CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good.” They were silent for a few strides, and then Baden surprised him. “You get used to the stares after a while, Jaryd,” he commented in the same relaxed tone. “With power, and a certain amount of status, come attention and scrutiny. In time, you grow accustomed to it. You have to.”

  Jaryd looked at the mage. After a moment, he nodded. “Do you and Papa like each other?” Jaryd asked after another brief silence. He winced immediately, knowing how stupid the question probably sounded.

  But if Baden thought the question inappropriate, he showed no sign of it. “I suppose, at some level, we have a certain affection for one another,” the Owl-Master began thoughtfully. “We were always very different; we never spent much time together, even as children. He and our father were very close, and I was much closer to our mother than to our father.”

  “Papa told me that your mother also had the Sight.”

  “Oh, yes, your grandmother had the Sight, and a good deal more. Lynwen was a powerful Owl-Master in her time.”

  Jaryd stopped, his expression incredulous. “Grandma Lynwen was in the Order?”

  Baden smiled and nodded. “Yes, and so was Lyris, her mother, my grandmother.”

  Jaryd shook his head slowly and began to walk again as Baden continued. “Your father never showed any signs of having the Sight or any other manifestations of power, at least none that he mentioned. And, when I did, we . . . drifted apart.”

  Baden had not said it, but it hung palpably in his words. “Was Papa jealous?”

  Baden looked at Jaryd for a long time, the expression on his lean face unreadable. Finally, the mage shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  They had reached the shop, but Jaryd hesitated on the threshold. “Why are you here?” he asked his uncle.

  “That,” Baden replied, his eyes gleaming mysteriously, “is a long tale. For now, let’s just say that I’m here for your birthday.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. But this is not the time to discuss it.”

  Jaryd grinned and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I think you and Papa are more alike than you realize.”

  Baden paused, considering this. Then he started to nod, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps.”

  Without another word the Owl-Master stepped into the smithy. Jaryd followed.

  As soon as they entered, the heat of the shop blasted them like a summer wind, the air heavy with the mingling smells of burned leather, hot metal, smoke, and perspiration. The smithy was dimly and strangely lit, illuminated at one end by the cool, cloud-dampened daylight coming in through the shop’s entrance, and at the other by the hot, reddish glow of the hearth. Iron-forged tools and pieces of scrap metal lay in disheveled piles on the dirty stone floor. Bernel stood at the fire, his broad, muscular back to the door. He held a blackened pair of tongs in the flames as he shouted instructions to Royden, who was out of sight, manning the bellows behind the hearth. Removing the tongs from the fire and placing the white-hot piece of iron they held on the anvil, Bernel struck the piece several times with his hammer. Red sparks flew from the metal, some singeing his leather apron, others falling harmlessly to the floor. He thrust the metal into a trough of water that sat at the base of the hearth, sending a cloud of steam into the air, and then placed it back in the fire.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he called over his shoulder without turning around. “Jaryd, if that’s you, Royden could use a hand with the bellows.”

  “Hello, Bernel,” Baden said evenly, his words carrying over the noise of the bellows.

  Bernel straightened at the sound of Baden’s voice. Without turning around, he placed the metal back in the water, sending another burst of steam up into the rafters of the shop, and laid the tongs along the edge of the hearth. Only then did he turn to greet his brother, his face ruddy and glowing from the heat of the fire.

  “Baden,” he said, his voice flat. “I guess I should have expected you.”

  “Maybe. It’s been a long time.”

  “You’re looking well.” Bernel glanced at the bird on the tall mage’s shoulder. “And I suppose congratulations are in order, Owl-Master.” Neither man had moved toward the other, and their voices carried little warmth, but Jaryd sensed no irony or hostility in his father’s words.

  Baden allowed himself a smile. “Thank you, it’s been nearly six years now.” The mage looked around the smithy and then nodded at Jaryd and toward Royden, who had emerged from behind the hearth. “It seems that you’ve done well for yourself, too. You and Drina.”

