The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  Chime touched the tears on his face. “I know.”

  Della paused in the doorway of the room in the Starlight Tower. Unaware of her, Iris sat in a chair by the bed, watching Jarid. The guards had bound the unconscious youth’s wrists to a bed post, but Iris must have freed him. He lay on his back now, sleeping, one hand resting palm down on his stomach.

  She wished Iris hadn’t untied him. The girl believed she could have coaxed Jarid to come of his own free will, given more time. Perhaps she could have. But they had bungled their chance to earn his trust up at his cabin in the Boxer-Mage Mountains. The range seemed apt, somehow. The mountains took their name from a hermit who had retreated there centuries ago, embittered when he lost his family. Only the desperate lived in those cruel peaks, outcasts who had little to lose. Such as Jarid? No one knew what he might do when he awoke.

  Iris reached out to the stranger asleep on the bed, then pulled back her hand and set it in her lap, as if embarrassed by her wish to touch him. Her impulse didn’t surprise Della. For all his ragged appearance, he was a compelling man. How he and Iris had formed their remarkable bond or what would come of it, Della couldn’t say, but she had no doubt it existed.

  She spoke quietly. “Muller has made the announcement.”

  Iris turned with a start. Seeing Della, her shoulders hunched. She didn’t ask what Della meant; she seemed to know instinctively. “He stepped aside for Jarid?”

  Della nodded, suddenly tired. “Yes.” She crossed the room and sunk down into a chair next to Iris. “It is official. Muller accepts this man as heir to the crown.”

  At first Iris said nothing, as if she were absorbing the news. Finally she spoke. “Will he help us with Prince Jarid?”

  Prince. Iris had never doubted Jarid deserved that title. In her mind, Della could see Muller’s haunted expression as he told her of his decision. “He plans to leave Suncroft. He thinks it best.”

  “But, nay! He canna just walk away.”

  “I’m afraid he can.”

  “He must realize Jarid canna rule.”

  Della understood Muller’s decision; for him to stay at Suncroft after he gave up the crown could be seen as a deliberate provocation of Jarid. Aronsdale couldn’t have two kings. But Jarid needed his cousin’s help, but Muller didn’t believe he could do more good by staying, and no argument Della had tried would convince him otherwise.

  “He says the King’s Advisors can help.” Della thought of Brant’s unconcealed disapproval of Muller. “What can they answer? Muller knew they expected to do exactly that with him. He says Brant is better suited to govern.”

  Iris regarded her steadily. “Muller is angry.”

  “Perhaps. But he believes what he says.” Della glanced at Jarid. She envied his sound sleep. Regardless of how serene he looked now, however, he could be dangerous when he awoke. “You shouldn’t have untied him.”

  “What will we do,” Iris demanded. “Take him to his coronation in chains?”

  “If we must.”

  “This is all wrong.”

  “Iris—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid there’s more.”

  “More what?”

  “From the King’s Advisors.”

  “What do they say?”

  Della spoke carefully. “We are all in agreement.”

  Iris regarded her warily. “About what?”

  “Only a sphere mage could have reached across the great distance that separated this man from you.”

  Iris nodded, her face earnest. “Aye, Della, I think it is true. His talent is incredible.”

  “I didn’t mean him.”

  Iris frowned. “Well and sure, it couldna been me.”

  “No one else.”

  “It was him who touched my mind.”

  “I was there. You initiated the contact.”

  “That canna be. Never have I even lit a room.”

  Della gentled her voice. “A room, no. But the trees and meadows, I think yes. The countryside stirs your power. That is why you have had so much trouble making spells. Inside the cottage, you didn’t know how to reach the core within you.”

  Iris started to protest, then stopped. Della wondered how long she would avoid the truth. She kept at the girl, gently but without relenting. Finally Della said, simply, “Our greatest shape-mage must marry the king.”

  “Aye. Chime.”

  “No. Not Chime.”

  Comprehension swept across Iris’s face. “Nay, Della. I canna be queen!”

  “You must.”

  “Nay!”

