by DAVID B. COE
“I didn’t know,” Jaryd said meekly.
“And your ignorance killed us!” the first railed. “In the end it may destroy Tobyn-Ser!”
Jaryd closed his eyes and shook his head. “No!” he shouted. “No!” He turned away from the ghosts, his body racked by sobbing. “No,” he said again, softly this time, his face buried in his hands.
He remained like that for a long time, unwilling to face them again, until finally, he began to wonder if they were still there. And then he heard his name spoken again, in a different voice, although one with the same unearthly quality as the others.
Straightening, and wiping the tears from his face, he looked to see who had called him. Arley and Iram were gone, as were the sage and her first. Two women stood before him, or rather the ghosts of two women. They carried staffs and owls and wore mages’ cloaks. One was tall, with short hair and lean, angular features. The other was shorter and stouter, with wide-set eyes and a round face. Yet, despite the differences in their appearance, they struck Jaryd as being somewhat alike. And though he did not recognize them, they seemed surprisingly familiar.
“Do you know who we are, Jaryd?” the tall one asked.
It was almost exactly the question Baden had asked him in Accalia early this past spring. “I think so, yes,” he replied, his heart racing. “You’re Lyris and Lynwen, my great-grandmother and grandmother.”
The smaller woman nodded. “Yes. Very good.”
“But I don’t know which of you is which.”
“I am Lyris,” the smaller one said.
Jaryd swallowed. “Have I done something else wrong? Is that why you’ve come?”
Lynwen shook her head. “No. We’ve come to show you a way out.”
“What!”
By way of an answer, the women turned their gazes toward the far end of the hollow. As they did, the flames there died down, creating an opening in the circle of fire. Jaryd looked back at the ghosts, uncertain of what they expected him to do.
“This way,” Lyris told him, gesturing toward the opening with a glowing green hand.
Jaryd gazed at her for another moment, still unsure. Then he looked at his grandmother, who nodded encouragingly.
“All right,” he murmured, as he began to walk toward the open end of the hollow. The ghosts followed, as did the remaining flames.
They walked for several minutes through a dense section of the grove and then down a steep bank. Jaryd heard the sound of rushing water, and a few moments later they came to a small, swift creek.
“Follow this downstream and you will come to the Moriandral just a short distance above the ruins of Rholde,” Lynwen instructed. “From there you can find your way back to your friends.”
Jaryd peered in the direction she had indicated, but the forest was too dense to see beyond the first bend in the stream. He turned back to his grandmother. “What about Alayna?”
The two ghosts looked at each other. “This is your only way out,” Lyris told him, her black eyes fixed on his face.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“You entered Theron’s Grove, and there is a price for doing such a thing. But both of you need not perish. This is your only way out,” she said again, “and there is not much time.”
Jaryd shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”
“Don’t be foolish, child!” Lynwen snapped. “We’re giving you a chance to escape!”
“You’re telling me to exchange Alayna’s life for my own!” Jaryd fired back. “I won’t do it!” He looked from one of the ghosts to the other. “Would you really want me to? Is that what you’d expect from Bernel’s son?”
Both women looked away. “If you refuse, there’s nothing more that we can do for you,” Lyris said quietly. “You’ll be at his mercy again.”
Jaryd nodded grimly. “Then so be it. I have to find Alayna.”
Immediately his grandmother and great-grandmother began to fade. The fires burned down as well. “Be well, child!” Lynwen called to him, her voice growing fainter and fainter. “Arick guard you!”
“Remember us!” Lyris called, the words barely more than a whisper.
A moment later, Jaryd was alone in the dark. The only light came from the sapphire ceryll contained within the branch that he carried, and it still seemed muted by the power of the grove. Ishalla let out a small cry. Jaryd stroked her chin reassuringly.It’s all right, he sent.We’ll find them. He took a steadying breath, and then he started back toward the center of Theron’s Grove in search of Alayna.
