CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  Jaryd turned to see who had spoken—all three of them did. But all they saw was a maroon ceryll that flared dazzlingly, like a wine-stained sun, illuminating all the clearing as if it were midday, and shining most brightly, Jaryd understood with anguished clarity, on his face and Alayna’s.

  19

  He had slept poorly, waiting for Sonel to return from the clearing with confirmation that Jaryd and Alayna had received his message. She would have been traveling on foot rather than horseback—all of them had agreed that she would attract less attention that way—and she had cautioned Baden that she might not return to Amarid until late. In which case she was to bring him word of her conversation with the young mages this morning, at first light. She knew him well, and there had been humor and gentle chiding in her strong voice and green eyes as she told him not to worry if she did not show up until daybreak.

  “You know that I will,” he had replied, “and not just about Jaryd and Alayna.”

  She raised an eyebrow, reading in the nuances of his voice all that he had hoped to convey. “Maybe I’ll try to come back tonight after all,” she had said with a coy grin, drawing smirks from Trahn and Orris.

  At the time, he had smiled as well. But as the night progressed and she did not return, his anxiety grew. Finally, he drifted into an uneasy slumber, haunted by images of Sartol and the men who had attacked Watersbend.

  When he woke, looking immediately toward the window and seeing the soft, pink light of dawn already filtering through the thin curtains, he felt panic rush into his heart, cold and relentless, like a winter wind. She should be here by now, he thought. She should have come back last night. He flung back the covers, pulled on his trousers, and hurried to the door without bothering to put on a shirt or his cloak. Rushing out into the corridor, he was confronted immediately by a blue-robed attendant whom he did not recognize. The man was almost as large as the brute Baden had threatened the day before.

  “Yes, Owl-Master?” he inquired courteously. Niall had, at least, conveyed to the guards that the accused mages were to be treated with respect.

  “I was expecting a visitor,” Baden explained, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. “Did someone come while I slept?”

  The big man shook his head. “No one, Owl-Master. Not since the innkeeper brought your supper. Shall I convey a message for you?”

  “No. Thank you, though.”

  Another door opened, and Trahn, fully dressed, with his long, dark hair still wet from washing, stepped into the hallway. A moment later, Baden heard Orris’s door open as well, and the Hawk-Mage stuck his head out, his face looking puffy with sleep. Like Baden, the barrel-chested mage wore no shirt, and he ran a hand through the tangle of yellow hair that fell down around his shoulders.

  “What is it, Baden?” Trahn asked with concern.

  “Have either of you heard anything from Sonel?”

  The dark mage shook his head.

  “Orris?” Baden asked, turning to the other man.

  “No,” the Hawk-Mage answered, stepping out farther into the passageway. “But didn’t she say that she might not get back here until morning?”

  “She said daybreak,” the Owl-Master corrected, “and I had expected her earlier than that.”

  Trahn exhaled through his teeth. “You think something’s happened?”

  “I’m not certain what I think.” Baden looked at the attendant. “Bring our breakfasts to Hawk-Mage Trahn’s room,” he commanded, and then, turning back to Trahn, he added, “Orris and I will get cleaned up and dressed. We’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Baden stepped back into his room and, moving to the basin of water that had been placed in the room last night, he began to wash. But his thoughts remained focused on Sonel.

  Try as he might to convince himself that she was fine, that all three of them were fine, he kept coming back to the one hard truth that continued to feed his fears: Sonel was never late. Indeed, she was obsessively punctual—she had been for all the years he had known her. It was one of the few things about her that had always annoyed him, particularly since he tended to be far less conscientious than she. If all had gone according to plan, she would have returned by now.

  He explained as much to Trahn and Orris a short while later, as they all picked absently at the platter of grapes, cheeses, and breads brought to them by the innkeeper.

  “In spite of everything,” the Owl-Master observed, looking from one mage to the other, “we still know very little about what Sartol has in mind, and what resources he can draw upon. He may have followers within the Order who prevented Sonel from ever reaching the clearing. Or maybe they followed her and learned that the others are still alive.”