  “I am sorry. I know this is a shock.” Della feared Iris would flee back to the Tallwalk Mountains, leaving Chime to marry Jarid. It would be a disaster. Muller would fight it. So would Chime. If they eloped, what then? Della had been lucky to find Chime and Iris, both unusually strong mages. She doubted she could find a third of child-bearing age. Aronsdale would have no mage queen.

  Iris averted her gaze. “He is like a wild, injured creature. He doesn’t even know my name.”

  Della laid a hand on her arm. “We need you. Please don’t leave.”

  Iris gave her a startled look. “I can refuse?”

  “We won’t force you to marry.” If they made Iris take the title and its responsibilities against her will, her anger could bring grief to Aronsdale. “But we need you. Desperately. Please don’t turn away now.”

  Sorrow made Iris’s voice bittersweet. “I canna be what you want.”

  “Then be yourself.”

  “It is not enough.”

  Della wished she could show Iris the potential that shone within her, untapped and new. “I believe it is.”

  Iris drew in a shaky breath. “When I agreed to come to Suncroft, I gave my word that I would do my best to fulfill what you saw in me. I had so little before. No family, no future, no one who wanted me. You have given me a home, though I give nothing back at all. If this marriage be so important—” Her voice cracked. “I can try, Della. But I canna promise I willna fail.”

  “Thank you.” Della was breaking inside, seeing how much this hurt Iris. “None of us can make such a promise. We can only do our best.”

  “Aye.” Moisture filled Iris’s eyes. “None of us.”

  “It is a disaster.” Brant stood at the window with Della gazing across to the Starlight Tower. He could see into a room there lit by orbs-bud candles. Iris sat next to the bed, her head bent as she kept vigil on their slumbering prisoner.

  Della spoke wearily. “This matter of heredity reeks. We are asking children to do jobs people twice their age find crushing.”

  Brant could feel the weight of their youth. Jarid had just turned twenty and Iris was barely nineteen. For all that Muller frustrated him, Brant would have considered him best suited of these three to take the crown. Muller not only had the training, but of late he had shown a new maturity. With a good set of advisors, he might have managed. Jarid and Iris were ciphers—very confused ciphers.

  “She has no idea what to do,” Brant said. His fear for Aronsdale flared like mage-light. Nor was it only the country; he had grown fond of Iris, who reminded him of his daughter. Although he had come to respect her judgment these past months, she wasn’t ready for so immense a responsibility.

  “She is intelligent,” Della said.

  “That isn’t enough.” Brant turned to her. “We cannot crown that man tomorrow. What if he goes berserk during the ceremony? Our people are already demoralized. If they think we are giving them a lunatic for a king, saints only know what will happen. Aronsdale is weakened, easy prey. Without strong leadership, we may fall to Harsdown.”

  Della just looked at him. He knew his sharp words might fool most people, but not her. Jarid evoked so much of Daron, the king Brant had served with loyalty, respect, and the love of a brother. After Daron had passed away, Brant had fortified his emotional barricades, lest grief overwhelm him. Now came this boy, the image of his grandfather, wild and in such need of help, and Brant didn’t
know how to deal with him. He held up his distrust of Jarid like a shield, but the youth weakened his defenses.

  “And if we cancel the coronation yet again?” Della asked. “What message does that send—that Aronsdale is such a mess, we cannot choose a leader?” She shook her head. “We put off crowning Muller too long.”

  “With good reason. The boy was ready to bolt.”

  “Well, now he has bolted,” Della said flatly. “The situation isn’t going to improve. I say this—clean up this man, bring him out tomorrow, put the crown on him and let Iris rule.”

  That sounded to Brant like a good formula for collapsing the government. “She has no training.”

  “She has aptitude.”

  “That isn’t enough.”

  “We can guide her.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “And just how do we explain her husband? He may not even make it through the ceremony without losing control.”

  “Bring his foster father here. He seems to calm the boy.”

