“A no,” she mumbled.
“Ah.” He tickled her side. “Now are you awake?”
Iris sighed. “Jarid, you must rest for your trip.”
“I’m not sleepy.” He moved his lips to her ear and let his breath do the tickling. “And you are very warm.”
Iris laughed sleepily and slid her arms around him. “You, sir, are terribly misbehaved.”
“You’re my wife.” He rolled her onto her back. “We can misbehave all we want.”
A tap came at the door.
Jarid paused, frowning. Then he turned back to Iris. Her lips felt warm against his, her body ready for him.
Another tap.
Jarid swore under his breath. “I don’t believe it.”
“Let’s pretend we’re asleep,” Iris said.
“I’m the king. It could be a crisis.”
She made a noise of protest low in her throat. “It would behoove our crises to wait until morning.”
He laughed, a rare sound, one that only happened with Iris. “That it would.” Then he dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his indigo robe, belting it at the waist. Silver geometric designs bordered its hems, stirring his power. It filled the room, which had six walls in a hexagon, with a domed ceiling.
Instinctively he imagined the room divided into two parts, the dome and the hexagonal box. A mood spell grew around him, but he held it in check. With Unbent, alone in the cabin, they had desperately needed his gifts; it had been one of their few ways to communicate. Here it became less vital. Nor did he have a connection to the people here. They had no reason to want him sensing their moods. So he respected their privacy. Right now, though, he did catch enough to identify the person beyond the door; Standson, his sphere-butler, always patient. Someone waited with him—
Chime?
Jarid didn’t know whether to fume or worry. He liked Chime. She had a great deal of common sense. He enjoyed the bold spirit she hid under a veneer of impeccable conduct. Right now, though, he could have done with less of the bold and more of the impeccable.
He opened the door to find Standson, stoic in sleep clothes and a robe. “Yes?” Jarid asked.
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Standson said. “I am terribly sorry to disturb your rest.” He looked terribly sorry to have had his own disturbed. “We have a problem.”
Jarid looked past him to where Chime waited with Aria, her circle-maid. “So we do.” He glowered at his cousin’s wife. “I thought you felt ill, Lady Chime.”
She came forward and bowed more deeply to him than protocol dictated. But then, protocol didn’t encourage waking the king in the middle of the night, either.
“I apologize, Your Majesty,” she said, contrite.
Jarid tried to glare at her. It was difficult because she looked angelic.
“Jarid?” Iris’s sleepy voice came from behind him. She joined him at the door and leaned on its frame. “Chime? What are you doing up?”
“I must talk to the king,” Chime said, the picture of sincere urgency.
“Well, here I am,” Jarid grumbled. “So speak.”
Iris gave him an exasperated look. Then she gestured to Chime, inviting her inside. “Come sit with us.”
As Chime and Aria entered the suite, Jarid crossed his arms. Standson gave him a look of apology. Aria’s face was so red, Jarid wondered her cheeks didn’t catch fire. For good measure, he glared at her, too.
Iris set up candles on a table, and they sat around it in wing chairs with gold upholstery emblazoned by the Dawnfield crest. The octagonal table concentrated Jarid’s spell. He hadn’t intended to read Chime’s mood, but it jumped out at him. She meant to ride with his war party in the morning.
“Absolutely not!” he exploded. “Out of the question.”
They all blinked at him. Warriors, criminals, rogues, kings—those he could handle. What to do with three women watching him in polite bewilderment was another story altogether. He felt outnumbered.
“Never,” Jarid added for good measure, giving Chime the full force of his irate stare. She smiled sweetly, her face aglow in the candlelight.
“Jarid, dear.” Iris spoke carefully, as if he were perhaps dangerous. “What are you talking about?”
He frowned at his wife. “She thinks I am going to take her and Aria with me tomorrow.”
Iris seemed nonplussed. “With the Heptagons?”
“I absolutely will not,” Jarid told them.
Aria spoke quickly. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled.” She stood up. “We are sorry to have—”
“Aria, sit down.” Chime yanked her back into the chair. The maid sat with a thump, a tendril of hair flying around her face.
