The Charmed Sphere Page 2

  Muller wished his uncle would remarry and sire another heir. When King Daron had lost his beloved wife several decades ago, he had sworn on her death that he would never take another bride. He seemed determined to stay on that course even after his son died.

  Which left Muller to become the most reluctant, albeit best dressed, king in the history of Aronsdale.

  A knock came at the door.

  Chime lifted her head from the book she was reading. Perhaps whoever had come to visit would go away. She didn’t expect her family back from the town square for another few hours.

  She wanted to finish her story. It was rare to find a book here in southern Aronsdale, especially a volume with such beautiful calligraphy and pictures inked in gold, silver, and bright colors. Her aunt Maize, one of the few people who encouraged her to read, had brought it back from Croft’s Vale, the largest town in Aronsdale. Chime enjoyed the tale, an adventure about a young woman who rescued her beloved from a dragon. The idea of rescuing a handsome fellow appealed to her as long as she didn’t have to go out and tackle the task herself.

  The knock came again.

  “Pah,” Chime grumbled. She set the book on the table next to her chair and stood up, stretching her arms. Sunshine slanted through the diamond-shaped windows in the parlor. The air smelled fresh, though a bit dusty, probably because Chime hadn’t yet cleaned in here as she was supposed to do today. Motes danced in the rays of sunlight. She smiled at the familiar scene she so loved. Then she went to open the door.

  It was a bad decision.

  As soon as Chime saw the gray-haired woman outside, she closed the door. Then she froze, horrified at herself. Good graces, she had just shut out one of the most important people in Aronsdale, the Shape-Mage Mistress of Castle Suncroft.

  Another knock.

  With her face burning, Chime opened the door. Della No-Cozen stood on the front step, her forehead furrowed.

  “My greetings,” Chime said meekly.

  Della scowled at her. “And mine.” Then she waited.

  Chime cleared her throat. “Uh—would you like to come in?”

  “Thank you, yes.” Della started forward, then paused, her head tilted.

  Mortified, Chime realized she was standing in Della’s way. Moving aside, she invited her guest into the house. She ushered Della into the front parlor and offered her a high-backed chair with finely made blue cushions. Chime had embroidered them herself in gold thread.

  “May I get you anything?” she asked. “We have excellent apple cider.”

  Della settled herself, obviously relieved to sit. “No, no, please don’t bother.” She motioned to the chair next to her. “Come, child, talk to me.”

  Chime sat down, wishing she could hide under the table between their chairs. “It is kind of you to visit, Mistress No-Cozen.”

  Della considered her. “So you know me.”

  “Everyone knows the great shape-mistress of Suncroft, ma’am.” Chime wished she didn’t, but that was another story. “You honor our home with your regal presence.”

  Della gave a very unregal snort. “Hardly.”

  Chime flushed. “What brings you to visit, ma’am?”

  “I think you know.”

  Desperate now, Chime tried to think of an escape, but nothing came to mind. So she said, “I do?”

  Della indicated the clock on the mantel across the room, one of the few luxuries in the house. Not many people had such a fancy mechanism. “What do you see?”

  Confused, Chime said, “A clock.”

  “What is special about it?”

  Chime had no idea what the mage mistress was about. Nothing looked unusual about the clock, which had a round face with two hands and numbers engraved into the wood. Right now it read slightly after the fourth hour in the afternoon.

  The clock began to chime.

  “Ah!” Horrified, Chime tried to forget the clock, but of course that only made her think about it more. Its chimes turned into clangs, as if an imp were whacking away on its bells with a tiny hammer.

  Chime swore in a most unladylike manner and jumped up from her chair. She strode out of the room, into the entrance area of the house. The front door stood to her left and stairs to her right went up to the second story. She came up against a round table by the wall and set her palms on its unfinished surface, trying to steady herself. But instead of offering support, the table began to spin.

  Chime jerked away from the table. “No! Stop!”

  The steadying pressure of Della’s hand settled onto her shoulder. “Breathe. Slowly.”

  Chime drew in a ragged breath. “I—I didn’t do that.” She turned to the mage mistress. “I don’t know what happened. Really.”

  Della raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  The mage mistress spoke quietly. “You’ve a gift. I felt it when I rode under the tree where you were hiding today, though I couldn’t see you and had never met you before in my life. The power of your gift brought me to your home.”

  Chime stared at her in horror. “Ma’am, no! Surely you cannot feel such.”

  “But I can. It is why I am the Shape-Mage Mistress of Suncroft. I recognize mage gifts.” Della’s face gentled. “It is so strong in you, it glows.”

  This was even worse than Chime had feared. “No. You are wrong.”

  “Why does it frighten you?”

  “I’m not frightened. I just know you are wrong.”

  “Indeed.” Della put her hand on her hip. “You claim to know more than I? You surely are a powerful mage.”

  “I’m not!”

  “Then you acknowledge I know more of mage powers?”

  Chime hesitated, confused. “Of course.”

  “So if I say you are a mage, I must know this.”

  “I cannot be a mage.”

  Della’s voice gentled. “Why? It is an honor.”

  “No!” Chime backed toward the door. Perhaps she could get outside and run to the orchard.