She had no idea where she was, and she didn’t understand why the flames that now ringed her had driven her to this spot. But staring at the ghostly green figure standing before her, and sending soothing thoughts to Fylimar on her shoulder, Alayna understood that none of that mattered anymore. The little girl hadn’t spoken; she didn’t have to. Alayna knew who she was, though they had never met, at least not that Alayna could remember. The child looked so much like Alayna’s mother—indeed, she looked so much like Alayna herself—that there could be no mistaking her. This was Danise, Alayna’s older sister, who had taken ill and died at the age of four when Alayna was but an infant. She was beautiful, even with the terrifying black eyes that gazed up at Alayna’s face.
Her parents had told her very little about Danise; from what she had heard and seen, they had told Faren, Alayna’s younger sister, even less. But throughout Alayna’s life, Danise had been a fifth presence in their home, hovering over all that the family did and said. As a child, Alayna had lain awake at night, wondering what it would be like to have an older sister and having imaginary conversations with Danise. And now, somehow, her sister stood before her. Looking at the little girl, Alayna could not keep herself from weeping. She was trembling uncontrollably, and when she tried to speak, she found that she could not.
“You know me,” the ghost said coldly, in a voice that seemed to come from far away.
Alayna nodded.
“What do you have to say to me?”
“I—I’m not sure what you mean,” Alayna stammered through her tears, her voice sounding loud and awkward. “I’ve often wished that I could meet you.”
Danise gave a high, mirthless laugh. “Have you?”
“Yes!” Alayna assured her, taken aback.
“Strange,” the little girl sneered, “it seems to me you’ve spent your whole life trying to make Mommy and Daddy forget that I’d ever been born!”
Alayna shook her head violently. “That’s not true!”
“Isn’t it!” the child fired back. “You’ve tried so hard to please them, to make them proud, all because you were afraid that they loved me more! You thought that if you could make them happy enough, they’d forget all about me!”
“No!” Alayna cried. She couldn’t stop herself from sobbing. “It’s not true!” she said again. But her denial sounded hollow, even to her own ears. There was more truth in the ghost’s words than she wanted to admit.
Even as a small child, barely older than the girl who stood before her, Alayna had been aware of how much her mother missed her first daughter. And Alayna had spent much of her life attempting to ease her mother’s pain the only way she knew how: by being the best at everything she did.
“I never wanted them to forget you,” she finally told the child, wiping the tears from her eyes though they continued to flow freely. “That’s not what I was trying to do.”
“You just wanted to make them love you the most!”
“I wanted to make them happy!” Alayna shouted at the girl.
Danise took a step back.
She may be a ghost, Alayna reminded herself, trying to ease her frustration, but she’s also a little girl. “They sounded so sad every time they talked about you,” she began again in a quieter voice, “that I wanted to make them think about something else. Sometimes at night, after I’d go to bed, I’d hear Mom crying, and I knew she was crying for you. I just wanted her to be happy.”
Black li
nes appeared on the girl’s face. It took several moments before Alayna realized that Danise was crying, too. “So you were trying to take my place.”
“No, Danise,” Alayna said, shaking her head again. “I could never have taken your place. Nobody could. That’s why Mom was so sad all the time. But you were gone, and Faren and I needed Mom and Dad to concentrate on us. Was that so bad?”
The ghost hesitated. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess—” She stopped suddenly, her black eyes growing wide. “Someone’s coming!” she whispered.
Immediately the glowing green image started to grow dim.
“Danise, no!” Alayna called to her. “Please don’t leave!”
“Good-bye, Alayna!” her sister called, her voice already so distant that it sounded like little more than a warm summer breeze rustling the trees.
In another moment, Danise was gone. The fires had died out as well, leaving Alayna and Fylimar with only Alayna’s purple ceryll by which to see. The Hawk-Mage peered through the trees, wondering who had come, and wishing that the light from her crystal could penetrate the stifling darkness of the grove.
She expected to see Jaryd’s blue stone approaching, or, perhaps, the emerald glow of the Owl-Master’s spirit. What she saw instead froze her blood. It was a yellow ceryll. Fylimar let out a cry of alarm and leaped off Alayna’s shoulder. Alayna turned to flee as well, but before she could take more than a step or two, an all-too-familiar voice stopped her.
