CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  “Can you heal our injuries, Owl-Master?” came another voice from the crowd. “Can you help us search for survivors?”

  “Of course,” Sartol told them, his gaze never leaving Baden’s face. “I’m here to serve you.”

  The townspeople started to lead Sartol toward the northern end of town, while Baden’s captors pulled him in the opposite direction.

  “What will you do when the next attack occurs, Sartol?” Baden called. “You can’t kill all of them! Eventually the truth will come out!”

  “All of whom, Baden?” Sartol returned. “The renegades who have committed these crimes against Tobyn-Ser are dead. There are their bodies,” he added, pointing to the charred corpses that still smoldered in the street.

  “You want us to believe that two men were responsible for all of the attacks?” Baden countered. “Impossible. There have to be more, perhaps a great many more.”

  The villagers had been listening, warily watching the two mages. Presented now with this possibility, they whispered anxiously among themselves.

  “Take him away!” Sartol commanded harshly. “He’s trying to confuse and frighten you, to distract you from the fact that he’s a traitor! Don’t let him! Yes, these men committed many crimes all through the land, but those incidents took place over a long period of time. Perhaps they had horses that enabled them to cover great distances swiftly. It doesn’t matter: however they did it, they’re dead now. After an ordeal of this sort, it’s hard for us to accept an ending, no matter how satisfying or pleasing it might be. But it is over. The mages are dead.” Even to Baden’s own ears, Sartol sounded reasonable. More reasonable, Baden knew, than he did. Baden also guessed that, with drying blood covering his face from the wound on his forehead, he probably appeared to the crowd as a bit of a madman. “Take him away,” Sartol repeated, “and let us see to your loved ones.”

  Baden felt himself being pulled toward the jail again, and he tried the one thing that remained. “They weren’t mages!” he shouted, bringing another murmur from the townspeople, and forcing Sartol to face him again.

  “What do you mean?” Sartol demanded impatiently. “Of course they were mages. Renegades, perhaps, but look at their cloaks, and their birds—”

  “Yes, I know. And their cerylls. But this much, at least, the people of Watersbend can confirm for us.” Baden surveyed the crowd, and raised his voice to reach all those who stood in the town center. “You saw the battle,” he declared. “You know that I’m right. Even after I killed their birds, they still retained their powers.”

  After a pause, several people nodded. “It’s true,” one woman said. And another agreed, “Yes, I saw that, also.”

  Baden looked at Sartol. “Whatever power these men had did not arise from the Mage-Craft!”

  Sartol regarded him silently, considering this. “You may be right,” he admitted after some time, his voice cold. “But regardless of what power they drew upon, they attacked these people, and you tried to protect them.” The handsome Owl-Master paused, allowing the impact of his words to reach those who stood with him. And Baden saw the expressions in their faces harden. “Take him to your jail,” Sartol commanded again, turning away and beginning to walk toward the smoldering wreckage of what once had been farmhouses. “I’ve heard enough of his deceptions and diversions.”

  Once more, Baden felt the three men who held him pulling him toward the jail. And this time he knew that there would be no stopping them.

  The prison was not far from where the strangers lay dead in the street. It looked plain and solid, very much like the prisons in other towns. It was constructed of dried sod and clay, and the narrow windows along the side of the building were covered with cast-iron gratings. Inside, the jail was as austere as it had appeared from the street. It had a front room, with a simple table and several chairs, and, in the rear of the building, separated from the entrance by a thick wall and iron door, stood eight cells, four on each side of a narrow corridor. A bedraggled young man, who smelled of alcohol and vomit, slept in the first cell on the right; the rest stood empty, their iron doors ajar. The men locked Baden in the cell across from the drunk and returned to the front room, where they remained, talking quietly to one another. Occasionally, they would come back to check on him, their expressions apprehensive and watchful, but, for the most part, they left him alone. Baden could hear them speaking, though, and he gathered from their conversation that the constable and his deputies had been killed by the strangers, and it had fallen to these three to guard him until Sartol came for him in the morning.

