The Charmed Sphere

by Catherine Asaro

  Chime regarded her warily. “Why do you say that?”

  “You are a most impressive woman,” the healer assured her. “You’ve a strong mind.”

  “Pah. You mean I’m wild.” When Skylark laughed, Chime relented and smiled. The news pleased her. It would also overjoy her parents to know they would be grandparents.

  If only she could visit to tell them the news.

  “It wouldn’t be for long.” Chime lay with Muller on the bed, she wearing his tunic and nothing else, he in just his leggings. “Only a few weeks. You will love my family.”

  “Brant doesn’t want us to travel,” he said.

  Chime glared. “Brant never wants us to do anything, may he suffer the pox.”

  Muller spoke wryly. “The worst of it is, he is usually right.”

  “Indeed. It is most annoying.” Chime knew Brant’s strictures made sense, but he had also wanted to separate her from Muller. They colored her responses to him. When it came to her child, though, she had to listen to good counsel even if she resented the person giving it. “Maybe Fieldson could send a polygon unit with us. Didn’t you want to train them on that military thing?”

  “‘Thing’?” He smiled. “You mean field exercises?”

  “Yes, that.”

  “I have been considering it.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well, then, what?”

  “You and they can go field exercise.”

  Muller grinned. “By accompanying your fierce and dangerous self on a visit to your family?”

  “You make fun of me.”

  “Never, love.”

  She made a humph sound. “You know what I mean.”

  Muller set his hand on her abdomen. She had told him the news this morning, after Skylark told her. The mage predicted Chime would give birth in eight months.

  “I would rather you didn’t come with us,” he said.

  “Well, that would be useful,” she said. “Have me visit my parents by not visiting them.”

  Although he laughed, he seemed pensive. “Ah, love, if I could, I would protect you from the entire world.”

  She gave him a frosty look. “I don’t need to be sheltered.”

  “Even if you pulverized me for trying, still I would.”

  “I can travel.”

  He spoke firmly. “Brant will say no.”

  “He can’t stop me!” She paused. “Can he?”

  “The king can. And he listens to Brant.”

  “You must speak with Brant, then.”

  “But, Chime—” When she glared, he held up his hands. “All right. I will discuss it with him.”

  She kissed his cheek. “You are an angel.”

  Muller sighed. “I make no promises.”

  “Just see what he says.”

  “If I make Brant think the field exercises are his idea, he may believe they have value.”

  Chime took his hand. “You are the commander. You don’t need his approval. Your ideas are worth as much as his.”

  His face gentled. “When you say it, I almost believe it.”

  “Believe it.” Chime drew him closer, filling her arms with his warmth. She knew Muller would never shirk his responsibilities as commander of the King’s Army. It gave her no satisfaction to know that, however. It only made her fear she would lose the father of her child to war.

  26

  Drummer

  “No.” Brant sat behind the table where he worked, scrolls scattered in front of him. “Absolutely not.”

  Muller was sitting across from him, ostensibly relaxed in a chair upholstered in wine-red brocade. “I need to train the men.”

  “Fine. Take them out in the field. But Chime stays home.” Brant shook his head. “Muller, be reasonable. This is no trip for your pregnant wife.”

  In his heart, Muller agreed. He didn’t want Chime traveling. She had suffered no more kidnap attempts, but that was probably due to increased security. Fieldson’s men had investigated at Suncroft and in the village, and accounted for everyone’s whereabouts on the night the songbird was poisoned. Either someone had contrived a false alibi or, more likely, the scoundrel had fled before they apprehended him.

  Even so, he had promised Chime he would try. “She very much wants to see her family.”

  Brant raised his eyebrows. “And you agree?”

  “Well, uh, no, actually.”

  He didn’t look surprised. “Then it is settled.”

  “But I would like to meet her family. We never had a wedding for them to attend.” He thought for a moment. “I could go train the men, visit her village, and bring her family back here for a visit.” They couldn’t stay long, with the orchard to look after, but a few weeks should be manageable this time of year.

