The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  Except one.

  “So.” Varqelle took a long swallow of wine from his mug. The spices burned his throat. “King Jarid wants to bargain, eh?”

  “General Stonehammer is unharmed,” Ravensford said. “He would return to you as he left.”

  “So you say.” Although Varqelle maintained an outward nonchalance, Stonehammer’s capture disturbed him. Jarid’s forces had let the other Harsdown warriors escape as they concentrated on catching the one of greatest value. Varqelle depended on the general, a brilliant strategist who knew how to shape and train an army. The king intended to conquer other lands after he took Aronsdale, including the Misted Cliffs west of Harsdown. Especially the Misted Cliffs. He would reclaim his pale, lovely wife and his son. To ensure the success of those conquests, he needed Stonehammer. But Stonehammer would be the first to advise against compromising his chances of success here.

  Varqelle sipped his wine while Ravensford stood before him, his boots denting the Shazire carpet. Finally the king lowered his mug. “What does Jarid want in return for my general?”

  The major met his gaze. “Anvil the Forged.”

  Varqelle didn’t even bother to laugh. “Try again.”

  “Stonehammer for Anvil.”

  “The mage is of greater value than the general.” It was true. Varqelle had more confidence in Stonehammer; he trusted Stonehammer more, though he trusted no one fully; and he considered the general a friend, as much as he was capable of friendship with anyone. But regardless of all that, Anvil had more value.

  “I will guarantee safe passage to the mage queen out of Aronsdale after the war,” Varqelle offered. In truth, whether or not he let Iris Larkspur go would depend on whether or not she pleased him. The bargain meant nothing; after Varqelle defeated Aronsdale, Jarid would be in no position to demand compliance with any agreements.

  The major crossed his arms. “That is no reason for King Jarid to return Stonehammer now.”

  “True. But it is the only trade you will get.”

  Ravensford’s jaw tightened.

  “You may tell your young king this.” Varqelle sat back in his chair. “After I have taken Suncroft, I will negotiate the terms of Jarid’s surrender. At that time, we will discuss Stonehammer.”

  Ravensford never lost his composure. “His Majesty is willing to bargain with you now for the general. The same may not be true after his army has defeated yours.”

  Varqelle set his mug on a table next to his chair and rose to his feet. He stood a head taller than the major. “Understand me. General Stonehammer is a good man. He doesn’t deserve whatever your king plans for him. But the general would no more expect me to compromise this campaign for him than your Cube-General Fieldson would expect such of King Jarid.”

  Ravensford’s gaze never wavered. “You won’t take Aronsdale.”

  “Oh, I think I will.” He gestured in the direction of the castle, his long fingers lazy in the air. “My agents tell me how many soldiers hide within Suncroft. And I’ve seen what remains of your other units. You have no chance. You will lose.” When Ravensford started to answer, his face flushed, Varqelle turned his hand palm out toward the man. “You are alone, here, Hexahedron-Major. You came without weapons. I respect that. I will let you leave in the same manner.” His voice deepened. “But do not try my good will. It may not hold.”

  Ravensford took a deep breath. Then he bowed, his movements stiff. “At your leave, Your Majesty.”

  “You may go.”

  So Ravensford went back out into the chill night. Varqelle picked up his wine and sipped it slowly, considering the tent flap that swung from the major’s departure. Varqelle felt tired, though he had hidden it from his visitor. He had no liking for the battle they would fight with Jarid Dawnfield and his army tomorrow. But fight he would, for his desire to expand his territories was greater than his reluctance to kill. One day his name would be remembered in all the history scrolls, the visionary who made Harsdown an empire. Varqelle the Mighty.

  Yes, they would remember his name.

  On a blustery morning in autumn, when brittle leaves blew across the land and a chill turned the wind sharp, the armies of Aronsdale and Harsdown met in the trampled meadows below Suncroft. They turned the formerly idyllic countryside into a battlefield.

