, laughing and bright.

  Muller lifted his goblet to Iris. “May her reign be long and fruitful.”

  He never mentioned Jarid.

  6

  A Simple Radiance

  She was gone.

  Jarid lay on the bed, fully dressed, unable to sleep, battling his unwanted longing for the woman who had held him and then left him here alone. Someone else was in the room now, a guard, maybe two. He sensed their unfamiliar minds, and the smell of oiled chain mail permeated the room.

  He couldn’t believe these madmen had crowned him. Even if he had been whole, he would have been unfit to rule. He clenched the quilt with his fist. He had to escape. But to where? He felt like a man trapped in a cell, pounding the walls for an exit he couldn’t see.

  Jarid recognized the castle from hints here and there: the turn of a hallway he had run along as a child; the feel of mosaics on certain walls; how the wind gusted in open windows; aromas wafting up from the kitchens. But this hadn’t been his home for years. Its people were strangers. So far he had recognized only Brant Firestoke. Had he been able to see or hear, perhaps more of the people here would have been familiar, but as it was, they remained a threatening mystery.

  He had no idea what they had done with Stone. Why hadn’t his foster father come with him? Jarid needed him. That these strangers had cut him off from the one person he trusted made him want to strike out at them.

  Nor did he know what to think of the woman. He tried to doubt her, too, but he wanted her to come to him. He loved the way she smelled, of fresh soap and wildflowers.

  His wife. Wife. He had a woman.

  She didn’t seem to like him much, though, given the way she had left him alone on their wedding night. Not that he blamed her, having suddenly found herself bound to a violent stranger. And yet, incredibly, he felt no fear in her. She thought him radiant, of all the strange things. Perhaps she was deluded. Her emotions gave the impression of a gentle woman with a warm heart and strong character. He liked her for that as much as for the alluring curves of her body and the lovely heart shape of her face.

  He wished she would come back. He wanted to hold he
r tonight. Touch her. The years had matured his body, tormenting him with a loneliness he didn’t fully understand and a physical need he could never truly slake.

  Jarid gritted his teeth. He detested this confinement they forced on him. He needed the hills and forest. He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. When he tried to compensate for this mattress being larger and higher than his pallet in Stone’s cabin, he overestimated and his boots came down hard, thudding on the floor. The vibration shook his legs. He felt a change in his guards, their somnolent thoughts jumping to attention.

  Standing, Jarid reached for a bedpost to steady himself. Instead of finding support, his hand hit—what? Metal and leather. The chest of a man wearing chain mail? He wasn’t sure; Stone had owned nothing resembling mail, but Jarid vaguely remembered it from his childhood. He jerked away and stumbled into someone else. Instinctively, he struck out, hitting another mail-clad chest. Someone grabbed his arm, restraining him. Agitated, he took the defensive stance he had learned from Stone, who had taught him to defend himself, an activity they could share that required no words.

  When they tried to hold him back, Jarid fought his jailors, trapped within his darkness. He swung his fists, threw one man to the floor and slammed another against a wall. But in the end they prevailed. They bound his arms behind his back despite his being their king. Then they held him, one on each side, their mailed hands clenched on his arms. The emotions in the room had grown muddled and he was sure more people had entered, too many to distinguish individual minds. He snarled, his lip curling.

  A hand touched his cheek.

  Jarid froze. He knew that gentle touch, knew the soothing spell enveloping him. No! He wouldn’t respond. He would be stone. Unmoved. Yet despite his intentions, his arm muscles relaxed, easing the pain from the ropes that bound his wrists.