Chime folded her hands in her lap. “Your Majesty—”
“Using my title won’t help,” he growled. “I will not take you with me. That is final. You may go now.”
“But I must go with you,” Chime said in her most sensible voice.
“You are worried about Muller,” Iris said.
“Where I come from,” Chime said, “a wife looks after her husband. If he is in danger, she rescues him.”
“What, now you’re a lady warrior?” Jarid tried to ignore the quelling look Iris gave him. At least she had the sense to speak no rebuke. He was the king, even he was only twenty. He was in control here. He couldn’t believe they were discussing this absurd proposition at such an hour of the night. Brant would have apoplexy. Maybe that was why Chime had come now; his advisors were in bed. She knew they would never countenance such an outrageous scheme. Well, neither would he.
“I must do something,” Chime said. “I need to help.”
“The answer is no,” Jarid said. “N. O.”
“What if Iris was in danger?” Chime turned to the queen. “Or if you knew Jarid needed you. You would go to him.”
“Well, yes, I would,” Iris said.
Jarid almost groaned. If Iris decided to insist that she go after all, it would encourage Chime in this madness. He turned his darkest scowl on his wife. “You would stay here at Suncroft.”
Her smile curved. “I would rescue you, my love.”
“You would do no such thing.” The conversation was getting away from Jarid and he didn’t know how to pull it back. Blustering probably wasn’t the answer. He spoke more calmly to Chime. “I understand why you would like to come and I appreciate your offer. But you cannot. The danger is too great. I’m sorry.”
“It is more dangerous to stay here.” Fear shadowed her face. “When Varqelle’s army arrives, what will they do to the pregnant wife of your current heir? Better I go with you.”
The idea that Varqelle would attack his home made Jarid ill. She was right; she would be in danger either way. But Suncroft had walls and warriors. “We are leaving many soldiers here.”
“You will have many in the north, too,” Iris said. “The Heptagons and the two units already there.”
“You can’t be sure Muller has brought the Hexagons,” Jarid said, though he too had sensed their movements.
Chime sat up straighter. “I am certain.”
“Such a journey poses dangers to your child,” Iris told her.
“Less than staying here,” Chime said. “I am not afraid to go.”
Jarid answered sternly. “But I am, for you.”
“You need mages,” she said. “I am a mage.”
“I also,” Iris said. “I should go.”
Saints almighty. Jarid leaned toward her. “I have a mage. Myself. I need you here.”
“You need me with the army more.” Iris rubbed her eyes. “I have worried about this all night. Brant and Della are better suited to govern in your absence than me. I can do far more to help the army than I can do here.”
“And suppose we are attacked?” Jarid demanded, both of her and of Chime. “You could be hurt. Even killed.”
“So could you,” Chime said.
Jarid was about to retort when he saw Iris pale. Damn. He didn’t want her reminded of
the danger to himself.
Aria spoke to Chime in a low voice. “Ma’am, His Majesty has made his intent clear. We should leave the king and queen to their sleep now.”
“I am glad one of you has sense.” Jarid rose to his feet. “A good eve to—”
“Jarid, love,” Iris said. “Please wait.”
Ah, hell. He sat down. “Yes?”
“I was chosen as queen for my mage power. I’ve read the histories: even as recently as five generations ago, the queen rode with the army. You will need as many mages as possible when you face the Harsdown mage. By every precedent, I should ride with you.”
Jarid leaned toward his wife and spoke in a firm voice. “You are not going with me.” Sitting up straight, he faced Chime. “Neither are you.”
Chime smiled sweetly. “Will you lock us in our rooms? Tie us to a chair, perhaps?”
“Of course not. I am the king. You will do as I say.” He folded his arms, letting them see his resolve. “You can argue all night. It will do no good. I have made my decision.”
“It is an outrage!” Brant strode with Jarid across the Yard of Circles. All around them, the Heptagon Unit was preparing to ride, men and horses filling the predawn hour with quiet commotion.