  The polygon units within the castle swept out into the combat, a human wave pouring down the hill. The armies surged back and forth, attacking, retreating, surging forward again. Harsdown always pressed toward the castle, climbing its hill and being beaten back, only to force its way forward again.

  So it was that under the watery light of a sun veiled by thin clouds, war came to Aronsdale.

  36

  Vale of the Sun

  For Chime, the day blurred. The Mage Guard of the King’s Army hid her and Iris in the woods on a hill well above the fighting, a walk of ten minutes from the battle. Chime could see the combat, but with several thousand men fighting, she could locate no one in particular. Beyond the battlefields and their roiling armies, Castle Suncroft raised its spires into the sky.

  Chime focused through the large faceted ball she had brought with her, imagining golden hues, the color of confidence, until a shimmering haze surrounded her. She sent the spell to the Aronsdale warriors, flowing it across the land. Success, she willed. You shall triumph. You are strong and alive.

  She couldn’t see Jarid, but she sensed him in her magescape. He flared like lightning. Surely a king should stay back, protected, but he refused, driven to battle with single-minded intensity. Never did she feel him use spells to injure, but that changed nothing. With his sword, he killed again and again, and it exacted a price on his conscience he would never forgive.

  She couldn’t find Muller in her magescape, but she felt his presence. Several times, when her spells broke on the jagged edges of polygon units, he reached out, trying to help—and her spells surged in power. Then his presence would vanish again, his concentration turned to battle and survival.

  It had agonized Chime to see him ride to war this morning. She prayed for his return tonight. When soldiers began carrying wounded men to her, she submerged her fears in work. She bandaged and soothed, easing pain while Iris staunched gashes, set broken bones, and wove her spells. Then she would turn back to the battle, pouring her spells into the polygons as best she could manage.

  The combat raged until Chime lost all sense of time. Always when the injured came in, she looked for Muller. Always she asked after him. Her heart sang when someone reported seeing him alive; her mood plunged when no one could say if he lived. Day faded into evening and still the injured came. The battle raged and the polygons fragmented. She and Iris alternated between helping the injured and using their spells in the battle. She worked in a daze, calling on her deepest resources.

  Finally, in exhaustion, she fell asleep sitting up, her head falling forward, blood-soaked bandages in her hands.

  A trill awoke Chime. She stirred, reassured by the melodies of her songbird. Then she remembered; her bird had died. She heard only the familiar warble of redwing night-canaries so common throughout Aronsdale.

  She opened her eyes to see a drowsing camp, warriors sleeping fitfully around her like a bulwark, lit by the ghostly light of an Azure Moon. Iris slept nearby, leaning against a tree, her arms limp at her sides, a blanket across her lap. Warriors paced through the trees, sentries on patrol. Some of the injured moaned in their dreams. In instinct, Chime formed a spell to counter their pain.

  Silence had otherwise fallen over the countryside. The armies had apparently withdrawn to recover and recoup. She hadn’t realized they would do such; subconsciously she had expected them to keep fighting. The exhaustion of the hundreds of men spread across the hills pressed down on her; both armies were drained. Death had parched their ranks. Many of the soldiers wanted to return home. She felt the same.

  Moving stiffly, Chime stood up, her joints aching. A sentry came over, a tall man in battered armor. “How do you feel, milady?” He
indicated her leg, which was newly healed from the wound Anvil had given her. “Does it cause you trouble?”

  “Nay. It is fine.” Hope filled her. “Have you news of my husband? Commander Dawnfield?”

  “My apology, ma’am. I don’t know.”

  She tried to hide her disappointment. “No need to apologize, kind sir.”

  “Would you be liking something to eat?” He indicated a slope that rolled down slightly from where they stood in the direction of the battlefield. “We’ve stew down by the campfire.”

  “I would like a little, yes.” She nodded her thanks and limped toward the slope. When he tried to help her, she waved him away, not wanting to appear weak.

