by DAVID B. COE
“Do you have one up there?”
“Of course. As I said, there is one for every mage who has served Tobyn-Ser since the founding of the Order.”
Jaryd shot the Owl-Master a sharp look. “Every member?” he asked pointedly.
Baden’s expression sobered as he grasped the import of his Mage-Attend’s question. “No,” he conceded, “not every member. There is one missing.”
And there it was again, the gnawing fear that seemed long ago to have settled in the back of Jaryd’s mind—and Baden’s too, Jaryd saw from the darkening of the Owl-Master’s expression. Of course, Theron’s name would not be included among those honored with the gold commemoratives. Not after his crime and his disgrace. Not after the curse. Standing in the magnificent city named for the First Mage, in the shadow of the crystal image crafted to honor his deeds, Jaryd began to sense the magnitude of the tragedy shaped by the two founders of the Mage-Craft. Together they harnessed and controlled the power; together they formed the Order. Yet, over the centuries, as one had been exalted, attaining near godlike status, the other, still haunting the land, the victim of a curse of his own making, had been reviled, his accomplishments ignored in Tobyn-Ser’s history.
Jaryd turned to Baden, feeling an inexplicable anger rising in his chest. “Is there anywhere in this city, in this entire land,” he demanded, unable to keep the exasperation from his tone, “where Theron is remembered and honored for what he did and what he was before the curse?”
Still looking at the statue of Amarid, his expression somber, Baden offered the only answer he could. “We in the Order remember, and we pass the story of Amarid and Theron on to those who follow, as I did to you.”
“That’s not really what I was asking,” Jaryd retorted, his tone harsher than he had intended. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he added.
Baden looked at him and tried to smile. “It is a difficult tale, made more difficult by the difference between their fates.” He indicated the dome and statue with his hand.
Jaryd merely nodded, but a voice from behind him put into words the thought in his head. “Perhaps that difference lies at the root of the danger we face today.”
Baden and Jaryd turned around simultaneously to see who had spoken. Standing just behind them was a dark-skinned man with long black hair that fell to his shoulders, and vivid green eyes that almost matched the hue of his mage’s cloak. He was of medium height and build, and he carried on his shoulder an exquisite hawk of deep brown, with warm, chestnut-colored wings and a white tail boldly marked with black.
“Trahn!” Baden exclaimed, grabbing the man in an embrace so fierce that both Anla and the Hawk-Mage’s bird took to the air to avoid injury. Trahn returned the embrace, obviously as pleased as Baden by their reunion. At length, Baden stepped back, a broad grin lighting his thin face and bright blue eyes. “By the gods, it’s good to see you. You’re well, I trust?”
Trahn smiled and nodded. “Yes, thank you. You also are looking well, although every time I see you, you have less hair.” As Baden laughed, Trahn turned toward Jaryd and bestowed upon him a dazzling smile. “You must be Jaryd. Baden has told me much about you. I’m Trahn.”
“Mage Trahn, I am honored by this meeting,” Jaryd said, bowing as Baden had taught him.
Trahn glanced at the Owl-Master. “My, but he’s well trained.” He turned back to Jaryd, still smiling. “I appreciate the effort,” he said, “but formalities are wasted on me. Just call me Trahn.”
Jaryd glanced at Baden uncertainly.
“I’m afraid we’re confusing him,” the Owl-Master commented ruefully. “Just this morning I warned him about addressing mages too informally, including me.”
“I see,” Trahn said, nodding sagely. “Well, far be it from me to undermine your uncle’s authority. At least in private you can drop the decorum.” He looked questioningly toward Baden, who nodded in approval. “I took the liberty of holding a room at the inn for the two of you,” Trahn continued. “Maimun has raised his rates again, but he’s still managed to fill every room. And you know how he feels about giving up cash to accommodate us.”
Jaryd looked from one mage to the other. “I don’t understand.”
“Mages don’t normally carry gold or silver,” Trahn explained. “The leaders of the Order decided long ago that the temptation to use our powers to acquire wealth would be so great that members of the Order should be barred from using specie under any circumstance.”