“Please don’t run, my dear!” Sartol called. “I’d hate to have to kill you!”
Steeling herself and trying to ease the pounding of her heart, Alayna turned back to face her mentor. “I’m not sure I believe that,” she said as he drew near. “You seemed all too willing to kill me just a short time ago.”
He shook his head. “Not you, my dear. The boy, perhaps. But not you. In fact, as I remember our little encounter, you were the one who tried to kill me.”
“You were killing Jaryd!” she shot back. “What was I supposed to do?”
“But that’s precisely my point: my business was with the boy, not you.” The tall mage took another step forward. “How could I ever harm you?”
“Don’t come any closer!” she warned. Fylimar, who had returned to Alayna’s shoulder, gave a low hiss.
Sartol laughed. “Or what? You’ll kill me? I don’t think so. Even if you could bring yourself to try, which I doubt, you’re simply not strong enough.”
“Then I’ll die in the attempt!” she told him, pleased to hear how steady her voice remained.
“I’d rather it didn’t come to that,” he said, smiling disarmingly. “But you should know that regardless of what happens here, I am going to rule Tobyn-Ser. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me. My hope is, my hope has always been, that you and I can rule it together. But one way or another, this land will be mine.”
“I don’t believe you!” she answered. “Baden and the others will stop you!”
“Baden and the others are dead. Only you and Jaryd remain. Don’t you see, my dear: my success is ensured. If you refuse me I’ll kill you as I did the others and blame Theron for all your deaths. Then I’ll return to Amarid and assume control of the Order. No one will ever know what really happened.”
Alayna was crying again.Baden and the others are dead. The man she had trusted more than any other in the world was a murderer and a traitor. And there was nothing she could do to stop him.
“Please don’t cry, Alayna,” he said gently. “There was nothing you could do to save them. But you can save yourself. I love you; I always have. And I want you to be my first. I want us to rule the Order together. If only you knew how strong I am, and how much stronger I can become! You can as well! I’ll teach you, just as I taught you how to be a mage!”
“Why are you doing this?” she sobbed. “Why did you kill Jessamyn and Peredur?”
“Jessamyn and Peredur were in my way!” Sartol snapped. “They were weak, and they were making the Order weak! Under me the Mage-Craft will grow more powerful than it’s ever been!”
Alayna straightened. “No! I won’t allow it!”
“That’s not for you to decide,” Sartol replied, his voice low and cold. “Either you can join me and live, or you can refuse me and die. Those are your only choices.”
Alayna leveled her staff at the Owl-Master. “Then I’ll die!”
Sartol raised his staff as well. “I’m warning you, my dear. Don’t be deceived by my affection for you. I will kill you if I must.”
“You’re going to have to, Sartol! Because if you don’t, I’ll spend every day of my life trying to stop you!”
“Don’t be a fool, Alayna! I’m offering you your life and a chance to wield more power than you ever dreamed possible!”
Alayna grinned darkly. “I’m happy with the power I have.”
“This is your last chance!” Sartol growled, baring his teeth.
Alayna braced herself for Sartol’s blast of mage-fire, knowing that she could not stand against him. In that instant, however, she heard a voice call her name.
“Jaryd!” she cried back. And then, “Run, Jaryd! It’s Sartol! R—” She stopped. Suddenly there was no need to yell. She stood alone in the forest. Sartol was gone, if he had ever been there at all. A few seconds later, Jaryd reached her and enfolded her in his arms.
“What was it you were calling to me?” he asked her after a short time, still holding her.
“It was nothing,” she whispered, as unwilling as he to end their embrace.
Finally he released her, stepping back and gazing intently into her eyes. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I am now. How did you find me?”
“I saw the light.” He glanced around them. “At least I thought I did.”
She gave a wan smile. “There was more light here a short while ago.”
“The fire?” he asked.
“That burned out a while ago,” she said. “This was Sartol.”
“What!”
“Or an image of him. I don’t know anymore.”
“What did he say?” the young mage asked, an expression of amazement on his youthful face.
Alayna shrugged. “He said he intends to rule the Order, and he wants me by his side as his first.”
