The Charmed Sphere Page 3

  More silence.

  In his side vision, he glimpsed leaves swaying. He whirled just as a girl bolted from a royal shrub, showering purple buds everywhere. She raced through the woods, away from him, her yellow hair flying out behind her.

  “Come back here,” Muller bellowed. Then he took off after her.

  They thrashed among the trees, Muller tripping on roots, vines, and wild shrubs. The girl moved like a sprite. Although he had longer legs and surely more endurance than one skinny girl, she easily outran him. Of course he had to slow down to avoid stepping anywhere that might muck up his boots.

  It outraged him that this wild person had invaded his privacy. With all this tearing about the woods, no doubt she had bugs in her boots. Her coarse garments appalled him. He certainly didn’t notice how well they fit her graceful curves. And she had leaves in her hair. Disgraceful. The fact that the glossy tresses glowed, as yellow as the sun, certainly had no effect on him. None. He didn’t notice their beauty at all.

  As she drew ahead, Muller gave up trying to preserve his appearance and broke loose in his run, eating up distance with his long legs. Branches and bushes lashed at his hair and he dreaded the condition of his trousers. But this had become a matter of pride.

  As he closed in on the girl, she glanced over her shoulder and he saw her eyes, as blue as sea stones. Lovely eyes.

  No. They were atrocious. Much too large. No doubt she had long eyelashes, too, just like him. It was mortifying for a man, which added to his irritation at her, even though he knew, logically, that her eyelashes had nothing to do with him. He ran harder, gritting his teeth.

  There! Muller grabbed for the girl. He caught a length of her hair, but it whipped out of his hands. He lunged again, caught her around the waist—and tripped on a gnarled root.

  Muller flew forward into a mass of foliage, sprawling on top the stranger. They landed in a tangle of limbs and weeds, sliding through the bushes and digging a trench in the mud underneath their leafy cover.

  “You bog-warted son of a piss frog!” She pummeled him with her fists. “Get off me!”

  Muller blinked, stunned motionless by her language. Then he sat up, futilely brushing mud off his tunic. The woman was sitting in a tangle of vines and twigs, with roses in her hair and mud all over her tunic and leggings, a truly appalling mess.

  She was beautiful.

  Saints almighty. She had an angel’s face. A muddy angel’s face, but exquisite. And she did indeed have eyelashes as long and curly as his own, though on her they looked far more fetching.

  The girl glared at him. “You are a vulgar pig.”

  She suddenly stopped looking angelic. He crossed his arms. “I am not the one intruding without permission.”

  Her magnificent eyes flashed. “You are not only a vulgar pig, you are rude as well.”

  “This is unbelievable.” Muller was so astonished by her tart words, he forgot to be angry. “I have never been called such in my entire life.”

  She didn’t deign to answer.

  “Who are you, anyway?” he added.

  “Uh—Telli Tinner.” Now she looked evasive. “I live in, um, Tintown.”

  Muller smirked. “No such place exists.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “I know all the towns around here.”

  She waved her hand as if dismissing his words, not to mention his intellect. “I didn’t say it was around here.”

  “You are trespassing,” he said, irate. “These woods belong to my uncle.”

  “I hope this uncle has better manners than you.”

  It finally sunk into Muller that she didn’t recognize him. He didn’t recognize her, either, but really, she ought to realize she was talking to the heir of Aronsdale. He opened his mouth, intending to let her know in no uncertain terms just whom she had offended.

  Then he paused. He never interacted with people except as Muller Dawnfield, nephew and heir of the king. He always had to be on his royal best. He had no wish for a crown; he would have preferred the life his father led, a country gentleman who entertained the local gentry.

  For this moment, he could be anyone. It gave him an incredible sense of freedom. He could do anything and no one would care. Maybe for just a little while, with this stranger, he wouldn’t have to bend under the weight of a role he had never wanted. He hadn’t realized how much he craved freedom until he saw it within his grasp.