  Brant tilted his head. “It is a good idea.”

  “Well, then.” Muller beamed. Then his good mood faded. “Now I must inform my wife.”

  To his amazement, Brant laughed. “You are a braver man than I.”

  “Ah, well.” Muller could face armies, storms, even dragons, if those existed. Facing Chime, however, was another matter.

  “Come on,” Muller coaxed. “It is a good idea.”

  His wife crossed her arms and walked to the window of their bedroom. She proceeded to stare with absorption at the men training in the Octagon Yard below.

  “Chime.” Muller joined her. “The idea was to see your family, yes?”

  She didn’t deign to look at him. “The idea was to visit them.”

  “Too much danger.”

  She gave him a glare that could have incinerated the entire army. “I thought you were going to convince Brant.”

  “I tried.”

  “You did not.”

  Muller touched her cheek, his fingertip lingering in the way he knew she liked. “I did what I thought best.”

  “You are an impossible scalawag.”

  His lips quirked. “A scalawag in love with you.”

  “Pah.” She put her hands on her hips. “Sweet talk will do you no good.”

  He drew her into his arms. “Will nothing melt your heart?”

  “Nothing.” But she put her arms around his waist and laid her head against his shoulder. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “You’re smiling, Chime.”

  “I am not.” She spoke against his shoulder.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “How would you know?”

  He grinned. “I just do.”

  “Pah.”

  Muller pressed his lips against her head. “You are my life. You and our child.”

  “And you, for me, you cad.”

  Muller held her close, glad she would be safe.

  Varqelle the Cowled leaned back in his great chair and swirled the wine in his goblet, a fine piece of Wingham crystal. A fire blazed in the hearth, warming him and his guests, General Stonehammer and Anvil the Forged. Outside, hail whipped through the night and clattered against the beveled windows.

  Stonehammer raised his glass. “A fine import, Your Majesty.” He was relaxing in a chair by a table with an orb-lamp made from blue glass.

  “So it is.” Varqelle sipped his wine, watching Anvil. The mage was sprawled in his chair, his legs stretched out, his goblet on the table.

  Anvil fascinated Varqelle. He seemed older than his thirty-one years, probably because he brooded constantly. Varqelle could count the times he had seen Anvil smile. The darkly handsome mage attracted the notice of many women, but he ignored them all. Except Chime Headwind. His interest in the girl seemed extreme. If Anvil had suffered such misery for his gifts, why did he want a wife who would bear him mage children? That game of kidnap had intrigued Varqelle, though, even excited him. He regretted his agent hadn’t succeeded; Varqelle had looked forward to seeing Anvil’s prey. He suspected more than lust drove the mage’s thirst for the girl. It would be interesting to see what developed. First however they had a more important matter to attend—the subjugation of Aronsdale.

  “Is the w
ine not to your liking?” he asked Anvil.

  The younger man started. “My apologies. I am preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow.”

  “So.” Varqelle took another swallow of wine. “Are you ready to march, then?”

  Anvil sat up straight. “More than ready.”

  Stonehammer considered him. “You have made many promises, Master Forged. I look forward to seeing them fulfilled.”

  “As do I.” Anvil finally took his drink from the table. “It will realize a goal I have long held.”

  Stonehammer raised his goblet. “It is time Aronsdale came under Harsdown rule.”

  “Time indeed.” Varqelle stood, and Stonehammer and Anvil rose as well.

  The king lifted his goblet. “To tomorrow.”

  Stonehammer raised his glass, first to Varqelle, then to Anvil. “To tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” Anvil spoke in a shadowed voice. “Tomorrow.”

  Muller enjoyed traveling cross-country with his men. He took the Hexagon Unit, six groups of six men, each headed by a hexahedron-major. The Pentagon Unit, led by Penta-Colonel Burg, had also gone on maneuvers, heading north while Muller went south. They hiked by day, scouting the land. Speed wasn’t important, so they hunted game to augment their food supplies. It felt more like a vacation than a training mission. He gave up his elegant clothes for wool leggings and tunics that kept him warm. Summer was blending into fall, adding a nip to the air.

