The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  “What if he decides not to come back?” Muller had felt that way himself more than once, overwhelmed at the thought of ruling when he lacked so many qualities needed by a king. And he had less to deal with than Jarid.

  “I’ve worried about that.” Iris stopped by a cluster of royal-buds and cupped her hand around one. “The night we were married, he left me alone in the forest and went off by himself. I searched for hours. But he found me at dawn.” She looked up at Muller. “And he could see.”

  Muller’s thoughts gentled. Perhaps in loving Jarid, Iris used her mage powers to heal him. But that would mean she could heal grief, which only an indigo mage could do. Although he knew she had great strength, he didn’t think it was indigo. She wasn’t truly a sapphire, either, though. He had no idea how to describe her spells.

  “Do you know when he started to hear again?” he asked.

  She resumed her walk. “The morning after the coronation.”

  “You mean that morning we spoke with Unbent?” It was hard to believe only two days had passed since then.

  “Yes.” She considered him. “Why don’t you take Unbent with you? Jarid trusts him.”

  As much as Muller disliked the idea, he knew it made sense. He also knew why no one else had suggested it; Unbent was the last person Brant and Fieldson wanted near the king. Jarid had ordered them to release his foster father and provide him a suite in the castle, but it was obvious they considered the decision foolhardy.

  “I will ask him,” he decided.

  “My thanks, Muller.”

  Her use of his name startled him. In the past, he had barely noticed her deferential attitude toward him. Now their roles had reversed. Or no, that wasn’t true. They were kin now. He bowed to her anyway, observing the protocols. He had made his decision to give up the crown; now he would accept the consequences.

  A box-butler opened the door when Muller’s pyramid-secretary knocked. Muller stood back while the butler and secretary arranged matters. Within moments, the butler was escorting them through Unbent’s suite, with its scalloped moldings and sunbirch furniture. Circle mosaics worked into the chairs and tables had artful notches here and there, prodding Muller’s power. To dampen his response, he focused on unbroken octagons that bordered the doorways.

  The butler ushered him onto a balcony that curved out from the castle wall in a half circle. Then he withdrew with Muller’s secretary, closing the beveled glass doors, leaving Muller alone—except for one other person. Unbent stood a few paces away, at the curved railing of the balcony, gazing out at the mountains. Muller was almost certain Unbent knew he was there, but the older man gave no sign. So Muller waited, giving him time.

  Unbent looked far healthier today than when they had found him in the dungeon. Color had replaced his pallor, he had shaved his beard, and his gray hair had a shine. He stood true to his name, unbent despite his advanced years. His haunted look remained the same, however.

  Muller wanted to hate this man. Yet the king loved him, perhaps more than the father he recalled so little of now. It bewildered Muller. He would never forget Jarid’s father. Prince Aron had been distant to most people, but never with his kin, including his young cousin. Muller had looked up to him, admiring his strength and steady nature.

  Aron had died when Muller was fourteen. It happened so suddenly. It had been that way with everyone Muller loved: his grandfather a few months ago, his father when Muller had been seven, and his mother when he had been ten. Better to love no one than to weep so often. But Muller couldn’t stop loving. He had never been able to wall away his emotions. He doubted his anger at Unbent would ever ease, but it was impossible to hate a man who had been such a devoted father to Jarid.

  After awhile, he went to stand with the craggy farmer. “My greeting, Master Unbent.”

  Unbent didn’t seem surprised by his appearance. “My greeting, Your Highness.” His accent resembled Iris’s, but with a rougher tone, lacking her melodic quality. Although their home provinces weren’t far apart, he lived much higher in the mountains, in one of the most remote areas of Aronsdale.

  Unbent looked at him. “No one ever gave me a title before.”

  “The king calls you father.” Muller couldn’t keep the tightness out of his voice.

  “Aye. I don’t deserve it.”

  Muller wanted to say, No, you don’t. But only Jarid could decide whom he considered a father.

  “King Jarid went into the forest earlier,” Muller said. “No one has seen him since.”

