THECHARMEDSPHERE
Catherine Asaro
www.Luna-Books.com
To my daughter, Cathy,
Whose luminous heart brightens the world,
With all my love
Contents
Acknowledgments
I Jeweled Mages
1 Chime
2 Muller
3 Anvil the Forged
4 Flight of the Bells
5 The Cowled King
6 The Hidden Cottage
7 Dawnfield Legacy
8 The Broken Ring
9 Iris
10 Pearls of Dawn
II Rebirth
11 Sphere of Rainbows
12 A Luminous Touch
13 The Lost Refuge
14 Shadowed Mage
15 Hall of Kings
16 Night Glimmers
17 Dawn of Rainbows
18 The Power of a Life
19 The Imperfect Mage
20 The Dented Spells
21 Forest of Dreams
22 Trespass
23 The Golden Halo
24 Charmed Hearts
III The Hollow Mage
25 The Sun’s Bower
26 Drummer
27 The Dark Dreaming
28 Decision
29 Dawn Ride
30 Magescape
31 The Covetous Spell
32 Gathering Winds
33 The Tallwalk Plateau
34 Bell Chase
35 The Relentless Waves
36 Vale of the Sun
37 The Chambers
38 Burgeoning Sphere
39 Epilogue
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude to the readers who gave me input on The Charmed Sphere. Their comments greatly helped the book. Any errors that remain are mine alone.
For reading the manuscript and giving me the benefit of their wisdom and insights: Doranna Durgin, Tricia Schwaab and Jeri Smith-Ready. To Aly’s Writing Group, for their thorough and patient critiques of scenes: Aly Parsons, Simcha Kuritzky, Connie Warner, Al Carroll, Michael La Violette and J. G. Huckenpöler. To Mary-Theresa Hussey, my goddess of an editor, and all the fine people at LUNA who made this book possible; to Binnie Braunstein, for all her work and enthusiasm on my behalf; and to Eleanor Wood, my excellent and much appreciated agent.
A heartfelt thanks to the shining lights of my life, my husband, John Kendall Cannizzo, and my daughter, Cathy, whose love and support make it all worthwhile.
I
Jeweled Mages
1
Chime
Chime hid when the king came to town.
Everyone in Jacob’s Vale knew the royal party would arrive today. Fast messengers traveling the country kept citizens apprised of the king’s progress through the realm of Aronsdale. Chime had hoped he might skip a hamlet as small as Jacob’s Vale, but apparently she wouldn’t be so lucky.
A pack of boys raced into town, hair flying, yelling that King Daron was coming. So Chime hid. She ran to her family’s orchard and climbed her favorite apple tree. At her age, almost eighteen, she was supposedly too mature for such pastimes, ready instead to settle down and bring a husband into the household. She had no wish to marry, however, and didn’t care in the least about her supposed lack of interest in climbing trees. She scrambled up the trunk, dressed in tunic, leggings, and knee-boots, all the hue of yellow apples, her favorite color. She didn’t stop until she was deep into the leafy cover of the branches, screened by spring foliage from curious eyes. Royal eyes.
Actually, it wasn’t the king who inspired Chime to flee the town and stash herself in a tree. She feared a far more imposing person—Della No-Cozen, one of Daron’s top advisors. Della served as the Mage Mistress for Castle Suncroft.
“Pah,” Chime muttered. Although the idea of a castle being a croft for the sun appealed to her sense of whimsy, she had no wish to go there. She knew why Mistress No-Cozen was searching the countryside, visiting towns large and small. Oh, yes, she knew. They were looking for shape-mages, the adepts who used circles, cubes, spheres, and other shapes to create spells. Well, they wouldn’t find any here, not if she had any say in the matter.
Although Chime’s parents realized she carried the shape-mage gifts, neither had ever pressured her to reveal her talents. Besides, if she left Jacob’s Vale and went to Suncroft, her family would have one less person to help in the orchards. Chime loved her family and she loved tending the trees, especially when they blossomed and brought forth fresh, succulent apples.
Thinking of fruit, Chime spotted a particularly juicy apple. She plucked it and settled herself more comfortably in the branches. Then she peered through the leaves at the dusty road beyond the trees, and past it to the hills. In the distance, the first riders of the king’s party had appeared over a ridge outside the town. Taking a bite of her apple, she sat back to watch them arrive.
The stately procession crested the ridge like a wave of people. Chime had to admit they made an impressive sight. Warriors rode great horses with golden bridles. Their pennants snapped in the breeze, dyed the king’s colors, indigo and gold on a white background, showing a castle silhouetted on the disk of the sun. An honor guard rode with them, officers in blue uniforms. As they drew nearer, riding at the edge of the trees and even under some of them, Chime saw the gold insignia of military officers.
Then King Daron appeared. At first Chime mistook him for a royal advisor. He made a spectacular sight, to be sure, tall on his great black charger, his gray hair swept up from his brow. And his chiseled features certainly had a kingly aspect. But he seemed so old. She had seen his image on the hexagonal coins people used to buy the apples, quinces, and pears her family grew. It made her expect a much younger man, one hale and hearty, full of vigor. This man’s advanced age suggested his era of rule might end sooner than she, and most people, expected.