  The campfire had died to embers. A few men sat around it on logs, and others patrolled the area. Chime intended to stop for food, but she felt too restless to sit. So she walked on past the fire. Sentries watched as she paced, but none stopped her.

  Finally she reached the edge of the woods. She stood under a tree and stared across the battlefield below to the hill where Suncroft stood in the distance. Torches burned on its walls and in many windows, turning it gold even in the night. She couldn’t bear to think of that beauty falling into Varqelle’s hands.

  A sentry approached. As he drew near, she spoke in a relieved whisper. “Arkandy!”

  He grinned, coming to stand with her under the tree. He had taken off his upper armor and wore only a plain shirt. “A good eve, Lady Chime.”

  “And to you.” She swallowed. “I can’t find Muller.”

  He motioned to the castle. “He and the king retreated with Cube-General Fieldson within its walls.”

  Relief poured through her. “It is secure then?”

  “Nay, Lady, not at all. It isn’t safe for you to go.”

  Chime winced. Arkandy knew her too well. “I had the impression earlier today that the battle had turned in our favor.”

  “For a while.” He lifted his hands and let them drop again. “But then it changed. It is this mage, Anvil the Forged. He has such power. He destroys our will.”

  She thought of Anvil, trapped in the horrors of his past until he turned the lives of everyone around him into similar misery. “I heard Varqelle refused to trade him for Stonehammer.”

  Arkandy’s gaze darkened. “Yes.”

  “What is our situation, then?”

  He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “There are many of them and fewer of us. But we are better fighters and we recover faster. We might have a chance if it wasn’t for Anvil.” He stretched, rubbing the small of his back. “Muller says the dark mage has no remorse for abusing his gifts.”

  “None.” Chime told him what Anvil had described of his childhood. It was hard even to say the words. “Day after day of that treatment, ending in the death of his family—it burned out his ability to feel.”

  “So he wants vengeance.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t his family leave the village?”

  “I’ve wondered, too.” Chime shook her head. “And it is odd they had such powers. I’ve made inquiries. Stonce is a hamlet in the north, very ingrown. Its people marry one another. If Anvil’s family had gifts, surely others would as well. But apparently no one else there does.”

  “You were the only mage in Jacob’s Vale.”

  Chime thought of what Muller had told her about his visit to her home. “Some people there showed traces of mage talent, including my brothers and my mother.” Now that she knew what to look for, she remembered many other signs as well. “My girlfriend Merry is probably a red mage who can use squares. And Jacob’s Vale isn’t as ingrown as Stonce.”

  Arkandy exhaled. “Whatever the truth, Anvil is here now.” He stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. “Shall I walk you back to camp? Then I must return to my rounds.”

  “If it is all right, I would like to remain here.” She glanced at Suncroft, so beautiful in the night.

  “We’ve a good number of sentries here, but best that you don’t wander, Lady.”

  “I won’t.” She glanced at him. “And Arkandy.”

  “Aye?”

  “Thank you.”

  He blinked. “It is a small thing to let someone stand under atree.”

  Her face gentled. “I meant for your loyalty and friendship to Muller.”

  “Ah, well.” He gave a gruff laugh. “The fellow needs me around, eh? He used to be so accident prone, I had to pick him up half the time.”

  She wondered what Arkandy would think if he knew the truth about Muller’s accidents. “He is a lucky fellow.”

  Arkandy grinned. “Aye, that he is.” With a salute, he sauntered back to his rounds.

  Chime stood watching the castle and the countryside for a while. Scattered fires burned on hills to the west and north, where Varqelle’s men had hunkered down for the night. Nothing stirred in the battlefields around Suncroft, an eerie contrast to the ferocity that had swept across them earlier today.

  The redwings trilled every now and then, but the other birds in the area seemed to have fled, leaving only the chirping of insects. Even they were subdued by the presence of so many warriors. Rustles came from the men on patrol, and a snore here and there.