  Besides, if she didn’t know his identity, he wouldn’t be so mortified by his scruffy condition. He grinned at her. “My uncle has far better manners than you, Goodwoman Telli.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “I said he has better manners.” Belatedly he realized what had confused her. It made him laugh. “Ah. You forgot. You claimed your name was Telli.”

  She reddened. “It is. Telli. Telli Tanner.”

  “I thought it was Tinner.”

  She glared at him, then harrumphed and rose to her feet, brushing rose petals off her skirt. “My name,” she told him with great dignity, “is not your business.”

  He stood up next to her, picking twigs out of his hair. “I need to change my clothes.”

  “Are you going to a party?”

  “Party?” He squinted at her. “No. Just walking.”

  “Those are fancy clothes just to walk in.”

  Muller silently swore. He would give himself away if he wasn’t careful. “I was supposed to meet my relatives for dinner tonight. But, uh—I don’t get along with my cousin. So I came out here instead.”

  “Oh.” She eyed him doubtfully, but she didn’t dispute his story. “Well, and who are you, Goodman—” She let the title hang exactly the same way he had with her. And she called him Goodman instead of Lord, which meant she took him for gentry, not noble or royal. His relief was followed by annoyance. Surely it was obvious he was of royal birth. Then again, most princes didn’t slide around in the mud.

  “Goodman Miller,” he said. The name was close enough to Muller that he would respond to it even if he forgot he had given her an alias.

  She bowed, more teasing than respectful. “Do you mill grains?”

  “My family does.” It was true; the Dawnfield line had many mills tended by families in Croft’s Vale, the village that Castle Suncroft overlooked and protected.

  Telli brushed at her tunic, which under all the leaves and dirt looked as if it had once been yellow. Muller reminded himself that he didn’t notice the way it clung to her willowy curves when she slid her hands over the cloth.

  “I need to change, too,” she said.

  “I have a cottage near here.” He and his friends used it when they went on hunts. Its homey feel might convince her that it belonged to a man of respectable but not extensive means.

  She hesitated. “I’ve nothing to change into.”

  “My sister has some clothes that might fit you.” In truth, one of his friends had bought the outfits for a girl the fellow liked, but Telli had no way to know that.

  Muller offered her his hand, then saw the dirt under his nails and started to drop his arm. At the same time, she reached to take his hand. The ring on her index finger must have broken and bent during their escapade. It slid off her finger and he grabbed it in reflex—catching the imperfect circle.

  The moment his hand touched the damaged ring, power sparked within him. Light and heat flared in his palm; with a gasp, he dropped the ring. It hit the muddy foliage and sizzled, sending up wisps of smoke.

  “Saints above.” Telli gaped at her ring, which now lay in a charred circle of weeds. “What happened?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Muller lied. “Was that a flint?”

  She gave him a strange look. “No.”

  “Odd.” He bent to pick up the ring, but when he focused on the broken circle, it glowed again. He jerked back, stumbling in the bushes.

  Telli laughed, her melodic voice chiming like bells. “You must be the clumsiest man I’ve ever met.”

  That annoye
d him even more. People called him many things, including athletic, which he liked, and graceful, which he hated, but they had stopped calling him accident prone years ago. He glowered at her. “I thought I was the rudest, crudest man you had ever met.”

  She laughed softly, her face aglow. Saints, but she was lovely. Damned if he could make himself care that she had intruded on his privacy when she shone that way, with sunlight on her hair and her face full of mischief.

  “I will tell you what,” she decided. “We will say you are the most unique man I have ever met.”

  “All right.” He couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve certainly never met anyone like you.”

  “Well, then.” She offered her arm. “Now that we have decided we are each one of a kind, let us go to your cottage and make ourselves uniquely presentable.”

  Muller grinned. “Yes, indeed. Let us go.”

  5

  The Cowled King

  The audience chamber of Varqelle the Cowled, King of Harsdown, had blue marble walls without adornment. No rugs softened the marble floors, and the spare marble ceiling vaulted high overhead.