The thought perturbed Chime. King Daron had been a constant all her life, a good sovereign her parents said, steady and certain. He had no son to assume his crown; the prince had died years ago, lost in an orb-carriage accident with his wife and their young child, a boy named Jarid. Rumor claimed their loss had destroyed the king. He had been widowed himself years before, and he had never remarried. Instead he had chosen his nephew, the son of his brother, as his heir.
Chime took another bite of her apple, studying the king’s retinue. Several nobles rode with him, the men in gold trousers and white shirts under brocaded vests; the women in pale tunics and leggings tucked into riding boots.
As the procession drew near, a woman looked up at the tree. Her full cheeks had a ruddy color and gray curls framed her lined face. Chime could see her eyes, gray perhaps, though she was too far away to be sure. What struck Chime most was their intelligence. The woman stared straight at her hiding place as if she saw the truant girl.
Chime held still, praying to escape notice. It seemed to work. The woman rode on with the king’s party, passing below the tree with no more indication she knew someone was watching them. Chime hoped that were true, because she had no doubt who she had just seen—Della No-Cozen, Shape-Mage Mistress of Suncroft.
Chime climbed in a window at the back of her house, sneaking into her mother’s workroom. It was here that Bell recorded the sale of fruit from their orchards, writing the numbers on parchments in beautiful inks with designs of vines around the edges. Bell had gone to the village earlier, so this entrance was safer for Chime than going in the front door, where someone might catch sight of her and prod her to go greet the king’s party.
She was clambering over the sill onto a rickety wooden chair when a young voice said, “Hey!”
Chime jerked around and lost her balance. As she flailed her arms,
she jumped off the chair and landed with a thump on the plank wood floor. Stumbling, she grabbed the wall shelves to keep from falling. Knickknacks rained over her, wooden harvest dolls that clattered all over the floor. She managed to avoid the ignoble fate of sprawling on the floor herself, but she winced at her undignified entrance.
Drummer, the younger of her two brothers, stood in the doorway smirking, his gold curls tousled over his ears and collar, his blue eyes full of delight at embarrassing her. Chime knew people thought she and Drummer resembled each other, both in appearance and behavior, but at this moment she had no doubt about the truth: imps had taken her true brother at birth and put this vexing creature in his place, leaving him to bedevil his poor sister.
Chime drew herself upright and brushed out her tunic. “Well, so why aren’t you doing your chores?”
He stopped grinning long enough to glare. “Why aren’t you doing yours?”
She spoke with dignity. “I was busy.”
Drummer crossed his arms, for all the world resembling a nine-year-old version of their father, though Drummer had far less brawn. “Busy climbing trees?”
“Hah.” She thought hard and fast for an excuse, or at least hard, anyway. Fast thinking had never been her forte. At a loss for good response, she fell back on sisterly disdain. “Little do you know.”
Curiosity flashed in his gaze. “Know what?”
She brushed a leaf off her sleeve. “Oh, nothing.”
“Chime!”
She had to relent, seeing his eyes bright with excitement. “The king’s party has arrived.”
“Hai!” With no more ado, he spun around and took off. After two steps, though, he skidded to a stop and swung back to her. “Well, come on!”
Chime smiled at his enthusiasm. He had always been that way, full of energy. “You go and see, Drummer. I really do have chores to finish.”
“Mother and Father won’t mind.” His eyes were as round as the moon. “This is special.”
“I’ll come soon.”
“See you there!” He whirled and dashed off. A crash came from somewhere, a chair falling over it sounded like, following by a breathless apology from Drummer, either to a person or the chair. The front door opened and slammed, and then it was quiet again.
Chime exhaled, relieved he hadn’t pressed her to go with him. The news had excited him enough that he ignored her uncharacteristic desire to do her chores. Although she enjoyed working in the orchard, she loathed her duties around the house. Far better to be out in the sun, eating apples.
Pah. If necessary, she would hide in the cellar until the king left town and took Della No-Cozen with him. She went through the house, checking for her parents and her other brother, but she found no one. No doubt everyone had gone to the square to celebrate the king’s arrival.
Chime found the chair Drummer had knocked over in the front parlor. She set it back on its feet. Her father’s brother, a carpenter, had made it for them. His attention to detail and the beautiful carvings he created put his work in high demand throughout southern Aronsdale. With the income from the orchard, Chime’s family was better off than most, so they could afford more of the pieces.
Her uncle would have given them his work for free, but Chime’s father refused to let him, paying him with twelve-sided copper coins. For the best pieces he even paid a round copper coin worth twelve of the twelve-siders. Chime loved the shiny coins, which were made at Castle Suncroft. The perfect shapes gave her a sense of completion.
She soon reached the big kitchen in the part of the house built by her great-grandfather. An iron kettle hung over the embers of a fire in the hearth across the room, and the aroma of simmering broth drifted in the air. The dented metal door of the storeroom was closed, keeping in the cold air from the blocks of ice. Chime’s father and her older brother had gone out hunting a few days ago, and brought back quail, hares, and a deer.
