The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  “Come look,” he said. He took her hand and indicated the window. “Do you see the sparkle through the trees?”

  She peered where he indicated. “Just barely.”

  “A river there feeds a lake. It is packed with fish. If you like, we could go fishing.”

  She smiled. “It is true, I am hungry.”

  “Well, then!” He took her other hand so they were facing each other with their fingers clasped. “I will make you some fish to eat.”

  “I would like that.” Her voice had an odd quality, tentative, uncertain. In that softer tone, she added, “It is true, we often have duties that darken our lives. Perhaps we can enjoy some light today, before the storm comes.”

  “Are you sad?” He wondered what made her so wistful. “Tell me what is wrong. Perhaps I can help.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted with a hint of mischief. Then she stepped forward, putting her arms around his waist—and kissed him.

  Muller was so startled, he froze, rather than doing what he really wanted, which was kiss her back. In the past, he had always been the one to initiate amorous procedures with a woman.

  Telli wasn’t fazed by his reaction. In fact, she was full of misbehavior. She pushed him against the wall as if she were a pirate who had captured him, holding his wrists against the wood panel. It took a moment more to gather his wits. Then he wrested his hands free, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her soundly.

  Ah, yes. This felt right.

  If only he didn’t have to marry. If only Telli was a noblewoman rather than a country girl. Many nobles would prefer her common birth because a lord could more easily have her as a mistress that way. But as much as Muller might have liked such an arrangement with her, he would never ask for one. One didn’t compromise a woman’s honor. Besides, Telli was more innocent than she pretended. Her kiss also had a desperate edge to it, though why, he had no idea.

  After a moment, they paused for air. She regarded him with dreamy eyes the color of a skybell. “You could take over Aronsdale single-handedly,” she murmured. “Just by stealing its women from its men.”

  He smiled, slow and languorous. “You think so?”

  “I do.” Closing her eyes, she laid her head against his shoulder. With a sigh, he ran his hand down her back. For the first time, he noticed a well-washed pattern along the collar of her tunic, a design of squashed spheres.

  Imperfect spheres.

  Before he could stop it, mage power surged in Muller. Sparks leapt up from his hands, scorching her tunic.

  “Hai!” Telli jumped back so fast, Muller almost lost his balance. He felt her emotions, but with flawed awareness. He didn’t know if she realized what had just happened; he could tell only that it bewildered her. His fractured ability to sense her moods receded as she moved away, taking her imperfect circles with her.

  Telli spoke in a low voice. “What did you do?”

  “Do?” He tried to tease. “I kissed you. Surely it wasn’t all that bad.”

  She craned her neck to look over her shoulder—and stiffened. He knew the back of her tunic must be burned.

  A pounding came at the door.

  “Ah, hell,” Muller muttered. Who could be here?

  Telli looked around frantically. “I must hide!”

  His annoyance turned to curiosity. “Why?”

  She ran toward the kitchen. “Do you have a cellar?”

  Another knock.

  Muller followed her. “I should answer the door.”

  “No!” She whirled to him. “You must not!”

  He was thoroughly intrigued now. “And why is that, Telli? If your name really is Telli.”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Your Highness!” a deep voice called. “We must speak to you.”

  Muller swore under his breath.

  “Your Highness?” Telli asked. “Why the blazes would someone come to your cottage, pound on the door, and yell ‘Your Highness’?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Muller tried to appear sincere. He forgot his discomfort, though, when he saw her terror.

  “What is it?” he asked. Had she committed a crime? Suddenly it made sense; she had stolen something from the castle and hidden here in his woods. His men had come to warn him. “I won’t reveal you to them.”

  The clink of keys came from outside. Muller knew if he didn’t answer, they would break into his house to make sure he wasn’t lying in a pool of blood, attacked by this ferocious vagabond with her gold hair and skybell eyes.

  He pushed her toward the archway into the kitchen. “The door to the cellar is in the Prism Closet. Hide there.”

