Prince of Sun and Shadow
Della lit the candles in her cottage, one for each mage power: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo. Iris sat at the circular table and touched the indigo candle. “In a rainbow, violet comes after indigo.”
“So it does.” Della wearily settled in a chair across from her. She seemed subdued, as if she had yet to absorb what had happened in Stone’s cell today.
Iris spoke quietly. “Only a violet mage could have killed Murk. And Jarid was only six. ”
“Yes.” Sorrow came from Della’s mind. “His mother’s spell on the glass ball probably helped him focus.”
“I’ve never even heard legends of violet mages.” Iris found it hard to comprehend such power.
Della shuddered. “It frightens me.”
“He wouldna use it for evil.” Iris wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince Della or herself.
“All mage powers have their dark aspects. One who can heal can also cause injury.”
“But it never happens.”
“It happens, Iris.” Della rubbed her eyes. “Shape-mages rarely abuse their gifts because it hurts the mage just as much as the other person. A healer who deliberately injures someone also experiences the pain herself. It is a powerful deterrent. But at the age of six, Jarid understood too little about his gifts—and the consequences of misusing them.”
“He knows now,” Iris said murmured.
“I’m surprised the spell didn’t kill him, too.”
“It came close, I think.”
Della nodded sadly. “If he had truly wanted to use his power for ill, he could have done so long ago, instead of locking his mind away.”
“Locking his mind?”
“He made himself blind, deaf and mute as punishment.”
The thought threatened to break Iris’s heart, all the more so because she knew Della was right.
Watching her, Della said, “With you, he has begun to heal.”
“I canna do enough. We are shadows to his brilliance.” Iris thought of the wedding gift he had given her, the invisible sphere, a spell of good will she had taken into herself. “I donna think he even needs actual shapes to focus. He imagines them. Real shapes help, but he can use those he sees only in his mind.”
“And yet he hides from his own power.”
Iris could see, in her mind, the tormented young king, his palms filled with violet light, his gaze haunted as he confessed to murder. “If only he would let me go to him.”
“Is he still secluded in the tower?”
“Aye. He refuses to let anyone near.” She grimaced. “Muller hasna been much better.”
“I don’t understand Muller. He practically begged Jarid to take the crown when he thought his cousin was incapable of ruling.” Della shook her head. “Why is he horrified now that Jarid might actually rule?”
“Jarid killed a man with his mage power.”
“Muller didn’t know that until this morning.”
Iris sifted through her impressions of the golden lord. “I think Muller sent us to find Jarid because he genuinely believed his cousin would make a better king. I donna know why.”
“It makes no sense. Muller has spent years learning to govern. He had to know he was better prepared than Jarid.” Della’s face creased with lines that had deepened over the past few days. “You would think he would have fought for the title.”
“He didna want it.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Iris exhaled. Neither was she.
Prince of Sunbeams, Iris thought. Muller stood at the top of a hill, facing away from her, gazing out over Crofts Vale in the valley below. Dressed in impeccable white trousers, gold boots and a gilded tunic, he glowed. The sun turned him radiant. Wind blew his hair back from his face, showing his regal profile, his features so perfect he never seemed fully real to Iris.
When she came up to him, he turned with a start, then relaxed when he saw her. He bowed deeply. “Good morn, Your Majesty.”
This change of status between them unsettled Iris. Only a few days ago, she had bowed to him.
“Good morn.” She gestured at the rolling green hills. “A lovely view.”
“Like our royal family.” Bitterness edged his voice. “Beautiful on the outside, rotted from within.”
She responded gently. “That is’n true, Muller.”
“Isn’t it?” His fist clenched. “You heard Jarid. A shape-mage who can kill.”
“He had provocation.”
“And if he feels he has provocation again?”
“Saints, Muller, look what it did to him. It was’n his mother’s broken spell that left him unable to speak, hear or see. It was him. ” She searched for words that would do justice to what she had sensed in Jarid. “He felt Murk die. How could a six-year-old live with that? And he knew, even then, that killing opposed everything it meant to be a shape-mage. What if we hadna found him? Would he have spent the rest of his life atoning for being a terrified little boy who defended himself from the monster who murdered his parents and meant to kill him? He’s suffered enough.”
Muller answered in a low voice. “Before we knew anything about him, I had been so certain it would be best if I stepped aside. Then we discovered he was completely unfit to rule. Even that was all right for Aronsdale—you would do well in his place. But then he began to recover and suddenly we had a king who would rule, but imperfectly.”
“Surely a flawed king is better than none at all.”
His voice cracked. “Even then I didn’t know the worst. He is an abomination. A mage who kills.”
Iris couldn’t sort his tangled emotions; she had no shapes to focus her power. She tried to draw on the sun, but it was too distant, too abstract. She felt as if she were using untrained muscles. She strained to concentrate—and then she had a sense of going over a barrier. Her spell blossomed and she felt Muller’s deep-seated dread at the prospect of Jarid ruling Aronsdale. Even knowing how much perfection meant to Muller, Iris didn’t understand the depth of his reaction, nor could she delve deeply enough to discover what caused his fear.
