CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  But—and this was the point that Vardis would have failed to grasp even as the man he had been explained it to her again and again—his personal feelings had no bearing on what he had to do. Just as it would have been improper to let his difficult interaction with Orris influence his treatment of the Hawk-Mage, so, too, would he have been wrong to treat Trahn or Baden differently simply because he liked them. The three mages were being held in the rooms just above where Niall now sat because a member of the Order, indeed the man whom the Owl-Masters would, in all likelihood, choose to lead the Order, claimed to have discovered a conspiracy, and had presented plausible evidence to support his allegations. He even had witnesses. Niall could hope, in private, that all three men would be exonerated, but that did not relieve him of his responsibilities.

  Which, of course, explained why he was sitting there in the first place, alone and inconspicuous in a dark corner of the tavern. “I don’t expect there to be many,” Sartol had said. “Perhaps there will be none at all.” Niall thought otherwise. He couldn’t say why, really. It was instinct, nothing more, the type of intuition that he had forgotten he possessed, that he had, in fact, lost a decade ago, only to have it return so abruptly, along with his resolve and his self-respect, in the few days since the unexpected summons to Sartol’s quarters. He felt certain that someone would come to see the accused. Someone Niall knew. Soon. And that this person would lead him to others who also sympathized with the three men he had arrested. He expected this to happen; he was waiting for it, as he might anticipate a favorite scene from one of Cearbhall’s classic dramas. All he had to do was remain patient.

  As it happened, he didn’t even need to do that much. Just a few minutes after he seated himself at the ale-stained table, he saw a figure in a mage’s cloak enter the inn and move quickly to the stairs. With the hood of the cloak thrown over the mage’s head, Niall could not make out any features. But he saw a leaf-green ceryll, and a darkly streaked owl about the size of his own, and he realized, with some surprise, who had come. The Owl-Master visited with the accused mages only briefly, descending the stairs several moments later and slipping outside into the late-afternoon light. Quietly, casually, Niall rose from his table and made his way to the door. He stepped into the sunlight, giving his eyes a minute to adjust before scanning the narrow street for the hooded figure. He saw no one, and he felt a cold panic begin to rise in his heart. Quelling it ruthlessly, he stopped and listened. Even a mage could not vanish into the city without a trace. He waited, holding his breath . . .

  . . . and heard the echo of quick footsteps retreating through an alley to his right. Moving quietly to the mouth of the passageway, he caught a glimpse of the green ceryll and the owl. He sighed deeply with relief, feeling his pulse slow to normal, and he allowed himself a brief smile. Then Niall plunged into the shade of the alley to follow the Owl-Master toward the others who had conspired against the Order.

  For those few hours lying with Alayna in the redolent grass, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, it seemed to Jaryd that time stood still. He and Alayna had lost themselves and their burdens in each other and, later, in the idyllic beauty of the clearing. Just before dusk, the deer that had bolted into the woods when Baden first led the young mages into the open space returned to resume grazing. A pair of hawks glided effortlessly over the knoll, hunting for the evening’s meal and drawing the avid attention of Ishalla and Fylimar.

  “This was what I saw in the other vision I had of you,” Alayna confided as they lay together watching the hawks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This,” she said, blushing slightly. “Us, together in this meadow.”

  He grinned and kissed her gently on the lips. “That must have been quite a vision.”

  She giggled, returning the kiss. “It was.”

  A few moments later the sun disappeared behind the trees, and the air in the clearing began to grow colder. Reluctantly the young mages slipped back into their clothing and built a small fire. And with the cold air and the darkening of the sky came as well a renewed concern for Baden, Trahn, and Orris. The Owl-Master had given them no timetable for the events he planned to set in motion; he had not indicated when they should expect his messenger to arrive. And, given the way the afternoon had unfolded, the early arrival of whomever Baden sent would have been a cause for much embarrassment for Jaryd and Alayna. Nonetheless, as the two young mages sat in silence by the fire, roasting a pair of quail killed for them by their familiars, Jaryd felt himself growing edgy. He jumped every time he heard the snap of a twig under a deer hoof, or the call of an owl from the nearby forest, and, though they had not eaten for hours, and the bird he was roasting smelled wonderful, he found that he was not very hungry.