  “He has always done so.”

  Always? Muller couldn’t imagine letting a deaf and blind man wander alone in those desolate mountains where Unbent had lived with his foster son. “And you let him?”

  “Yes. He needed to feel he could rely on himself.”

  “What if something happened to him?”

  “He didn’t go far.” Unbent shook his head. “This power of his, I don’t claim to understand it. I only know that Dani needs—” He stopped. “I mean, King Jarid.”

  It flustered Muller to hear Unbent use a nickname for the king. “Needs what?”

  “Places outside. Trees, mountains, life. It renews him. But always, no matter where he went, I felt his power. I knew if he needed help. Then I would go get him.”

  Muller made himself ask for the help he resented needing from this man who had taken Jarid out of his life for so long. “Will you go with me to look for him?”

  Unbent’s brow furrowed. “Why? He is fine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We have a bond. I can feel his power.”

  Muller had thought only mages were sensitive to other mages. When he was near the king, he felt as if he were bathed in radiance, but they had to be in reasonably close proximity. Right now he felt nothing at all.

  “Can you make spells?” Muller asked him.

  “Nay. I’m no mage.” Unbent hesitated. “I don’t know how Jarid made that bond with me. But it became stronger over the years, until now I can always tell if he needs help.”

  “And you think he is all right?”

  “He sleeps.”

  Muller wasn’t sure what he expected, but that wasn’t it. “You are sure?”

  “Aye. His mind is quiet.”

  “Why would he go sleep in a forest?” It seemed truly strange to Muller.

  “Maybe he didn’t intend to.” Concern shaded Unbent’s voice. “He is exhausted.”

  “I should find him. He may not be safe.”

  Unbent hesitated.

  “What is it?” Muller asked.

  “And you would take me with you?”

  “If you will come.”

  “A man you must surely distrust.”

  Yes, Muller thought. But he forced out the truth. “My cousin trusts you. He is what matters here.”

  “What will you do if you find him?”

  “Ask him to come back to the castle.”

  “And if he says no?”

  Muller held back his frustration. He knew Unbent wanted to protect Jarid. That his ward had turned out to be a king may have daunted him, but apparently nothing would stop him from treating Jarid like a son.

  “I won’t make him return,” Muller said. “But I must at least try to convince him. I gave my word.”

  Unbent nodded, apparently willing to accept that answer. “Very well. I will go with you.”

  By the time Muller and Unbent had gone several miles, Muller was worn out. They hiked over hills and through woods scattered across the rolling countryside. Muller had considered himself fit, indeed, in good shape, but he needed all his energy to keep Unbent’s pace. It gave him a new respect for the rigors of the life Unbent had lived.

  Finally Muller slowed to a stop and bent over, bracing his hands against his knees as he gulped in air. When Unbent came back to him, Muller straightened up, still breathing hard. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  Unbent looked confused. “Hurry?”

  “Never mind.” Muller stretched one o
f his aching legs, then the other. “You are sure we’re going to where Jarid sleeps?”

  “Can’t you feel him now?”

  Muller almost said, No, of course not. But when he concentrated without the distraction of trying to keep up with Unbent, he did sense power around them. It seemed undefined, as if—well, as if it slumbered.

  “Yes. I do.” It daunted him to think Jarid claimed a mage potential so great, it encompassed the countryside. “How much farther?”

  “Maybe a few miles.”

  Muller nodded tiredly and resumed walking, setting a slower pace. They went down a hill, through grasses waving at knee height. Wild flowers bloomed everywhere, sun-orbs and swaying fire-lilies. The terrain remained the same for the next half-hour, low hills with few trees. Eventually they approached another forest, this one more extensive than others they had passed through.

  For the first time, Unbent hesitated. “He dreams.”

  Muller tilted his head. He felt it, too, an agitation in the slumbering aura of the woods. It didn’t come from the wind or rustling grass. Muller didn’t know which troubled him more, that Jarid had fallen asleep here, alone and undefended, or that his strength was so great, his nightmares inundated the land itself.