  He conducted war games in the fields, valleys and woods, working the swordsmen and archers, either mounted or on foot. They also practiced hand to hand combat. The unit had brought more equipment than they would take into battle. Muller had them try assorted catapults, most small and easy to transport, others bulkier, harder to carry but more powerful. The men experimented with various types of boots and helmets. They wore chain mail over leather armor dyed in the king’s colors, indigo and violet. When they traveled, flag bearers carried pennants that snapped in the breeze; when they rested, the men spent time making arrows, playing cards, and emblazoning their shields with Dawnfield the insignia of Suncroft. At night, they tried out ways of setting up camp, seeing what worked best.

  Although the army had never stopped training, the country had lived in relative peace for long enough now that the military had lost its edge. Aronsdale had good relations with the lands to its south and east: Taka Mal, Jazid, Shazire, and tiny Blueshire. They fought skirmishes with Harsdown at their northwest borders, but nothing more. The two countries were evenly matched; Harsdown had a larger army but Aronsdale had mages. Beyond Harsdown, far to the west, the Misted Cliffs loomed, neither hostile nor friendly. The Cliffs seemed to have no interest in Aronsdale, but still, Muller could never be sure the peace would continue. So the King’s Army practiced.

  It took eleven days to reach Jacob’s Vale. The town spread out among low hills in the southwest corner of Aronsdale a short ride from the border with Blueshire. Muller rode Windstrider, his restless black charger. The horse wanted to run and Muller longed to let him go, but he held him in check, keeping pace with his men. So the Hexagon Unit crested the last hill that separated them from the village where Chime had spent most of her life.

  The Vale basked in late afternoon sunshine. People were working in the surrounding fields, and a cart pulled by two mules bumped down the hill ahead of the unit. The sleepy, peaceful quality of the scene appealed to Muller. He sent an emissary ahead to let the mayor know they were arriving and would like to camp outside of town. He hoped to purchase food stores and supplies here as well.

  “Ho!” a young voice called.

  Muller looked to see a boy running along with them. More boys joined him, waving at the soldiers and calling out excited greetings. By the time the unit reached the village, half the town had come out to meet them.

  With guidance from the mayor, Muller directed his men to a clearing outside town where they could set up camp. As they swung off their horses, villagers wandered among them, cheerfully greeting soldiers, asking questions, and otherwise nosing in everywhere. Their lack of concern about the war party astonished Muller. Then again, people this far south had probably never experienced military conflict. From what Chime told him, most of them knew little about Harsdown. They might have heard about skirmishes between Aronsdale and Harsdown soldiers, but only as a vague threat in the far north that few took seriously.

  A tall man with graying hair and a burly physique approached Muller, making his way through the controlled chaos of the camp. He looked familiar, though Muller felt certain they had never met. The fellow walked with the confidence of someone used to the respect and affection of his neighbors. As Muller straightened up from unpacking a tent, the man stopped in front of him and bowed.

  “My greetings, Prince Muller. Welcome to Jacob’s Vale.” The resonance of his deep voice sounded familiar, too, though Muller couldn’t figure out why.

  “And mine, Goodsir.” Muller nodded. “You have the advantage of me, I’m afraid. Do we know each other?”

  The man paused, as if uncertain of his reception. “Not directly. But we have kin in common.” He cleared his throat. “I am Appleton. You married my daughter.”

  Saints above. Muller had counted on having time to gather his wits before meeting his new family. Apparently news traveled fast here. He hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “It is my pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “My family would be honored if you would dine with us tonight.” Appleton used formal phrases appropriate to the nobility, but it obviously wasn’t natural to him. Judging from the casual way the people here ambled through the camp, Muller doubted they worried much about protocol.