  Brant weighed his answer. Almost no one knew he had already brought Unbent to Suncroft—and locked him in a cell. He wanted the highwayman where he could question him personally. But he hadn’t told Della. If she decided to tell Jarid, nothing Brant could do would stop her. Unbent had already caused the boy great harm; the less time Jarid spent with the man who had crushed his life, the better.

  He said only, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want him influencing our future king.”

  Della crossed her arms. “Just how long are your men going to hold him in custody?”

  “It is better we separate Jarid from him. The boy needs a fresh start.”

  “And if Jarid wants him at the coronation?”

  “We delay the ceremony.”

  “We can’t. You know that. We have waited too long already.” Della glanced toward the tower room where a frightened young woman sat with a lost young man. “Convincing Muller he wants the crown has become irrelevant. We must work with what we have. Waiting won’t change that.”

  Brant knew what she feared. Harsdown grew stronger each day, as did King Varqelle’s drive to conquer other lands. Aronsdale prevailed against them in border skirmishes because of its mages, who healed the wounded, buttressed morale, and predicted strategies based on the emotions of the enemies they fought. But Aronsdale was a fragile realm; if their will faltered, they could fall.

  He spoke with reluctance. “Very well.” He gave Della a dour look. “Just pray we all survive the ceremony.”

  A touch disturbed Jarid. He woke slowly, his mind hazed. The person stroking his forehead couldn’t be Stone, his father; this hand was too small, with longer fingers and fewer calluses.

  A woman.

  As he caught her hand, images of octagonal boxes formed in his thoughts. It sometimes happened this way, his mental shapes mimicking his location. That implied he was imprisoned within an octagonal room. The images focused his mind, revealing her mood. She was…in pain?

  Startled, he realized he was gripping her wrist too hard. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Chagrined, he released his hold. Although she pulled away, she didn’t go far. Her scent came to him: woods, fresh grass, pine soap. This room smelled much cleaner the cottage where he lived with his foster father. The fragrance of orbs-bud candles filled the air. Memories flooded him: the dinner table alight with candles and rose-glass lamps; his father bidding him good night and blowing out candles in his room; his mother holding a candlestick, her wedding ring sparkling, inset with diamonds and amethysts.

  What is this place? Jarid had no voice to ask. He felt his companion’s mage gifts, but he couldn’t tell what she wanted. He wasn’t certain she knew herself.

  Reaching above his head, he found a bedpost, its wood carved with shape-blossoms, their petals forming boxes and orbs. They felt familiar. Agitated, he struggled into a sitting position on the bed. Stone would never have let these people take him, and not because Jarid could implicate him in crimes. Stone protected him.

  But…Stone wasn’t here.

  Jarid searched with his mind, spinning sphere images to focus. He found no hint of his father’s emotions, only those of guards outside this room. The only reason they hadn’t come in here was because the woman hadn’t let them know he had awoken. Her mind glowed, ruddy flames lighting his isolation. Warm. Inviting.

  Go away, he thought, afraid of that warmth.

  He knew when she moved because air currents shifted. He wanted to strike out, as he had done with his attackers in the cottage. But her mood warmed him, like sunlight. She soothed.

  Jarid gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to be soothed. He preferred anger. These people had torn him away from his home and brought him to this place against his will.

  A hand touched his forehead and he jerked away, wincing as pain stabbed his muscles, which ached from his fight with the strangers in the cabin. He slid back, away from the woman until he came up against a wall. Then he sat, one leg bent, his elbow resting on his knee, his hand curled in a fist.

  The bed shifted, sagging with a new weight. Even as he tensed, someone brushed his arm. In instinct, he raised his fist. The intruder withdrew, which was what he told himself he wanted. No doubt he appeared gruesome to her. That thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

  Then she returned and laid a tablet on his lap. The smell of wet earth tickled his nose. Baffled, he ran his fingers over the tablet. Its center was clay. He pressed the soft material, noting its cool, grainy texture.

  Her long fingers brushed his hand, sending a shiver through him. It had to be from anger; her touch couldn’t give him pleasure. He refused to allow it. He would retreat into the fortress of his mind and keep out pain.