She spoke softly, “We are all flawed, Muller. Just look at me.”
He lifted his hands, then dropped them, moving with the unconscious grace he never seemed to want rather than the warrior’s power he longed to command. “Iris, it may not seem so now, but you will come into your own as a mage, at least a sapphire, maybe an indigo, greater than Della, greater than Chime, perhaps even greater than Jarid’s mother.”
She wondered why he hadn’t answered her question. “In the past, Della said emerald was my limit.”
“She was wrong. I told her so.”
Iris felt as if he had just punched her in the gut. “You believed I had such power and you never told me?”
“Della didn’t want me interfering. Besides, she thinks I have no mage power.” He shrugged, trying for a nonchalance he obviously didn’t feel. “She wouldn’t listen.”
“You should have told me.” Suddenly Iris understood. “Except then you and I would have had to wed. And you want Chime.”
He said, simply, “Yes.”
“If I really am that strong a mage, surely you knew it would come out.”
“Once Chime and I were married, it wouldn’t have mattered. We couldn’t undo the union.” He looked toward the castle, high on its bluff. “And then you found Jarid.”
Iris exhaled. “That is why you sent me to get him.”
“In part.” He swept his arm out as if to include the entire country. “But what I said before is true. Aronsdale needs you. I would only bring sorrow to our people.”
“How could you give up so easily?”
Muller gave a bitter laugh. “You think I gave up?” Bending down, he dug up a chunk of rock. Then he showed her. “What shape is this?”
“An oval, sort of.” A broken oval; the end had cracked off, leaving a jagged edge.
“An imperfect shape.”
“Very.”
“Can you use it for spells?”
Iris tried to concentrate on the rock, but instead of focusing her power, it dispersed her spell like a jagged seashore breaking up waves.
“Nay, Muller.” She gave him back the rock. “It ruins the spell.”
“As it would for any normal shape-mage.” He concentrated on the rock, his forehead creasing.
“Muller?” Iris wondered at his intense focus. It was exactly the way Della looked before she did a spell.
Suddenly a spark jumped up from the rock, which turned red like a hot coal. With a grunt, Muller dropped the stone. It hit the ground and the grass sizzled.
Iris gaped at him. “What did you do?” The glow in the rock was only now fading.
“That,” he said harshly, “is my mage power.”
“But…but you have no—”
“No power? Aye, so Della believes. Why? Because she can’t feel a ‘gift’ as imperfect as mine. I can only use flawed shapes.” He kicked the scorched rock at their feet. “You want me to create light? That was the best I could do. My spells always come out twisted. Wrong. But I have the Dawnfield mage strength, green at least, maybe blue. It would devastate Aronsdale to have me at its helm.”
“Hai, Muller.” No wonder he had dreaded becoming king. In a realm that kept its freedom only because of its shape-mages, such a distortion of power from the highest authority in the land could debilitate the country.
Muller indicated the distant figure of a woman in a meadow. She was walking toward their hill, her white dress drifting on the wind. Like him, she was ethereally beautiful, almost unbearably so.
“My betrothed,” he said.
“Does Chime know?”
“Yes. She helps me. Soothes me.” Softly he added, “But we cannot deny the truth. She and I are flawed.”
“Muller, nay.”
His face was pensive. “You think she doesn’t realize she has too much trouble understanding spells? She and I will never win acclaim for our gifts of the mind, but we complement each other.”
Iris was beginning to see why he and Chime spent so much time making themselves beautiful. It helped them endure what they perceived as their flaws on the inside. She spoke gently. “Acclaim means little. A love that makes each of you feel whole is priceless.” If only she and Jarid could find their way to such a gift.
“A pretty thought.” Pain showed on his face, though he tried to hide it. “But idealistic.”
“Sometimes idealism is all we have.” Iris watched Chime climbing the hill. “Jarid and I know so little about our duties. All of us are flawed, Muller, but together, perhaps we can do what would be impossible for one of us alone.” She turned to him. “Help us. Let me tell Jarid you will stay. He and I, we need you and Chime.”
For a long moment Muller watched his betrothed. Just as Iris thought he wouldn’t answer, he turned back to her. “I will talk to Chime.” He gave her a wan smile. “But I don’t know how much we can do.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
In truth, Iris didn’t know what she could do, either. Jarid had withdrawn from them all. She didn’t know how to breach the barriers to his heart—and without him, Aronsdale would remain incomplete.
Jarid sat against the wall of the tower room, a curving surface tiled in gold mosaics. He felt like a figure in a round box. He could focus his power through the tiles, the room, the orb-lamp on its stand, even the stairs beyond the door. Power coursed within him, awakened by his wife and her damnably soothing touch, the healing she drew from within herself and gave to him.
Iris.
Pulling his knees to his chest, Jarid crossed his arms and laid his forehead on them. His mind kept replaying that moment from this morning when—for the first time in his life—he had seen his foster father. Stone. The man had a weathered face. A worn face. An aging face.
A beloved face.