  Della frowned at her. “And what is this, young woman? You find mages so offensive, you must close your front door on them and flee at the horrendous thought that you might be one?” She crossed her arms. “It seems Jacob’s Vale teaches the art of giving insults.”

  “Mistress No-Cozen, no! I am sorry I closed the door. I was—” She swallowed. Terrified hardly seemed a prudent word right now. “Overawed.”

  “Overawed?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Why?” Wasn’t it obvious? Della was among the most powerful figures in the realm. “You are a King’s Advisor.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Della waited.

  Chime squinted at her. “You’ve an imposing presence, ma’am. I fear I shall be incinerated by your disapproval.”

  Della gave a startled laugh. “Ah, well, you wouldn’t be the first to think such.” She came closer. “My point is this, Chime Headwind. You say you are overawed, yet it is I who came to see you. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  Chime turned toward the door. “Ma’am, I love my home. I’ve no wish to leave.”

  “But, Chime, think of it as an adventure!” Della set a hand on her shoulder. “It is hard to find anyone with mage talents at all, let alone with your power. You drew so easily on the shapes of that clock and the table here.” She spoke in a kind but firm voice. “Aronsdale has need of you.”

  Chime couldn’t look at her. “If I went to Castle Suncroft, I would be like a bird trapped in a cage.”

  “Many would welcome the chance to live there.”

  As Chime turned to her, Della dropped her hand. Chime shook her head. “You want to tear me away from everything that matters to me.”

  “I won’t force you to come,” Della said. “But think about it, please. Give it a chance.” She rubbed her chin. “I need to do tests. But if I am right, you are the strongest shape-mage I’ve found in your generation.”

  “I am sorry,” Chime whispe
red. “I cannot go with you.”

  Della gave her a stern look. “Without mages, Aronsdale becomes weak. We have little else to protect us from Harsdown. We are farmers here.”

  “Harsdown?” Chime knew almost nothing about the country north of the mountains at their borders.

  “They would like to conquer Aronsdale.”

  “King Daron has an army.”

  “A small one, yes. It is not enough.”

  Chime squinted at her. “I don’t see what I could do.”

  “With training, a great deal.” Della studied her. “You have hidden your talents, yes?”

  “I don’t want to be a mage.” Chime willed her to accept those words. “I don’t want anyone thinking I can use shapes and colors to make spells.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? Because it would terrify her to have the ruler of Aronsdale expect so much more from her than she was capable of giving. “I’m not even sure what mages do.”

  “I advise the king,” Della said, as if this were a perfectly mundane activity. “I train mages. I teach them to soothe pain and harsh emotions.” When she spoke of her work, her voice softened. “We heal. We bring light, not only that of a candle or oil lamp, but also into people’s lives.” Strength came into her words. “We also help the army. Mages can predict enemy strategies and heal wounds, both physical and of the emotions.” Now a shadow seemed to come over her face. “But Aronsdale hasn’t enough of us. We don’t know why so few are born.”

  Listening to her, Chime felt inspired to say yes. Then her pragmatic sense of reality reasserted itself; she would be committing herself to far more than she could handle. “I wish I could help. But I cannot.”

  “Coming with me would have compensations.”

  “It would?”

  “Haven’t you wondered why King Daron never remarried?”

  “He grieves for his wife.”

  Sorrow touched Della’s voice. “He loved her greatly. But that is only part of it. The king leads our people as monarch. The queen leads as shape-mage. She must be a powerful mage.”

  Chime stared at her, aghast. “Ma’am! Surely you do not suggest I marry the king.” In truth, she knew Della didn’t imply such; to entertain such a thought would be a presumption so outrageous, the sky itself would collapse. King Daron would never pick his bride from among the rough country girls of Jacob’s Vale. Saying it aloud would make Della see the absurdity of sending such a girl to Suncroft for any reason, including to become a mage.

  “King Daron is not looking for a wife,” Della said.

  Chime nodded sagely. “Of course not, ma’am.”

  “Of course not.” Della beamed at her. “You would marry his heir—Prince Muller Dawnfield.”

  3

  Anvil the Forged

  Hills bordered Aronsdale on all three sides. In the north and west they rose into rocky, foreboding mountains where few people lived, indeed, where few could survive.

  The country of Harsdown lay to the northwest, beyond those mountains.

  A tall man, gaunt and dark-haired, rode through the mountains of Harsdown. His cloak billowed out behind him like black wings. The Tallwalk peaks towered to the southeast, looming above the bleak landscape, a barrier that separated Harsdown from the fertile hills and meadows of Aronsdale.

  The man, Anvil the Forged, rode to the Escar Mountains, home to the castle of Varqelle the Cowled, King of Harsdown. Anvil had heard much of Castle Escar. Made of blue marble, it stood high in the Escars, inaccessible except for one road that wound up the cliffs.

  Anvil thought of Aronsdale. The time for my revenge comes, he thought. Soon.

  4

  Flight of the Bells

  “It is the most absurd suggestion I have ever heard.”

