by DAVID B. COE
“It all seemed much easier when we were young,” Jessamyn said at last, a smile on her lips but concern in her eyes. “Or am I just fooling myself?”
“It did seem easier,” Baden agreed, a wan smile on his thin face, “but not because we were younger. The Order hasn’t faced anything like this in a thousand years. You and I are just lucky enough to see it,” he concluded, his tone thick with sarcasm. He glanced at Jaryd. “But we should take heart, Jessamyn. We don’t face this challenge alone. There are young mages to fight beside us, and others, like Jaryd here, ready to take up the battle should we fail.”
Baden rose, as if preparing to depart, and Jaryd did the same.
Jessamyn looked with kindness at the Mage-Attend. “I’m sorry to be such gloomy company, Jaryd. I hope that we’ll have a chance to speak on other, happier occasions.”
“I’d like that as well, Sage Jessamyn. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.” Jaryd paused. Then, not sure why he did so, he added, “I would repeat what Master Baden said before: even though I’m not yet a member of the Order, I recognize the value of your wisdom. You don’t seem old to me, and I’d gladly follow you into whatever battle may be coming.” As soon as he finished speaking, he flushed at the realization of what he had said, and could not meet the Owl-Sage’s warm gaze.
But Jessamyn stood and embraced him. “Bravely said,” she whispered. “I see now why Baden has chosen you, and it’s not just kinship.” She released her embrace and turned to Baden. “I’m glad you’re here, Baden. I can’t imagine a Gathering without you.”
“Did you really doubt that I’d come?” Baden asked softly.
“Not really. But I know that sometimes things come up.” She reached out and squeezed Baden’s hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” she repeated.
Baden and Jessamyn stood together for a moment longer, and then, almost reluctantly, it seemed, the sage let go of his hand. “Well,” the Owl-Master sighed, “we should be on our way. Until tomorrow, Jessamyn.”
“Until tomorrow. Farewell, Jaryd.”
Baden and his nephew stepped out of the Owl-Sage’s quarters and nearly collided with a stocky, muscular mage who had a close-cropped beard and long yellow hair that he wore tied back. He carried on his shoulder an impressive pale hawk with a rust-colored back and intelligent eyes. The mage scowled as he stopped short and almost said something. But, recognizing Baden, he controlled himself with a visible effort.
“Baden,” he said gruffly, “pardon my haste. I’m anxious to see the Owl-Sage.” His dark eyes flicked once toward Jaryd and seemed to dismiss him.
“It’s quite all right, Orris,” Baden answered politely. “I’m pleased to see you again.”
“As am I,” Orris replied with a nod. He glanced a second time toward Jaryd with the same expression of indifference, and then turned to knock on Jessamyn’s door.
Jaryd cast a questioning look toward Baden, who responded with a slight shrug before gesturing that they should leave. Once outside, Baden began to lead them deeper into the main section of the city. “What was that all about?” Jaryd asked as they walked along another of the bustling cobblestone avenues.
“You mean Orris?” Baden replied. He shrugged again. “I’m not certain. Orris is one of the leaders of a small faction of mages, mostly young men, who believe that the Order has grown complacent, that it lacks a guiding purpose. I believe that he sees me, and other older members of the Order, as impediments to change.”
“Are you?”
Baden looked sharply at his Mage-Attend and, for a moment, Jaryd thought that he had angered the Owl-Master. But Baden’s response when it came was reflective and mildly stated. “I can understand how some might see me in that light. It’s funny, actually: as a young man I counted myself among the more radical mages. I saw every act of injustice in Tobyn-Ser as an affront against the Order and advocated a far greater role for its members in the governance of the land. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to see the wisdom in the path chosen for us by Amarid. We serve the land because our powers can be potent tools against hardship. But I don’t believe that mastering the Mage-Craft qualifies us to rule Tobyn-Ser.”
“So,” Jaryd ventured, “Orris’s position is similar to that offered by Theron.”
Baden stopped and faced his nephew. “You must be very careful in how you use Theron’s name, Jaryd,” he insisted sternly, although without anger. “To compare a mage’s words to those of Theron is to accuse that mage of violating Amarid’s Laws.”
“That’s not how I meant it.”
“I know, but you need to watch yourself, especially here.”
Jaryd nodded, and they began to walk again.
“Still,” Baden went on in a more subdued tone, “there is some truth in what you say. The issues that divided Theron and Amarid remain at the core of today’s disagreements. The bitterness has subsided; our debate doesn’t threaten to sunder the Order, as it did then. And I certainly don’t believe that Orris and his allies share Theron’s arrogance or wish to extract service from the people of the land. But the Order is still trying to define its role and position in Tobyn-Ser. As arbiters of disputes and protectors of the land, we walk a fine line between serving the land and leading it. Like many of the older mages, I prefer to err on one side of that line; Orris would prefer to walk on the other.” Baden stopped again to scrutinize a small alley on the left side of the thoroughfare. “I think this is it,” he said, following the passageway between two buildings.
