The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  Iris touched Dani’s shoulder.

  He swung around, his fist half open. The heel of his hand hit her shoulder and she jumped back, her face suffused with color. Then he jerked up his arms to defend himself. It dismayed Unbent to see his son so close to the edge, fighting his panic. He tried again to go to Dani, but the officers tightened their grip on his arms until it became painful. He had no mail, no armor, nothing but the flimsy, frayed cloth of his shirt.

  “Let me go,” Unbent said. “He’s frightened.”

  “Give her time,” Della murmured.

  Iris went back to Dani. She brushed his arm, her touch so careful, her fingers only rustled the faded cloth of his shirt. He turned toward her, his shoulders hunched, his back pressed to the wall and his arms in front of his body. Unbent could only imagine how he must feel, faced with a room full of strangers he could neither see nor hear, people he had no reason to believe wouldn’t harm him.

  The soldiers had moved into the room and were only a few paces away from Dani and Iris now, except for the two who held Unbent. He fought his growing agitation, knowing it would do Dani no good if he struggled with these two and they knocked him out.

  Then Dani reached toward Iris, his gesture curious rather than defensive. He wanted to touch her, it was how he greeted people. Unbent’s hope leapt; the boy was going to let her stay. Her serene manner had calmed him. It would be all right, he wouldn’t snap after all—

  Then one of the lieutenants grasped Dani’s arm.

  “No!” Unbent cried. “Don’t touch him!”

  His warning came too late. In the same instant Dani touched Iris’s cheek, the lieutenant pulled him away from the girl.

  Dani panicked.

  The boy whipped around, his fists swinging, his face contorted. Unbent went a little crazy himself then, wrestling with the men who held him back. As he struggled, he saw Dani grappling with three soldiers. They didn’t strike out; instead, they tried to calm him. It did no good. Dani was a large man, well developed from work and exercise, and he fought with single-minded intensity. But as well as his physical prowess served him, it wasn’t enough. Every time he freed himself from one tormentor, another caught him. No matter how great his strength or speed, he faced too many opponents—and they could see.

  It took three soldiers to immobilize Dani. They pressed him against the wall and one of them laid a cloth against his face, covering his nose and mouth.

  “Leave him alone!” Unbent shouted. One of his captors raised his fist to strike him, a blow that could break bones, judged by the man’s muscled size. Unbent froze, his chest heaving. After watching him with narrowed eyes, the man lowered his fist.

  Whatever soaked the cloth worked its evil on Dani. The boy sagged forward and would have fallen if the warriors hadn’t held him up. His head dropped to his chest and his lashes lowered over his eyes.

  “Why are you doing this?” Unbent cried. “He has hurt no one.”

  “But others have hurt him.” Firestoke’s voice came out like ice as he turned to Unbent, his face set in hard lines. “You will pay for what you have done, highwayman. You will pay.”

  Then they took Dani away, out of the cottage, without even letting Unbent tell his son farewell.

  “The peddler troubles me.”

  Muller paced the tower chamber, stalking past Chime. She stood by the curving wall with its imperfect shapes, trying to forget the uncertainty that had rent their lives. Della and Iris had been gone for ten days. Their absence felt like a swinging blade. So for now, they tried to think of other matters.

  “Why don’t you like Wareman?” she asked. “He is courteous. And his goods are of high quality.”

  He stopped in front of her, his angel’s face shadowed by the sweep of his hair. “Something in him is missing.”

  She laid her hands on his shoulders. “People say that about me, too. Sometimes a person doesn’t come across well, even when they have good intentions.”

  Muller slid his arms around her waist. “Anyone who says such about you is utterly blind.”

  She dimpled. “Or else you are.”

  “Never.” He kissed her, then let her go and indicated the room, with its walls of pale violet stone adorned by engravings. They reminded her of the strategy game Rocklace she had played with her parents and older brother, where a player earned points by making designs with small polished stones.