“Both of them?” Brant demanded. Remembering himself, he added, “My apology, Sire. But to take Chime and Iris strikes me as unwise.” To put it mildly.
“Don’t tell me,” Jarid muttered. “Tell them.”
“You are the king.”
“Have you ever faced Iris and Chime together, without backup? No reinforcements? No battle plan?”
Brant smiled. “I hardly think talking to our two lovely mages is like going into battle.”
Jarid snorted. “Little do you know.”
“Simply tell them no.”
He slanted a weary look at his advisor. “I tried.”
“You can’t let two slips of women wear you down.”
He knew the real reason Brant was upset, even if the curmudgeon refused to say it. Jarid pulled him to a stop. “They mean a great deal to me, too. I don’t want them in danger. But they are right, we must have strong mages on this trip. Skylark is too old for such travel and Della isn’t much younger. We also need mages at Suncroft, if Harsdown comes. Skylark and Della may lack in endurance, but they have decades of experience in magecraft. They would be more effective here, where they can do their best work without fatigue.”
“If Harsdown comes.”
“Chime is convinced.”
“And you?”
“No. But she has a link to Wareman.” Jarid gazed across the yard to where Iris and Chime stood by their horses, deep in conversation. More to himself, he added, “How do you argue with such a love as that driving Chime? In her position, I would insist on the same.” He wished he knew how to tell Iris what she meant to him.
“Yes, well, they’re just women.”
Turning back to him, Jarid spoke dryly. “Would you like to tell Chime Headwind she is ‘just’ a woman?”
Brant blanched. “I see your point.” He motioned at Cube-General Fieldson, who was conferring with several officers near the stables. “What does he say?”
“A surprise, actually. He didn’t object.”
“Why not?”
“He felt as they did about Skylark. He also thinks we need two mages with the army, in addition to myself.”
Brant wearily rubbed the small of his back. “I don’t like it.”
Jarid watched his wife, her glorious hair covered by a shawl. “Nor I.”
“I hope you’re wrong about the armies in the north.”
“What I sense is tenuous,” Jarid admitted, more and more uneasy with that truth as the time neared for them to leave.
Brant’s breath came out in puffs of condensation. “The Dawnfield line has such odd mage powers.”
Jarid tensed, thinking of Muller. “What do you mean?”
“Your ability to sense people over so much distance.” He paused. “But perhaps your strength is no surprise, given the way your ancestors married such strong mages.”
Jarid didn’t speak his thought, that the Dawnfield gifts had become too concentrated. No one should hold such power. In his darker moments, when he thought Varqelle might take all that mattered to him—his realms, his regained senses, his home, his wife—darkness moved within him. No mage could ever be free of that temptation, to use such power against others.
Yet Muller seemed to long only for the light. Jarid thought of the Mage Tower. The chamber with flawed shapes unsettled him, but he could see why Muller preferred it. In that place, alone, Muller could practice spells without doing harm. That wing of the castle was ancient, over a thousand years old. In the distant past, had other mages wielded powers such as Muller grappled with now? Although no histories mentioned such gifts, few records survived from ancient times. The traits could lie dormant for many generations, yet still become enhanced as the Dawnfields bred ever stronger mages.
Fieldson came over to them and bowed to Jarid. “We’re about ready to leave.”
“Thank you, Cube-General.” Jarid smiled slightly at Brant. “Take care of Suncroft for me.”
Brant laid his hand on Jarid’s shoulder. “May blessings of the saints go with you.”
Jarid inclined his head. He suspected they would need all the blessings they could find.
30
Magescape
Chime sat astride Silvermist, her gray mare. They knew each other well now, she and this horse, and she loved riding her through these hills. They had left Croft’s Vale and its farmlands far behind. Every now and then she saw a thatched cottage in the distance, but they otherwise rode through unsettled lands. Scattered trees dotted the hills and meadows, but few wild flowers remained, only snap-lions that grew in wild red and gold profusion in the shade in groves of trees. The early morning light had the aged feel of late summer, when the sun crossed lower in the sky. Tomorrow would be autumn’s first day, beginning the long, cold slide into winter.