  Sitting beside him, Alayna shifted slightly and gazed at him. “It may not be until tomorrow,” she offered quietly, “and if they opt for a trial before the entire Order, we may have to wait for several days. You’re going to have to find a way to relax.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  She shrugged slightly by way of reply.

  Jaryd smirked ruefully. “I’m sorry. It’s probably pretty annoying, isn’t it?”

  Again, the same shrug, although this time Alayna could not entirely keep a grin from her face. “Let’s just say that, at this point, I’m hoping for an immediate trial.”

  He gave a small laugh. “All right, I’ll work on it.” He paused, turning the spit that held his dinner over the fire. “I feel like we ought to be preparing somehow,” he remarked a short while later. “It feels strange to just be sitting here while Baden and the others are about to go on trial.”

  “What do you think we should be doing?”

  Jaryd shook his head. “That’s just it: I have no idea. There isn’t much that we can do. But it still doesn’t seem right.” He turned to face her, an idea forming in his head.

  “Tell me about Sartol,” he urged, “about what we can expect him to do or not do.”

  She regarded him for a moment before passing a hand through her long hair in a familiar gesture. “I don’t know him as well as I thought I did,” she observed.

  Jaryd heard pain in her voice. This wound would take a long time to heal. “Perhaps not,” he returned, “but you know him better than most of us do, certainly better than I do. Anything will help, Alayna.” This last came out as more of a plea than he had intended, but it seemed to reach her.

  At length, she nodded. “As I told you this morning,” she began thoughtfully, “he’ll be ready for whatever Baden does. He’s a cautious man, a careful planner.”

  “Do you think he planned to kill Jessamyn and Peredur?”

  “No. That was too sloppy and too dangerous. Something went wrong; he was improvising.”

  Jaryd shook his head. “And he might still get away with it.”

  “He’s also clever,” Alayna said grimly. “But the point I was making before is this: he won’t just be counting on the trial going his way and the Owl-Masters selecting him to lead the Order. That’s not how he works. There would be too much risk in doing it that way, too much uncertainty.” Her face looked rigid and white in the glow of the fire, and her eyes, locked on Jaryd’s, had grown wide with the doubt and apprehension that always seemed to come now when she spoke about Sartol. “He’ll have planned for every eventuality,” she went on. “He’ll have taken into account every conceivable outcome of both the trial and the voting for the next sage. If he can help it, he won’t allow himself to be surprised.”

  “I guess that’s where we come in,” Jaryd commented casually, hoping that his smile and tone conveyed more confidence than he actually felt.

  She turned her gaze toward the fire, her expression unchanged. “Maybe,” she breathed. “But I can’t help thinking that he’ll be prepared for us, too.”

  He could find no words with which to allay her fears; indeed, he felt his own returning with renewed strength. They both fell into a pensive silence, sitting in front of the low fire, absorb
ed in their thoughts as they waited for their dinners to cook. And they still had not spoken when, several minutes later, they first heard the footfalls coming toward them through the woods.

  “That wasn’t a deer,” Jaryd whispered, instantly attentive as he reached for his ceryll and called Ishalla to his shoulder.

  Alayna stood, her staff ready beside her. “No, it wasn’t. I think it came from over there,” she said, pointing to their right, “from the same direction Baden took when he left us.”

  “The messenger?”

  “Or an enemy.”