  “Do you feel the power in this room?” he asked. “Does it make jagged lines in you?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t grasp it. I wish I could understand why the spells are so different for you.”

  He gave a self-deprecatory laugh. “So do I.”

  Chime hesitated. “You are different with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She picked her words with care, trying to avoid the wrong ones. “You let me see your humility. Your vulnerability. To everyone else, you are this beautiful, glittering box with no flaw. But you let no one open the top and see inside.”

  “Because if they do, they will discover the truth. My defects. And then?” He averted his gaze. “I truly hope this man Iris found is Jarid. Aronsdale needs a king. Not me.”

  It made her ache to see him so convinced he would be less able to govern Aronsdale than someone who had grown up away from the court all these years. “You have spent half your life preparing to wear the crown. You shouldn’t denigrate yourself.”

  Muller laughed softly. “I do believe, angel, that you are the only person alive who believes I am capable of denigrating myself.”

  Chime wanted to protest, but telling him other people thought he could denigrate himself would hardly be the most helpful statement. “I don’t know about that. But you shouldn’t do it.”

  He lifted his hand and lightly brushed her cheek. She felt an echo of power, as if a spell stirred. Suddenly light flashed at Muller’s fingertip and a spark jumped from his hand to her face. She stumbled back, her palm over her cheek, her skin burning.

  “No!” He raised his hands, palms out. “Chime, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right.” She lowered her hand from her face. “It doesn’t hurt.” And it was true; the burning had faded.

  “I despise myself.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

  She exhaled as the echoes of his power receded. At times like this, when it gathered within him, she sensed its currents, wild and chaotic. If only he could learn to harness that incredible power. But she knew of no spell that could heal his troubled gift.

  Pyramid-Secretary Quill was part of the staff assigned to Chime. Today she and Quill sat at a polished table in Chime’s ivory parlor. Quill was arranging her schedule. In the morning, Chime would study with Della, learning magecraft. At noon, she would lunch with emissaries from the Blacksmith’s Guild who represented metal workers in Aronsdale, discussing how to keep prices for their work accessible to the majority of the population without undercutting the living of the blacksmiths. In the afternoon, she would see her history tutors, who were teaching her more detail than she had ever imagined wanting to know about the country she would serve as queen. For supper, she would dine with Muller.

  Chime dreaded meeting with the guild representatives. Her grasp of economics barely extended to knowing how many coins it took to run an orchard. Discussing the finances of an entire country gave her a stomachache. It didn’t help that Mistress Forge, the iron-haired women who led the Blacksmith’s Guild, made Della No-Cozen seem cuddly in comparison. Mercifully, Brant Firestoke would do the negotiating at the meeting. But Chime feared her lack of experience would show, adding to her mortifying reputation of being slow in the mind.

  Still, Chime was learning, despite herself. Her mother, Bell, would be proud to see her progress. Bell had tried for years to teach her these type of organizational skills, which Chime would have also needed as an orchard keeper. And Chime had to acknowledge she benefited from learning the history of Aronsdale; as queen, she would n
eed to make wise decisions, not repeat past mistakes. When she wrote her mother, she spoke about her studies as positively as she could manage, but in truth she felt stifled. Knowing she would see Muller tonight, though, made the rest more palatable.

  “You won’t have many breaks.” Quill showed her the schedule. “Perhaps a few minutes after lunch—”

  “You might want to wait on that,” a brisk voice said.

  Chime looked up with a start. Della No-Cozen stood in the doorway of the parlor.

  “Della!” Chime jumped to her feet. “When did you get back?” She felt as if she were teetering on a precipice. If Iris hadn’t found Jarid Dawnfield, Muller would take the crown and Iris would become his queen.

  Della had an odd quality. She seemed…subdued. She glanced at Quill.

  The secretary stood up and bowed to Chime. “Shall we finish later, milady?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Chime nodded to her. “Thank you.”

  Della waited until Quill left and closed the door. Then she said, simply, “We found Prince Jarid.”

  Relief flooded over Chime. “That is wonderful!”

