The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  No one scorned her outburst, though. In fact, Della said, “With enough power, a mage might do such.”

  Fieldson had stayed back, saying little and hearing much, but now he came forward. “Do you fear a threat from Harsdown, Your Majesty?”

  Jarid regarded him steadily. “Yes.”

  “Why now?” Muller asked.

  Jarid spoke roughly. “A government changes hands. A country is vulnerable.”

  “Do you believe Harsdown poses an immediate threat,” Fieldson asked. “Or a long-term one?”

  “Immediate, I think,” Jarid said. “The Other, this dark mage—he knows we have discovered him.”

  “We have no idea who he is,” Iris said.

  Chime recalled her sense of familiarity with the mage in the Clover Inn. She had assumed she recognized him because she had touched him before, through Jarid. But could it be more? Sometimes mood spells helped her recall a mood she had detected before. She tried to made a new spell using the room, but too many irregularities marred its form: windows, moldings along the ceiling, paintings on the walls. They were like a buzz that disrupted her concentration.

  Jarid’s power suffused the room, but remained latent. Muller had the opposite problem; he was struggling to hold back his power, which could easily surge in this imperfect hexagon. Chime no longer wondered that other mages couldn’t feel his gifts; they were somehow at an angle to a normal mage. One had to be able to look around the corner to recognize him. She had from the start, but no one else seemed to see Muller as she did.

  It suddenly came to Chime. “Plates!”

  Everyone blinked at her with what she called The Look, which people took on when they thought she was making foolish comments.

  “Lady Chime?” That came from Fieldson.

  Her cheeks were burning, but she couldn’t stop this time even if she did fear to make an idiot out of herself. This was too important. “The peddler. Wareman. We purchased some of his serving dishes.”

  “Wareman?” Della shrugged. “He is harmless.”

  “I am not so sure,” Iris said. “He troubles me.”

  “Why?” Fieldson asked. He was taking her comments as seriously as he would input from any of the others.

  Muller grimaced. “He has dark patches in his mage ability. No green.”

  “How would you know such a thing?” Brant asked.

  Muller froze. Startled, Chime realized that with so many mages at Suncroft and so much tension driving them, he was having trouble guarding his secret. Too many people knew: Chime, Iris, Jarid.

  The king answered. “Yes. Dark patches. Holes.”

  “I felt it, too,” Iris said. “A lack of color.”

  Brant refused to be sidetracked. He considered Muller. “No green. How would you know this?”

  “I told him,” Chime said, speaking too fast.

  Brant glanced at her. “I thought you liked Wareman.”

  “He has been gracious to me. But it is true, I cannot make green spells with him.”

  “Wareman is from Aronsdale,” Iris said. “I donna believe he could have pretended his accent, gestures, and body language so well if he came from Harsdown.”

  Muller spoke tightly. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t betray Aronsdale.”

  “But why would he?” Chime could see no reason anyone would choose bleak Harsdown over lovely Aronsdale. Not that she had ever seen Harsdown.

  Muller’s face gentled. “Would that we all had your innocence.”

  She glowered at him. “I am not naïve.”

  “You are light,” he murmured. Then realizing they had an audience, he cleared his throat. “So,” he said to everyone. Then he seemed to run out of words.

  Brant cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, Your Highness?”

  Unlike in the past, today Muller didn’t bristle at him. He said only, “If we face an immediate threat from Harsdown, we must prepare the army.”

  “Against what?” Fieldson asked. “We need more to plan for than an undefined threat.”

  “An invasion, perhaps.” Jarid pushed his hand through his hair. “I cannot lead an army.”

  “Jarid, nay,” Chime said. He stood there, muscled and fit, broad-shouldered, in every way the image of a warrior. “Do not say such a thing.”

  “It is true,” Jarid said. “I can fight, but I know nothing of war strategies.” He turned to Muller, his gaze steady. “You must lead in my place.”

  Muller started. “Your Majesty, I’m hardly—”

  “You are my family,” Jarid said roughly. “Call me by my name.”