Jarid had ordered the guards to free Stone and give him a guest suite in the castle, and he had made sure they did as he said. Then he had retreated here. Nothing would let him escape the truth. Now everyone knew: their king was an atrocity. All this day he had been reliving Murk’s death; no longer could he deny the memory. That night, all those years ago, he had thought he would die himself. He was tainted. He would return with Stone to the mountains and live his life in isolation. He hated to leave Iris, but he couldn’t let her stay with him. He would destroy her. He would destroy Aronsdale.
A knock came on the door.
Jarid ignored it, but silence no longer protected him. Nor could he shut out the compassion that flowed to him from beyond that portal. He shouldn’t have been able to sense Iris so well with the door between them, but he did. They had reached each other across valleys and mountains and rivers, beyond the forest and beneath the bowl of the sky. It should have been impossible, but they had done it. Now she was a part of him, one so integral to his heart that he feared he would shatter when he left her.
The door opened. Jarid rose to his feet, his back against the wall, his posture defensive. Iris stood framed in the gracefully arched doorway. Guards loomed behind her, their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to defend their queen against their king.
Iris stepped inside and turned to the guards. “You may close the door.”
“Your Majesty,” one began. “You shouldn’t risk—”
“I shall see my husband in private,” Iris said firmly.
When the guard still hesitated, Jarid spoke in his roughened voice. “You heard her.”
With poorly disguised reluctance, the guard closed the door. Jarid told himself he should insist that Iris also leave, but the words deserted him. He wanted her too much.
Stop. He put up his hand, palm out, to push her away.
“You donna fool me,” she murmured.
“You must go.”
She came over to him. “Nay, my love.”
“You cannot love me.”
“You can say I will never be yours, but you canna tell me what I will feel.” She spoke with compassion. “Give us time to learn each other, Jarid. With you, I feel a closeness I’ve never known before. It is as if we have a place in the world. A home. Perhaps neither of us knows how to love the other, but the seed is there. Let us give it a chance to grow.”
Jarid wished he could give that to her: a home, a place, a husband to cherish her. She deserved all that and more. But his scarred heart had nothing to offer.
Iris besieged his defenses. He barely stopped himself from gathering her into his arms. His conflicted emotions bewildered him: his longing to believe her; his conviction he didn’t deserve what she offered; his pleasure at seeing her, hearing her, feeling her. He felt her self-doubts and couldn’t fathom why she considered herself undesirable. Her hair, so full and curly, gleamed gold, chestnut, red, yellow. Seeing her lush body, he remembered their wedding night and his pulse quickened. Her face glowed with health, her cheeks pink as if she had been running.
He spoke in a rasp. “I cannot promise you a life of the laughter and love you deserve.”
Her voice softened. “I couldna bear it if you left.”
It was too much. Even knowing he should push her away, he drew her forward, into his arms, and laid his cheek on the crown of her head. “Iris—”
“Is it truly so horrible, to be with the likes of me?”
“It is a miracle. But you destroy my defenses.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “It is a good thing, to heal.”
“It’s killing me.”
“Nay, Jarid. Living hurts, but that is’n death.”
“I must never forget what I am.”
“You are Jarid Dawnfield, King of Aronsdale.”
“I am a monstrosity.”
“Nay!” She drew back to look at him. “You are a marvel.”
His hands tightened on her back. “Muller is right. He is more worthy to be king.”
“He didna say that.”
“He doesn’t want me to wear the crown.”
“He wants it even less himself.”
“He doesn’t mean that.”
“He means it.” She set her palms against his chest. “Muller is also a mage, but his spells go awry. You fear you will kill because you have so much power within you. He fears he will kill because his spells twist out of shape.”
He stared at her. “Muller is a mage? ”
“Aye. He says I may tell only you.”
Jarid leaned his forehead against hers. “He can learn to control his spells.”
“He thinks not.”
“I cannot accept the crown.”
“You already have it.”
“I will abdicate.”
“Nay.” Her melodious voice flowed over him. “What meaning would light have without darkness to define it? Goodness is’n the absence of evil, it is our ability to rise above the shadows within. If you had no such goodness, you would have never punished yourself all these years. That you have both light and shadows donna make you evil, it makes you human.”
“I must go.” He feared to accept the hope she offered him. “You must stay.”
Her voice caught. “I would miss you forever if you left me.”
Jarid pulled her close so he wouldn’t have to look into her face. He couldn’t speak his heart: I fear to love you. It would hurt too much, for to love meant to risk the anguish of loss.
Tenderness came into her voice. “We all leave this life someday. We canna let that stop us from giving our hearts. If we do, our lives have no meaning.”
He told himself that his leaving would protect Iris, but when he tried to imagine a life without her, isolated in his mountain refuge, it was unbearable. Great ice floes were breaking within him, as his defenses cracked and split.
“Let them crack,” Iris murmured.
His voice broke. “I don’t know how to love you.”
She cupped his cheek with her hand. “Let us learn together.”
It was a long moment before he spoke. Then finally he said the words that both terrified and elated him. “I will try.” He took a deep breath. “I will stay, my wife.”