  His cell was small but surprisingly clean, and Baden lay down on the hard pallet and began to review in his mind the sequence of events that had followed Sartol’s arrival in the village square. He was certain that the stranger who had pushed back his hood recognized Sartol, and had intended to say something to the Owl-Master. Which could only mean that Sartol had betrayed the Order. But Baden had suspected as much since his strange conversation with Sartol the night before. The question on which he found himself dwelling was far more unsettling: who were the men Sartol had killed, and from what source did they draw their power? Obviously, given their ability to fight him with fire even after he had destroyed their birds, they had not been mages. But, that being the case, Baden could not even begin to fathom who they might be, or whence they had come.

  He pondered the question for a long time, turning it over and over in his mind, until eventually he must have fallen asleep. For the next thing he knew, a great commotion in the front room of the jailhouse had awakened him, and a familiar, though utterly unexpected voice was threatening the lives of his guards.

  * * *

  Fatigued from so many days of riding, and still pained by his injuries, he had slept later than he intended, and had awakened only because he heard the hoof beats of Baden and Sartol’s horses reverberating through the ground as they started northward. The sun was already up, a huge orange ball sitting on the eastern horizon, and Orris had to wait for several minutes, until the Owl-Masters had ridden out of sight, before he could risk remounting and riding after them. As it was, he had been fortunate that they had not seen his horse standing in the grass near where he slept. Once he started riding, he maintained enough of a gap between himself and the Owl-Masters to be confident they could not see him; anytime they came within view, he slowed his mount, allowing them to pull farther ahead. And, an hour after climbing back into the saddle, when he reached the rippling waters of the Moriandral, he took the added precaution of crossing to the eastern side of the river and using its constant rumble to mask the sound of his galloping mount.

  Throughout the morning and afternoon, and into the dark of evening, he followed them, resting when they rested, and pursuing at a safe distance as they rode. It had been easier on this day than it had been for the past few. As soon as he was awake and moving, his wounds became less of a problem. He could feel himself healing; time seemed to be doing what he had been unable to do for himself. As for the other pain, the one he felt each time he thought of Pordath . . . well, that would take a bit more time.

  He had been satisfied to ride in their wake, to stay back for now, and wait until they entered Tobyn’s Wood before attempting to ambush them. But then he had seen the explosions of red light over the distant town, had grasped almost immediately what they signified, and, keeping his glowing ceryll covered, had driven his horse forward with a rage and frustration that nearly caused him to overtake Sartol. Only the speed with which the Owl-Masters rode toward the fires and smoke, and, in particular, the genuine urgency with which Baden seemed to be spurring his mount, kept Orris from abandoning his strategy altogether and riding openly into the village. In truth, although he found this difficult to accept, he was not at all certain that he could have caught up to Baden even if he had tried. So he decided to keep his presence a secret for a while longer and watch what Baden did before sacrificing the one advantage he still had. He also had to admit to himself that, without his powers, he wo
uld have had little chance of stopping the attack on his own.

  He reached the eastern fringe of the village square just in time to see Baden kill the two huge, black birds. He nearly hollered a warning to the Owl-Master when he saw, incredibly, that the two mages, or whoever they were, still retained their powers. And he watched with astonishment and then profound interest as Sartol rode into town, killed the strangers, and then had Baden arrested as a traitor. Had he not known of Sartol’s treachery, he might have believed that Baden had been trying to protect the attackers, just as the townspeople apparently did.

  But Orris had seen the one stranger pull back his hood upon recognizing Sartol, and it had seemed to him that the man intended to address the Owl-Master. Orris had been enraged when Sartol killed the men without first trying to subdue and interrogate them; so, too, it seemed, had Baden.