  “We’ve been fortunate, yes.” The blacksmith and the mage stood in awkward silence for a moment. Then Royden cleared his throat purposefully. “Oh, that’s right,” Bernel said, sounding somewhat embarrassed. “Uh . . . I guess you’ve met Jaryd. This is Royden, our eldest. Royden, this . . . this is your uncle Baden.”

  Royden stepped forward and embraced Baden in formal greeting, his brown eyes wide, a child’s smile on his lips. “I remember you,” he said, stepping back, “from when Jaryd and I were young. I didn’t know who you were then, but I’ve never forgotten your visit. It’s not every day that a mage other than Radomil honors our village.”

  Baden bowed his head slightly. “Thank you. I, too, recall our meeting. Even as a boy, you were gracious and kind.”

  Again, a lull in the conversation left the four of them standing uncomfortably, looking from one to another. The only sounds in the room came from the shifting coals of the fire and from Baden’s owl, which sat on the mage’s shoulder preening itself. At last, Bernel turned to his two sons. “Baden and I have a good deal of catching up to do. Royden, do you think that you and Jaryd can finish the work for Jorrin?”

  “Yes, we should be able to. There’s not that much left to do.”

  “Good. Then your uncle Baden and I will see you both at dinner.” Bernel removed his apron, put on his overshirt, and gestured for Baden to lead the way outside. The Owl-Master said nothing, but he smiled warmly at his nephews before stepping out of the shop.

  When they had gone, Royden turned to Jaryd and posed the same question Jaryd had intended to ask. “Did you know?”

  A small laugh escaped Jaryd. “Do you mean did I know that our uncle was a mage, or did I know that Papa even had a brother?”

  Royden laughed in turn. “I guess both. I wonder why Papa never told us. Or Momma, for that matter.”

  “That’s not all they kept from us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Baden and I spoke on the way over here. Did you know that Grandma Lynwen was an Owl-Master, as was her mother?”

  “He told you that?” Royden asked, his eyes widening again.

  Jaryd nodded absently, but he was already thinking of something else. “You told Baden that you recalled his visit. What do you remember of it?”

  Royden thought a moment. “I remember being excited at seeing a mage. I remember his bird seemed huge; it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And I remember Baden being friendly and talking to me for a long time.”

  “Do you remember what you talked about?” Jaryd asked with some urgency.

  Royden narrowed his eyes. “No,” he answered at last, shaking his head. “Everything else is clear, but I have no memory of what we talked about.”

  “Neither do I,” Jaryd said pointedly. “My memories of his visit are almost exactly like yours. They’re remarkably vivid, except for that conversation.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  Jaryd shrugged, brushing back his hair with an impatient gesture. “I don’t know.”

  They stood without speaking for a long while. “Did he tell you why he’s here?” Royden finally asked, tying on his father’s leather apron.

  Jaryd gave another slight laugh. “Sort of. He told me he’d come for my birthday.”

  Royden raised his eyebrows. “Any idea what he meant?”

  “None,” Jaryd
replied, shaking his head. “None at all.”

  Royden picked up the metal tongs and gestured absently at the shop. “Well, we’re certainly not going to figure anything out in here. The sooner we finish Jorrin’s tools, the sooner we’ll see Baden and Papa again.”

  Jaryd nodded his agreement. “I’ll work the bellows.”

  The work went slower than they had anticipated, and when they finally left the shop, hungry and tired, night had fallen. They arrived at their home to find Baden, Bernel, and Drina sitting around the dining table, and Baden’s owl perched atop the cupboard, its eyes closed and its feathers slightly ruffled. Bernel and Baden sat grimly across the table from each other, staring at the table and saying nothing. Drina sat between them, her eyes red and damp with tears. Empty dishes sat on the table, and the familiar spicy aroma of their mother’s beef stew permeated the house.

  “You get everything finished?” Bernel asked, shifting slightly in his chair.

  “Finally, yes,” Royden responded, as he and Jaryd removed their overshirts and sat down at the table. “I’m still not as fast as you are.”

  Bernel nodded and tried unsuccessfully to grin. “Give yourself twenty-five years; you will be.”