  “Or maybe,” Orris insisted, “notwithstanding Niall’s promise to treat us properly, Sartol’s guards aren’t letting any visitors into the tavern.”

  “That seems more likely to me as well, Baden,” Trahn agreed, his tone sympathetic. “I know you’re worried, but I’m not sure you need to be.”

  “He’s got the Summoning Stone,” Orris went on. “He probably figures that he doesn’t need anything or anyone else.”

  Baden shrugged slightly. “You may be right. But given what I’ve seen so far, I can’t help feeling that he’ll be more careful than that. He’s been planning this for a long time. He’s not going to get sloppy now. I don’t mind telling you both that I’m scared. Very scared.”

  Orris and Trahn said nothing—what could they say?—and the three of them sat in silence for the better part of an hour, eating occasionally, but otherwise consumed by their own thoughts. The day brightened, and the breeze that ruffled the window curtains grew warmer, but still they heard nothing from Sonel. Some time later, the bells of the Great Hall began to ring, startlingly loud. Baden had forgotten how close they were to the domed structure. The trial would be starting shortly, and Baden wondered if the young mages recognized the tolling of the bells as their signal.Where in Arick’s name is Sonel!

  Watching his two companions rise, their expressions somber, he wished that he could offer some encouragement, that he could say anything that might lighten the mood in the room. Less than a day before, Baden had felt confident; he had even allowed himself the luxury of flaunting that confidence during their confrontation with Sartol, knowing how it would affect the Owl-Master. But he felt certain now that something had happened to keep Sonel from returning. He could only hope that Jaryd and Alayna had survived the night. If they hadn’t, Baden, Trahn, and Orris were doomed, and Tobyn-Ser with them.

  An emphatic knock on the door caused Baden to jump, just as the bells had done a few moments before. He had to calm his nerves somehow. It wouldn’t do for Sartol to see him like this.

  Trahn crossed to the door and pulled it open. Niall stood in the hallway, his face looking uncharacteristically pale beneath the thick, silver hair.

  “It’s time,” he said heavily, stepping slightly to the side, and motioning for the accused mages to go before him. He did not look any of them in the eye.

  Baden followed Orris and Trahn out of the room, feeling the older man fall in behind him. The attendants were gone, but Niall’s grim silence was like a fifth presence in the dark corridor, looming menacingly at Baden’s shoulder. They made their way past the closed doors on each side of the hall, descended the steps to the ground floor of the inn, and pushed through the tavern door. Stepping into the daylight, Baden saw that thousands of Amarid’s people—a crowd even larger than the one that had gathered the day before—had lined the thoroughfare leading from the inn to the Great Hall. Ahead of him, Orris glanced back, as if seeking reassurance, his dark eyes wide and fearful. The public humiliation that all of them had endured yesterday had been especially difficult for Orris, Baden knew, and today would not be any easier. Anxious to ease his friend’s discomfort, to give him anything else on which to fix his attention, Baden turned to Niall, intending to ask him how many mages had reached Amarid since their meeting with Sartol the afternoon before. But
something in the Owl-Master’s bearing stopped him; Niall seemed in that moment unapproachable, as though he wouldn’t have heard the question even if Baden had asked it. Without a word, Baden faced forward again in time to see Trahn whisper to Orris. Whatever he said appeared to hearten the burly mage and bring a semblance of calm back to his expression.

  This crowd displayed less hostility toward the accused mages than the mob had the day before. A few people shouted obscenities and threats as they watched the trio walk by, but, for the most part, Baden sensed more curiosity than he did belligerence.

  He remained troubled, however, by Niall’s remote manner. The self-righteousness with which the older man had treated them yesterday seemed to Baden much more in keeping with what he knew about Niall. The Owl-Master was a highly moral man. Baden had often disagreed with him during Gathering debates, but he believed Niall to be honorable, and he had grieved with him when Vardis died. He refused to believe that the Owl-Master had joined Sartol in betraying Tobyn-Ser—such treachery was not in the older man’s nature. No doubt, Sartol had secured his cooperation by presenting Baden and the others to him as dangerous enemies of the Order and the land. But Niall’s behavior this morning had been odd, disturbingly so. And in that instant, with a dizzying flash of insight that terrified him with its clarity and the weight of truth it carried, Baden knew that Niall’s dark mood and Sonel’s failure to return were connected.