  Chime walked along the edge of the woods, westward toward Suncroft. She soon reached a point where she would have to leave the shelter of the trees to approach the castle any closer. Even knowing she should go back to sleep and conserve her strength, she stayed, lured by the deceptive tranquility of the golden fortress.

  She made a decision. Before she could think about it and lose her nerve, she ran out from the forest and down the slope. Her feet thudded on ground packed down by hundreds of booted feet earlier in the day. Racing hard, she imagined herself as a nighthawk soaring across the land. The sleeves of her gray tunic billowed with the wind of her passing. She reached the bottom of the hill and sprinted up the slope toward Suncroft, painfully aware that if any Harsdown sentry looked in this direction, he would see her out in the open.

  As she neared the castle, it rose up before her, its walls lit by torches and darkened by shadows. The great entrance was closed, as were the side doors by the gate.

  “Saints almighty,” a voice whispered. “Lady Chime, here!” A hexa-major stepped out from the shadows, an older man with graying hair.

  Chime skidded to a stop next to him, her breath coming in gasps. “Good eve, sir.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her to one of the small doors, into the protection of its recessed doorway. “What the blazes are you doing? It isn’t safe to come here.”

  “Is Prince Muller here?”

  The major scowled mightily. “Inside.” He unlocked the door with a ten-sided ring of keys. The massive portal creaked opened into a chamber, also ten-sided in shape, where people could leave boots and gear. Two sentries inside watched them, eyebrows raised, and a third stepped outside, taking the place of the man who was bringing in Chime.

  “Why didn’t King Jarid call us back here?” she asked.

  “It isn’t safe. Varqelle’s mage has breached the castle.” The hexa-major shook his head. “No one has found him yet, but the king says his spells are everywhere, interfering, damaging.” He led her across the room to a door. “No one has seen him. Perhaps it is his spells.”

  Chime nodded. If someone caught sight of Anvil, he could make an “overlook” spell that would encourage them to forget his presence, overlook him so to speak. The more they saw of him, the less an overlook spell would work, but if it was only a glimpse, it could succeed.

  But no—an overlook spell worked by changing a person’s mood, so they remembered an emotion incompatible with whatever the mage wished them to forget. That required the one color Anvil couldn’t use.

  “He can’t hide that way,” Chime said. “He can’t make green spells.”

  The major grunted. “Well, no one can find him.”

  As the major opened the door, Chime focused on the vine carved into its border, a scalloped
representation of shape-blossoms. Using its rounded depressions, she made an emotion spell and searched for Anvil, whose signature had become all too familiar to her.

  “It is true.” She let her spell fade. “He is here.”

  “You feel it, too?”

  “Like oil on water.”

  “So.” The sentry ushered her into the hall. “Your husband will not be pleased you’ve come, milady.”

  She gave him one of her quelling looks. “And why is that? I live here.”

  The major cleared his throat. “Uh, well, ma’am, he says—” He ground to a stop, his cheeks flushed.

  “Yes?” Chime asked, all sweetness.

  “That, ah…”

  “What does he say, Hexa-Major?”

  He straightened his back as if he were preparing to face a regiment of Harsdown warriors. “He says, most gracious lady, that you get yourself into all sorts of trouble and he intends to put a stop to that behavior.”

  “Does he now?” Chime gave the alarmed major her most honeyed smile. “We will see about that. Lead on, sir.”

  “Ah, yes.” His face red, the major led on.

  Muller frowned, intent on the plans of the castle. It had been almost a century since these schematics had been recopied; the scrolls had become curled and yellowed from age, with tears in the edges of the parchment. He, Jarid, Fieldson, and Brant had spread them out on a large table in Jarid’s Octagon Room, holding them open with statuettes at their corners. Now he and the two advisors stood around the table, leaning over the scrolls, searching for signs of hidden passages or rooms that might shield an unwelcome mage.