“The rest of the Order balked at making this legally binding,” Baden added, “so, instead, they merely established it as a custom. Mages carry little or no coinage, and merchants and innkeepers accept our services and aid as recompense for their goods.”
“Occasionally, though,” Trahn broke in with a smile, “men like Maimun chafe at this . . . custom.”
“He seemed pleased enough with it two years ago when we healed his cuts and mended his wooden tables after that brawl in his place,” Baden growled. “One would think he’d be more grateful.”
Trahn shrugged noncommittally, a slight smile still lingering on his lips. He glanced at Jaryd. “Baden doesn’t care very much for Maimun,” he informed the Mage-Attend in a confidential tone. “The innkeeper once beat him at rendrah, taking what little money your uncle was carrying at the time.”
“He did not beat me,” Baden said angrily. “He cheated. Nobody could be that lucky. I just couldn’t prove it.”
Jaryd tried unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh, and Trahn was now grinning broadly. Baden blushed, and then he, too, began to laugh. “You’re a bad influence on him, Trahn. As you noted before, I had him well trained.”
“Not well enough, it would seem,” the Hawk-Mage returned.
Baden shook his head slowly. “It’s going to be a long Gathering. I can tell already.”
“In that respect, I hope you’re wrong,” Trahn commented, his mood instantly turning serious.
Baden nodded in agreement, his expression growing grave as well. “We have much to discuss. But first, I should go to the hall and present Jaryd to Jessamyn.”
“Shall we meet at the Aerie for supper?” Trahn asked.
“Yes, we’ll see you there.”
Trahn gripped Baden’s shoulder. “I’m glad to see you,” he said warmly. “And you, Jaryd,” he added, smiling at the Mage-Attend. The dark man walked off toward the old town center, and Jaryd and Baden began moving toward the Great Hall.
“Who is Jessamyn?” Jaryd asked.
“Owl-Sage Jessamyn is the leader of the Order,” Baden answered distractedly. “She’s also an old and dear friend.” The Owl-Master’s face still wore a somber expression, but an instant later, he pulled himself out of his thoughts. “So, what do you think of Trahn?”
“I like him very much.”
“He is as close a friend as I have in this land. I’d trust him with my life. And yours,” Baden added after a moment, “which may say even more.”
Jaryd said nothing, but he thought back to the words he had heard his father say to Baden just before he and the Owl-Master left Accalia so many weeks ago.For all that he is, and all that you say he will be, he is still ouryoungest. . . .
They walked in silence for a few strides, and then Jaryd observed, “The people here seem much less hostile than they did in Taima and the other towns we visited along the way.”
“Yes,” Baden agreed, “the people of Amarid still honor the Order. Indeed, many of the people you see journeyed here just to observe the Gathering. Actually,” he went on, a now familiar note of concern creeping back into his voice, “this is the smallest number of people I’ve ever seen in Amarid at the time of a Gathering. The attacks are taking a toll.”
They reached the entrance to the Great Hall, and, once more, Jaryd found himself awed by the majesty of the structure. Three long marble steps led to an arched portal that reached nearly to the bottom edge of the dome. Framing the opening, swung open to welcome those who sought entrance, stood two tr
emendous wooden doors, each over two inches thick. Both doors were inlaid with thousands of pieces of wood, each of which possessed a unique shade of brown, red, or grey. These inlays were arranged to portray dozens of different hawks and owls, every species, Jaryd knew instinctively, that could be found in Tobyn-Ser. At the edge of each door, halfway between top and bottom, appeared half of the Order’s insignia, fashioned so as to make the image whole when the doors were closed.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?” Baden commented, somewhat unnecessarily. “The inlays include samples from every variety of tree found in Tobyn-Ser. Follow me,” he commanded, ascending the steps and entering the building.
