The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  “You are sad, too,” she murmured.

  He answered with pain. “She is a sapphire mage.”

  “Who?” Chime knew, but she couldn’t bear to say.

  “Della thinks Iris is a green mage, not as strong as you.” He swallowed. “Della is wrong.”

  A tear ran down her face. “I will leave Suncroft.”

  “No!” He pulled her closer. “Not without me.”

  “It seems I cannot have you.”

  “Della doesn’t know Iris is a sapphire,” he said doggedly. “Nor does Iris. She cannot reach her gifts. I felt it the first time we met. She is stopped somehow, I don’t know why. She may never find her potential.”

  “Did you tell Della?”

  “I tried. Perhaps not as hard as I should, but I did try.” He spoke with difficulty. “Della humors me. She doesn’t believe I know anything.”

  “She is wrong.”

  He spoke bitterly. “I know how to cause harm.”

  “When you met Iris, you created a spell to sense her mind. It did no harm.”

  “No harm?” He made an incredulous sound. “You mean, except for almost destroying the life you and I might have together? Either that, or Iris goes without ever reaching her mage power.”

  “Almost destroying?” She knew so little about him, so few of his nuances and dreams, but the more she learned, the more he occupied her thoughts. “We have a chance?”

  He answered slowly, as if unsure he should reveal his mind. “If I disappear with you and leave a message behind refusing the crown, what can they do? They must choose a new heir. Iris could marry him.”

  “King Daron will search for you.”

  “Perhaps. But I think not so hard.” Muller sounded worn out. Older. “Brant Firestoke, Cube-General Fieldson, Della, all of them, they know the truth. I am no king. I never will be.”

  “You will be a fine king. And Daron would search for you forever, Muller. He loves you.” As much as Chime longed to run away, it was wrong. “We must accept our duties. I should never have said I would leave Suncroft. If Harsdown attacks Aronsdale, we must do what we can to help our people.” Her voice caught. “Even if our very best is so very little.”

  “Ah, Chime.” He pulled her closer, leaning his head against hers. “I feel a darkness coming. And I’ve no idea how to make it stop.”

  10

  Pearls of Dawn

  Summer passed in a haze of warmth, buzzing shimmer-flies, and blue skies. The farmers in the countryside around Croft’s Vale tended their fields, nurturing corn, wheat, alfalfa, yellow and orange gourds, and other crops that would feed them through the colder seasons. They planted in geometric shapes, triangles here, squares there, circles elsewhere, filling in extra corners with flowers.

  Festivals lightened the long summer nights in Croft’s Vale, when country folk streamed into the village from miles around, families walking in together or riding painted carts pulled by oxen. Merchants came to the market from all across Aronsdale and other countries as well, filling the central square with stalls and people. At night, children ran through the cobbled streets waving sparklers. Dogs barked at them with enthusiasm and bounded onto barrels stored by the walls of taverns.

  As the languid days cooled into autumn, a peddler rode into the village.

  An unusual peddler.

  Long and lean, with dark hair, he guided his wagon down one of the busiest streets. He stopped at the Clover Inn, where a wooden sign engraved with a clover swung by a sturdy chain. Bells hanging from the sign jingled in the breeze.

  The man rented a room for himself, space for his wagon behind the inn, and a stall for his horse in the Clover Stables. Then he headed to the big common room of the inn, where patrons ate, drank, and gambled with marbles of many colors. After settling at a table and ordering a drink, he questioned the barmaid: Where might he find customers for his goods—goldware, crystal, china, many fine items for the discerning of taste, and coin, too, of course.

  She had a ready answer: Castle Suncroft. Croft’s Vale was prosperous, and some town folk might have interest in his wares, but the nobility were the ones who would buy large amounts.

  So Anvil the Forged, disguised as an itinerant peddler, set up his cover for visiting Suncroft.

  The knock came so early in the predawn hours that no hint of day yet lightened the sky. Muller groaned when Sam Threadman shook him awake.

  “You’ve a visitor, Your Highness,” his valet said.

