The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  He couldn’t bear her pity. Looking down the hill, he saw an ethereally beautiful woman in a meadow below. She was walking toward their hill, her white dress drifting on the wind. “My betrothed,” he murmured.

  “Does Chime know?”

  “Yes. She helps me. Soothes me.” He rubbed the heel of his hand over his eye, hoping she hadn’t seen the glimmer of tears there. “But we cannot deny the truth. She and I are flawed.”

  “Muller, nay.”

  He turned to her. “You think she doesn’t realize she has far too much trouble understanding spells? She and I will never win acclaim for our gifts of the mind. But we complement each other.”

  “Acclaim means little.” Her voice softened. “A love that makes each of you feel whole is priceless.”

  “A pretty thought.” He tried to hide his pain. “But idealistic.”

  “Sometimes idealism is all we have.” Iris watched Chime climbing the hill. “Jarid and I know so little about our duties. All of us are flawed, Muller, but together, perhaps we can do what would be impossible for one of us alone.” She turned to him. “Help us. Let me tell Jarid you will stay. He and I, we need you and Chime.”

  Muller knew he could never give her what she wanted. He couldn’t measure up to the roles heredity and destiny had laid out for him. But neither could he give up, especially when she asked in such plain, earnest words.

  “I will talk to Chime.” He couldn’t say more, lest he give her hopes where he had none.

  “Thank you.” Sadness showed on her face. But no, her expression hadn’t changed; his spell with the rock had done more than he realized, sensitizing him to her moods. She was thinking of Jarid. After they had spoken with Unbent this morning, the king had withdrawn to his tower room, perhaps forever going back to the heartbreaking seclusion he had dared break for one day.

  For the sake of Aronsdale, Muller knew he should hope Jarid remained isolated, leaving Iris to rule. But he couldn’t help himself; he wished Jarid would return to them. He wanted his cousin back, his kin, his only remaining family. Neither Iris nor Jarid deserved the loneliness the future otherwise held for them.

  But he feared for Aronsdale.

  Iris felt Muller’s grief. His golden hair blew about his beautiful face like the wings of an angel. She wished their conversation didn’t hurt him.

  “Look.” She pointed down the hill, offering a distraction. Beyond Chime, a man was walking to Suncroft. “It is Wareman.”

  Muller watched the distant figure. “He unsettles me.”

  It didn’t surprise her. “Why?”

  “Something about him seems wrong.”

  She watched Wareman approach Chime. “I can’t read him with green spells.”

  “You have only begun to learn your shape-gifts.”

  “It could be that.” She spoke slowly, remembering her childhood. “But I have always had a knack for sensing people’s moods, even before I knew any magecraft. With Wareman, I get nothing.”

  “I do.” Muller grimaced. “When he is near, I can’t breathe enough air.”

  Iris tensed as the peddler caught up with Chime. He must have called to her, because she turned around. Her posture relaxed when she saw him. They began to converse, their body language formal but not tense. “Chime seems to like him.”

  “She likes the beautiful things he sells.” He sighed. “And Chime sees only light, never darkness.”

  Iris heard the affection in his words. For all that Chime scolded him and he glowered at her, they had a love few people found together. “You think this man brings darkness into Aronsdale?”

  Muller hesitated. “He has a lack. He is missing a part of, well—I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “Aye.” Iris did know, but she held back, fearing to sound foolish—for to her, the peddler seemed to lack a part of his soul.

  Jarid sat on the floor of the tower room with his back against the wall, as he had always done at home, in Stone’s cottage. He pulled his knees to his chest and laid his forehead on them. Now everyone knew: he was an atrocity. He would return with Stone to the mountains and his isolation. As much as Jarid knew he had to go, he hated to leave Iris. But he would destroy her if he let her stay with him.

  A knock came on the door.

  Although he ignored it, silence no longer protected him. Nor could he shut out the compassion that flowed to him from outside. He shouldn’t be able to sense Iris with a heavy door between them, but he did. She was becoming a part of him, one so close to his heart that he feared he would break into a thousand pieces when he left her.

