CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  “A few years after Amarid’s second binding, Theron traveled back to his hometown of Rholde, where he fell in love with a beautiful woman. Though Theron had learned to compel people to serve him for brief periods, no mage or master could force someone to love him or her. The constant expenditure of power would exhaust both magician and bird. So, much as he tried to win the woman’s heart, Theron could not make her love him. Indeed, she loved another man in the town. Not a man with power, or wealth, but just a simple shopkeeper. Theron raged with jealousy and grew to hate this man. He forced the man to do the most demeaning tasks for him, and he berated him and cursed him constantly.

  “One day Theron came upon the man, and before he could force him to do anything, the man offered his service and expressed sorrow at the fact that his love for this woman had caused the Owl-Master such pain.

  “No doubt, he meant well, but this was too much for Theron. Tormented as he was by the woman’s preference for this man, he was infuriated by the man’s sympathy and pity.

  “ ‘I require nothing from a maggot like you,’ he raged. ‘Be gone!’ And with the words, and in his fury, Theron, perhaps without intending to, forced his will on the man. Shortly after, before Theron understood what he had done, the man took his own life.

  “Word of the incident swept through the town and it awakened old fears of the Mage-Craft and those who wielded it. Almost everyone in Rholde demanded vengeance, but feared the Owl-Master too much to try to exact it themselves. Instead, they sent word to Amarid and the rest of the Order, formally demanding that Theron be punished. And, as others in Tobyn-Ser learned of the incident, they, too, pressured the Order to take action.

  “The discussion of Theron’s fate dominated the next Gathering and marked the culmination of the long feud between Theron and Amarid. No member of the Order had ever been considered for punishment before, so the mages had no procedures in place to deal with such a discussion. All agreed, however, that Theron should be given an opportunity to defend himself and that Amarid, as the senior member of the Order, should present the case against Theron.

  “Theron rose to speak, leaning heavily on his staff. It is said that, though he looked haggard and pale, and most agreed that he had aged considerably since the last Gathering, his resonant voice still commanded the attention of all who listened.”

  Baden rose, leaning on his long staff as he had described Theron doing. And, when next he spoke, it seemed to Jaryd that his voice had changed, growing still deeper, but with a hint of ire and madness that was not his own. He appeared to become an apparition, an embodiment of the long-dead Owl-Master.

  “I deeply regret what transpired this spring in Rholde,” Baden began quietly, speaking Theron’s words, his eyes focused on the ground in front of him. “I meant the poor man no harm; I certainly didn’t mean for him to kill himself.” Pausing, he looked around the fire, and Jaryd could almost see the other mages who had gathered to hear Theron’s plea. Then he continued, a note of defiance creeping into his voice. “But am I to be punished because some people in Rholde and other parts of Tobyn-Ser harbor old prejudices against our abilities? Am I to be punished because these fools demand it? We of this Order are special. We have mastered the Mage-Craft. We are not servants of the ignorant, nor are we bound by their weakness.” The Owl-Master’s voice grew stronger and his gestures increasingly animated as he spoke. “If I am to be punished because you, my fellow mages and masters, demand it, well, then, so be it. I will accept your judgment. But if you are acting because others tell you to act, then I must ask you: did we form this Order to govern ourselves or to be governed by others? This regrettable incident has taken a toll on us all; let us not compound this tragedy with poor judgment and ill-considered actions.”

  Baden straightened, and, when he spoke again, his voice was once more his own. “Theron had captivated his listeners, as much with his sonorous tone as with his words. But Amarid had yet to speak.”

  Again, Baden’s demeanor changed. He stood straighter, leaning less on his staff. And when he continued, his voice was no longer that of Theron. Now he was Amarid, with a tone less vibrant but equally resolute, and laden with wisdom and power.

  “Well spoken. Well spoken, indeed. You were always the more articulate one, weren’t you, Theron?”

  “Yes,” Theron replied acidly, reappearing for just an instant in Baden’s stance. “I suppose I was.”