All around her, the Heptagon Unit and King’s Archers rode in lines of warriors, the powerful muscles of their horses rippling, their leather armor and chain mail creaking. Up ahead, Jarid cantered with Fieldson. Iris rode next to Chime on a large mount, a dappled mare. The wind pulled at the raised hood of the queen’s riding cape.
“Jarid seems quiet,” Chime said. She felt awkward with Iris, unsure what to say, but she tried anyway.
“Aye.” Iris sighed. “Talking is’n his strong suit.”
“It has never been mine, either. I seem to do it a lot anyway.” Belatedly it occurred to Chime that she had just left herself open for a well-deserved retort.
Iris only smiled, though. “You’ve a lovely voice.”
That startled Chime. “Thank you.” She remembered her stupid comments last year about Iris’s accent. If only she could take them back. It had been so long, though. She hesitated to speak, lest she remind the queen of a forgotten slight.
They rode for a time, protected against the chill by heavy wool cloaks with hoods. They wore leather armor most of the time, acclimating themselves to it, learning to move and function. Both had daggers sheathed on their belts.
After a while, Iris said, “I had wondered…”
“Yes?” Chime asked.
“About your nightmares. If you donna mind my asking?”
“Go ahead.”
“Is anyone else in them besides Muller?”
Chime understood: Iris wondered if the dreams foretold anything for Jarid. “Only Muller. The rest is vague.”
“Vague.” Iris exhaled, her breath making plumes in the air. “Jarid says this also.” Her hair blew across her face and she pulled it off. “I havna had any nightmares that I remember, but I have trouble sleeping. My mind is a pincushion.” She reddened. “It is foolishness, I know.”
“If it is,” Chime said, “then I am foolish, too.”
Iris hesitated. “I have had an idea.”
“An idea?”
“Aye. Suppose you, Jarid, and I pool our gifts? We might be able to sense more that way.”
It was an anomalous thought. Then again, this was an anomalous situation. Apparently even Jarid couldn’t reach as far as Harsdown.
“I wouldn’t know how,” Chime said.
“Nor I,” Iris admitted. “I suggested it to Della before we left and she said it couldna be done.”
Chime disliked giving up. Besides, supposedly neither violet nor rainbow mages existed, either. “She has never worked with anyone like you or Jarid.”
Iris grinned. “She also said that.”
“Have you asked Jarid?”
“Aye. He is willing to try.”
“What would we try, exactly?”
Iris pondered for a moment. “Maybe if we all make mood spells at the same time, for one another, we can combine them.”
“You think that would give us more reach?”
“I hope so.” Iris’s hood was slipping off her head, and she pulled it back up. “We need to understand this Harsdown mage better.”
Chime remembered his wrongness and her dismay when he had recognized her. “If we look for him, it could alert him to our presence.”
“It be a problem,” Iris said. “But he has the hole. He canna feel moods.”
“He can’t use green,” Chime said. “But he can sense it. He felt my spell.” She had no doubt about that.
Iris twisted the reins she held. “An indigo mage can heal emotional injuries. If he reversed his spell, he could cause such injuries. In that sense, he would reach other minds even if he hadna empathy for them.”
“You think he is an indigo?” The idea discouraged Chime, but it didn’t surprise her.
“I would like it to be untrue.” Iris watched her husband riding ahead. “But if these dreams you and Jarid suffer come from spells, their creator must be powerful indeed, able to draw on high level shapes, even spheres.”
Chime shuddered. “A gloomy thought.”
“Aye.” Iris’s gaze turned bleak. “That it be.”
The three of them gathered together that evening.
Jarid sat against a tree, one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent so he could rest his elbow on his knee. He held a ball of purple marble, one almost too large to fit into his palm. Iris sat on his right and Chime next to her. Chime had her emerald ball with twenty sides, and Iris held a similar diamond orb that sparkled with rainbows. Guards patrolled the area, warriors armed with sword and bow, far enough away so they didn’t intrude, but close enough to reach the mages immediately if needed.
The Charmed Sphere Page 30