  The door opened. Jarid rose to his feet, his back to the wall as if he were facing an attacking army rather than his bride. Iris stood in the archway, guards looming behind her, their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to defend their queen against their king. His view of the scene distorted at the edges of his vision; he hadn’t yet fully relearned how to see.

  Iris turned to the guards. “You may close the door.”

  “Your Majesty,” one began. “You shouldn’t risk—”

  She lifted her chin. “I shall see my husband in private.”

  When the man hesitated, Jarid spoke in his gravelly voice. “You heard her.”

  The guard opened his mouth, then shut it again. With obvious reluctance, he closed the door, leaving Iris alone with Jarid. He knew he should insist she leave, but the words deserted him. He wanted her so very, very much. He put up his hands, palms out, to push her away.

  “You donna fool me,” she murmured.

  “You must go,” he said.

  “Nay, my husband.” Iris crossed the room, her hair swinging around her body. She stopped in front of him.

  “You cannot love me,” he said.

  “You can say I will never be yours, but you canna tell me what I will feel.” She spoke with tenderness. “Give us time to learn each other, Jarid. With you, I feel a closeness I’ve never known before. It is as if we have a place in the world. A home. Perhaps neither of us knows how to love the other, but the seed is there. Let us give it a chance to grow.”

  She besieged his defenses. His conflicted emotions bewildered him: he wanted her in his arms; he wanted to thrust her away; he longed to hope; he didn’t deserve what she offered. He drank in the sight of her hair, so full and curly, gleaming red, gold, and yellow. Her face glowed, her cheeks pink as if she had been running. He remembered their wedding night and his pulse quickened.

  He spoke in a rasp. “I cannot promise you a life of the laughter and love you deserve.”

  “I couldna bear it if you left.” She reached out to him with one hand, her arm outstretched.

  It was too much. Jarid pulled her into his arms and laid his cheek on the crown of her head. “Iris—” His voice caught.

  “Is it truly so horrible, to be with the likes of me?”

  “It is a miracle. But you destroy my defenses.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder. “It is a good thing, to heal.”

  “It’s killing me.”

  “Nay, Jarid. Living hurts, but that is’n death.”

  “I must never forget what I am.”

  “You are Jarid Dawnfield, King of Aronsdale.”

  “I am a monstrosity.”

  “Nay!” She drew back to look at him, her eyes flashing. “You are a marvel.”

  Jarid shook his head. “Muller is right. He is more worthy to be king.”

  “He didna say that.”

  “He doesn’t want me to wear the crown.”

  “He wants it even less himself.”

  “He doesn’t mean that.”

  “He means it.” She set her palms against his chest. “Muller is also a mage, but his spells go awry. You fear you will kill because you have so much power within you. He fears he will kill because his spells twist out of shape.”

  He stared at her. “Muller is a mage?”

  “Aye. He says I may tell only you.”

  Jarid leaned his forehead against hers. “He ca
n learn to control his spells.”

  “He thinks not.”

  “I cannot accept the crown.”

  “You already have it.”

  “I will abdicate.”

  “Nay.” Her melodious voice flowed over him. “What meaning would light have without darkness? Good is’n the absence of evil, it is our ability to rise above the shadows within. If you had no such goodness, you would have never punished yourself all these years.” She touched his cheek. “That you have both light and shadows donna make you evil, it makes you human.”

  “I must go.” He feared to accept this hope she offered. “You must stay.”

  Her voice caught. “I would miss you forever if you left me.”

  Jarid pulled her close again so he wouldn’t have to look into her face. He couldn’t speak his heart: If I stay with you, I fear I will fall in love. It hurt too much, for to love meant to risk the anguish of loss.

  “We all leave this life someday,” she murmured. “We canna let that stop us from giving our hearts. If we do, our lives have no meaning.”

  He knew leaving would protect Iris, but when he tried to imagine a life without her, isolated in his mountain refuge, it was unbearable. Great ice floes were breaking within him, as his defenses cracked and split.

  “Let them crack,” Iris murmured.