  In that moment, it occurred to Orris that he might have been too quick to assume that Baden had conspired with Sartol in all of this. While he had bitter, personal knowledge of Sartol’s treachery, he had no evidence at all of Baden’s. Yes, he and Baden had often clashed in the past, and the Owl-Master had pushed very hard for this ill-fated journey to Theron’s Grove. But, if he were to be fair, he would have to acknowledge that those things, taken individually or even weighed together, said nothing about Baden’s loyalty to the land. On the other hand, Trahn’s unwavering trust of the Owl-Master said a great deal. And so, too, did Orris’s own memory of Baden’s words to the Order just after a vandal’s stone had crashed through a window of the Great Hall: “If there is a murderer and a traitor in this hall right now, hear me: I will find you, and I will use all my power to destroy you.” Orris considered himself a powerful mage, or at least he had before Pordath’s death, and he rarely allowed himself to feel intimidated. That day in the Great Hall, however, he had been daunted by what he saw blaze in Baden’s lean face as the Owl-Master issued his challenge. Since leaving the grove, he had dismissed Baden’s statement as posturing, for how else could he reconcile it with his belief that Baden had betrayed the Order? But on this night, crouched in the shadows between two shops, watching as Baden battled for his life against the strange mages and their enormous, ebony familiars, and then witnessing the Owl-Master’s confrontation with Sartol, Orris found himself questioning his own judgment. It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation for him, this self-doubt and irresolution. But, since he had become unbound, he had been surprised repeatedly by the complexities of his own emotions.

  Which, perhaps, explained the other sentiment with which he grappled as he continued to observe Baden and Sartol. Since the Gathering, he had begrudged Jaryd and Alayna their places in the delegation to Theron’s Grove. They were barely fledged; they did not yet have full mastery of their abilities. However powerful they might someday prove to be, whatever the significance of their bindings to Amarid’s Hawk, they did not belong on this mission. Or so he had told himself. He had even called them “the young ones,” and referred to Jaryd as “the boy,” he recalled, suddenly abashed by his own arrogance. Yet, tonight he had come face to face with the power of that “boy’s” Sight. The strangers he had seen matched almost exactly the description Jaryd once offered of the mage he had envisioned at Taima. It was not as though Orris had never had a vision. He was a Hawk-Mage, and the Sight was a part of the Mage-Craft. But while he had seen things, and divined future events from them, he had never in all his days had a vision that he could take so literally, certainly not in a matter of such monumental importance. Thinking of this, he grieved for the loss of the two young mages, not just because their powers and insights would be needed in this battle, and not simply in response to the tragedy that their deaths represented. He mourned for them because he wished to apologize, to acknowledge that he had been wrong about them.

  He shook his head. Again, he was not used to harboring such sentiments. He had once been told by an older mage that the times between bindings, while difficult and frightening, could also be periods of valuable self-exploration and growth. He had been young at the time, newly bound to his first familiar, and not inclined to pay much attention to such insights. Now, though, remembering the conversation, he grinned again at his own vanity. The mage, whose name he had forgotten, had, of course, been absolutely correct. And, finally, Orris was listening.

  On the main street of the village square, Sartol led the villagers toward the devastated remains of their homes, and three men dragged Baden toward the town jail, leaving the remains of the strangers and their birds unattended. Waiting until the mages and the crowd were no longer in sight, Orris crept to the spot where the dead men lay in the road, and uncovered his ceryll so that he might use its light to examine the blackened bodies. Little remained of their clothes or features.

  But, when he next moved to the bird that had been catapulted back toward its masters by Baden’s mage-fire, Orris halted, astounded and disturbed by what he saw.

  What he had taken for a hawk had not been a bird after all. Indeed, it was unlike any creature or thing Orris had ever seen. Its feathers, or what had been made to look like feathers, were composed of a strange substance that appeared to have turned to liquid when exposed to the heat of Baden’s mage-fire, and then to have hardened again, into a grotesquely deformed shape. In some ways, the material seemed to have the properties of iron or gold. But its light weight and its suppleness strongly suggested that it was not a metal, at least not one that could be found in Tobyn-Ser. Inside the creature, where there should have been blood, bones, and organs, there were instead strange metallic threads, chips and globules of glass, and more of the same substance of which the feathers were constructed. The talons and beak had been shaped out of metal, but a variety with which Orris was unfamiliar. It was exceptionally thin, but strong and razor sharp.