  “Thank you for your invitation,” Muller said. “It would be my pleasure to join your family tonight.”

  Appleton’s shoulders came down from a tensed position Muller hadn’t realized they had taken until the big man relaxed. The man’s face warmed in a more natural smile. “We look forward to making your acquaintance and hearing news of Chime.”

  Muller beamed. “There is much news.” Tonight, he would tell them about the child.

  His father-in-law paused. “Please forgive my lack of experience, Your Highness, but I have never invited a member of the royal family to supper before. Will you bring a retinue?”

  Muller rarely went anywhere without one, especially now that Brant insisted he have protection at all times. He had no intention of hanging back if he had to go to war, but he had otherwise given Brant his word to accept a bodyguard. And of course he traveled with his aides and other attendants. If he showed up at Chime’s home with a royal company, though, her family would feel obligated to feed them all. He had no wish to cause hardship.

  “I have two in my retinue,” he said. “My aide and my bodyguard.” He would take Arkandy and Archer.

  Appleton looked taken aback. “Does Chime have bodyguards, too?”

  Muller inwardly winced. He had stumbled into a quagmire. He didn’t want to start out with his wife’s family by telling them someone had twice tried to abduct their daughter. Better to ease that gently to them, if at all.

  “All members of the royal family have them,” Muller said. It was true, though only since the kidnap attempts. But he needn’t add that last.

  “Ah. I see.” Appleton relaxed. “I won’t detain you any longer.” His weathered face creased in a smile. “I did want to make sure you were welcomed. We look forward to your company tonight.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  After his father-in-law left, Muller turned back to his work. As he set up his tent, Arkandy came over to him.

  “Do you know him?” Arkandy asked.

  “Not yet.” Muller grinned. “I know his daughter.”

  “Hai! That was Chime’s father?”

  Muller chuckled. “Do not look so alarmed.”

  “You laugh,” Arkandy said darkly. “Many a man has been brought down by overconfidence.”

  “I’m not facing Harsdown. Just my wife’s family.”

&n
bsp; “I should think the former would be less fearsome.”

  Muller gave a rueful laugh. “Perhaps. Her father seems amiable.”

  “I hope so.”

  Muller slapped him on the back. “Tonight we will see.”

  Twilight settled over Jacob’s Vale with the humid warmth of the southern provinces. Muller and Arkandy strolled along the streets together, but Archer insisted on ranging farther out, keeping surveillance. Muller was too nervous to complain. He kept reminding himself he had dined with royalty and nobles. It didn’t help. The prospect of meeting Chime’s family thoroughly intimidated him.

  Courage, he thought. He wished Chime were here.

  Even if she hadn’t told him where to find her home, he would have known he had reached the right house by the two boys standing on the porch outside. They were younger, male versions of Chime, one fourteen and the other ten, both with tousled yellow curls spilling down their necks, large blue eyes, and angelic faces. Given what he knew of his wife, he suspected those innocent faces disguised a world of mischief.

  “Ho!” the younger boy shouted, spotting Muller. The other boy shushed him.

  As Muller came up to the door, the older boy bowed. “Good Eve, You Hi-highness.”

  “And to you,” Muller said amiably.

  “You don’t look like a king,” the younger boy said. “More like a minstrel.”

  “Drummer!” The older boy turned red. He spoke quickly to Muller, his words spilling out. “I’m really sorry, Your Lordshipness. He didn’t mean that. Really.”

  Muller couldn’t help but smile at this new title. Nor had anyone ever mistaken him for a singer. He rather liked the daydream of wandering across the country singing love ballads. He would compose them all for this boy’s sister.

  “I’m actually not a king,” he told them. “But I am the cousin of one. You can call me Muller.”

  “Oh.” Drummer’s eyes widened.

  The door behind the boys swung open and a girl with yellow hair and blue eyes looked out. She looked too much like Chime to be anyone except her sister, though Muller didn’t remember Chime mentioning one. Perhaps a cousin.