The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  Jarid spoke to Chime in a low voice. “I saw a darkness descend on you.”

  She just shook her head. She wasn’t ready to speak of it yet.

  Iris was watching her. “Take your time. It will be all right.”

  Chime couldn’t fathom her kindness. “Why don’t you hate me?”

  “Hate you?” Iris looked bewildered. “Why?”

  “I’ve said such awful things.” Chime wound her fingers in the tassels of her shawl, under her cloak. “When you first came, I was so afraid you would take Muller. I didn’t know how to act…” She trailed off, feeling like an idiot.

  It was a moment before Iris answered. “It is past now.” Her face gentled. “You’ve a kind heart, even if you donna see it yourself.”

  Jarid snorted at Chime. “Never could fathom what you see in that skinny cousin of mine.”

  Chime warmed at the thought of Muller. “He does surely shine like the sun, Your Majesty.”

  He made an exasperated noise. “If you don’t stop calling me ‘Your Majesty,’ I shall banish you to—” He paused. “Well, to someplace.”

  Chime managed a smile. “Aye, Jarid.”

  He paused, then spoke with care. “I would like to ask about the attack.”

  Chime dreaded speaking of it, but their banter had eased her fear. She no longer felt gripped in ice. And he needed to know what happened, even if she wished to forget.

  “It is all right,” she said.

  “Do you know where it came from?” he asked.

  She motioned toward the mountains, looming a few days’ ride away, dark in the rain. “North.”

  “What happened?”

  “I made a spell to lighten the heaviness.”

  “Heaviness?”

  “It hangs over us,” Chime said. “But the Harsdown mage caught my spell and twisted it around.”

  Jarid stiffened. “Are you saying that by using our mage abilities, we give him a way to attack us?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “We must stop him,” Iris said.

  “How can he do deliberate harm with his spells?” It shook Chime to remember the incantation she had used against him. “I would die before I turned my gifts against people that way.”

  Jarid’s expression darkened. He abruptly turned on his heel and strode away from them.

  Chime stared after him, confused. Then, realizing what she had done, she swore. “I am an idiot!” She might as well have stabbed him over Murk’s death.

  Iris watched her husband walking among his men. “I think he knows you didn’t mean him.”

  Chime started forward. “I should apologize.”

  Iris caught her arm. “It is best to let him be.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Iris spoke quietly. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be.” Chime hoped that was true.

  Iris shook her head. “This dark mage is obsessed with you. Canna you call for help when he attacks?”

  “He made it so I couldn’t see, hear, or speak.”

  “How did you stop his spell?”

  “I used that incantation, the one I spoke in my sleep.” She ran her tongue over the inside of her mouth. “And I bit my cheek until it bled. It disrupted the spell. His influence comes from a great distance, so it must strain him to extend it so far.”

  “That he does it at all is chilling.” Iris watched the king, who was speaking with Fieldson now. “I fear what it would do to Jarid if this mage stole his senses. He has struggled so to adapt. To lose it all, again, would destroy him.”

  Chime lifted her chin. “We won’t let it happen.”

  As they headed back to the others, Chime brooded. If the dark mage could turn their own spells against them, she dreaded to think what he might do with Muller’s injured gifts.

  32

  Gathering Winds

  Anvil rode astride Snowhawk, a white charger that glowed in the misty day. General Stonehammer rode with him, his gaze sharp as he scanned the steep trail their company followed down through the Tallwalks.

  “Lot of fog,” Anvil commented.

  “It makes good cover.” Stonehammer glanced at him. “Though by now they must know we are coming.”

  “They have an idea.” Although Anvil tried to hide his fatigue, he suspected Stonehammer knew how much his mage efforts exhausted him. As they neared the Aronsdale forces, though, he didn’t have to extend himself as far, and the strain eased. “Some of their forces are here. Others are at Suncroft.”

  Stonehammer’s eyes glinted like splinters of green glass. “They weren’t supposed to know we divided the army.”