  “More articulate,” Amarid repeated. “And more reckless. You’ve really done it this time, Theron.” The sarcasm was gone from Baden’s voice—or was it Amarid’s? Jaryd had become so engrossed in the tale that he could no longer tell. The Owl-Master sounded weary and despondent as he went on with Amarid’s oration. “This is not an easy task for me.”

  “I’m sure,” Theron snorted derisively.

  “I don’t expect you to understand, old friend,” Amarid replied, and then he lifted his voice to include everyone there. “All of you in this circle know that Theron and I have had our differences. But we were close once and we built this Order together. That is not a small thing. He is arrogant and difficult, but he is my friend. What we are discussing today, however, is not just Theron’s future, but the future of the Order and the Mage-Craft. Those of you who are older will remember what it is like to be an outcast because of your powers. We were all exiles once, banished from our homes because the people of this land feared us and our magic. Those of you who are younger do not remember this, because this Order has gained the trust of Tobyn-Ser by serving the people: by healing their wounds, by curing their illnesses, by mediating their disputes. I would not have us bound by their whims or hostage to their ignorance. But we must preserve their trust and ease their fears. We are of this land as much as they and, ultimately, we are subject to its common laws just as they are. Theron’s crime—and yes, he has committed a crime—must be punished. To do less would disgrace this Order. To do less would make us outcasts again.”

  Once more, Baden adjusted his stance, becoming Theron again. “Well,” the Owl-Master began, “who’s the arrogant one now? Amarid is telling all of us how we shall act and what this Order shall be.Serving the people, ” he repeated contemptuously. “Since when do the strong serve the weak? Since when do the wise minister to the foolish? I will not listen to these absurdities any longer.”

  “At that point,” Baden related in his own voice, “Theron turned and began to leave the Meeting Grove. But Amarid stopped him, and, when other mages also demanded that he remain, including some of the younger ones, who had supported him in the past, Theron finally understood the depth of his troubles. If the younger mages were not with him, he had no chance.

  “The Order debated bitterly well into the night. Amarid and the older mages and masters had always outnumbered Theron’s supporters, and some in the latter group had become disillusioned with Theron in the wake of the incident at Rholde. Those who still supported the Owl-Master argued stubbornly for leniency, but in the end, Amarid and his followers prevailed.

  “Called back before the gathered mages well past midnight, Theron listened defiantly as Amarid pronounced his sentence. Saying that he had disgraced the Order and violated its most basic principles, Amarid informed the Owl-Master that he would be executed at first light the following morning.

  “Theron stood dumbfounded, unable to believe what he had heard. And then, unwilling to give his rival the satisfaction of carrying out the punishment, the Owl-Master did something that even Amarid could not have foreseen. Closing his eyes, and lifting his staff over his head, he cast the most powerful spell ever devised by a mage.”

  “From this night on,” Baden cried out in Theron’s voice, adopting the posture he had just described, his voice ringing off the peaks behind him, “those in this Order who perish unbound will never rest!”

  Baden opened his eyes again. And as the echo of his words drifted into the night, silence settled over the campsite like fog over a shoreline. “With Theron’s last word, a bolt of green light burst from his
staff into the night sky. In the same instant, the great owl on Theron’s shoulder leapt into flight with an unnatural shriek, and when she fell to earth, she was dead. Theron’s ceryll lay in shards at the Owl-Master’s feet, and the top of his staff was blackened and smoking. His last words to Amarid were these: ‘Remember, old friend, you have done this, not I.’

  “Theron was to be executed by burning the next morning, but when the other mages went to find him and bring him forth, he was already dead.”

  “So Theron cursed himself,” Jaryd broke in, his voice sounding harsh and alien in the stillness shaped by Baden’s tale.

  “Yes. As with so many other things, Theron was the first of our Order to become one of the Unsettled.”

  “The Unsettled?”