  The mage mistress wasn’t smiling. “Perhaps.”

  “What is wrong?”

  “Chime—” Della paused.

  “Tell me.”

  Della spoke tiredly. “He has lived all this time in the Boxer-Mage Mountains, barely scratching out a living with his guardian. He is like a wild man.” Then she said, “And he is deaf, blind, and mute.”

  Chime stared at her. “Saints above. What happened?”

  “We think he was hurt in the carriage accident.”

  “Who is his guardian?”

  “A man called Unbent.” Della spread her hands out, her palms upward. “He tells us nothing. And Jarid can’t speak.”

  Chime’s thoughts whirled. “What does it all mean?”

  Della shook her head. “The youth we found is unfit to rule, but Iris swears he is the Dawnfield heir.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Have you seen the portraits of King Daron as a youth?” When Chime nodded, Della said, “If you clean this man up, he would look almost exactly like Daron in those pictures.”

  Chime tried to make sense of it all. “Did you bring him here?”

  “Yes. They had to keep him unconscious, though.”

  “But why?”

  Della grimaced. “He otherwise attacked everyone who came near him.”

  “Surely his guardian can calm him down.”

  “Brant Firestoke left the man behind, in the custody of several officers from the King’s Army.”

  It seemed harsh to separate Jarid from the person who took care of him. Chime could imagine how frightened Jarid must have been to leave the home he had known for years, unable to hear or see what was happening, or speak in protest.

  And yet—as much as Brant often angered her, it always seemed to turn out that he had good reason for his actions. She was usually too busy resenting his lectures to admit that to him, but she acknowledged it to herself.

  “Did Unbent mistreat Prince Jarid?” she asked.

  “We don’t know.” Della rubbed her eyes, her fatigue showing through her usual stoicism. “I didn’t have that impression, but we don’t know enough yet. Brant separated them because he doesn’t want Unbent to influence the person who may rule Aronsdale, even if in name only.”

  Chime didn’t see how Jarid could be king. If they crowned him, they would also want him to marry Iris, for in unleashing her gifts, she had revealed her full power. Chime knew Iris felt a debt to the King’s Advisors, who had made it possible for her to leave a life with no future and come to Suncroft. If they pushed for the marriage, she would probably agree. That meant a country girl with no experience would end up as the acting ruler of Aronsdale. Had Iris spent her life preparing for the title, Chime thought she would do well. But only Muller had that training. He couldn’t take the crown unless the King’s Advisors refused to accept Jarid as heir. They had serious doubts about Muller’s suitability, yes, but those might pale compared to Jarid’s difficulties.

  A sinking feeling came over Chime. Together, Muller and Iris could do a far better job for Aronsdale than she and Muller. The idea tore at her. If Iris believed Jarid was the rightful heir, though, then even if the King’s Advisors decreed otherwise, she might refuse to marry Muller. Her loyalty to the royal family would most likely outweigh her sense of debt to the King’s Advisors. But if she refused their wishes, it would set her against them and cause a crisis for Aronsdale.

  Chime grimaced as her thoughts circled around and around. “This is a mess.”

  “Yes.” Della regarded her bleakly. “A mess.”

  14

  Shadowed Mage

  Two guards flanked the door of the chamber, large and imposing, in chain mail, the hilts of their sheathed swords gleaming at their sides. The auburn one spoke to Chime, apologetic. “I’m not sure you should enter, milady. Perhaps if you came back with Lord Firestoke—?”

  Chime lifted her chin, striving not to let them know how much they flustered her. She was a mage; she outranked them in the royal court. She didn’t want to ask Brant, who would almost certainly forbid her to visit this tower room. He was forever constraining their lives.

  She gave the guards a haughty stare she hoped would hide how intimidated she felt. “I don’t need the permission of Frant Birestoke.”

  The auburn man cleared his throat, though it sounded like he was trying to cover up a startled laugh. The other guard ducked his head, smiling. A flush spread on her cheeks. No wonder people thought her stupid, the way she garbled her words when she was nervous.