  Chime wondered if Jarid knew how many protocols he had just broken. Muller was a member of the royal court; as such he was expected to use proper address with the king regardless of their kinship. Muller seemed stunned, but also…relieved. Perhaps Jarid had another reason for ignoring protocol, knowing how Muller wrestled with his change in status. For all that Jarid had spent years without his sight, Chime suspected he saw in other ways, into the heart.

  Muller spoke stiffly. “I am gratified by your faith in my ability, Your—Jarid.”

  “Faith indeed.” Brant looked as if he had bitten into a sour apple.

  “Your Majesty,” Fieldson began.

  “I have made my choice. Lord Muller will lead my army.” Jarid looked around at them all. “Do not underestimate my cousin.”

  In that moment, Chime decided she liked the king.

  Jarid went to the window and beckoned to Muller. He joined the king, his posture so tense, Chime wondered if he intended to refuse the command. But he stood with Jarid, gazing at Suncroft and beyond its walls to the hills of Aronsdale. Seeing them together, both the same height, one gold, the other dark, she felt a tightening in her chest.

  They each fought their inner demons.

  21

  Forest of Dreams

  Sweat dripped off Muller’s face as he focused on his opponent, Arkandy Ravensford, a hexahedron-major and superb swordsman. The day’s heat pressed down on them. Sunlight glinted off their swords, and those of the other warriors practicing in the Octagon Yard. In battle, Muller would wear leather armor and chain mail, but he eschewed it now, striving to harden himself. Although he and Arkandy wielded blunted swords, Muller’s muscles ached from when Arkandy had pierced his defenses and whacked him in the torso.

  Finally Arkandy stepped back and raised his sword, the signal to request a rest. Muller paused, acknowledging the break with relief.

  Arkandy lowered his sword. “You fought well today.”

  Muller grinned at his friend. “You gave me a run.”

  Arkandy laughed. “Have to keep you working.” He picked up a cloth in his pile of equipment and wiped sweat off his face. “Will you train with the men later?”

  “After midday.” Muller hadn’t yet adjusted to the decree Jarid had made yesterday, naming him commander of the army. He felt no more qualified for the position than when he had expected to lead them as king, but he had never doubted his ability as a swordsman. During practice, he could forget his lack of confidence.

  As he and Arkandy walked across the yard, Muller brooded. Watching the archers train this morning, he had been troubled by their poor aim. Could his mage power have contributed? He didn’t want his presence to constrain the fighting ability of his men. A pulled bow formed a four-sided figure with uneven sides. A flawed shape. But it was too imperfect to stir his mage power, or so he had believed. Although he didn’t think he had made spells that affected their aim, he could never be certain.

  “You are quiet today,” Arkandy said. He was a burly man about Muller’s age, a country gentleman from a farm south of Suncroft. His wide face, brown eyes, and shock of golden-brown curls gave him a stoic appearance.

  “What troubles you?” Muller asked.

  Arkandy looked startled. “My apology. I’ve been thinking about Harsdown. But I didn’t mean to sound querulous.”

  “You didn’t.” Belatedly Muller wondered how he had known Arkandy was worried. He hadn’t cons
ciously made a mood spell, but now that he thought about it, he felt his power simmering. He saw no shapes nearby that he might have inadvertently used to focus, however. Although he needed imperfect shapes, they had to be recognizable as geometric forms. The blade of his sword deviated enough from a triangle to cause only a trickle of power. It rarely threw off his ability to fight and it wasn’t enough for a mood spell.

  Muller glanced at the Mage Tower of the castle—and saw a tall figure in the window of the top chamber. A chill ran up his spine. Although the man was too far away to see clearly, he knew it was Jarid. An insight came to Muller, so unexpected that he stopped in the middle of a step, his foot raised.

  Arkandy halted next to him. “Mull?” The nickname came from when they had been boys together, both sent to foster at the castle. With a grin, he added, “Are you doing a jig?”

  “Pah.” Muller set down his foot. “I could out dance you any day.”