  “I don’t know how to love you.” The words wrenched him.

  She spoke softly. “Let us learn together.”

  It was a long moment before he spoke. Then he said “I will try. I will stay, my wife.”

  20

  The Dented Spells

  Chime sat alone, in a hexagonal alcove on a cushioned bench, surrounded by gilded walls and fine paintings. None of the beauty offered comfort. It rent her heart to think of Jarid as a boy, frantic to protect himself, unaware of his immense power. She had felt Unbent’s unconditional love for him and Jarid’s for his foster father. That they had found so great a gift in the midst of such tragedy made her tears fall.

  She leaned her head against the wall, remembering how Wareman had spoken this afternoon, so solicitous, offering comfort. She couldn’t tell the peddler why she grieved, but his kindness had eased her sadness. It made her wonder if he were a mage. She had warmed to him these past ten days, since they met.

  A crinkling noise drew her attention. Raising her head, she saw Della in the entrance of the alcove. Dark circles showed under the mage mistress’s eyes. “King Jarid wishes to see you.”

  Chime sat up straight. “Good graces, why?”

  “I don’t know.” Della sounded exhausted.

  “I thought he would speak with no one.”

  “Iris went to him. I don’t know what she said.” She let out a long breath. “Saints only know what he will do now. But he has asked to talk with you. It is a start.”

  Chime had her doubts about that, given her clumsy way with words. She thought of the Saint of Silence, a wind spirit that flowed across the land, sweeping away harsh words on currents of air. If only she had such a spirit to help her now. She would never forget the way Jarid’s power had coursed through Unbent’s cell, glorious and terrifying.

  She spoke quietly. “He is an indigo mage.”

  Della didn’t need to ask who she meant. But she said, “I don’t think so.”

  “You must have felt his power.” Chime raised her arms high. “It filled the room.”

  Della didn’t answer directly. Instead she said, “In a rainbow, indigo comes between two colors.”

  Chime lowered her arms. “Blue and violet.”

  “Yes.” Della continued in an odd voice, more subdued than usual. “We name mage powers according to the rainbow.”

  “You think he is blue?” Surely the mage mistress could see he had greater power.

  Della’s gaze remained steady. “No.”

  Suddenly Chime understood. “A violet mage? Nay! It is impossible.”

  “So we thought.” Della gave her a wintry smile. “But impossible or not, it seems to be true.”

  “He is in such pain.”

  Della nodded. “We call our gifts light, but every power has its dark aspect. The mage who soothes can also upset. One who heals can also injure.”

  Chime couldn’t bear such a thought. “No mage would willingly commit such evils.”

  “Mages rarely abuse their gifts. The price is too high.” Della folded her arms as if she were cold. “In killing Murk, Jarid crippled himself, physically and emotionally. But he knows so little about his gifts. We’ve no idea how he will respond to us.”

  Chime thought of his wedding yesterday. “Last night he left the castle unable to see, hear, or speak. He came back this morning changed. I don’t understand it.”

  “Perhaps you know better than you realize.”

  “I do?”

  Della smiled. “Muller works his wonders with you, eh? Makes you see the world in a new way, hear new music, speak new joys.”

  Her lips curved upward. “He does, it is true.”

  “So Iris reaches Jarid.”

  Chime’s mood softened. “By loving him, you mean.”

  “Well, by trying.” Della squinted at her. “With Jarid, I expect it is not easy.”

  Chime could imagine. “Do you think Iris is indigo?”

  “No…but I’m not sure. I had thought sapphire, but that isn’t right.” Della shook her head. “She uses her powers in ways I haven’t yet untangled.”

  Chime tried to be happy for Iris. But it disheartened her. She had worked so hard, struggled to learn, to succeed. She might be less articulate than other people, slower, less adept, but incredibly, she had been the best mage. Now she had lost that. She had Muller and she rejoiced in his love. The rest of it shouldn’t matter, but it did. For the first time in her life she had achieved something special and now it was gone.

  Della was watching her. “Don’t lose heart, Chime.”