  Drina rose from her seat. “We already ate,” she said with false brightness, wiping her eyes with her apron, “but we saved plenty for both of you.” She moved to the hearth and spooned the stew into two bowls, which she then placed in front of her sons before sitting back down.

  Jaryd and Royden began to eat, and no one spoke until, after several spoonfuls, Royden glanced around the table, his expression somber. “Is one of you going to tell us what’s going on,” he demanded, “or do we have to guess?”

  Jaryd kept his eyes on his bowl of stew, fearing his father’s response, but as anxious as his brother to understand what had passed between Baden and their parents. He knew that he could never have said such a thing, that his parents, particularly his father, would not have tolerated it. But Royden was different. Perhaps because he was the older son, perhaps because he and Bernel were so close, he could say almost anything without fear of reproof. This had been true since their childhood, and Royden had often used his leeway on Jaryd’s behalf, as he had just now.

  In this instance, however, Jaryd feared that Royden had gone too far. Bernel glared at his older son for several moments, saying nothing. But then, to Jaryd’s great surprise, he actually smiled, though sadly, and he turned his dark eyes to the mage, who was watching him with interest. “Baden,” he said with uncharacteristic gentleness, “I believe this is your story to tell.”

  Baden held his brother’s gaze for some time. At length, a smile spread across his lean face and he began to nod slowly. Jaryd could see that, since their reunion in the shop earlier in the day, possibly in the wordless exchange they had just shared, the mage and his father had reached some sort of understanding.

  The Owl-Master looked at Royden and then at Jaryd. When he began to speak, it was in a voice deeper and richer than Jaryd remembered from the afternoon. “The magic I wield, that all of us in the Order wield, we call the Mage-Craft. But while this power becomes manifest with the binding of mage to bird, it dwells always within the woman or man. We don’t know why some possess it and others do not. It was a gift of the Goddess Leora to the land, given, some have said, because she favored Tobyn over Lon and wished to leave her mark on the land he shaped. Like all of Leora’s gifts, the Mage-Craft is random and unpredictable. But sometimes it is passed between generations. Jaryd will have told you, Royden, of what he learned today: your grandmother and her mother before her were, in their day, powerful Owl-Masters. When you both were young, I came here to see if I could discern the seeds of this power within either of you.” He had been looking from one of his nephews to the other as he spoke, but now Baden fixed his gaze on Jaryd, and within the blue of the mage’s eyes, Jaryd thought he saw the brief flicker of an orange flame. “I found what I sought in you, Jaryd. You carry more than just the Sight. You have the ability within you to be a mage of great strength and skill, just as Lyris and Lynwen were.” Jaryd sensed a power coursing through the Owl-Master’s words, and, though not sure how it was possible, he perceived the truth in what Baden had said. And with that perception came once more the memory of the vision in which he had seen himself throwing mage-fire at Accalia’s attackers.

  A strained silence settled over the room. To be broken, of course, by Royden. “So, I guess this meansI still have to work in the smithy,” he stated in a voice laden with irony. The humor, so unexpected after what had just been said, dissolved the tension and left them all laughing.

  Then the moment passed, and Baden again looked soberly at Jaryd. “During my visit all those years ago, your parents and I agreed that we would wait to tell you any of this until you were older and could decide for yourself what to do with this power. Your eighteenth birthday is at hand, Jaryd. You are old enough now to be a Mage-Attend. It’s time for you to choose what path you will follow.”

  Jaryd looked from Baden to his father and, finally, to his mother. All three watched him closely, although with different emotions playing across their features. The Owl-Master regarded him eagerly, with eyes that appeared to glitter like those of a hawk preparing to hunt. His father’s look was grave and impenetrable, but his mother’s youthful face, marked once more by tears, shone with pride and a gentle sadness. When Jaryd finally spoke, his voice sounded strange and thin after Baden’s power-laden words. “What path I will follow,” he repeated. “I’m not sure that I understand the choices well enough to make such a decision.”

  “Simply put,” Baden explained, “your choice is between the life I have led, as a mage and a member of the Order, serving the land and its people, and the life you have known here in Accalia, as a teacher and a blacksmith’s son.”

