The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  “We will go.” Jarid’s gaze remained firm. “Perhaps not this season or this year, but we will go.”

  “What makes you sure?” Muller asked.

  “If we do not,” Jarid said, “The twisted mage will help King Varqelle conquer Aronsdale.”

  Muller froze. Twisted mage? Did Jarid believe he, Muller, would harm Aronsdale? He tried to make a mood spell using the gnarled tree trunks, but they differed too much from a cylinder for him to use.

  Suddenly Muller’s spell snapped into focus. Jarid had meant the dark mage when he said twisted, not his cousin. Muller also felt Jarid’s fatigue, the bone-deep exhaustion that a few hours sleep had barely touched. Jarid had no wish to return to the harsh existence of his life in the mountains; he wanted to stay at Suncroft, his ancestral home. But he was far more overwhelmed than he revealed.

  The impressions faded; Muller lacked the skill to maintain such a powerful spell for long. But that interlude invigorated him—for during those precious few moments his spell hadn’t twisted.

  Jarid peered at him. “Muller? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Fine.” With Unbent listening, Muller couldn’t tell his cousin the miracle that had just taken place. He wasn’t sure himself what had happened, but he knew this much; he had begun to see Jarid in a different light.

  Della had known better days.

  She, Brant, and Fieldson were in Brant’s Hexagon Room on an upper level of the castle, the three King’s Advisors facing off.

  “Angry?” Brant looked ready to explode. “‘Angry’ barely touches it. I cannot believe you let him go with a murderer. Bad enough our king disappears. Now we have neither king nor heir. Perhaps this man Unbent fancies kidnapping both of them.”

  Della crossed her arms. “And of course poor, helpless Jarid and Muller, two strapping young men in the peak of health, are no match for an elderly man twice their ages combined.”

  Fieldson spoke tightly. “Muller said he was going with you and an octet of soldiers.”

  “That you let him go with only this man Unbent,” Brant added, “verges on the criminal.”

  Della snorted. “Since when is it criminal to obey the commands of the royal family?” She had great respect for Brant and she knew his severity with Muller came from his affection for the young man, but she wished he would learn to show it in a more positive manner.

  “It was bad enough when we only had Muller to deal with,” Brant grumbled. “Now we have two of them. By withholding information from us, Della, you undermine our attempts to protect Aronsdale.”

  “And by refusing to listen to those two young men, you undermine their ability to learn.” Della made a frustrated noise. “Muller is so at odds with himself, he barely knows where to begin with you. Stop pushing so hard.” She glared at Brant. “Perhaps if you showed a modicum of trust in his judgment, he might develop enough confidence to trust himself.”

  He met her gaze. “Trust has to be earned. When has he done that? So far his major talent seems to be looking in the mirror.”

  “Oh, Brant.” Della sighed. “So he likes to dress well. It is no crime.”

  Fieldson answered. “It hardly inspires confidence in his abilities as a military commander.” He crossed his arms. “If Muller’s behavior today is any example of how he will lead the army, I have grave reservations about the safety of Aronsdale. Quite frankly, I would feel more confident with Iris in charge.”

  “I donna think so.” The lilting voice came from behind them. “I am the one who suggested he take Unbent.”

  Della swung around. Iris was standing in the arched doorway, tall and elegant in a simple tunic and leggings.

  They all bowed to the queen. Brant said, “You honor us with your presence, Your Majesty,” though he looked more irate than honored.

  Iris’s face was drawn. “Have they returned yet?”

  “Not yet,” Della said.

  “I would know if Jarid were hurt.” Iris spoke more as if to reassure herself than them. “I had thought, earlier, that he was afraid.”

  Brant stalked over to her. “Then why the blazes did you send Muller off with Unbent to find him?”

  “Jarid’s father knows how to find his son.”

  His fist clenched. “Foster father.”

  “Yes. Foster father.” Iris made her words a rebuke. She went to a long window and gazed out over the walls of the castle to the hills beyond, which were shadowed in the gathering dusk. The sun had set half an hour ago.