  “Go away,” Muller mumbled. He pushed his pillow over his head. One of its tassels tickled his nose.

  Sam pulled away the pillow. “You must come. It is important.”

  Muller grunted, tempted to order him away. But Sam wouldn’t wake him without reason. He dragged himself out of bed and shuffled through his suite in his sleeping robe, his eyes bleared. Sam ushered him to the front parlor.

  The instant Muller saw who waited for him, he came awake. “Lord Firestoke.”

  Brant looked as tired as Muller felt. He wasted no time. “You must come, Your Highness.”

  “What happened?”

  “Your uncle.” Brant’s words fell like stones. “The king is dying.”

  As Muller entered into the dimly lit bedroom, a great weight seemed to press on him. He walked to the bed, torn with grief by the sight of the wasted man there, lost in voluminous covers of velvet and silk.

  “Uncle Daron?” Moisture gathered in Muller’s eyes. “Can you hear me?”

  The king slowly turned his head. “Ah…I am glad you came.”

  “What happened?” Muller asked, bewildered. He knew his uncle tired easily these days, but Daron had seemed all right this morning.

  “Too long…“The king’s voice trailed off.

  Muller looked around, desperate. Skylark, the castle healer, came to him, an older woman in a long flannel night dress and robe, with a braid of white hair hanging over her shoulder to her waist. She spoke in a low voice. “I have tried healing spells on him. From those, I know a vessel carrying blood in his brain has burst.” Grief etched her face. “The damage was too much. I can ease his pain, but I cannot put back together what nature could never repair on her own. I tried—I—but I can’t—”

  Muller laid his hand on her arm. “I understand.”

  Tears glimmered in her eyes, what bards called the pearls of dawn, shed for those who passed away in the darkest hours of morning, before dawn gentled the sky with a new day’s hope.

  “Nephew…” Daron said. “Come closer.”

  Muller sat on the bed, taking care not to jostle his uncle. “I am here.”

  Daron watched him with faded eyes. “You will be a fine king. Believe that.”

  “Not yet. Please don’t go.” Muller couldn’t imagine life without him. Daron was his only family. He knew his uncle far better than his birth father, who had drowned when Muller was seven.

  Daron answered in a papery voice. “I have stayed too long. Must see your lovely aunt, eh?” His smile curved, a shadow of its former strength. “Respect Brant Firestoke. If you argue with him less and listen more, you might find he has better advice than you think.”

  Muller’s voice caught. “Yes, sir.”

  “Remember…my love is always with you, son.”

  Muller’s heart broke on hearing a word he had thought no one would ever use with him again. Son. His voice caught. “And mine is always with you, Father.”

  Daron smiled. Then the king of Aronsdale closed his eyes and passed from the world of men to that of spirits.

  The slam of fists against wood shook Unbent out of a restless sleep. Barely awake, dressed in old trousers, he staggered out of bed and pulled on a tattered shirt. Then he stumbled into the only other room of the cottage. His foster son was crouched on the splintered floor, half dressed, beating the ground with his fists, his unfocused gaze wild, his face pale under the tangle of his waist length hair and the two day stubble on his chin.

  “Dani!” Unbent ran to him. He knelt and laid his hand on
Dani’s shoulder. “What is it?”

  Dani jerked away, his face contorted. A tear rolled down his face.

  “Ai, Dani.” It tormented Unbent to see him in pain. “Let me help.”

  But Dani could neither see nor hear his comfort, nor could he ask for what he needed. He rocked back and forth, his shoulders shaking with sobs, though he never made a sound.

  Unbent stayed with him through the dark hours before dawn, his hand on Dani’s shoulder, offering comfort in the only way he could to his grieving son, though why Dani mourned, Unbent had no idea.

  The people gathered on Mount Sky north of Suncroft, the only point in this region of Aronsdale higher than Castle Suncroft. They flowed around and up its slopes and filled the meadows, valleys, and hills all around, tens, hundreds, thousands of people, come from Croft’s Vale and all the farms and towns within five days’ travel of the castle. They stood in the pearly darkness before dawn. The wind fluttered their neck scarves and woolen capes, tunics, heavy leggings, and tasseled boots, all dark colors, brown, gray, black, somber violet and cobalt-blue.