  Again, panic gripped him, like an icy hand wrapping its fingers around his heart. He spun around to face Niall, the abruptness of his motion pulling the Owl-Master from his strange reverie.

  “What did you do to her?” Baden whispered fiercely. “Where’s Sonel!”

  Niall gazed at him without speaking, his eyes regaining their normal focus, and his mien disconcertingly placid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally replied in a mild tone. “Please keep moving, Baden. Everyone is waiting for you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth!”

  Orris and Trahn had halted, and they now moved closer to where the Owl-Masters stood facing each other.

  “What’s going on, Baden?” Orris demanded, eyeing Niall suspiciously.

  “Niall is responsible for whatever happened to Sonel.”

  Trahn glanced appraisingly at the older mage. “How do you know?”

  “I know.” Baden grabbed Niall’s cloak in his fist, drawing a rasping hiss from the mage’s pale owl. “What have you done with Sonel?” he persisted, enunciating every syllable.

  Niall’s dark eyes continued to hold Baden’s with that maddening serenity for another few seconds. Then he placed his hand firmly over Baden’s, and disengaged himself from the Owl-Master’s grip. “She’s fine,” he told them all, an admission in the words. “I’m not certain where she is right now, but, when I saw her last, she was unharmed.”

  Baden wanted desperately to ask about Jaryd and Alayna as well. But Niall had given no indication that he knew the young mages were still alive, and Baden could not risk giving them away. “If she’s not,” he threatened instead, somewhat fatuously, “I’ll hold you responsible.”

  “So you’ve been watching us,” Orris stated flatly, the burning look in his eyes an accusation. “You’ve been spying for Sartol.”

  It was this of all things that broke Niall’s composure. “I won’t be judged by you!” he said hotly. “And I need not explain myself to anyone! I’ll answer to the gods when they feel I’m ready, and until that time I’ll conduct myself as I see fit!” He swept the three of them with an imperious glare. “Right now, though,” he went on, his voice lower, but no less indignant, “the three of you are to be tried for treason.”

  Without another word, he spun away from them, striding purposefully toward the Great Hall, and compelling the three accused mages to follow by the sheer force of his will, like dried leaves swept forward in the wake of a galloping mount.

  Minutes later they ascended the marble steps and passed through the giant oaken doorway. The Gathering Chamber looked much as it had the day before. The three chairs that Baden, Trahn, and Orris usually occupied still stood in a row at the near end of the chamber, facing the rest of the Order, and leaving three empty spaces around the large table. Several more mages had arrived last night and early this morning, most of them Hawk-Mages who had been on Ursel’s patrol. Indeed, Ursel, herself, hale and tanned, her short brown hair streaked with blond from days spent riding in the sun, was among those who had returned. Still, fewer than half the chairs arrayed around the table were full, and a majority of those present were Owl-Masters. Scanning the room, Baden noted with growing apprehension that Sonel had not yet arrived.

  “By the gods!” Orris whispered with alarming intensity.

  Immediately, Baden swung his eyes to the Summoning Stone, although he knew before he did what he would see. Yellow light. It was so faint that he would never have noticed had he not been looking for it. To an unsuspecting observer, it could have been no more than a trick of the eye, an illusion created by sunlight and the translucent windows of the Great Hall. But Baden had seen the flicker of light the day before; this was no mirage, no false vision.

  “He won’t be able to conceal this much longer,” Baden said under his breath, seeing Orris nod unobtrusively in agreement. “He must be close to mastering it.”

  “Stand before your chairs!” Niall commanded, in a tone that silenced them.