  “Thank you!” She spun around and ran into the kitchen.

  As Muller strode across his living room, the door burst open and slammed against the wall. A formation of soldiers strode inside. As soon as they saw him, they stopped, the hexagon soldiers in the back bumping into the heptagon soldiers in front.

  “Why are you bursting into my house?” Muller asked.

  “Our apologies, Your Highness.” The leader bowed, a burly man with the insignia of a cube-captain on his shoulder. “We had warning an intruder had entered the woods. And no one had seen you for several hours. Your uncle was concerned.” He and the other guards were staring at him with undisguised astonishment.

  Muller glowered, mortified to be caught in disarray. He had to make a conscious effort to keep from straightening his clothes and hair. “As you see, I am fine. I am relaxing. An anomalous concept, you would think from listening to my advisors, but nevertheless something I need to do now and then. Alone.”

  “Uh—yes. Yes, of course, Your Highness. We will be on duty outside.” The captain bowed and the guards made a quick retreat, closing the door.

  Muller swore. He didn’t want them hulking outside, either. How would he smuggle Telli out without anyone seeing her? He didn’t mind so much if they knew he had a beautiful woman in here, but it obviously bothered Telli, who might be in trouble. He didn’t want to hurt her.

  A rustle came from the kitchen. Turning, he saw her in the doorway. She had an odd look, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be furious or shocked.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Your Highness?” She pushed back a straggle of hair. “Your Royal Highness?”

  So. She had heard. He lifted his chin. “It is not a crime, you know.”

  “Your name isn’t Miller.” She spoke slowly, as if testing each word for the pox. “It is Muller.”

  “As in mulled wine, yes. My parents named me after the spirits they make from their vineyards.” He crossed his arms. “You have a problem with this?”

  “You lied to me.”

  Muller was growing angry. “Whereas of course you have told me the complete truth, Telli who can’t even remember her last name properly from one moment to the next.”

  “My name isn’t Telli.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He walked over to her, trying to look intimidating. “What is it?”

  She didn’t look the least intimidated. Furious was a better description. “My name is Chime. Chime Headwind.”

  And then she said, “I’m your bride.”

  7

  Dawnfield Legacy

  Tonight King Varqelle dined in the Horizon Chamber, at a crescent-shaped table with guests on either side, nobles from the elite of Harsdown. The floors and lower walls were made from the rare blue marble made here in the Escar Mountains. It shaded from dark into light blues up the walls, the stone cleverly blended in polished tiles that showed no seam, then into rose marble at the top and across the ceiling, like a sunset. Lamps in gold claws burned on the walls. Varqelle sat in a high-backed chair inlaid with sapphires and upholstered in blue cushions with rose brocade. His gray tunic and leggings clothed him like fog. Sun topazes glittered in his ears.

  A tall man with dark eyes and hair occupied the seat of honor to Varqelle’s left. Anvil the Forged. He had arrived at Escar with nothing more than his riding clothes and ho
rse, but Varqelle welcomed him, for the realm had no other like this man. It wasn’t only that Anvil was a mage of great power; he had also sworn fealty to Harsdown.

  Varqelle needed mages. Even in Aronsdale, such adepts were rare. Harsdown had none. He had long sought to annex Aronsdale to his realms, but her people resisted too well. Her army was small but clever. They always seemed to anticipate the moves of Harsdown, no doubt because of mind tricks played by their mages.

  Harsdown and Aronsdale had fought no declared war for generations, but their warriors constantly skirmished on the borders. Aronsdale fighters proved remarkably hard to kill. They recovered from injuries faster than normal men and kept going long after Varqelle’s men would have given up. No doubt mage trickery was involved, though how, he didn’t know.

  He intended to find out.

  King Daron was clearly irate.

  Chime wished she could disappear. The king paced in front of her and Muller, his boots ringing on the parquetry floor, his face stern, his gray hair brushed back from his face. Chime could see Muller’s resemblance to him, but the king had a severity and sense of authority unlike anyone else she had ever encountered.