  They continued on, more slowly now. After passing a few trees that straggled up the slope, they entered the forest. It was older than the woods around Croft’s Vale and extended as far as Muller could see. Moss grew on the trees and shape-vines curled along branches, hanging down in great loops, vivid with rosy box-blossoms. Very little sunlight filtered past the dense canopy. Neither Muller nor Unbent spoke. Muller had an eerie sense that if the quiescent forest were disturbed, it would wake with an intelligence of its own.

  Unbent never faltered. He made his way among the ancient woods as if he followed a well trod path. The forest had relatively little undergrowth, but fallen trees blocked their way, some so old that earth partially covered them and moss grew along their crumbling trunks.

  The untamed beauty of the forest took Muller’s breath. If he and Chime had time to themselves, he would bring her here. He didn’t miss the irony, that this wilderness was the antithesis of the order they strove to keep in their lives. The forest called to the wildness he had suppressed within himself. His father had drowned when an unexpected thunderstorm hit while he was riding a horse through a narrow canyon. Three years later, Muller had lost his mother in a blizzard. The day the search party had found her frozen body, he had sworn he would never again let the wild control his life, either in spirit or reality.

  Unbent stopped at a huge trunk that must have fallen decades ago, perhaps longer. Even lying on its side, it rose higher than Muller stood. Parts of it had caved in and new trees sprouted along its length. When Unbent grasped a handhold and begin to climb, the trunk crumbled under his feet. But he kept his purchase. He paused at the top, and for the first time his fatigue showed. His age seemed to press on him, his gray hair hanging about his weathered face and stubble darkening on his chin. Then he looked over the other side—and his demeanor lightened as if sunlight had broken through the forest.

  Muller tackled the fallen mammoth. He almost lost his footing as he scaled the trunk, but he reached Unbent with no serious mishap. Leaning over, he saw Jarid sitting on the other side, sleeping against the trunk in a grassy area sprinkled with white star-flowers. The king’s face clenched with whatever specters disturbed his dreams.

  “By the spheres,” Unbent murmured. “How can he be so fierce and so beautiful at the same time?”

  For an instant Muller hated his cousin. Jarid was everything he longed to be—strong, fierce, powerful, a true warrior—and the king didn’t even care. Then Muller pushed down his angry thoughts. Jarid had also lived in hell for fourteen years.

  “What should we do?” Muller asked.

  “Not surprise him,” Unbent said. “When he is waking, he has less control over his spells.”

  “Do you think he might hurt us?”

  “He has never harmed me.” Unbent slanted a wary look at Muller. “Several times he set the woods on fire. He helped me put out the flames before it caused serious damage.”

  “And when he sleeps? His nightmares could bring to life whatever spirits live in these woods.” Muller immediately wished he could take back the words. Any logical person would scoff at such an idea.

  “You think spirits live here?” Mercifully Unbent didn’t laugh. “Could be.”

  Although Muller hesitated to admit it, he felt as if the forest were aware of him. People would deride at the idea, he knew, though they found nothing odd in shape-mages. He supposed it was because mages were understood, whereas trees didn’t have minds, except in myths and legends. Perhaps what he felt came from Jarid rather than the forest.

  Unbent let himself down the trunk and jumped to the ground, landing far enough away that he didn’t disturb the king. Jarid’s head jerked and his hand curled into a fist, but he continued to sleep. When Muller glanced at Unbent, the other man shook his head. So Muller stayed put; Unbent knew better how to deal with Jarid.

  Disturbances filled the forest. Vague shapes moved at the edges of his vision—

  And a man screamed.

  22

  Trespass

  The cry echoed through the forest. A man had shouted Jarid’s name. Even more eerie, Muller recognized the voice: Prince Aron, Jarid’s father.

  Sweat dripped down Muller’s neck. He forced himself to remain still, knowing the scream couldn’t be real. Unbent showed no sign of having heard. He knelt by Jarid and laid his hand on the king’s forearm. When the king jerked, Unbent froze, letting only the light pressure of his hand affect his son.