  As if on cue, they both concealed their cerylls within their cloaks. Jaryd took a steadying breath. Then he stood and, with Alayna beside him, moved to the edge of the clearing near where the sound had originated. A few seconds later, they heard it again, closer this time, and, simultaneously, they spied a soft, green light radiating through the trees. For a wildly disorienting moment, Jaryd thought that Theron had come. But he quickly realized that this green was different—it was not the cold, baleful emerald hue that emanated from the unsettled Owl-Master. This looked warmer, more alive, as if it flowed from the grass or from the leaves of the maples and alders that grew in Tobyn’s Wood.

  “Do you recognize the color?” Alayna asked him.

  “No. You?”

  She shook her head.

  Jaryd hesitated before taking another deep breath and whispering, “Forgive me if this turns out to be the wrong thing to do.” Then he uncovered his ceryll and, thrusting it forward toward the forest, made it blaze brilliantly. “Stop and declare yourself,” he commanded, striving to sound as menacing as possible, and lamenting the youthful timbre of his voice.

  The footsteps halted. “I am a friend,” came the reply. It was a woman’s voice, clear and strong, though cautiously low. “I was instructed to tell you that ‘Like you, I am allied with Theron,’ although I don’t understand it, and I don’t even like saying it.”

  Jaryd allowed himself to relax, and muted the light of his ceryll. “I understand why you might feel that way,” he answered, “but I would ask you to trust that the meaning of what you’ve said will be made clear to you soon enough. In the meantime, be welcome, Sonel.”

  “You know me!” she called, and even at a distance, Jaryd could hear the surprise in her tone.

  “I know who you are, and I had a feeling that Baden would send you.”

  “And do I know you?”

  Jaryd opened his mouth to respond, but, before he could speak, he felt Alayna touch his arm. Glancing at the young mage, he saw her shake her head in warning. It seemed unlikely that someone else might be listening or that the Owl-Master had been followed. But Alayna was right: he could not risk shouting their names through the forest. He signaled his understanding with a quick nod, and then turned back toward Sonel. “Come forward into the clearing,” he instructed, “and you can see for yourself.”

  The sound of Sonel’s footsteps commenced again, the soft crinkle of fir needles and the occasional crack of a twig under her foot floating gently into the open area in which Jaryd and Alayna stood. At the same time, the verdant glow of her ceryll grew steadily brighter, marking her progress through the trees. Soon, she emerged from the dense rows of evergreens into the clearing.

  She was taller than Jaryd remembered—almost as tall as he—and younger looking as well. She wore her light brown hair tied back, and her green eyes seemed to capture and amplify the color of her ceryll. Her owl, similar in coloring and size to Baden’s Anla, sat watchfully on her shoulder, its earlike tufts standing erect above the round, yellow eyes.

  As she stepped into the open air, the Owl-Master raised her staff, brightening the mage-glow from her crystal in order to view more clearly the two figures waiting for her. And, seeing them, she gasped in disbelief and took a step backward.

  “But we were told you had died!” she blurted out. “Both of you. That you were killed by Theron—” She faltered, staring at them wordlessly. Then, as comprehension chased the shock and confusion from her face, she began to smile. “Of course: Baden’s shibboleth. ‘Allied with Theron,’ indeed!”

  “There’s more to it than even that,” Jaryd told her, “but for now, that much will suffice.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she replied. “And I hope that you both will accept my apology for my initial reaction to seeing you alive. This is a gift beyond words, and unlooked for. Welcome back.”

  Jaryd smiled. “Thank you. Tell me though: how was Baden able to convince you that Sartol’s accusations were false without revealing that we were alive?”

  Sonel smiled enigmatically. “Baden wouldn’t have to do very much to convince me of such a thing. I never believed the charges. And when he told me that he had friends outside the city who could prove his innocence, that was enough. Now you can answer a question for me: why do you wait here? Surely, you wouldn’t face the charges with Baden and the others.”

  “No, probably not. But Baden fears for our lives.”

  “Why?”

  Jaryd hesitated, and it was Alayna who answered. “Because we know that Sartol killed Jessamyn and Peredur; he was the one who chased us into Theron’s Grove.”