  “Milady,” the auburn guard began.

  She spoke more carefully this time. “Shall I tell the mage mistress you refused me?”

  He blanched, the color draining from his ruddy cheeks. “Nay, milady, please, you needn’t bring Mistress No-Cozen.”

  Having been the source of Della’s ire on more than one occasion, Chime sympathized with his alarm. “Very well. Please open the door.”

  He hesitated, then spoke firmly. “If he wakes up, you must call us in immediately.”

  Relief washed over her. “I will do so, Lieutenant.”

  He bowed to her. Then he opened the door and let her inside, giving her the chance to satisfy her raging curiosity.

  The chamber was a tiled box, with eight walls, a domed ceiling and a tiled floor. On the octagonal table, a rose-glass lamp burned with a low flame, casting more shadows than light. A four-poster bed stood against the far wall. As Chime’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she made out a man asleep on the bed.

  Jarid.

  She went close enough to see him sleeping on his side, his wrists tied to a bed post. Her breath caught. They dared too much, binding him that way. Every one of them surely recognized this man. He had the same dark hair as the portraits of the young King Daron, the same handsome features and broad shoulders, the Dawnfield long legs. He resembled the late king, yes, but even stronger, taller, more fine of feature.

  The resemblance ended there, however. King Daron had epitomized culture and elegance. This man was wild. He wore rags, all gray. A scar ran down his neck from his ear. His hair lay across his back in matted tangles and stubble covered his chin.

  Chime didn’t envy Iris marrying this stranger. Yet Iris continued to insist he was Jarid. Anyone could see his heredity, but if Iris expressed any doubt at all, no one would hold her to her initial judgment. Too much was at stake to make an error. Chime knew Iris had no wish for the crown; the Tallwalk mage stood by her assertion because she was honest. If Iris said this man was the grandson of the late king, she believed it to be true.

  The man stirred, restless, and an odd sensation came to Chime. At first she didn’t understand. Then she realized spells were swirling around her, diffuse, hard to define, unfocused. He was a mage. His power suffused the room even as he slept, pouring through her with a strength she had never experienced from Muller, Del
la, or Iris. He wove a type of mood spell she had never encountered before. It made her recall her youth in Jacob’s Vale, the balmy summer nights when she and her friend Merry had snuck off to the barn and stayed up late, making squares of red light when no one else could see. They used to tell stories, especially those of legendary power within the Dawnfield line, whose ancient kings had reputedly wielded incredible mage gifts. But a limit existed. A mage might be strong enough to save a life, but no more, for the mage had only one life to give if the spell somehow turned around.

  But those were only stories. It made Chime wonder if she overestimated the power of this stranger; whatever dreams haunted his sleep might create a misleading sense of his abilities, a sense, magnified by the high-level shape of this room. She hoped so, for she dreaded to think what it would mean if a mage of such incredible—and untamed—power were let loose in Aronsdale.

  Chime found Muller at the top of the Mage Tower in the chamber with perfect shapes. He stood by the window staring out at Aronsdale. Going to stand behind him, she bowed her head and set her palm against his back.

  “Chime.” He whispered her name.

  “You must do what you believe right.” Her eyes felt hot with unshed tears. “Even if it means taking Iris as your bride.”

  “She deserves better. So do you.” He spoke with difficulty. “Aronsdale deserves better.”

  “You misjudge yourself.”

  He turned then and pulled her into his arms. She held him close, her cheek against his shoulder.

  “I know what I must do.” His words sounded muffled against her hair.

  She couldn’t bear to hear any more, but she had to know. “What have you decided?”

  He drew back to look into her face. “For so long I feared the day when I would have to wear the crown. Then you came, and I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be a good king. You made me believe. I cannot tell you how much that meant to me. For the first time in my life, I’ve felt as if I were more than everyone’s last choice.” His voice caught. “Now I must do what is right for Aronsdale—regardless of what I want.”