  “And as an object of curiosity,” Royden broke in, his words edged with bitterness, “who has to endure the stares and gossip of small-minded people. It seems an easy choice to me, Jaryd. Go with Baden. You have power, a gift from the Goddess. You should use it.”

  Jaryd turned toward his brother, a sad smile on his face. “I hear you, Royden. But leaving you and Momma and Papa isn’t as easy as that.”

  “Jaryd’s right. This decision is not as simple as Royden or Baden have made it sound.” All of them turned to Bernel, and Jaryd noted that while his father’s voice carried neither the resonance nor the shadings of power that Baden’s did, in this room he commanded the strict attention of all of them. “Tell me, Baden,” Bernel demanded in a hard tone, his wide-set eyes fixed on his brother, “isn’t it true that even should Jaryd choose to remain here, he may soon find himself bound to a hawk?”

  Baden sighed deeply. “Yes, that is quite possible,” he conceded. “But—”

  “And when this binding comes,” Bernel continued in a softer voice, his gaze shifting to Jaryd, “won’t he need the guidance of those who have knowledge of Leora’s Gift and the powers and burdens it carries?”

  Jaryd felt his world shift abruptly with his father’s words. He could see, in the raw sadness exposed in Bernel’s eyes, the cost of the gift his father had just offered him. A gift, and an acknowledgment, Jaryd knew, that there had been no real choice; only a single path marked through the years by signs of a power that neither he nor his parents could control. Drina took Bernel’s large hand in hers and held it to her lips. He gently brushed a tear from her face.

  After what seemed a long time, Baden answered quietly, “Yes, he’ll need such guidance as we can offer.”

  Without taking his eyes off his father and mother, and feeling awed by the swiftness with which his life was about to change, Jaryd offered the only response he could. “In that case, Baden,” he said evenly, “I’ll go with you.”

  “Splendid!” Baden exclaimed, a grin spreading across his features, his solemn bearing of a moment before utterly gone. “You’ll need a day to pack and settle your affairs here,” he began, as much to himself as to Jaryd and th
e others, “and the day after tomorrow is your birthday, and we can’t have you leaving on your birthday. So we’ll leave with daylight on the third day.” The Owl-Master rose and moved toward the door that led to the bedrooms, his owl hopping down to his shoulder. “I’m going to retire for the evening,” he said. “I suggest the rest of you do the same. We have much to do in the next two days.”

  “Baden, wait!” Jaryd called after the mage, jumping to his feet. “Where are we going?”

  Baden stopped and turned to face his nephew, his bright blue eyes gleaming once more. “To Amarid, of course,” the Owl-Master explained matter-of-factly, “for the Midsummer Gathering of the Order.”

  3

  Jaryd’s next two days in Accalia proved to be just as frenzied as Baden had predicted. Except for saying good-bye to his family, Jaryd had not expected that leaving the town would be difficult. But Accalia was, as Royden reminded him the night before he and the Owl-Master planned to depart, the only home he had ever known, and, on his birthday, he spent several hours bidding farewell to friends and acquaintances. Schoolmaster Fyrth seemed particularly sad to see Jaryd leave, not only because he liked Jaryd, but also because, as he told Jaryd, finding a replacement for him would be troublesome. Three of Jaryd’s friends put in together to buy him a carry sack from one of the local peddlers, and—an even greater gift—they apologized for spending less time with him after his dream of the bandits.

  Bernel and Royden spent much of Jaryd’s birthday at the smithy, returning home that evening with an object, wrapped in cloth, that they presented to Jaryd just before dinner. Removing the wrapping, Jaryd found a dagger, in a brown leather sheath, with a hilt made of a glasslike black stone contoured to fit his hand. He pulled out the knife, revealing a finely honed blade of burnished silver. Unable to speak, Jaryd turned the dagger over repeatedly in his hands, gazing with wonder at every detail.

  “I didn’t know you could work silver,” Baden commented quietly to Bernel. “At least not this skillfully.”