  Fieldson spoke. “Your Majesty, you say you knew he was afraid. Do you know more?”

  Iris turned around. “It was vague. I wasn’t even sure it was him. It seemed like Jarid, but also a child.”

  “In some ways he is a child,” Della said. “So much in his life stopped after the death of his parents.” Personally she thought both royal couples were painfully young, even Muller, who had ten years on the others.

  “It is’n that.” Iris’s face took on an inward quality and Della felt the rise of her power, concentrated through Brant’s office, a hexagonal prism, six walls capped by the flat ceiling and floor.

  “I sense him,” Iris said. “Like a fog. But I feel a man, not a boy. What I sensed before—it was him, but as a child.”

  “That makes no sense,” Brant grumbled. When Della gave him a warning look, he added, “Your Majesty.”

  Amusement flickered in Iris’s gaze. She inclined her head to Brant. “Thank you, Your Lordship.”

  Della held back her smile. Iris had changed a great deal in the past year.

  A knock came at the open door. Turning, Della saw one of the triangle-pages, the ten-year-old son of a southern lord. His face was flushed as if he had been running. “Your Majesty!”

  Iris smiled at the boy. “What is it, Randi?”

  Excitement filled his face. “The king arrives!”

  “About time,” Brant muttered. He bowed to Iris, along with Fieldson. When she nodded, they left the office, Fieldson clapping Randi on the shoulder on their way out.

  Iris spoke kindly to the boy. “Go on to the kitchens and see what sweets Cook has. Tell her I sent you.”

  Randi grinned. “Yes, ma’am!” Then he took off.

  Iris went to Della, only now letting her relief show. “We had better go meet Jarid and Muller.”

  “That we should.” With a sigh, Della added, “Before Brant takes them apart.”

  Chime stood on the Star Walk in the dusk. Light from torches and lamps shone through the open gate below, spilling down the hill and across the three men hiking to the castle. As soon as she had heard the gates grinding open, she had run up here to see if Muller had returned. The sight of him trudging up the hill flooded her with relief.

  Two men strode out of the castle, headed down the hill. Chime needed no spell to tell her one of them was furious; his rigid posture said it all. It had to be Brant; she recognized his walk. The man in a general’s uniform was probably Fieldson. Della and Iris appeared a moment later, moving at a calmer pace.

  Everyone met halfway down the hill. Chime wanted to join them, but she hesitated to intrude. Although she and Muller planned to marry, she wasn’t yet a member of the royal family nor was she a King’s Advisor. She was simply a young woman learning to be a mage.

  Using the star holes in the walkway, she made a mood spell. Brant’s anger leapt up at her. He was using it to hide his concern for Muller and the tormented sovereign who so resembled the late King Daron. She sighed, thinking what a pair Della and Brant made, always growling and grumbling to hide the affection they felt for people. It had to be frustrating for them, having so many mages about who could see past their prickly exteriors to their gentle hearts.

  After the group below entered the castle, Chime headed downstairs. Perhaps she would send Aria, her circle-maid, to see Muller’s valet, Sam. If Sam told Muller that his betrothed had inquired after him, Muller might come to tell her what had happened. She hadn’t seen him since he had proposed yesterday and she missed him terribly
.

  She was walking along a concourse on the ground floor, down an arcade of columns and arches, when a rustle came from behind her. Puzzled, she turned around. The arcade was empty. If someone had been there, they must have ducked behind a column or into an alcove. Or gone outside; doors to the gardens stood open farther down the concourse. She walked around the nearest columns, but saw no one. She was alone. The mosaics on the columns had stirred a spell within her, though, and she could have sworn she sensed someone’s mood. It wasn’t a mage, but someone cold and stealthy—

  The hand clamped over her mouth and nose so fast, she had no chance to react. A sickly smell overwhelmed her and dark spots floated in her vision. She began to pass out.

  Instinctively, Chime called on the mage skills Della had taught her. Only dimly aware now of the circle mosaics on the columns, she threw her power into them to make a ragged spell of light and heat. It barely worked. Her attacker didn’t shout with alarm and collapse—but his hold did loosen.