  “That is what we call those mages who die unbound. As a result of Theron’s Curse, the spirits of the Unsettled return to the places of their first bindings, where they walk the night in eternal unrest.” Baden absently stroked Anla’s feathers as he spoke. “That is one of the reasons why the time between the death of a familiar and one’s next binding is so difficult. Not only are our powers diminished, and,” he added, glancing at the bird on his shoulder, “a creature we love lost. We also run the risk, should something happen to us, of falling under Theron’s Curse.”

  “So Theron is still . . . alive?” Jaryd asked.

  “No,” Baden replied, but the catch in his tone sent a chill through Jaryd’s body. “Theron died that night in the Meeting Grove hundreds of years ago,” he explained. “But his spirit still lives, and can be seen between dusk and dawn in what’s known now as Theron’s Grove in the Shadow Forest in southern Tobyn-Ser.”

  “So, he’s a ghost?”

  “I suppose that could be another word for it,” Baden agreed. “We prefer to call them spirits.”

  ‘‘But that’s a matter of semantics,” Jaryd persisted.

  After a moment, Baden conceded the point. “Yes, it is.”

  Jaryd considered this for a time. “Does Theron’s spirit have Theron’s powers?” he asked at last.

  Baden hesitated. “That’s a complicated question. In truth, we know very little about the Unsettled. For a number of reasons, many of them quite apparent, we rarely seek them out. We don’t really know if they have access to the Mage-Craft. But even if they do, Theron’s spirit is a special case. Most of the Unsettled appear holding their staffs, or whatever else might have borne their cerylls, and with their first familiars. And, at night, and within the area in which they were first bound, yes, they may have power. Theron’s ceryll, however, was shattered that last night of his life by the explosion of power that accompanied the spell he cast. He carries no crystal. So whatever powers he has are . . . untamed; wild, if you will. On the other hand, his powers in life were immense, far greater than those of any other unsettled mage. We just don’t know the extent of his abilities.” Baden started to say something else, but then he stopped himself and waited for Jaryd’s next question.

  Again Jaryd sat pondering all that he had learned. Finally, pushing the hair back from his forehead, he looked across the fire at the mage. “I’m sorry, Baden. I interrupted your tale.”

  Baden made a small gesture dismissing the apology. “There really isn’t that much more to the story. When the Gathering ended, a small group of young mages who had supported Theron renounced their membership in the Order and left Tobyn-Ser. To this day, we don’t know where they went or what became of them.

  “As for the Order, probably the most important consequence of the entire affair was the formal acceptance of what we now call Amarid’s Laws as the guiding principles for our use of the Mage-Craft.” Baden’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know of Amarid’s Laws?”

  “I know that they govern the Order,” Jaryd said, smiling sheepishly, “but I couldn’t tell you what they say.”

  Baden shook his head sadly. “Everyone should know them,” he remarked quietly, “but that’s not your fault.” Then he raised his voice. “Hear them now, and remember: ‘Mages shall guard and serve the land. They shall be the arbiters of disputes. They shall use their powers to give aid and comfort in times of need.’

  “ ‘Mages shall never use their powers to extract service or payment from the powerless.’

  “ ‘Mages shall never use their powers against one another. Disputes among mages shall be judged by the Order.’

  “ ‘Mages shall never harm their familiars.’ ”

  His words rang out into the stillness of the night with a power and clarity that reminded Jaryd of the sound of his father’s hammer. As the last word echoed off the mountains and died away, a strange silence enveloped the camp once more. In the distance, an owl hooted, and Anla, suddenly alert on Baden’s shoulder, uttered a rasping response.

  When Baden spoke again, it was in a soft, tired voice. “We should sleep. Even stopping in Taima, we have a substantial distance to cover tomorrow.”