  Anvil wanted to say it meant nothing, but downplaying the situation would only hurt their still considerable chances of success. With Varqelle leading the greater part of his army to Suncroft, he could take the castle even with a substantial portion of the Aronsdale army there. Anvil could aid this smaller force with his magecraft. They would face a contingent of archers and two Aronsdale units, perhaps three if Muller Dawnfield showed up with the Hexagons. Anvil had misled them, pushing their party too far north. It troubled him that they had ridden north at all, though. Muller shouldn’t have known to come. But come he had.

  “They have more mage power than I expected,” Anvil said. He recalled his interaction with Muller in the swamp, when he had spelled the princeling into losing his way. If Dawnfield’s men hadn’t found him, Muller could have died in that bog, ridding Anvil of an irritant that interfered in his intentions toward Lady Chime. Muller had caught him by surprise by fighting back with that bizarre spell of his. Even stranger, a green spell had also protected him. Anvil didn’t understand how a spell of compassion and empathy could be strong. In his experience, empathy weakened a person, leaving him open to attack.

  “It isn’t only the king,” he added. “His cousin, it seems, is also a mage.”

  Stonehammer cocked an eyebrow at him. “Surely you do not mean Muller Dawnfield.”

  “It would seem so.”

  The general laughed. “Impossible.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Stonehammer’s smile faded. “Then unacceptable.”

  “Well, yes. But unfortunately true.”

  “That gives them advantage.”

  “I think not.” Anvil recalled how easily he had turned Muller’s faltering gift against the prince. “He uses shape-magic the way a child with crippled legs moves. He will never run, never walk, only crawl.”

  “You make odd predictions.” Stonehammer guided his horse around a hillock covered with hardy stone-hedge, its small blossoms wet in the fog, their violet color so vivid they seemed to glow.

  Malice stirred in Anvil for this prince who blocked his approach to Lady Chime. Anvil had earned his high status among the elite of Harsdown; no one had given him any title or advantages due to his heredity. Muller Dawnfield deserved his failings. “He must have an unpleasant life, always fighting his own spells.”

  “Hard to believe men would follow such a commander.”

  It surprised Anvil, too, especially after the past few days. He had developed respect for Stonehammer during this ride. The general could be hard, yes, demanding, never relenting, but he was also fair. He had none of the weaknesses Anvil had seen in Suncroft, where officers listened too much to their men, undermining their own commands. He had even heard that Cube-General Fieldson had once granted a soldier leave to be with his wife the day she gave birth. Appalling. Stonehammer would never have tolerated such a dereliction of duty.

  “I don’t think Dawnfield’s men know he is a mage,” Anvil said.

  The general slanted him a glance. “How would you know?”

  Anvil shrugged. “People in Croft’s Vale love to gossip about the Suncroft mages. It’s one of their favorite pastimes. I never heard a word about Muller.”

  “So.” Stonehammer thought for a while, the planes of his face thrown into a contrast of shadows and light by the slanting rays of the sun. “If he is a faulty mage, perhaps
his spells could be manipulated.”

  Anvil nodded his agreement. His thoughts precisely.

  The line of riders coiled down the trail like a dragon shrouded in fog. They had seven units of forty men each, a total of two hundred and eighty, plus Stonehammer and a mage. Anvil had touched many minds as he haunted the Aronsdale warriors, spreading unrest and sadness. He predicted Harsdown would face the Pentagons, with twenty-five men and a commander; the Heptagons, with forty-nine, their commander, and Chime; about fifty archers; and maybe the Hexagons, with thirty-six and Prince Muller. That made about one hundred and sixty men plus a mage. Although the numbers favored Harsdown, Anvil didn’t fool himself that they offered an easy win. Aronsdale had claimed a good army even before Muller stepped up their training. They lacked experience, but so did Harsdown.

  That he detected only Chime as a mage suggested Jarid had stayed at Suncroft with his queen. Anvil couldn’t be sure, though; he had trouble sensing Iris, who for some reason had no signature color. Even if she was green, like Chime, he would know; although he couldn’t create such spells, he could sense when others used them. Jarid remained an enigma. Anvil had believed no mage wielded a power greater than his own, but now he wondered. If the king surpassed him, Jarid might hide within a shield of his greater strength.