  With an amiable laugh, Arkandy headed for the castle again. Muller went with him, unable to voice his confusion even to his closest friend. Although Muller felt certain he had made the spell that revealed Arkandy’s concern, he also was convinced Jarid had helped shape it. He doubted his cousin had done it on purpose; Muller had picked up no sense of deliberate interference from Jarid. No, what he felt was far more surprising.

  His spell hadn’t twisted.

  Muller hesitated to trust that impression. If Jarid had instinctively straightened the spell, it suggested Muller could learn to do the same. He feared to entertain that hope; it would make the disappointment that much harder if he failed. But he remembered Iris’s words: All of us are flawed, Muller, but together, perhaps we can do what would be impossible for one alone.

  “Are you all right?” Arkandy asked.

  “Fine, yes. Just tired.” Muller wondered, not for the first time, if Arkandy suspected his gifts. He glanced at his friend. “Tell me something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do I seem as accident prone now as I used to be?”

  “I wouldn’t say accident prone, exactly. You have bad luck.”

  “You could call it that,” Muller grumbled.

  “But yes, it does seem better, now that you mention it.” Arkandy grinned at Muller. “Chime has a good effect, eh?”

  “She does indeed.” Chime didn’t straighten his spells, but she did smooth his jagged edges. He had managed better since he met her.

  They split up at the castle and Muller went on to his suite. His body ached, but even so, he felt better than he had in a long time. Perhaps he might conquer his mage gifts after all. He wanted to resist that hope, but it insisted on staying.

  As Muller approached his suite, its gilt doors swung open. Sam Threadman, his valet, stood framed in the entrance, scowling mightily.

  “How did you know I was coming?” Muller asked.

  With dignity, the offended valet moved aside to let him enter. “I looked out.” He indicated the round window by the door, which showed a stained-glass lark in a field of open royal-buds, those flowers that bloomed only a few days each year. Sam crossed his arms and regarded him with disapproval. “You are late.”

  “So I am,” Muller said amiably. “Why were you looking for me?”

  Sam shut the door. “The cube-general sent his pyramid-assistant to talk to your pyramid-assistant. Apparently you didn’t tell your assistant you were training. So he sent his octagon-assistant to find someone who knew where you had gone.” He glowered with great effect. “The octagon-assistant found your square-butler who found me.”

  Muller squinted at him. “That is a truly impressive chain of people.”

  His valet refused to be mollified. “I would ask that Your Most Esteemed Highness let us know where to find you so that we don’t go running around the castle like callow young men in search of a purpose.”

  Muller held back his laugh. “No one would ever mistake you as such,” he assured Sam. “Everyone knows you are the reason that the callow young man you serve manages to make his appointments on time when he does.”

  Sam finally relented. “Milord, you should not refer to yourself as callow. You have acquitted yourself admirably during these trying times.”

  That surprised Muller. “I’m glad someone thinks so.”

  “Certainly.” Sam looked him over. “Though I must say, your apparel could use some help.”

  This time Muller did laugh, aware of his sweat-soaked shirt and leggings. “So it could.”

  While Sam set up a bath, Muller went into the hexagonal room he used as an office and stood at the rolltop desk, studying the scrolls he had taken from the library last night. They described strategies and weapons used in various battles in other countries. Aronsdale hadn’t had a true war for so long, most of their military scrolls were outdated.

  When Sam bade him return to his bedroom later, Muller discovered with gratitude that his valet had arranged for a tub of steaming water. Although the pumps at Suncroft made it possible to bring in water from an underground river, it wasn’t easy to heat enough water for an entire bath.

  An ivory screen surrounded the tub, a new one painted with colorful birds in exotic trees. Probably a member of Muller’s staff had bought it in Croft’s Vale from a merchant who came to Aronsdale from the south. Muller wished they could build a similar trade with Harsdown and countries to its west, but he doubted King Varqelle would ever let Aronsdale merchants travel freely through his country.

  While Muller soaked in his bath, Sam stood on the other side of the screen and caught him up on the latest news. “Apparently the generals want to send me into Harsdown. They wish to discuss strategy with you.”