A rough wooden table that had been in the family for generations stood in the center of the room. Her slate lay there with a stick of white chalk. Chime winced. She was supposed to do sums today. She went over and peered at the slate on the off chance she might find the homework done. It wasn’t, of course; her mother’s neat writing covered the left half, but the right side where Chime was supposed to answer remained blank. Biting her lip, she picked up a cloth and dropped it over the slate, hiding the sums. She would do them later. Tonight. Really. She would.
Turning, she glimpsed a picture on the mantel of the hearth, a portrait her mother had painted last year. It showed Chime with hair as tousled as Drummer’s, more actually, given that she had so much of it. Yellow curls tumbled over her shoulders and arms, and her cheeks were as red as apples. She had thought Drummer’s eyes were wide and startled, but in the picture hers looked even more so, as if she had been caught misbehaving.
Chime tried to smooth her hair, which was as unruly today as on the morning her mother had done that portrait. Even as a young child, she had never liked being messy. It hadn’t bothered her enough to stop her from climbing trees or chasing her brothers, but more and more often now, she wished she could spend time on her appearance, that she could have coiffed hair and beautiful clothes. She never would; although her family had a comfortable living, the garments she fantasized were too dear in price.
She sighed, disheartened by her impractical dreams. Fancy clothes would be wasted in an orchard. Besides, if she ever did have a life that included beautiful things, it would mean she had to fit that life, which would mean fitting in with the nobility. And never, ever could she adapt to their rarified existence.
Truth be told, she would rather be an orchard keeper. She loved it. Nor would anyone expect more than she had to give. No one would want her to do more with her life than she could achieve. She had a nightmare of finding herself in the middle of the royal court, unwashed and disheveled, surrounded by the sparkling elite of the land, all in gold-cloth and jewels, all staring at her with derision.
“Stop it,” Chime muttered to herself. It made no difference that the king and his nobles had arrived in town. They would soon be off to another place, looking elsewhere for mages. Yes, soon they would be gone.
Soon she would be safe.
2
Muller
Muller Startower Heptacorn Dawnfield, Prince of Aronsdale, scowled at his valet. “Can’t you fix the rip?”
His valet, Sam Threadman, wasn’t the least fazed. Sam made no secret of the satisfaction he took in dressing the prince. Nor did he take Muller’s grumbling seriously, though Muller constantly bade him to do so. In fact, Sam seemed to enjoy his company. Muller considered him a friend, though he never spoke of it aloud.
At the moment, Muller stood before a gilt-edged mirror in the bedroom of his suite at Castle Suncroft, surveying his appearance with a critical eye. The cream-colored trousers fit his legs without a single crease and tucked neatly into his finely tooled boots. His cream-hued tunic had gold stitching and tailored seams that accented his lean form. Unfortunately, a small rip marred one sleeve at his wrist.
“Your Most Estimable Highness,” Sam told him. “I will see to the problem at once.” With a flourish, he pulled off his sewing kit, which hung from his belt along with various other accouterments designed to make Prince Muller the most elegant man in Aronsdale. Sam prepared a needle with thread of exactly the right color and proceeded to repair the rip. He attacked the crisis with such expertise that when he finished, no sign of the tear remained even on close inspection.
“There.” He beamed at his prince. “That should do.”
“Thank you.” Muller straightened his tunic, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, checking all aspects of his appearance, just as he did each morning before venturing out of his suite. It pleased him that Sam had done such a fine job making him presentable.
Unfortunately, the garments never helped. He enjoyed clothes, but no matter how carefully he dressed, nothing added authority to his demeanor. He had the leggy aspect of a gaz
elle rather than the muscular brawn he wanted. The straight gold hair that swept to his shoulders glistened in the light. And his face. What a disaster. His eyes were too large, his lashes too long, his features too beautiful. Who took seriously a man with pretty eyelashes? He was never going to strike fear into his enemies looking like this. Not that he had any wish to fight a war, but he was far more proficient with a sword than anyone believed.
Muller glowered at his reflection. “I am too thin.”
Sam drew up to his full height, which although average for a man of the realm, left him looking up at Muller. “Sir, you are known far and wide for your incomparable elegance.”
Muller cocked an eyebrow at him. “What a legacy that will be. ‘He was the best dressed king we ever had.’”
“You will be remembered for leadership and wisdom,” Sam assured him. Then he grinned. “But also for your style, eh?”
“Ah, well, I suppose one could do worse.” Muller thought of the King’s Advisors, the three elders who served as counsels to his uncle, King Daron. He seriously doubted they expected anyone to remember him for leadership. They seemed more worried that he would bolt before they could put a crown on him.
At times, Muller wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t do exactly that. He had never wanted the crown; he had expected it would go to his cousin Aron, the only child of King Daron. But Aron had died thirteen years ago, killed with his wife and their son Jarid when their carriage went over a cliff. It had left the grief-stricken Muller with the onerous and unwanted responsibility of becoming heir to the realm.
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