  Baden lay down beside the fire, and Jaryd did the same, not bothering this night to pull out his sleeping roll. The Owl-Master’s breathing soon slipped into a slow, even rhythm, but Jaryd lay awake for a long time. He thought about Amarid and Theron; about spirits and what it meant to be condemned to eternal unrest; and about the depths of emotion that could drive two friends to do such things to each other and to the Order they had created. Gradually, the campfire died away, the flames dwindling until all that was left was a bed of glowing coals that settled noisily into the fire pit. In the darkness, Jaryd could make out the bright stars hanging overhead, and he lay awake for a while longer picking out the constellations he knew. Duclea, weeping on her knees for her sons, and for her husband’s fury; Leora in her ceaseless dance; and Arick, lower in the sky and to the west, with his fist raised high over his head, poised to smite the land he had created for Tobyn and Lon.

  When finally Jaryd drifted into a fitful, uneasy sleep, he dreamed of a mage. At first, in a corner of his mind that observed his dream, he thought that he was seeing himself as he would be someday. But the mage carried a ceryll of deep red and a dark bird with strange, bright eyes. As he watched, the mage moved toward him, extending a hand that carried a slender black object. All the while, the mage remained hooded, his or her face shrouded in shadow and unrecognizable. But as the figure drew near, Jaryd saw that the offered object was a black feather, and, when Jaryd took it in his hand, the feather flared brightly before turning to grey ash.

  * * *

  Jaryd awoke to find Baden shaking him gently, the mage’s lean, somber face illuminated by the early morning light.

  “A strange vision came to me last night,” Baden told him. “I don’t know what it meant, but I think we should get going.”

  Jaryd nodded slowly and tried to force himself awake. Baden offered him the last of the dried fruit and some water, both of which helped, and soon they had broken camp and started down the trail toward the town. They walked as quickly as their steep descent would allow. Baden, who seemed impatient to reach Taima, said little, and Jaryd spent much of his time on the trail reflecting again on the tale he had heard the night before. They stopped briefly at midday to refill their water skins at a small spring and to eat what was left of the dried meat before continuing down the mountain.

  The heavy smell of charred wood and grain reached them just an hour or two later, and from a small clearing near the base of the mountain, they caught their first glimpse of Taima. An unnatural cloud of dark grey smoke hung balefully over the town, and the frames of several buildings stood blackened and smoldering in the town center.

  “Fist of the God!” Baden hissed through clenched teeth, his pale eyes pained as he looked down on the ruined town. “We’re too late!”

  4

  Standing in the mountains above Taima, seeing the anguish etched across Baden’s face as the mage surveyed the charred structures below, Jaryd recalled a lesson from a morning early in their journey, one of the many Baden had offered since they left Accalia.

  One spring, when Baden w
as five or six years old, he had gone to visit Owl-Master Lyris, his grandmother, at her home along the banks of the Little River. It had been a wet winter, and the river was running much higher than usual. Soon after Baden’s arrival, the rains began, flooding the river and destroying a nearby village. When she went to survey the damage, Lyris took Baden with her, and, while they were there, Baden saw that his grandmother was crying. Having never seen her cry before, he grew frightened, and he asked her why she was sad. Lyris took his hand and placed it on the green cloak she wore. “When I put on this cloak,” she told him, “I became the land. When it hurts, I hurt.”

  “It took me a long time to understand what she meant,” Baden had explained that morning a few weeks ago. “In fact, I don’t think I fully appreciated her words until I got my cloak. The Mage-Craft is a gift from the Goddess, and, in a sense, from the land itself. In return, we who are fortunate enough to master the Mage-Craft become the land’s guardians. When the people are sick, we care for them. When the people fight each other, we bring them together. And when the land itself brings harm, it falls to us to ease the suffering. Just as my grandmother was pained by what she saw that day, I’m pained every time there is flood, or drought, or fire, or plague that I’ve been unable to prevent. I suppose it’s the price I pay for wearing this cloak.”

  Now, feeling his own horror at what he saw below them on the plain, Jaryd began to understand what Baden had been trying to tell him. “Is this what you saw in your vision last night?” Jaryd asked, his voice subdued.

  Without taking his eyes from the town, the mage nodded. “At least part of it.”

  Jaryd started to ask what else his uncle had seen, but thought better of it.