  Jarid suddenly sat forward, his eyes opening fast. Heat rushed around Muller, like a flash fire. He saw no flames, but distortion rippled in the air.

  As Jarid’s gaze cleared, his rigid posture eased. He drew in an uneven breath. “Saints almighty.”

  Unbent spoke with a kindness he showed no one else. “It was bad this time?”

  Jarid grimaced. “Yes.”

  Unbent spoke with difficulty. “For so many years I have longed to offer comfort for your nightmares, to let you hear my voice. But now that you can, I don’t know what to say.”

  Jarid touched his arm. “I knew you were there. It always helped.”

  Muller realized then that he had heard part of Jarid’s dream. It troubled him to think that even now, Jarid continued to relive the death of his parents.

  Unbent lifted his chin toward Muller, letting Jarid know they weren’t alone. Looking up, Jarid climbed to his feet and spoke in his rusty voice. “My greeting, cousin.”

  Muller had no idea how to bow while crouched on a tree that could crumble beneath him. He half slid, half climbed down until he stood next to Jarid and Unbent. “My greeting, Your Majesty.” Then he bowed properly.

  Jarid acted neither surprised nor abashed that they had found him asleep. He had seemed desperate yesterday, overcome, but today he was calmer. Now that he had awoken, the sense of foreboding had receded from the forest.

  Muller glanced around. The sunlight filtering through the foliage had an aged quality and shadows were gathering. “We should start back. Even if we leave right now, it will be dark by the time we reach Suncroft.”

  “You wish that I return.” Jarid made it a statement rather than a question.

  Muller wanted to say, It is your home, but he had no idea if Jarid felt that way anymore. He doubted it would do any good to say Brant and Fieldson wanted him at Suncroft. Nor did he think Unbent would help; if Jarid decided to stay here, Unbent would agree.

  “Do you want to come back?” Muller asked.

  “I like it here,” Jarid said.

  “You are sure?”

  “No.” The corners of Jarid’s mouth lifted in a smile, and for a moment Muller saw in him the laughing boy who had run to him, cajoling his older cousin to swing him in the air. Regret for those days ached within Muller.

  “I wou
ld like to see my wife,” Jarid said.

  “She will be worried,” Muller said.

  Jarid motioned at the forest around them. “This feels more like home. Suncroft is…alien.”

  “Is that why you came here?”

  Jarid shook his head. “No. I wanted to search out Harsdown. Suncroft has too many people. They make noise in my mind.”

  “But why here?” Muller saw the appeal of the forest, with its untamed beauty, but he wouldn’t have traveled so far to find such a place. Surely others existed closer to Suncroft.

  “Iris goes to a hollow like this,” Jarid said. “But I dislike intruding on her sanctuary.” He motioned at the clearing around them. “So I found another.”

  Muller peered around. “Another what?”

  “You do not see?” Jarid asked.

  “Neither do I,” Unbent said. “It is pleasin’ wild, son, but so are other places.”

  “The shape,” Jarid murmured.

  Muller saw then. The branches arching above them, the depressed ground, the circular clearing—it formed a natural sphere. No wonder he felt such a gathering of power. Jarid was focusing through the forest itself. Its sheer size daunted Muller; it would take an extraordinary mage to harness its power.

  “Incredible,” Muller said.

  “Impressive, eh?” Unbent beamed like a parent pleased with a child’s cleverness. He didn’t seem to understand the magnitude of what his son achieved. For that matter, neither did Jarid. They had no idea.

  Muller regarded Jarid curiously. “Did you discover anything in your search?”

  The king nodded. “The dark mage has returned home.”

  “To Harsdown?”

  “Yes.” Jarid pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across his face. “We must go to Harsdown.”

  “Your army isn’t ready,” Muller said.

  “I don’t mean invasion. Just you and I.”

  Muller stared at him. “You are the ruler of this land. Until you have a son, I am your heir. We can’t go alone into hostile territory.” He could imagine what Brant would say to such an idea.