  On a raised dais at the end of the hall, Varqelle sat on his throne. A tall man with long limbs, he wore a blue tunic and leggings, and dark boots. Sapphire studs glinted in his ears. His presence dominated the starkly beautiful hall. No queen sat on the throne next to him; no advisors stood in the hall; no servants moved anywhere. He remained alone, except for one other person—the man walking toward him down that long hall, his dark riding cape billowing out behind him.

  Varqelle nodded with satisfaction. Perhaps this Anvil the Forged could be useful to him. They both wanted the same thing.

  Aronsdale.

  6

  The Hidden Cottage

  Miller fascinated Chime.

  She didn’t know what to think. Despite his behavior, he seemed gently born, above her station. For a member of the royal court, which she was supposed to join, it wasn’t appropriate to go to a man’s home by herself. Customs in the country were more sensible; girls made their own decisions about such matters. Chime had even stolen a kiss from a boy she teased into chasing her in the orchard. Perhaps if she stole one from this annoying but handsome fellow, it would make her unacceptable to her groom.

  Miller kept trying to clean off his shirt and smooth the wrinkles. She had never seen a man fuss so much with his clothes. He had the grace and beauty of a long-legged animal, an effect heightened by his mane of golden hair. If he cleaned himself up, he would be beautiful. Compared to the strapping, brawny youths in Jacob’s Vale, he seemed fragile, but she suspected that impression was deceptive. Lean muscles rippled under his clothes as he walked, a truly enjoyable sight.

  “Why are you staring at me that way?” Miller asked.

  She flushed. “I, uh, I thought, that is, I wondered how far it was to your cottage.”

  “Not far.” He motioned ahead, ducking his head under a branch. “Do you see?”

  She peered where he indicated. Moss-draped trees blocked the way, hiding whatever waited for them. They picked their way through rosebushes and pulled aside loops of vine heavy with gold box-blossoms.

  Then they pushed into a small clearing. On its other side stood one of the loveliest cottages Chime had ever seen. It leaned against a hill, and trees shaded it on every side except where a chimney rose from its thatched roof. Carvings graced the window frame with shape-designs: half spheres, cubes within cubes, spiraling tubes. The shapes beckoned to her. She walked forward, vaguely aware she had extended her arms, palms upward to the sky. Well being spread through her, but it wasn’t until light glowed within her cupped palms, gold and warm, that she realized what she was doing.

  Hai! Dismayed, she dropped her arms and smothered her awareness of the shapes. Her panic sparked; Miller would realize she was a mage and reveal her to the king. She swung around—and saw him several paces behind, cleaning grass off his leggings. She bit her lip, holding back her laugh. He hadn’t even noticed what she had done.

  Chime went over to him. “Miller?”

  He straightened with a start, his face reddening. “Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Do you like my house?”

  “It’s lovely. Can we go in?”

  “Yes. Of course. Certainly.”

  As they crossed the clearing, she noted the good care he took of his home. The gardens were well tended, with rosebushes and skybell shrubs everywhere, their flowers bright in the sunshine. As they reached the front porch, she glanced at him. “Do you have more than one house?”

  He froze in the process of reaching for the knob. “Why do you ask that?”

  She wondered at his response. “You said you were a farmer. I just wondered why your house was in the woods instead of on your farm.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “My family has a house there, too. But this is mine.”

  Chime dimpled. “A fine house it is.”

  With a flourish, he opened the door. “Enter, if you dare.”

  He felt positively wicked. Prince Muller Dawnfield would never behave this way, bringing home a sensual trespasser he found in the royal woods. But Miller No-name could do as he pleased.

  As he opened the door, his anticipation plummeted. Golden light filled the house, which could only mean his friends had showed up without letting him know. It wouldn’t be the first time. Oddly enough, it didn’t make him angry. He felt unaccountably peaceful. Soothed. Strange, that.

  As he stepped inside, he realized his mistake; the cottage was empty after all. The light came from sunshine that slanted past open shutters on a window. His sense of well being also faded, though, leaving him feeling inexplicably bereft.

  The room looked exactly as it had during his last visit a few months ago. His staff tended to its upkeep when he was gone. Comfortable sofas, chairs, and tables were scattered about, none elegant or expensive, all well-worn. He knew he should replace the circular rugs, which were growing tattered, but they hadn’t yet reached the stage where their imperfections hurt him.