  The colors of mourning.

  At the top of the hill, Muller stood with Chime. Brant and Della were with them, and Cube-General Fieldson, the head of the King’s Army and the third King’s Advisor. Chime’s gray cape billowed around her like fog. The predawn light gave the world an unreal feeling. Five days had passed since King Daron’s death, yet still she felt dazed. Muller had barely spoken since his uncle had passed away, silent as he went through the rituals and ceremonies that marked the death of a king, including the day Muller had spent in seclusion, as expected of the heir and future sovereign.

  The Bishop of Orbs read the memorial in a clear, resonant voice that rolled throughout the hills, across the throng of citizens, all with their faces turned up toward him. When the Bishop finished, Muller spread the king’s ashes on the wind, as Daron had requested in life, returning him to the land he had always loved.

  Chime hadn’t known Daron well and it saddened her that she would never have the chance now. Muller’s grief overflowed into her heart. He mourned not only for his own loss, but for all Aronsdale.

  Far down the hill, a peddler stood with a cluster of men from the Clover Inn. He listened to the memorial, his head bowed. People called him Wareman, for his gold and silver wares. Anyone seeing the glint in his eyes assumed it came from tears. Only he knew the truth. Anvil the Forged shed no tears for King Daron.

  The glint was triumph.

  II

  Rebirth

  11

  Sphere of Rainbows

  Winter had followed King Daron’s death, but now spring gentled the land, offering new life to the countryside. Chime stood in the doorway of Della’s cottage, savoring the golden morning. The sky arched above, as blue as the glass bowls she used for breakfast each morning. To the west, Croft’s Vale and its farmlands basked in the sunshine.

  Far down the hill, Iris was picking skybells and yellow box blossoms. She wore the tunic and leggings adopted by most young, unmarried women. Iris preferred earth colors, greens and browns, with accents of blue, whereas Chime preferred yellow, gold, and ivory. It was one of the many things they didn’t have in common.

  And yet, for all their differences, Chime had come to like Iris during their months together. She had trouble expressing it, though. Iris unsettled her. If the other girl cared what people thought of her, it never showed. She often came late to lessons or arrived in disarray, upsetting the order Chime struggled to create for herself. Chime had gone out of her way to change her behavior so she fit in, and Iris never seemed to try at all, yet Chime always felt as if she were the one who was lacking.

  Chime knew she would never have Iris’s quick mind, but she did her best to make up for it by applying herself. She didn’t regret agreeing to stay at Suncroft and become a mage, though she sorely missed her family. Although she felt no more ready today to be queen than she had a year ago, when she had first come here, at least she stayed on an even keel now.

  She was less certain about Muller now, though. He had never spoken of his uncle’s death and he had found reason after reason to postpone his coronation. Their wedding would take place when the Bishop of Orbs crowned Muller king. The delays left her off balance, uncertain how much he truly wanted her, for all that he might swear his love.

  “Iris!” The sharp call came from nearby. Chime glanced over to see Della standing at the top of the hill, her hands on her ample hips, glaring down at her pupil.

  Iris turned with a jerk, the wind wrapping her hair around her body. Then she started up the hill. Seeing her wayward student on the way, Della headed back to the cottage. Chime had long thought Della’s home was the wrong place for Iris to study; the hills and woods touched Iris more deeply than Iris herself seemed to realize. But Chime’s attempts to say so always ended up muddled and awkward, until she gave up trying to explain what she didn’t really understand herself.

  “Pah,” Della grouched as Chime moved aside to let her enter the cottage.

  “Morning, ma’am,” Chime said cheerfully.

  Della waved her hand as she disappeared inside. Chime started to follow, then decided to wait for Iris, who was almost certainly in a better mood than their teacher. Chime stood in the doorway, nervously fiddling with her hair. She never felt as if she measured up to Iris, but she longed to bridge the gap that kept them from becoming friends.