  They stood in the Receiving Hall with Della and the guards who had brought them here. The room stretched out, long and elegant, more beautiful than anything Chime could have imagined, drenched in sunlight from many tall windows. The walls gleamed with mosaics in lovely tessellated patterns of squares, circles, and stars. She did her best to ignore them, lest they stir the power everyone insisted she possessed, despite her adamant denials.

  “Your behavior is appalling.” Daron stopped in front of Muller and looked over his muddy nephew. “Though I must say, it is refreshing to see you forget this preoccupation of yours with clothes.”

  Muller crossed his arms and glowered.

  “And you.” Daron turned to Chime. “You ought to be ashamed of your behavior.”

  The only reason Chime felt ashamed was because she had let herself be caught by the very groom she had intended to evade. Even worse, she had kissed the scoundrel. She could hardly say that to the king of Aronsdale, though. So she said only, “I am terribly sorry, Your Majesty.”

  He snorted, his expression making it clear he had a good guess about how she truly felt. “No one will force you into marriage if you find Muller so repugnant.”

  Her face flamed. “I never meant—” She stopped when Daron held up his hand.

  “Four weeks,” he said. “Give this idea of a betrothal that long. If at the end of that time you wish to leave, you may do so. Is that acceptable?”

  Chime nodded, her face hot. It was a fair request. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The king motioned to Della No-Cozen, who was standing nearby. The mage mistress came forward and bowed.

  Daron indicated Chime. “Please go clean her up.”

  “Certainly, Your Majesty.” Della cocked an eyebrow at her unwilling ward, making Chime want to squirm. Then she led Chime off, mercifully away from the king’s displeasure.

  Della didn’t speak until they were walking down a hall with mosaics on the ceiling, walls, and floors. Then, incredibly, she laughed.

  Chime glared at her. “You think it is funny the king despises me?”

  “Actually, he quite likes you.” Della couldn’t stop laughing. “Never, never, have I seen Muller in such a state.” She beamed at Chime. “You shall be good for him.”

  Chime tried not to think of his appealing qualities, that kiss of his and his charmingly roguish smile. “I don’t think he shall be good for me.”

  “What do you fear? Is it truly so terrible to have such responsibilities?”

  “I never asked for them.”

  “Neither did Muller. Nevertheless, you have them.”

  “It’s unfair!” Chime declared. “I don’t want to be a mage. I don’t want to marry that vain fop.”

  “That ‘vain fop’ is the heir to the throne.”

  Chime just grunted.

  After they walked a bit more, Chime snuck a glance at the jade pendant Della wore around her neck, a pyramid with four sides and a bottom. Despite her apprehension, she couldn’t help but be curious about mages. During the ride from Jacob’s Vale, Della had said that the five-sided shape represented the highest order she could draw on, with jade-green as her highest color. Chime had no idea what that meant; no one in her village had known much about mages and Chime had diligently avoided the subject. She made spells by instinct; she didn’t know how she managed it, which probably explained why they were so erratic.

  Yet now, when she saw that pendant, a yearning stirred within her. She didn’t understand it, nor did she want to feel it. She just wanted to go home.

  But still it stirred.

  Lord Brant Firestoke walked the tiled corridors of Suncroft with King Daron. They were both of an age and had ridden together when Daron had been crown prince and Brant an ambitious young officer in the King’s Army. The decades had matured them both, but neither had lost the honed edge to his personality.

  “Muller is right on the verge,” Brant said. “If we push any harder, he is going to run.” He frowned at his friend. “You must remarry. Sire an heir.”

  Daron quirked an eyebrow at him. “What makes you think any heir I sire would be better suited for the title than you consider Muller?”

  “You would train him from birth, instead of starting when he was fourteen.”

  Daron’s expression darkened. “I trained my son for thirty years. Look what that brought me. Heartbreak and sorrow. I will father no more children.”