  She straightened up. “Shall we attend the king?”

  Chime unfolded her legs and stood up next to the bench. “I’m ready, ma’am.” It wasn’t true. But the time had come for her to face Aronsdale’s enigmatic sovereign.

  In the hierarchies of Aronsdale, mages ranked above all others except the royal family, the King’s Advisors, and the Mistresses or Masters of the guilds: Blacksmith, Farmer, Husbandry, Crafter, Carpenter, Servers, and Merchant. Aronsdale had only five full mages who were openly acknowledged: Della, the Shape-Mage Mistress; Skylark, the healer for Suncroft, Croft’s Vale, and as many villages as she could reach; Iris, the Mage Queen; Jarid, who was an unknown; and Chime, who had yet to establish a definite place but who ranked even higher than Della by virtue of her emerald, faceted-sphere gifts.

  Chime told herself she had every reason to hold her head up within the royal court. But her emotions refused to acknowledge what her intellect knew. She felt as unprepared to face the king today as she had her first day at Suncroft, perhaps even more so, given the differences between Jarid and Daron.

  She entered the octagonal tower room with Della. The chamber reminded her of a treasure box capped by the domed ceiling, all tiled in blue and gold star mosaics. Iris and Jarid were standing across the room, close together. Chime could tell they had been embracing. They also looked as if they had been crying, their eyes swollen and red.

  Power swirled in the chamber. The mosaics, the orb-lamp on the round table by Jarid, the half sphere formed by the ceiling—it focused their gifts, all of them, four of Aronsdale’s mages. When Della closed the door, completing the octagonal box, the power surged, dizzying Chime. It was too much.

  Then serenity flowed over her. She took an uneven breath, regaining her mental balance. That sense of calm came from a mage. She didn’t think Della could make such a powerful spell, and it didn’t have Jarid’s untamed quality. She looked at Iris and the queen met her gaze, her face gentle.

  Della bowed to Iris and Jarid. It startled Chime. She had yet to absorb the reality; Iris was no longer her fellow student, the girl who had moved
to Della’s cottage because it felt more like a home than the castle.

  She was the queen.

  Nor was Jarid a stranger isolated in his own private hell any longer. Yet even now that he could see, hear, and speak, he seemed locked within himself. Chime wondered if he would ever fully heal.

  Steadying herself, Chime joined Della and bowed to the king and queen, more deeply than the mage mistress, taking longer, as a commoner would bow to royalty. “My honor at your presence.”

  “Please,” Iris whispered. “Donna do that, Chime.” She sounded dazed.

  Straightening, Chime found herself looking at Jarid. This close, she reeled from impact of his eyes, so large and clear, a dramatic violet. Although the color wasn’t unheard of in the east, where his mother had come from, Chime had never seen such before. She would have thought them unbearably beautiful if they hadn’t been so haunted.

  Iris spoke to him. “You willa be all right?”

  The king nodded, his face strained. He touched her cheek, and she curled her hand around his fingers. Then Iris and Della withdrew from the chamber, leaving Chime alone with him.

  Jarid leaned over the table, bracing his palms on its surface. With dismay, Chime saw his arms shaking.

  “Your Majesty?” she asked. “Are you well?”

  It was a moment before he said, “Well enough.” His voice came like sand scraping on glass.

  She wound the tasseled end of her belt around her hand, uncertain what to say.

  Jarid closed his eyes, his head bent. After a moment he opened them again. Finally he straightened up and indicated the chairs at the table. “Sit, please.”

  Chime sat. Folding her hands on the table, she strove for calm. Serenity. Maybe Iris could manage it, but she found it impossible. She wasn’t sure where her gifts ended and Jarid’s began; his power swamped everything else. Mage potential filled the room.

  He sat across from her, his long legs stretched under the table. Then he leaned back as if to protect himself, his arms folded. His silence unnerved her. In all the protocol she had studied with Pyramid-Secretary Quill, they had never covered a situation like this one. She wanted to wind her hair around her fingers or pull at her belt, but she made herself sit still.