  Most remarkable of all, however, were the creature’s eyes. Obviously, given the way in which this strange bird had maneuvered and attacked, it could see. Yet, its eyes did not appear to be real. Both of them had been knocked out of their sockets by Baden’s blast, or perhaps by the force of the bird’s landing. Peering through one of the gaps into the bird’s head, Orris could see the same collection of metal strands, glass, and the strange material that had comprised the rest of its body. And examining the eye itself, one of which he found on the ground a few feet away, Orris realized that it consisted of a flat disk of gold embedded in a curved piece of glass.

  The Hawk-Mage walked quickly to where the second creature lay, knowing before he reached it what he would find, but wanting to be sure just the same. Like its twin, this “bird” had never been alive at all. In spite of its hawklike flight, and its anticipation of the tactic with which Baden and his owl had tried to lure it into danger, in spite of its obvious ability to see and hear and think just as Pordath had been able to do, the creature was no more than a tool. It was a blacksmith’s bellows or a farmer’s plow; it had been constructed by humans for their use.

  But not by any people in this land. Orris knew that. The degree of mechanical sophistication represented by this bird surpassed by far the capacities of anyone in Tobyn-Ser. Indeed, the distance between these birds and Tobyn-Ser’s most advanced tools was so vast, so overwhelming that Orris could barely grasp it. Deeply frightened, he scanned the dusty road for anything else that might offer some insight into the identity of the attackers.

  Noticing their staffs, Orris stepped over to the nearest one and picked it up. From a distance, it had appeared to be made of wood and crystal, like his own staff and ceryll. But, picking it up and looking more closely, Orris saw that, once again, appearances had deceived him. The shaft had been fashioned to resemble wood, but, like the birds’ feathers, it had melted in places with the heat of the fire that consumed its owner. It felt odd: overly light and poorly balanced. The red stone did appear to be a genuine crystal, but by now Orris had grown skeptical. A small square, located on the shaft just below the stone, drew his attention. Glancing around to be certain that no one could see him, he aimed the cr
ystal toward the ground, placed his thumb over the square, and pressed it. Instantly, a beam of red fire surged into the road, creating a small cloud of dark smoke and causing the staff to vibrate slightly and to recoil upward.

  Orris quickly returned the staff to where he had found it, fighting as he did to keep his fears in check. These men, or whoever had sent them, had crafted animate beings that imitated natural ones, and had constructed weapons that equaled the strength of mage-fire. An enemy with such abilities posed a grave threat to Tobyn-Ser; even the Order could no longer guarantee the land’s safety.

  Gazing at the staff, and then at the remains of the birds, Orris wrestled with the implications of what he beheld. And doing so, he thought back to a conversation he had early in the spring with a friend of his, Crob, an Abboriji trader who came regularly to the ports of Surfsfury Harbor, along the eastern edge of Tobyn’s Plain. As he always did, Orris had teased the merchant about his land’s constant, petty wars, wondering aloud why the people of Abborij could not be more like the peaceful denizens of Tobyn-Ser. Normally, Crob suffered these gibes with good humor. But, on this occasion, he had responded with anger.

  “Our affairs are no concern of yours, Mage!” Crob had snapped. “Abborij has no need of meddling strangers! Our wars are our own business!”

  Taken aback by his friend’s response, Orris had held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I meant no offense, Crob,” he assured the fair-haired man. “It was just a joke.”

  Crob had continued to glare at him for another minute, before breaking eye contact and giving a small nod. “I know that, Orris. I’m sorry.”

  “Is Abborij having problems with outlanders?”

  “Some, yes.” Crob hesitated, as if unsure of whether he should confide in the Hawk-Mage. “For many years,” he explained at last, “the potentates have hired mercenaries to fight their wars, rather than risking the young men of Abborij.” He smiled ruefully. “No doubt, given our fondness for combat, the practice has kept the population of our land from becoming entirely female. It has also, up until now, meant that the lesser lords, those with smaller coffers, had little chance to expand their territories.”