Given the resplendent beauty of the outside of the Great Hall, Jaryd was surprised by the austere decor he found inside. In the center of the chamber, resting on a plain marble floor, sat an immense oval table made of dark wood. Large chairs made from the same wood surrounded the table, and two slightly more ornate chairs stood at the far end. A narrow strip of wood, ending in a horizontal bar obviously intended as a perch for a mage’s familiar, curved up and away from the back of each chair. Milky-white translucent windows wound around the entire circumference, allowing a surprising amount of light into the chamber. But, like the floor, table, and chairs, the windows were plain. In fact, the only ornate aspect of the building’s interior was a tableau painted on the domed roof depicting Amarid, looking somewhat frail and remarkably young, standing in a snowy clearing with his arm held aloft. Descending to his arm, with its wings spread and its mouth open as if crying out, was a robust, fierce-looking hawk with a pale grey belly and breast, and slate-grey wings and back.
“It’s the scene from the statue,” Jaryd remarked aloud, more to himself than to Baden.
“Yes,” the Owl-Master affirmed. “Amarid’s binding to Parne.” They stood in silence for several moments, staring up at the painted scene. And Jaryd felt once again the vague uneasiness he had sensed on the street as he had gazed at the Great Hall, stronger now, but still undefinable. He tried to assign a name to the inchoate emotions stirred by the huge portrait of Amarid, but could not. When Baden told him to follow, adding, “There’s something else I want to show you before you meet Jessamyn,” Jaryd reluctantly tore his eyes from the image and followed the Owl-Master to the far end of the room.
There, between two austere wooden doors, one closed and the other slightly ajar, resting in a heavy wooden stand, sat an immense crystal, too massive for Jaryd to have encircled with his arms. It was irregularly shaped but flawlessly clear. Jaryd knew that it was a ceryll, but, unlike the others he had seen, this one appeared quiescent, giving off neither light nor color.
“The Summoning Stone,” Baden said, his voice deepening, “altered by Amarid himself so that when it is awakened, it pulses with a rhythm that is conveyed to every other ceryll in Tobyn-Ser. This allows the Owl-Sage or her first to summon all other members of the Order to this chamber at times other than the Midsummer Gathering. In essence, the stone was a gift from Amarid, not only to the Order, but to all of Tobyn-Ser. With it, we can respond quickly to any crisis that threatens the land.”
“Is it used often?” Jaryd asked.
“Thankfully no, only when there is great need. I believe the last time was when Feargus died, and the Owl-Masters were convened to choose a new sage.” Baden smiled and gestured toward the door next to where they stood. “And now you can meet the person we chose.”
The Owl-Master knocked on the door, and, at the sound of the welcoming call from within, swung the door open and led Jaryd inside. The Owl-Sage’s quarters, like the Gathering Chamber, were modest compared with the external grandeur of the Great Hall. Spacious, round, and brightly lit by the same translucent windows found in the chamber, the room had an expansive marble fireplace, a polished wood floor partially covered by a multicolored woven rug, and, along the circular wall, three large tapestries, which, Jaryd guessed, depicted scenes from Amarid’s life. One portion of the chamber, the sleeping quarters, Jaryd surmised again, was shielded from view by a curtain that matched the rug in pattern and color. Opposite this curtain, next to the hearth, sat a low table of light-grained wood and several ample, comfortable-looking chairs covered with pale blue and green material that picked up hues found in the wall hangings.
The two people seated in these chairs rose as Baden and Jaryd entered the room, and one of them, obviously Jessamyn, moved to greet them. The Owl-Sage was a diminutive, white-haired woman with delicate features and warm brown eyes. When she was young, Jaryd thought to himself, she must have been beautiful. Indeed, even with the deep lines etched in her tanned face, she still was. Jaryd noted with some surprise that, despite her position as leader of the Order, she wore a mage’s cloak just like Baden’s, unadorned by any emblem of authority. As she stood, a white owl, so big that it seemed to dwarf her, flew to the woman’s shoulder and regarded her new visitors with bright yellow eyes.
“Baden!” she exclaimed in a clear voice, extending her hand as she stepped toward him.
“Sage Jessamyn,” Baden returned, taking her hand and bending to touch his forehead to the back of it. Then he straightened and released her hand. “I am honored by your welcome.”
“The honor is mine,” she replied. “Your journey here was pleasant, I trust?”