  Chime tore away and ran. On the verge of falling with each step, she raced down the arcade. She didn’t dare pause, in case her attacker was behind her, his pursuit drowned out by the thud of her own feet. She sped out of the arcade, under an archway into a corridor. Desperate, she turned a corner—and slammed into an unyielding surface. A person. Arms grabbed her, holding on when she tried to jump back. She gave a strangled scream and hit his chest with her fists.

  “Lady Chime!” The voice penetrated her panic. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  She finally focused on the person she had barreled into: Sam Threadman, wearing the gold and russet livery of Muller’s staff. Sturdy and firm, the valet stood holding her arms, his face creased with concern.

  Chime spun around, whipping out of his hold, and stared down the corridor. It was empty.

  “He’s gone!” She turned back to Sam.

  His face darkened. “Who hurt you?”

  “I—I don’t know.” She tried to push a tendril of hair out of her face, but her hand shook so much, she couldn’t even manage that small gesture. She could smell the cloying stench from the cloth her attacker had pressed over her face. She stumbled to the wall and slid down it until she was sitting on the floor.

  Sam knelt next to her. “You need the healer.”

  Chime shook her head, but she couldn’t speak. Bile rose in her throat. With great care, she lay down on the floor and closed her eyes. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Please. He might come after me.”

  “I won’t leave you, milady,” Sam said. “But who might come after you?”

  “Didn’t see…”

  Someone spoke to Sam, words too soft to overhear. Chime opened her eyes to see a rectangle-page, a young girl in the Dawnfield livery, a tunic and leggings, white, gold, and indigo. The page’s face paled as she stared at Chime. “Hai, Sam, is she hurt?”

  “I think so.” He spoke urgently. “Go for Skylark. Tell her Lady Chime needs help. Then let Lord Firestoke know an intruder may be in the castle.”

  “I willa be right back.” The girl took off, running around the corner, brown hair flying.

  Chime’s pulse began to slow. Sam continued to kneel at her side, a solid, reassuring presence. She closed her eyes and gave in to the effects of whatever had been on that cloth. For a time she floated, half conscious. Every few moments, she forced her eyes open to make sure Sam remained at her side. Then she drifted again.

  “Lady Chime?” A soothing voice washed over her. “Can you hear me?”

  “Ahhh…” Chime looked to see Skylark, the Mage-Healer of Suncroft, an older woman with blue eyes and two long white braids that hung over her shoulders.

  Skylark was kneeling, holding a blue sphere in one hand. She laid her other palm on Chime’s forehead and warmth flowed from her hand. “Does that help, child?”

  “Not a child,” Chime grumbled.

  Skylark smiled at her glare. “I think you will be all right.”

  Chime slowly pushed herself up and sat against the wall. Sam was hovering behind Skylark, his face filled with worry. Chime wouldn’t have expected them to be so concerned for her. She had believed people here viewed her with disdain, especially the servants, who knew her background as a country girl even though they had to treat her as a noble. She was a fraud. Yet Sam, the page, even Skylark, a powerful mage in her own right, genuinely seemed to care what happened to her.

  The pound of boots came from the arcade. As Chime looked up, Muller ran around the corner. He skidded to a stop and dropped down next to her, his face flushed. Dirt covered his clothes, mud caked his boots, and his hair was tousled over his collar. She was dimly aware of more people coming around the corner, but she saw only Muller. With shaking arms, she cupped his face. He grabbed her into an embrace and hugged her hard, his cheek pressed against her head. Closing her eyes, she sunk into his arms.

  It was several moments before they pulled apart. Then Muller turned to Skylark, who still knelt nearby, though she had scooted back to give them room. “Will she be all right?”

  “I believe so. But she must rest.” Skylark spoke to Chime. “You were drugged, milady. I think you inhaled a poison called blue-eye. In small doses it knocks you out.” Quietly she added, “Larger doses kill.”

  Muller let out an explosive breath. “Chime, who did this? Tell me the name.”

  “I don’t know.” She was beginning to feel steadier now. “Someone came up behind me and put a soaked cloth over my face.”