  He smiled at his guest. “Here it is.”

  Telli walked inside. “It’s lovely.” She sounded like she meant it, which made him wonder at her background, that she thought so much of this tiny cottage. He wished she were a noblewoman, so it wouldn’t be such an outrage if he spent time with her. Then again, he could never bring a noblewoman to an isolated cottage with no chaperone.

  Not that it mattered, given that he was supposed to marry some blasted girl Della No-Cozen had dug up. He dreaded his unwanted bride. This might be his last chance to enjoy himself before his uncle and the King’s Advisors shackled him in marriage.

  Telli walked through the cottage studying the tables. The round tables. Just having her in here brightened the room; she seemed to bring light wherever she went. His good mood returned. When she stopped by a window, he closed the door and joined her. Together, they looked out into the woods, toward the lake, though right now the bountiful foliage of spring hid the water. Breezes ruffled the skybells and royal-buds.

  “It’s pretty,” Telli said.

  “That it is.” Muller opened the window, using that as an excuse to lean closer to her. The glass had almost no imperfections, no bubbles or ripples, which was rare except for the most expensive panes, which only the wealthy could afford. If Telli noticed anything unusual though, she gave no sign. Instead she inhaled deeply and lifted her face to the breezes. Her gold hair stirred around her face, shoulders, and body. “So beautiful.”

  “Yes.” He continued to look at her. “Beautiful.”

  She glanced at him. “You mentioned clean clothes…?”

  “Clothes?” He was having trouble concentrating. Her air of mischief mixed with innocence drew him. The room had become rather hot. Before he realized what he was doing, he brushed his fingertips across her cheek. “I can help you change.”

  Telli stared at him like a deer hypnotized by a night lamp. “I was right—you are a rogue.” She sounded nowhere near as definite in that as
sessment as before.

  He smiled lazily. “But a fine one, eh?”

  She gave him an imperious look that somehow worked despite the flower petals in her hair. “You, sir, should learn modesty.”

  “I would say you should as well,” he murmured, “but you look so very fine in that immodest state.”

  Her face reddened. “If you keep this up, I shall leave.”

  “Don’t do that.” He endeavored to sound contrite. “I will behave.”

  Her lips quirked upward. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Ah, well.” He trailed his finger down her jaw. “Good behavior is terribly boring.”

  She moved his hand away from her face. “Is it now?”

  “Very.” Sliding his hand behind her neck, he drew her forward. For one glorious moment, she molded to him, her curves pressed along his strong muscles.

  Then she stiffened and put her hands on his shoulders, pushing him away. “Stop that, you scoundrel.”

  “Come back.” He tried to pull her close again.

  “Rogue.” Telli whacked him on the head.

  “Hey!” He jerked back, raising his arm to defend himself. “Are you always so violent to your suitors?”

  She quirked one of her perfect eyebrows at him. “So. You are a suitor? And when did you plan to propose, Your Royal Muddiness?”

  Muller didn’t know whether to be appalled or laugh. “And what would you do if I was royal, hmm? Continue to insult me?”

  Telli looked unimpressed. “It wouldn’t make a whit of difference. For all you know, I am of royal blood myself.”

  “Oh, are you now?” Muller knew she wasn’t one of his relatives. “And just how would that be?”

  She waved at him, a gesture so imperious, it made him want to laugh. He had never seen a woman among his kin do that.

  “Telli, listen. Let’s have a wonderful afternoon. I have to go back to my duties soon, and when that happens, my life gets dark. But you bring light.” He faltered, surprised to hear himself admit so much.

  She blinked, pushing a tendril of hair out of her eyes, and the room brightened. Joy rushed through him, a surge of emotion too extreme for this moment, yet he felt it. He had scraped his arm when he fell in the woods, but the twinges of pain from the gash suddenly stopped bothering him. The injury remained, but it no longer hurt. Even his anger about his upcoming nuptials receded. He felt good. And somehow, it all came from Telli.