  Anvil gritted his teeth. He could never tolerate such a mage. If the king and queen had ridden north, he would kill Jarid and capture Iris. If Jarid had left his lovely bride at Suncroft, she would be a fitting prize for Varqelle. Either way, Chime Headwind was here.

  It gratified him to know he would be the one to take her.

  Muller sat by the campfire on a log, his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. He was aware of his men making camp, fixing dinner and tending horses, but he couldn’t move. His headache pounded. Lifting his head, he looked at the twilit sky. Silhouetted against it, towering over the camp, the Tallwalk Mountains raised their harsh peaks to the heavens. I won’t let you defeat me, he thought.

  “Commander?” Arkandy approached, holding two metal pans.

  The aroma of stew wafted over Muller, making his mouth water. He made himself straighten up. “Have a seat.”

  Arkandy settled down and handed him a plate. “Head still hurt?”

  “A bit.”

  Arkandy stabbed a chunk of meat with his knife. “Blasted spells.” He stuck the meat in his mouth and chewed with gusto.

  “An understatement,” Muller muttered.

  “It gets worse, eh?”

  Muller poked at his dinner. “Yes.”

  “I’ve felt pressure now and then. Like a ghost.”

  “You have?” Muller had hoped his men wouldn’t be affected. “How bad is it?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” Arkandy took another bite of stew. “How does he know to target you? What tells him that he has the commander?”

  His phrasing relieved Muller. Arkandy could have asked why the mage targeted him, but apparently he assumed it was because Muller led the unit. “Probably he recognizes my mind. If this mage is Wareman, he knew me at Suncroft.”

  Archer came over to them, a skein of wine in his hand. “We’ve secured the camp, Commander.”

  “Good work.” Muller motioned at the log. “Rest awhile.”

  Archer sat on his other side and offered him the wine. “This might help your head.”

  “My thanks.” Muller took a long drought. It had helped last night and perhaps it would tonight. Tomorrow they would reach the foothills of the Tallwalk Mountains. Then, saints willing, he would engage the reprobate who was making his life hell.

  The Heptagons and the King’s Archers poured down the slope into the camp of the Pentagons. Chime rode in the middle of the unit, accompanied only by two sphere-lieutenants, since Iris had gone up ahead. Mist drifted around the warriors of both units as they mingled and prepared to ride out together.

  By the time Chime reached the camp, Jarid and Iris were conferring with Penta-Colonel Burg, commander of the Pentagons. He stood almost as tall as Jarid, a burly man with a blocky face and sandy hair in a thick braid with an iron clasp at his neck. He carried a great deal more weight than most men, all of it muscle.

  Restless and unsettled, Chime rode slowly around the edges of the camp. She had only gone a short distance when an odd sensation came over her, as if the mist were burning her skin. She brushed her face and the feeling vanished.

  She glanced at the lieutenant closest to her, a gangly fellow a year or two older than herself, riding to her left. “Did you feel anything hot?”

  He tilted his head, curiosity in his blue eyes. “Nay, Lady. It be beastly wet and cold this morning.”

  “That it is.” The prickle of heat disquieted her. These past two days, since the Harsdown mage had attacked, Chime had taken care to hide her gifts, making no spells. Iris and Jarid had done the same. She felt the dark mage searching, but as long as she suppressed her gifts, his spells slid over her like hot oil. But she couldn’t hide forever. It did the army no good to bring mages who couldn’t make spells.

  Chime rode up a ridge shaded with straggling trees. Here in the foothills of the northwest mountains, the soil was rocky and the plants hardier than the lush foliage of southeast Aronsdale. She guided Silvermist to the top of the ridge and pulled the mare to a stop. Then she sat on her horse, looking over the controlled tumult below as the two army contingents combined.