  Muller Dawnfield stood with the king’s top advisor, Lord Brant Firestoke. He should have been suspicious when Brant requested they meet here, on the Star Walk that ran along the top of the great wall surrounding Castle Suncroft. Brant’s valet had once confided to Muller’s valet, Sam Threadman, that Lord Firestoke came up here whenever he needed to brood about what he considered the dire future of Aronsdale when Muller became king.

  They stood now looking out at the rolling hills and lush forests, wind blowing their hair. The crenellations in the wall had geometric shapes: circles, diamonds, hexagons, and most of all, stars. None of the figures bothered Muller: only flawed shapes caused him problems. These were all perfect.

  Lord Firestoke, however, had given him a new and truly fearsome source of dread.

  “I have no desire to marry anyone,” Muller repeated. “Certainly not some country girl.”

  Brant pushed his hand through his shoulder-length gray hair, pulling it back from his face, accenting the widow’s peak on his forehead and his deeply set gray eyes. His austere features made Muller feel insubstantial. At least he dressed better than Brant. The advisor’s tunic, leggings, and boots were well made, but they lacked style. Really, Brant ought to find a better tailor.

  “The king’s message says this girl is the strongest mage Della has located. It is your duty to marry her.”

  Muller crossed his arms, taking care not to crease the sleeves of his tunic. The embroidered designs on its hems consisted of perfect circles and ovals, nary a flaw in any of them. That made them safe. He kept everything around him as perfectly shaped as possible.

  “It is bad enough I must someday be king.” Muller scowled at Brant. “I should at least marry a woman of the nobility.”

  “This one is the strongest mage.” Brant made a visible effort to be civil. “Della’s letter says Chime is pleasant.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “That is all she said? ‘Pleasant’?”

  “What is wrong with that?”

  “Has this girl no personality?”

  “I am sure she is a fine young woman.”

  “Does she have a brain? Manners? Is she pretty? Is her background gentle? Does she comport herself well?” Muller peered at his tormentor. “How does she dress?”

  Brant made an exasperated noise. “In clothes, no doubt.”

  Muller could well imagine. She probably ran around the countryside in a rough tunic and leggings with her hair wild and unbound. What an appalling thought. “I will not see her.”

  “It may be difficult to avoid.” Brant regarded him steadily. “She and King Daron arrive here tomorrow.”

  Chime waited until the darkest hour of the night, when she was certain everyone in the camp had gone to sleep.

  Then she ran.

  She had been planning her escape for ten days, since she had left Jacob’s Vale, riding with the king’s party. Her parents had been so flabbergasted by her supposed good fortune that they insisted she go with Della. After ten days of dreading her future, Chime had already had enough. She couldn’t go through with this. They had reached the king’s lands and would be at Suncroft tomorrow; if she didn’t leave now, she wouldn’t have another chance.

  She had talked very little to anyone during the trip, having no idea what to say to members of a royal party. Della had given her a beautiful riding cape, but Chime still felt a mess with her country ways and clothes.

  Her family had accompanied them the first few days, discussing Prince Muller with the king and Della. They seemed delighted and overwhelmed, so happy for Chime that she hadn’t the heart to tell them she couldn’t face this marriage. After they had returned home, needing to tend to the orchards, Chime missed them terribly. If she stayed at Suncroft, she wouldn’t see them again until they came for the wedding.

  Each night, Chime had withdrawn to the tent she shared with Della, dined quickly, and gone to sleep. Or pretended to sleep. She feared if she became sociable, Della would ask questions about her mage abilities. Although Chime had managed to avoid giving any more sign of them, she doubted she fooled Della. The time had come to flee.

  Chime didn’t feel right about taking their gift, so she left the riding cape on he
r pallet. She snuck out in her yellow tunic and old leggings, with sturdy boots to protect her feet. On this lovely spring night, the Rose Moon was full, shedding a blush of moonlight over the land. She easily crept through the camp, though she had to stop often, lest a sentry see her. She had spent days planning; she knew when and where the guards patrolled and which ones fell asleep.

  So it was that Chime Headwind, the recalcitrant betrothed of Muller Dawnfield, skulked away from the royal camp and her unwelcome future.

  Muller stalked through the woods by an idyllic lake, glaring at any bird that dared to chirp. He was so angry, he didn’t even stop to remove the leaf caught on his boot.

  “Outrageous.” He paced down to the shore, remembering Brant’s talk with him yesterday. “Impossible.” How could they condemn him to marriage with some rude country girl?

  After a while he began to calm down. He stopped to brush the leaf off his boot, along with some grains of sand. Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and sighed. He ought to arrange a hunting trip and be gone when his uncle’s party arrived at the castle this afternoon.

  He was wandering through the woods, deep in thought, when a rustling disturbed his concentration. Puzzled, he looked around. Trees and lush foliage surrounded him and sunlight dappled the ground. Roses, skybells, and purple royal-buds grew in profusion, providing a bright cover where an intruder might hide.

  Muller wanted solitude. He had told his staff he didn’t wish to be disturbed. No one could enter these woods without permission except the royal family. That meant his uncle the king—and he was off gamboling through the countryside, gathering brides for his nephew.

  “Who is there?” Muller demanded. “Show yourself!”

  Silence.

  “These are my woods,” he said crossly. “You are trespassing.”