  “Arick guard us!” Sonel whispered. “I wish I could say that I’m surprised, but after this day, I fear nothing will ever surprise me again.” She looked at Alayna with sympathy. “This must be particularly difficult for you. I’m very sorry.”

  “That’s kind of you,” the young mage said with difficulty, awkwardly running a hand through her dark hair. “But we have greater concerns than my feelings.”

  Sonel looked like she might say more, but instead she simply nodded. “You’re right. There’s much to discuss,” she commented after a pause, her tone crisp. “Perhaps we should sit.”

  Jaryd motioned toward the small fire in the middle of the clearing, and the three mages moved to arrange themselves around it.

  “Baden, Trahn, and Orris have demanded an immediate trial,” Sonel began a few moments later. “It will commence tomorrow morning. Baden recommended that you rise with first light and make your way to the southern bank of the Larian. From there you’ll be able to hear bells ring, calling the gathered mages together. Wait for about a quarter of an hour and then come to the Great Hall. He also said that you should remember to bring the evidence.”

  “Good thing he reminded us,” Jaryd remarked with sarcasm, allowing himself a small laugh.

  Sonel grinned. “He does tend to supervise, doesn’t he?”

  “Do you know what made them opt for the immediate trial?” Alayna cut in.

  The Owl-Master’s expression immediately turned grim. “Yes.” She took a steadying breath, and then: “Sartol is attempting to link himself to the Summoning Stone. He’s already succeeded in altering it slightly. They don’t want to risk giving him the opportunity to do more.”

  Alayna had begun to nod as Sonel spoke. “That fits,” she commented flatly. “That sounds like something Sartol would do. May the gods protect us.”

  “What do you mean when you say he’s ‘altering it’?” Jaryd asked.

  “Baden and Orris both saw the stone flicker with Sartol’s ceryll-hue.”

  Jaryd shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. If he already has a ceryll, how can he link to another one?”

  “A good question,” Sonel told him. “I’m not certain that I understand either. According to the natural laws that have always governed the Mage-Craft, he shouldn’t be able to do this. But apparently he has. He must be enormously strong. He would need to be in order to project his magic into a second, ordinary crystal, let alone the Summoning Stone.”

  “And he’ll be that much more powerful once he’s mastered it,” Alayna added. “I hope tomorrow isn’t too late.”

  “It mustn’t be,” Sonel said heatedly, her green eyes flashing in the firelight. “It won’t be. We aren’t alone in this fight. There are several others who support Baden, and there will be more still when the mages see the two of
you and hear what you have to say. Sartol won’t be allowed to gain control of the Order, not while I’m alive and capable of fighting him.”

  Alayna stared at the Owl-Master, her expression desolate despite Sonel’s pledge. “But how do you defeat a mage who wields that much power?”

  “By forming alliances. By working with others who believe in the same things you do. By resisting him at every turn, and even, if necessary, by turning the people of Tobyn-Ser against him.” Sonel smiled fiercely, her features taking on a look of determination and fortitude that reminded Jaryd, oddly, of Trahn. Or, perhaps not so oddly. Like Trahn, Sonel was someone Baden loved, a person with whom the Owl-Master had trusted his life, and those of Jaryd and Alayna. “I don’t care how strong he is,” she concluded, “if Sartol believes that he can subdue us without a battle, he’s a fool.”

  Buoyed by Sonel’s forceful words, Jaryd turned to gauge Alayna’s reaction. But, even as he did, even as he felt his chest expanding with courage and hope, he heard Ishalla and Sonel’s owl hiss in belated warning, and he knew that any foolishness that Sonel might attribute to Sartol was nothing compared with their own. And when he heard the man’s voice, one he thought he recognized, call out from the edge of the clearing, he feared that he might be ill.

  “Bravely said, Sonel,” the man called, “though I never would have figured you for a traitor. I will be very interested to hear more about these others of whom you speak, as, I’m certain, will Sartol. Right now, however, I will be satisfied with the names of your two companions.”