  “His passing was a great sorrow.” Brant had considered Prince Aron a fine man, one fit to become king.

  “Yes.” The tightness in Daron’s voice said more than words. Even after so many years, he continued to mourn. “I lost a daughter that night, too. My son’s wife, Sky. And my grandson. Jarid.”

  “They had so much promise.”

  Sadness shadowed the king’s voice. “Even now, it bothers me that we never found Jarid’s body. We buried my son and daughter. But how can I finish grieving for Jarid when I don’t know how it ended for him?”

  “I am sorry,” Brant said. It galled him that they had never caught the highwaymen who forced the orb-carriage over a cliff and killed the family. The boy, Jarid, had been only six. Brant suspected he had been a mage. It was rare for the gifts to manifest in a male child, but Jarid’s mother had been the greatest mage of her generation, perhaps for centuries. Neither King Daron nor Aronsdale had ever recovered from their deaths.

  Brant couldn’t imagine Muller leading the country. The young man was too busy polishing his boots and complaining about the bad manners of his friends. Thank the saints for Daron; Aronsdale needed his strong leadership now. Rumors were coming out of Harsdown, unsubstantiated but chilling: King Varqelle was planning the day he would conquer Aronsdale.

  Muller’s breath caught. “Saints above.”

  He stood in an arched doorway that opened out from the uppermost level of the Starlight Tower. The Star Walk stretched ahead of him, taking its name from star-shaped crenellations in its walls. It topped the fortified wall that surrounded Castle Suncroft. During battle, archers crouched behind the walls of the walkway and shot through its star openings. The castle healer drew on the ten-sided stars for power when she tended injured archers.

  Muller didn’t come here often. Although he wielded a sword well, he had less proficiency with a bow and arrow. But what caught his attention today had nothing to do with arrows or stars. A short distance away, Chime stood gazing at the countryside. The wild hoyden had transformed, draped now in a stunning dress, cream-colored with gold trim. It fit her graceful figure from neckline to hips, and fell more loosely to her feet. A gold belt rested on her hips, its tasseled ends hanging down the front of her skirt, the cord forming a V in front of her pelvis. A gold necklace gleamed against her creamy neck, and a circlet of diamonds sparkled on her head. Her glorious hair poured down her back like a waterfall.
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  Perhaps marriage wouldn’t be so onerous after all.

  He walked along the pathway, enjoying the sight as breezes wafted her hair around her shoulders. He would have to ask who designed her dress. The tailoring was superb.

  “My greeting,” he said, coming up to her.

  Chime turned with a start, her face blushed from the wind. When she saw him, her tentative smile transformed into a frown. She turned back to observe the view.

  Muller leaned against the wall. “Friendly today.”

  She didn’t deign to look at him. “I have no wish of friendship with you.”

  “Pity, seeing as we’re to be married.”

  She gave him a haughty look. “I would marry a bog-slug first.” Belatedly she added, “Your Highness.”

  “Chime, let us make a truce, yes?” Now that Della had found a mage powerful enough to be his queen, they weren’t going to let him delay his nuptials any longer—assuming the lady agreed, which seemed less likely every minute. For some reason, the idea of her leaving Suncroft flustered him. It made no sense; she was wild, rude, and uncouth. But he didn’t want her to go.

  “My uncle wants us to marry,” he said. “Mistress No-Cozen wants it. Lord Firestoke wants it. Everyone does. We will exhaust ourselves fighting them.” He grinned at her. “Besides, you didn’t find me so offensive in the cottage.”

  She gave him a quelling look. “That is because I wanted to enjoy myself before I had to marry Prince Muller Dawnfield. I can’t help it if I had the bad fortune to have my forbidden lover turn out to be my groom.”

  “You are the reluctant mage, eh? And I am the reluctant heir.” He spoke wryly. “We make quite a pair.”

  “I’m not a mage.”