  She touched the gold chain around her neck, then slid her hand down to the emerald ball at the end. She held it in her palm, turning her hand up to the sky. Silvermist stepped restlessly beneath her and she murmured to the horse until it calmed.

  Focusing through her sphere, Chime slowly built a mood spell. Emotions washed over her from the soldiers below: tension, conviction, relief at seeing one another, and determination. At the edges of her spell, darkness hovered. She immediately let the spell fade, before the dark mage became aware of her. He already knew she rode through these lands, but she had no intention of giving him any handle to grasp.

  The combined forces soon moved out together. Their superb organization and ability to cooperate with such ease spoke well of Fieldson, who had commanded this army for over two decades. It gave Chime new insights into the general. He could have balked when Jarid put Muller in charge, but instead Fieldson had worked tirelessly to prepare the new commander. Remorse tugged at Chime; she had been so busy resenting Fieldson, she had glossed over the many fine qualities that made him a strong leader and inspired such loyalty in his men.

  They rode steadily, though their progress was slowed as the land became steeper and uneven. As the sun rose, the fog thinned, until by the late morning she could see the Tallwalks through a haze. Foreboding continued to plague her thoughts.

  Scouts ranged ahead, searching for signs of Harsdown. Iris came back to ride with Chime, and Jarid increased their guard from four sphere-lieutenants in the traditional quadrilateral formation to six in a hexagonal formation. The trees thinned out and had a stunted look now. They had left the meadows far behind; only bristly patches of grass grew in cracks in the stone. The horses picked their way with care.

  Riding with Iris, Chime spoke in a subdued voice. “We must use our spells to search for Harsdown.”

  “Aye.” The shadows under Iris’s eyes were darker today and lines of strain creased her face.

  Chime hesitated, leery of appearing a coward. “I fear if I make a spell, the Harsdown mage will find me.”

  Mercifully Iris didn’t disparage her statement. She said only, “I may be able to help. Mood spells are your forte more than mine, so you should search. But I can offer a shield as you work.”

  That gave Chime hope. A year ago, she probably would have made some foolish comment trying to cover her insecurity, but that no longer seemed important. She said only, “Yes, let’s try.”

  With a deep breath, Chime closed her eyes. It made her more aware of her exhaustion; right now she thought she could fall asleep while sitting in the saddle. But she
couldn’t let her focus weaken. Grasping the orb on the chain around her neck, she did her best to concentrate. Instead of seeking one person, she imagined her spell as a twenty-sided sphere, emerald. Then she let it grow. Iris shielded it with a rainbow sheen that expanded in a layer of protection, gossamer in appearance yet stronger than any spell Chime could have summoned.

  A blurred sense of the warriors came to Chime, their moods blended together. Although they felt far less of the oppressive foreboding that bothered her, many were discouraged, their morale low. She formed a yellow spell of soothing and released it to flow across them. Although no one consciously seemed to realize what happened, their moods lifted.

  Meanwhile, her green spell continued to grow. Less then two years ago, she hadn’t believed she could make even one spell properly; now she juggled two of them, green and yellow, shaping and building both. The rainbow film stayed with here, its colors swirling. Not only did Iris protect her spells, she also added support, helping Chime cover more distance. Yet for all that Chime reached across the land, she touched no more minds. Few people lived in these unfertile lands.

  Chime’s head began to throb. She was overextending herself. She started to release the spell—but then she sensed a distant cluster of minds. A cold determination came from them, like iron manacles. She eased under their notice—and found a mage.

  Wareman.

  Her heart beating hard, Chime withdrew, hidden by Iris. As her spell dissolved, she became aware of soldiers on horses around her, and the fog that hung about the stunted vegetation in the still air.

  She spoke to Iris in a low voice. “Varqelle’s forces have passed through the Tallwalk Pass and are descending the mountains. If we keep this pace, we should meet up with them tomorrow afternoon.”

  Iris tensed. “We must tell Jarid.”

  “Yes. Immediately. They have many men, a much larger force than ours.” Chime looked toward the spare, majestic peaks of the Tallwalk Mountains. “So it comes.”