“Do you think he meant it?”
“I don’t know,” she answered candidly. “As I said, I’m not even sure that it was him. He vanished into thin air as soon as I heard your voice.”
Jaryd nodded. “That fits.”
Alayna narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Just that things in this grove aren’t as they appear,” Jaryd replied. “Like that fire: it looked and felt real, but it didn’t do any damage to the trees or brush.”
“That’s reassuring in a way,” Alayna murmured.
“Why?” Jaryd asked, looking at her closely. “What else did you see?”
Alayna shook her head, taking a shuddering breath. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she told him as gently as she could. “Someday, perhaps, but not now.”
He nodded and took a long breath of his own. “I understand.”
She gazed at him. Even in the dim light cast by their cerylls she could see the pained look in his pale eyes. “I believe you,” she whispered. She kissed his cheek softly and gathered him in her arms once again.
“So what do we do now?” Jaryd asked wearily.
“I don’t think there’s much more we can do tonight,” she told him. “We should try to get some rest.”
Jaryd nodded his agreement. “You’re probably right. But what if Theron isn’t done with us yet?”
“I’m sure he’ll wake us,” Alayna said with a smile.
Jaryd laughed.
The two young mages searched the area around them for a place to sleep and soon found a particularly dense cluster of trees beneath which the ground was still dry.
“This looks good to me,” Jaryd commented, stretching out on the dry leaves.
“So it would seem,” Jaryd responded sleepily. “Let’s just hope that we survive leaving it.”
12
Midway through the morning, the rain stopped entirely, and the sun burst dazzlingly through the thinning clouds. The grass and leaves, still wet from the storm, sparkled in the sunlight, and steam rose slowly from the ruins of Rholde. Baden and Sartol had been gone for several hours. Even now, they were riding north toward Amarid, while Trahn, hoping against hope that Jaryd and Alayna would emerge from Theron’s Grove alive and unharmed, sat on the ground by the camp, watching the light grey smoke drift from what remained of the funeral pyres. For much of the morning, almost since the Owl-Masters had left, he had gone over the events of the previous night in his head, strying to come to terms with the rather strong likelihood that Orris had betrayed the Order.
He could not honestly say that he considered Orris a friend, at least not in the way that Baden was a friend, or Jaryd. Thinking of the young Hawk-Mage, he scanned the edge of the grove again, looking for some sign that Jaryd and Alayna were alive. He saw nothing, and, sighing deeply, he returned to his musings. Even if Orris was not a friend, however, he was an ally; someone who shared Trahn’s vision of the Order and its proper standing in Tobyn-Ser, someone whose opinion Trahn respected. More than that, Orris had established himself as the leader and the conscience of the younger mages. His abrasive manner, which many of the Owl-Masters mistook for disrespect, Trahn appreciated as an outgrowth of the Hawk-Mage’s passion. Certainly, Orris had a temper—Trahn could almost accept the idea that he might kill Jessamyn in a moment of fury. Almost. But Baden had been correct the night before when he suggested that Peredur’s murder, and the attempts on Jaryd, Alayna, and Sartol, indicated that a deeper, more sinister purpose lay behind the killing of the Owl-Sage. Baden had not actually said it, but Trahn had inferred from his words that the Owl-Master suspected a plot against the Order that related in some way to the recent attacks on Tobyn-Ser. This, Trahn could not accept, at least not as far as Orris was concerned. Yes, Orris was caustic, rude, even temperamental. But not devious. Which brought Trahn back to Sartol. That one, he did not trust. He never had, and he saw no reason to start now. Were it not for Trahn’s absolute belief in Orris’s integrity, which he knew Baden did not share, Sartol’s story would have seemed completely plausible. But what proof did Sartol offer? Jessamyn and Peredur’s bodies? Sartol could have killed them himself. Jaryd and Alayna’s disappearance? Again, the Owl-Master could have been responsible. His own injuries? Orris could have inflicted them while trying to save Jaryd and Alayna, just as easily as he could have trying to kill them. Looked at from just a slightly different perspective, the evidence could be construed to implicate Sartol instead of Orris.