  The three accused mages did as they were told, and, as he had the previous afternoon, Niall signaled to Odinan with a curt nod that all was ready for Sartol. Odinan climbed awkwardly to his feet, self-consciously smoothing the wisps of white hair that stuck out haphazardly from his head. The rest of the Order also stood, and the aged Owl-Master struck his staff on the hard floor, sending echoes through the chamber, and quelling the whispered conversations that, an instant before, had filled the room.

  A moment passed. Then another. All remained still within the vast chamber, until finally, a door opened at the far end of the hall, and Sartol swept into the room.

  It had been another long night. Too long, Sartol judged, as he paced in front of the hearth in the Owl-Sage’s chambers, cradling a cup of shan tea in his hands. Yet, not nearly long enough. He felt drained, overly tired considering what awaited him on this day. Twice he’d sent back the cup he held, complaining to the Great Hall’s attendants that the tea they made was not strong enough. And, though they’d steeped this last batch for a full half-hour, it still had not eased his fatigue. The Owl-Master considered ringing the crystal bell once more, but then thought better of it. There were limits to what the herb could do, and he needed sleep, not stronger tea. Besides, it wouldn’t do to let anyone know just how exhausted he was, even the inscrutable blue-robed stewards. He could not afford to appear weak; and he did not wish to invite speculation as to what he might be doing with his nights when he should have been resting.

  He had planned to sleep for at least part of last night, just as he had for the previous two. But on all three occasions, he had become so engrossed in his effort to link himself to the Summoning Stone that he lost track of time. The first two nights, it had not bothered him; at least, not much. Last night, however—or, rather, this morning—he had been genuinely dismayed to see the first rays of sunlight streaming through the translucent windows of the Gathering Chamber. Reluctant to cease his labors, angry with himself for failing to keep track of the time, he had retreated hastily into his quarters only moments before the first of the attendants arrived and began to ready the hall for the impending trial.

  A short while later, Jessamyn’s servant—he seemed to remember her name being Basya—knocked on the door and entered, raising an eyebrow with more surprise than she had any right to show when she saw that Sartol was already up and dressed.

  “Shall I bring your breakfast, Owl-Master Sartol?” she asked, all solicitude and courtesy.

  “Just tea,” he had replied, unable to keep the annoyance entirely from his voice.

/>   She nodded and withdrew, leaving Sartol to curse his own stupidity and the too-swift passage of the night. It had been too early at that point to convene the Order for Baden’s trial. He needed to hear from Niall first, anyway. And, of course, it was too late to sleep. So the Owl-Master had to compose himself by reflecting on the progress he had made with the stone. Unfortunately, throughout the hour that followed, his apprehensions regarding the trial had intruded continually on his thoughts.

  Once again, as he had several times over the past week, Sartol forced himself to stop pacing, thrusting himself into a chair as small drops of the shan tea splashed from the cup onto his cloak. He had done far too much pacing recently—it was a bad habit, one that betrayed his anxiety dangerously. He found it more than a bit bothersome that he should be worrying so much now, on the very brink of his triumph.

  Baden did this to him, he knew. Even under guard, stripped of his ceryll and denounced publicly as a traitor, the Owl-Master made him feel edgy. If only Baden hadn’t seemed so damned sure of himself the day before, in the wake of his arrest. Orris had looked pale, despite his defiance, and had clearly been humiliated by the day’s events, just as he should have been. Trahn, as always, had remained disturbingly unreadable. But Baden . . . Yes, he looked tired, but no more so than Sartol did himself. The Owl-Master hadn’t appeared frightened, but Sartol had not expected that he would; like anyone accustomed to power and leadership, Baden could school his features to conceal his emotions. What Sartol found alarming, though, was that hehad read feelings in the Owl-Master’s face, just not ones he had anticipated. Baden had actually smiled at him as he demanded an immediate trial.He had smiled. And, for just a moment, although certainly long enough for Baden to see, Sartol had lost his composure. How could he help it? He was only human. And the man had smiled. Charged with treason and murder, facing a trial in which he could present no meaningful evidence of his own innocence, no doubt aware that Sartol had taken and destroyed every single item left in Watersbend by Calbyr’s men, Baden had shown no signs of tension whatsoever. Sartol found it disconcerting; appalling, really.