  “They always want to invade Harsdown,” Muller said. “They never do. They know we probably can’t win. Why the urgency today?”

  “I can’t say, sir. Their assistants didn’t see fit to tell me.” Now Sam sounded annoyed.

  Muller smiled, glad his valet couldn’t see him. Sam had never seemed to comprehend that a valet’s duties didn’t extend to the governance of Aronsdale. Personally Muller thought Sam had more sense than half the royal court.

  “Tell me,” Muller said. “What would you do about Harsdown if you thought they posed a threat?”

  “What kind of threat?”

  “Well, yes, that is the question, isn’t it?” Perhaps that was why Fieldson wanted to see him. “Maybe they have new information.” With reluctance, Muller stood up. “I should go find out what they want.”

  “I will see to your clothes.” Sam sounded positively smug. “You will outshine those drab generals.”

  “That will impress them,” Muller said dryly. “‘Here is our commander, the best dressed soldier in Aronsdale.’”

  Sam sniffed. “Clothes are no matter to take lightly.”

  Despite Sam’s protests about sartorial flair, Muller donned only a simple tunic and leggings, light gold, nothing to draw attention. He doubted he would inspire confidence in his officers if they continued to think of him as a fop. He wasn’t certain they were wrong, but he would endeavor to convince them otherwise anyway. In the past, Muller had bridled when his advisors lectured him, especially Brant, who always made him grit his teeth. But he had realized of late that if he spent more time listening, it allowed him to work through matters without becoming defensive.

  He left his suite and headed to the Sunstone Hall, a long room Fieldson and Brant used for strategy meetings. He found them both there, seated halfway down the table that extended the length of the hall. Deep in discussion, they didn’t notice Muller until he reached them.

  Brant looked up with a start. Then he and Fieldson rose to their feet. “My greetings, Your Highness,” Brant said.

  Muller nodded to them both. “My staff said you wished to speak with me.”

  Cube-General Fieldson gestured to a chair. “Yes. We have news.”

  Muller sat with them. “Where is King Jarid?”

  Brant pushed his hand through his silvery hair. “That is the problem. We
don’t know. He left the castle a few hours ago, with orders that neither Lord Firestoke nor I was to follow.”

  That gave Muller pause. It would be odd for any king to disappear; with Jarid, who knew what might happen. “Did he say why?”

  “Not directly.” Fieldson rubbed his chin. “He did mention Harsdown. I believe he intends to use his mage skills in searching for answers about the presence he and Lady Chime detected in Croft’s Vale yesterday.”

  Brant spoke darkly. “Saints forbid he should just tell us what he is doing.”

  Muller almost smiled, but he held it back. It amused him to see Brant annoyed at someone else for once. He must have sought out Muller when the king disappeared, and the message became garbled along its convoluted path to him.

  “Do you want me to search for him?” Muller asked. It sounded like Jarid had forbidden only Brant and Fieldson to follow. Muller had more leeway in his interactions with the king, given their kinship. Still, he didn’t seem the best choice. “He would probably be more open to Iris.”

  Brant scowled. “It seems the young man also avoids his wife today. He told her not to follow him, either.”

  “Does she know where he went?” Muller asked.

  “She has no idea,” Brant said.

  “He has been gone too long.” Fieldson drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Given the recent changes in his life, we have concern he is feeling—” He spoke carefully. “Perhaps overwhelmed.”

  Muller knew they feared the king was crazy. He didn’t think his cousin had lost his mind, but Jarid remained an enigma. “I will talk with Iris,” he decided. “Then I will look for Jarid.”

  Brant raised his eyebrows. Muller immediately felt the familiar surge of insecurity that always came to him when he faced Brant’s disapproval.

  Then, incredibly, Brant said, “A good idea.”

  The rare compliment gratified Muller. He did wish, though, that Brant didn’t look so surprised.

  Iris walked with Muller along a blue gravel path in one of the castle gardens. “Jarid often withdraws. He needs to be alone.” She brushed her hand along the slender trunk of a tree. “He feels inundated with people, sights, sounds. It is too much.”