  A rusty voice spoke. “He came from Varqelle.”

  Startled, Chime looked up. Jarid and Unbent stood in the hallway, both as disheveled as Muller, along with Iris, Della, Brant, and Fieldson.

  “Do you mean King Varqelle?” Muller asked.

  Jarid’s voice rumbled. “From Harsdown, yes.”

  Fieldson spoke to Chime. “We have soldiers searching the castle. Can you tell us where to look for him?”

  Chime did her best to speak calmly, describing as much of the incident as she remembered. When she finished, Fieldson sent one of his men to update the searchers.

  “He probably escaped through the gardens,” Jarid said. “He could be on his way back to Harsdown by now.”

  “Why do you think he came from Harsdown?” Brant asked.

  “I felt it.”

  “How?”

  Jarid seemed at a loss. “I just did.”

  “He links to them all,” Chime said.

  “Who links?” Fieldson asked.

  She looked up at him. “Jarid.”

  “Links how?”

  Everyone regarded her, expectant. Jarid seemed as puzzled as the others. Having lived all his life with his gifts, perhaps he didn’t see how he affected others. She hardly knew how to explain it herself. “You cover all the valleys and dales,” she told him. “Everywhere.”

  Jarid seemed bewildered. He glanced at Iris. “Do you feel this?”

  She nodded. “I can tell if you are upset or happy,” she said. “I don’t even need my own spell.”

  Jarid touched his wife’s cheek, the first time Chime had seen him show tenderness. Iris’s face gentled, and for a moment it was as if she and Jarid were alone in the corridor.

  Then Jarid spoke to Della. “What say you about this link? Do you feel it?”

  “I sense your power,” Della said. “But not a link.”

  He turned his violet-eyed gaze to Skylark. “Healer?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I don’t feel it.”

  Fieldson considered them. “So it is just the three of you. Jarid, Iris, and Chime.”

  Jarid glanced at Muller, who met his gaze with an impassive expression. To Fieldson, Jarid said only, “Yes.”

  The general rubbed his chin. “I’ve never heard of mages communicating across such large distances before. Strategically it could be valuable.”

  Chime rose to her feet, leaning on the wall for support. The effects of the potion were fading, but her nausea surged when she moved. “The intruder—I don’t think he wa
s the Harsdown mage.”

  Jarid came over to her and spoke in a low voice. “You used a spell to escape the intruder.” Only Muller was close enough to overhear.

  “I made heat,” Chime acknowledged.

  “And it burned him.”

  “I think so.”

  “You gave pain with your gifts,” Jarid said, intent.

  Muller stiffened. “She was protecting herself.”

  “I mean no censure.” Jarid regarded Chime. “I would be sure only that you do not censure yourself, either.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.” She wondered if the severity of her reaction came in part from causing harm with her spell.

  Muller turned to the others and spoke to Fieldson. “We should increase the guard on the castle. We must have no more break-ins.”

  His assured tone startled Chime. She had never heard him address the King’s Advisors with such confidence. In the past, he had avoided them and bristled when they cornered him.

  “I can also put men on patrol outside,” Fieldson said.

  “Yes, that would be good,” Muller said.

  Usually Chime couldn’t focus a spell on more than one person, but right now everyone’s unease simmered in her awareness. The mosaics focused her power. They had given her the means to resist her attacker, perhaps saved her life. When she had first come to Suncroft, she hadn’t appreciated their significance, but now she understood. The designs were two-dimensional, which limited the spells they supported, but they were everywhere.

  It was no wonder Jarid’s presence filled Suncroft.

  Iris found Jarid in the octagonal tower chamber. He was sitting in the dark at the round table, his face silvered by starlight. His presence filled the room, blended with the light of an Azure Moon flowing through the window.

  Iris sat with him. “What troubles you?”

  His voice was low. “I cannot absorb it all.”

  She wanted to take his hand, but she feared he would withdraw. “That is why you left the castle today, yes?”

  “Yes.” His voice deepened. “Varqelle knows.”

  “Knows what, Jarid?”

  “That our leadership is weak.”