  She pressed her fingers into the clay, her hand moving against his so he felt her actions. Then she set his hand over the dents she made. It took him a moment to comprehend; many years had passed since he had touched such shapes. Words. Pictures. She was writing to him.

  Jarid shifted his weight. Although by the age of six, he had learned some basics of reading, his education had ended then. He recognized only a few of her symbols. The disk shape sharpened his mind, though, stirring memories. He traced one picture she had made, a circle within a cluster of lines—no, an orb within crossed swords.

  His family crest.

  No! Jarid hurled the tablet away. He didn’t hear it shatter, though surely it broke when it hit. He couldn’t bear the truth she brought. But however much he fought it, deep in his mind he had known the moment he smelled the orbs-bud candles.

  They had brought him home.

  15

  Hall of Kings

  Muller opened the door to find Iris in the tower room, staring at Jarid—who was wide-awake and free, standing by the bed. His hair tangled around his shoulders and anger darkened his face. He lifted his head like a wild stag trying to catch an unexpected scent. Muller stepped into the room, concerned for Iris’s safety. It disquieted him to know that he and this stranger were almost certainly cousins. Jarid seemed more animal to him than man.

  Doubts tormented Muller, as they had since yesterday when he had relinquished the crown. Had he made the right choice? After months of knowing Iris, he believed that with help, she could become an inspired leader. He had grappled with his knowledge of her mage gifts ever since she came to Suncroft, knowing he should pursue the matter with Della but unable to bear losing Chime.

  Della had no reason to take his judgment over her own. He could have convinced her by revealing his twisted mage power, but he would have lost everything: what little respect he had earned among his advisors, the safety of everyone’s assumption that he hadn’t inherited the Dawnfield talents—and Chime. Iris’s discovery of Jarid had seemed like a gift, saving him from all that.

  But like everything else Muller touched, this gift had twisted. Neither he nor Jarid were fit to rule.

  So Muller had made the best decision he could. Aronsdale would be better off wi
th Iris as leader, guided by the King’s Advisors. He had done what he believed right, but uncertainty plagued him. He hadn’t realized how much it had mattered to him that he would someday lead Aronsdale until he had relinquished that title.

  Iris turned to him, her gaze questioning his presence here. He wanted to reassure her that he meant no harm, but Jarid riveted his attention. Muller crossed the chamber, never taking his gaze from his cousin. Jarid remained still, his forehead creased. Muller stopped in front of him and they faced each other, the same height, one light, the other dark. But Jarid wasn’t looking at him; his gaze was directed to the left of Muller’s shoulder.

  Muller passed his hand in front of Jarid’s eyes. His cousin didn’t even blink; he just stood, his body tensed. Finally Muller found his voice. “Can you hear me, cousin?”

  No reaction.

  “Won’t you speak?” Muller asked.

  Jarid tilted his chin, but made no other response.

  Muller glanced at Iris. “It is true, then. He has no sight. He hears nothing.”

  She nodded, her face pale.

  “He has no voice.”

  “None,” she said.

  Muller struggled to contain his doubts. He couldn’t withdraw his decision to give up the crown; it would throw Aronsdale into another turmoil. They couldn’t hide the truth about Jarid much longer; too many people already knew. They had to deal with this carefully, lest it further damage a realm already grieving for its late king.

  He could see fear in Jarid’s unseeing gaze. Did he fool himself in thinking he also saw recognition? Perhaps. He might never know.

  Muller spoke in a numb voice. “May your reign be long and full, my cousin.”

  Chime’s breath caught as she entered the great Shape-Hall. Hundreds of candles glowed in candelabras, and lamps added their luster, filling the room with radiance. Gold and white mosaics gleamed on the high ceiling, and starlight flowed through floor-to-ceiling window panels.

  Hundreds of guests mingled tonight, the royal court of Suncroft and gentlefolk of Aronsdale, glistening all. The men wore silk shirts, brocaded vests, and rich leggings, or uniforms with crisp tunics and trousers. The women dressed in lovely gowns that swept the floor, each a single hue; altogether they made a rainbow of color.