With the late-afternoon sun beginning to slant across Amarid’s rooftops, the alley was shaded and cool. It led them past two rows of buildings before opening onto a small stone courtyard edged with badly neglected gardening plots and littered with old fragments of broken glass. The air in the courtyard smelled of stale ale and urine, and at the far end of the atrium stood a begrimed building that might once have been white. A weather-stained piece of wood covered part of the front window, where a pane of glass should have been, and a faded sign hanging over the doorway read: “AERIE—Inn & Tavern.” Baden approached the building, stopping before it to admire the sign with a grin on his face.
“I feel like I’ve come home,” he commented wistfully.
“This is where we’re staying?” Jaryd demanded incredulously.
“Yes,” Baden said with enthusiasm. “Oh, I know that it looks a bit rundown—”
“Abit run-down!”
“Look,” the Owl-Master retorted, his patience waning, “the rooms are clean and the food is the best in the city. So unless you care to sleep in the forest for another night, I’d suggest you give it a chance.”
“Yes, Baden,” Jaryd responded with resignation. After a reproachful look from the Owl-Master, he amended, “Master Baden.”
Inside, the Aerie was not quite as seedy as it appeared from the courtyard. Not quite. The odor, at least, remained outside, replaced within the tavern by a blend of pipe smoke, the aroma of roasting meat, and the slightly musty smell of wine. The inn was dimly lit by the daylight filtering through its dirty windows, and by a number of candles suspended high above the dusty hard-wood floor on a ponderous wooden chandelier. A few patrons, scattered throughout the room, sat at small round tables drinking ale or wine, but most of the chairs were empty. A long oaken bar stood at the far end of the tavern, and behind it stood a hulking man with curly brown hair, a thick, drooping mustache, and dark eyes set deep beneath his jutting brow. His sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulder, revealing massive, hairy arms, and he wore a dark apron around his waist. Two serving women, both of them dressed in low-cut white blouses and long brown skirts, stood speaking in low tones with the barkeep, who dwarfed them both.
Noticing Jaryd and Baden standing near the door, the large man bellowed, “Owl-Master!” and stepped out from behind the bar to greet them.
“Hello, Maimun,” Baden said with somewhat less enthusiasm than the tavern-keeper had shown.
“Master Baden!” Maimun gushed, undeterred by the Owl-Master’s tone, “
I am so very pleased to see you again. You’re looking well. Mage Trahn was in earlier and, as I told him, I have your room all set aside for you. And who is this?” he went on, noticing Jaryd.
“That is Jaryd, my Mage-Attend.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Jaryd. Any friend of the Owl-Master’s is welcome here.” Maimun turned his attention back to Baden, placing a bear-sized arm across the Owl-Master’s shoulders, leading him to a table by a corner window, and talking the entire time about the state of the tavern business, the excessive ale and wine taxes levied by the city elders, and the year-by-year degeneration of the quality of his clientele. “Excluding you and Mage Trahn, of course, Master Baden. Members of the Order are always welcome here.”
“Of course we are, Maimun,” Baden commented in the same bland tone.
The innkeeper hurried off to check on the progress of dinner, assuring them as he walked away that a serving woman would tend to them shortly. A few moments later, one of the barmaids to whom Maimun had been speaking, an attractive, petite woman who looked to be about Jaryd’s age, came to their table bearing two tankards of a dark, sweet ale.
“Supper will be ready in another half-hour,” she told them, eyeing Jaryd as she spoke. “Do you want some biscuits and butter in the meantime?”
“That would be fine,” Baden said, suppressing a smirk. When the woman walked away, Baden gave Jaryd a look that made the Mage-Attend flush deeply. “Perhaps I won’t need that second bed in the room after all,” the Owl-Master commented. “Just remember that the opening procession begins an hour after sunrise.”
His face still red, Jaryd tried to act disinterested. “She’s not really my type,” he said in an offhand way.
“Oh? You appear to be hers.”
She returned carrying a basket of assorted breads, a plate of butter, and some silverware and cloth napkins. “I’ll bring your supper when it’s ready.” She looked at Jaryd, who held her glance for an instant before averting his eyes toward the window. “If you need anything, just ask for Kayle.”
“Thank you, Kayle,” Baden called after her. He looked back toward Jaryd, another quip on his lips, but, at that moment, Trahn, carrying a tankard of ale and shouting something over his shoulder to Maimun, joined them at the table. He sat down shaking his head, a grin on his dark face.
“For someone who knows we carry no money,” the Hawk-Mage observed wryly, “Maimun certainly spends an inordinate amount of time fawning over us.”
Baden grunted in agreement.
“How was your visit with Jessamyn?” Trahn asked.
“Fine,” Baden said simply. “Uneventful. We avoided any discussion of . . . recent events. She looked a bit tired, a bit worn.”
“Well, she’s been receiving a constant stream of visitors for two days now. I would imagine she’s exhausted.”
Baden nodded in agreement. “Actually, Sartol was there when we arrived, and we met Orris on his way in as we left. Jaryd was struck by Orris’s congenial manner,” the Owl-Master added, his tone laden with irony.