Baden hesitated for just an instant. Two months ago, Jaryd might not even have caught it. But Jessamyn was who she was, and she and Baden had known each other for many years. The smile with which she had welcomed them faded and the soft lines of her face seemed to harden. “I would wait until tomorrow to hear these tidings, if that suits you,” she said, holding his gaze. “This is a day for greetings and reunions.”
Baden nodded. “I agree. I’ve brought someone I’d like to present to you. This is Jaryd, my Mage-Attend.”
Jaryd stepped forward. “Sage Jessamyn, I am honored by this meeting,” he offered formally. He even copied Baden’s gesture when Jessamyn extended her hand.
The Owl-Sage’s smile returned, and she spoke to Jaryd with a simplicity and directness that he found disarming. “Be welcome, Jaryd. I hope that you’ll treasure your first Gathering. No other will be as special or as memorable for you.”
The other person in the room had remained in the background, waiting quietly as Jessamyn greeted her guests. Now he stepped forward to meet Jaryd and welcome Baden. He was a tall man with pale grey eyes that looked out from beneath a thick shock of raven black hair peppered with silver. He had a handsome, weathered face, and he grinned broadly as he embraced Baden in greeting.
“You’re looking well, Baden. It’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Sartol.”
The tall mage turned to Jaryd, still grinning. “Jaryd, it’s an honor to meet you. Welcome to Amarid.”
“Thank you, Owl-Master. The honor is mine.”
Sartol swung his gaze toward the Owl-Sage and bowed slightly. “Thank you for receiving me, Sage Jessamyn. I should be on my way.”
Jessamyn smiled up at the man. “You’re always welcome here, Sartol. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.”
Sartol raised his arm and Jaryd saw a large, dark form drop to it from an unseen perch. The mage’s owl was similar in size to Jessamyn’s, but it was heavily barred with brown and grey, and had prominent tufts on its head above its large, impassive yellow eyes. With a nod and smile to Baden, Sartol departed, leaving Jaryd and his uncle alone with the Owl-Sage.
Baden glanced after the tall man as he left and then cast a knowing look toward Jessamyn. “A bit of pre-Gathering wheedling?” he asked.
Jessamyn shook her head in disapproval. “Now, Baden, that’s not fair. He’s a decent man. We shouldn’t judge him just because he tries a bit too hard sometimes. It’s understandable after all he went through.”
“You’re right, of course.” He stepped forward and embraced the Owl-Sage and then stepped back slightly, leaving his hands on her shoulders. It appeared to Jaryd that the Owl-Master was nearly twice her size. “How ar
e you, Jessamyn?” Baden inquired with a mix of kindness and concern.
“As well as can be expected in these times,” she replied, with no hint of self-pity in her tone. “I fear there are dark days ahead, and I curse myself for being old and weak.” She gestured toward the chairs by the hearth. “Please sit,” she said. She picked up a small crystal bell that sat on the table and rang it once. A moment later a young woman, no older than fifteen or sixteen, entered the chamber. “More tea, please, Basya.” The girl bowed and left the room.
“We don’t think of you as old,” Baden said with a smile, “we value your experience and wisdom.”
Jessamyn arched an eyebrow. “Now who’s doing the wheedling?” she remarked dryly, evoking a laugh from the Owl-Master. She shifted in her chair to face Jaryd. “If those are the types of compliments he’s giving out today, I’ll speak with you, Jaryd. Where do you come from?”
“Northwestern Tobyn-Ser, Sage Jessamyn. A village named Accalia, in Leora’s Forest.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. In fact,” she went on, looking at Baden, “isn’t that where—” She stopped herself, a smile spreading over her face, and then she turned back to Jaryd, her brown eyes dancing. “Of course. There’s even a slight family resemblance. Not as much to you, Baden, as to Lynwen. Particularly around the eyes. Your family has a long and distinguished history in the Order, Jaryd. You should be very proud.”
“Thank you, Sage Jessamyn,” Jaryd said, even as he remarked to himself with irony that she probably knew more of that history than he did.
The young servant returned with a crystal platter that held three cups of tea and a small teapot, and, as they sipped the sweet herbal drink, Baden and Jessamyn exchanged news about themselves and various members of the Order. At length, they stopped speaking, sharing a silent look that appeared to communicate a great deal.