  As Iris reached her, Chime smiled. “You look lively today.” Then she winced. She meant to say lovely. It was true, though; the wind had whipped Iris’s beautiful hair into a wild, lively mane. She could be a forest goddess. It made Chime feel very boring.

  Iris blinked. “Lively?”

  “Windblown.” Chime wished she could let her hair free that way. “Your hair is a mess.”

  Iris stiffened, and belatedly Chime realized she could have phrased her comment better. Mercifully Iris chose not to take offense. “I don’t mind,” she said.

  Chime’s spirits lifted as they went inside. She loved the cottage, with its windows in many shapes, some colored glass, some clear. Tinted sunlight suffused the room, warming the circular tables and the goldwood chairs with their carved backs. Throw rugs adorned the parquetry floor, woven from yarn in blue, rose, and goldenrod colors. Blue sphere-blossoms in yellow vases added accents.

  Della bustled in from the kitchen and waved at them. “Sit yourselves down, you two. What is all this playing about, eh? We have lessons.”

  Chime and Iris moved to the table they often used by the windows. As the girls sat down, Della frowned at Iris. “Well then, don’t you look healthy today.”

  Iris’s cheeks reddened. Chime understood perfectly. Saints knew, she had squirmed often enough under Della’s tutelage. And “saints” was right. They did know, for many of them took their essence from colors of the rainbow, which had special meaning for students of magecraft. The saints were actually spirits in ancient Aronsdale legends, including azure saints who glazed the sky blue and rose saints who added the blush to a young woman’s face.

  Iris said only, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Very healthy,” Della grumbled. “What with all the fresh air you get, out who-knows-where instead of studying.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” Iris looked ready to escape out to the fresh air again, either that, or hide under the table.

  “Aye, ma’am?” Della crossed her arms. “I would rather hear, ‘Aye, Mistress No-Cozen, I will be on time from now on.’”

  “A-aye, ma’am,” Iris stuttered. “I mean, I willna be late.”

  Chime sympathized with Iris, having often been on the spot with Della herself. She loved Iris’s lilting Tallwalk accent. Chime spoke with a southern burr, which resembled the Suncroft accent. It was one of her few advantages here; she didn’t sound provincial. But she would have given it up in a moment for the lyrical music of Iris’s accent.

  With a humph, Della went off to her office, probably to retrieve their class materials. Chime knew that
beneath her prickly exterior, the mage mistress had a gentle heart. Not that Della would ever admit to such a secret.

  Chime settled at the table, glad they were to start class. She tried to sound cheerful. “Yes, let us proceed, now that everyone is here.”

  “I didna come that late,” Iris grumbled.

  Chime could have hit herself upside the head with the heel of her hand. She never seemed to phrase her words well with Iris. She hid her fear with nonchalance, dreading the day when someone would discover Iris was the stronger mage. If only Muller would let them coronate him. After he and Chime married, it would make no difference how many other comely, powerful mages showed up at Suncroft. But as long as he kept putting off his ascension to the throne, she risked losing him to Iris.

  Chime answered self-consciously. “Did I say that?”

  “Well then, is’n that what you meant?” Iris asked.

  “Perhaps we have a language difficulty.”

  “Nay, Chime, I donna have a language difficulty.”

  Chime stiffened, afraid she had sounded dim-witted. “I’m sure you can’t help it.”

  Iris poked her finger into a green box-blossom in the vase on the table. “An’ I’m sure you canna help but notice, aye?”

  “Language, like appearance, is an art form.” Chime thought of Muller’s sensuous voice. She would rather listen to him than most anyone, especially Della in a grouchy mood. “Some people have the gift for its graceful expression. Others don’t. It isn’t their fault.”

  Iris stared at her. “I swear, I do truly think sometimes you clang.”

  “Clang?”

  “You know the word?”

  “Of course.” Chime hesitated. “Don’t bells clang?”