“He’s the first rude mage I’ve met,” Jaryd chimed in.
Trahn laughed. “I actually like him, although I can certainly see where he might come off as abrupt.”
“That,” Jaryd commented, “is an understatement.”
“Perhaps,” Trahn acknowledged, still laughing, “but I do believe that some of what he has to say about the Order merits notice. And he does have a significant following among the younger mages.” Jaryd considered this for a moment as the three of them sipped their ale. Then Trahn inquired about their encounter with Sartol.
Baden shrugged. “There was very little to it. He was friendly.”
“Oh, Sartol is always friendly,” Trahn remarked, laughing again.
Jaryd looked at Baden. “You said something similar about Sartol to Jessamyn.”
Trahn’s green eyes widened. “You did?”
“Yes,” Baden admitted. “And she chastised me for it.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t remember exactly. I guess I referred to him as a wheedler.”
Trahn snorted, suppressing a laugh. “That sounds about right to me.”
“Why?” Jaryd asked. “He seemed nice enough.”
Baden gave Trahn a reproachful look before turning to Jaryd. “You’re right,” he began. “And so was Jessamyn this afternoon. Sartol is a decent man, and he’s perfectly harmless. He just has a tendency to be a bit too studied in his politeness. He can be overly solicitous at times.”
“You’re being more generous than I would be,” Trahn broke in. “I don’t trust him. I just think he’s currying favor with all of us so that, when the time comes, we’ll make him Owl-Sage.”
“Maybe,” Baden countered, “but where’s the harm in that?”
“I guess that’s a good point,” Trahn conceded. “I just don’t like him very much.”
“Jessamyn mentioned something about how it’s understandable that Sartol is like this given what he went through,” Jaryd reminded Baden. “What did she mean?”
“Soon after Sartol received his cloak,” Baden explained, running a hand through his thinning hair, “he returned to his home in northern Tobyn-Ser. There, he began to extract payment from the people in return for his services, a violation of Amarid’s Law. He was reprimanded by the Order and prohibited from wearing his cloak for a year. To his credit, he accepted the reprimand and his punishment, repaid all that he had taken, and continued to serve that same area, which seemed to me quite courageous. Since then he’s become one of the most influential mages in the Order; many of us thought that he’d become Owl-Sage after Feargus died. But instead, the Owl-Masters chose Jessamyn, who was the senior member of the Order.”
“Who did you vote for?” Jaryd asked.
Baden smiled enigmatically. “None of your business.” After a brief silence, the Owl-Master continued his tale. “Though no one admitted that the vote for Jessamyn was intended as a rebuke to Sartol, there was an underlying sense at the time that the vote represented one final slap on the wrist. Most of us expect that Sartol will be the next Owl-Sage, but, in the meantime, Sartol isn’t taking any chances.”
“Did you know him when he was reprimanded?” Trahn asked.
Baden nodded. “Yes, although not very well. I had been attending the Gatherings for a number of years with my grandmother and mother, and I was in the early months of my apprenticeship with Lynwen. Sartol and I had met; I think we had even spoken briefly a few times. But that was all.” He paused, staring blankly at the empty tankard he held in his large hands. “Sartol was proud in those days, to the point of arrogance. Yet even then, he had a charm that made him a leader among the youngest members of the Order.”
Again, silence descended upon their table, broken this time by the arrival of dinner and a second round of the dark brew, called Amari Ale, that was served here in the First Mage’s city. Baden had said that the Aerie served the finest food in Amarid, and Jaryd now learned just how fine that was. Dinner consisted of a rich, spicy stew, somewhat similar to his mother’s, but made with fowl rather than beef and flavored with an aromatic herb that he did not recognize. It was, Jaryd had to admit to himself, as delicious a meal as he had ever tasted.
“What did you think of the Great Hall?” Trahn asked him as they ate.
Jaryd hesitated, recalling the uneasiness he had felt on the thoroughfare outside the hall, and again in the Gathering Chamber. “It’s very beautiful,” Jaryd said with uncertainty, “particularly the crystal statues.”
Trahn narrowed his eyes. “But?”
“I’m not sure how to put it. I guess it made me feel . . . uncomfortable.”
Trahn cast what seemed to be a look of satisfaction toward Baden before turning back to Jaryd. “Go on.”
Jaryd shook his head. “As I said, I’m not certain that I can put it into words. It’s just—well, Amarid was a man. Yes, he was the First Mage, but he was just a man. That hall has the feel of one of
Arick’s Temples, but on a much larger scale. It just seems . . . inappropriate.”
Trahn turned again to Baden, smiling triumphantly. Baden shook his head thoughtfully. “Trahn has been telling me much the same thing for years now,” he said. “I don’t really see it that way, but I respect both of your opinions.”
“I think what bothered me the most,” Jaryd ventured, “relates to something we discussed earlier today. There’s just far too much distance between this reverence for Amarid and the omission of Theron from all aspects of the Order’s traditions, even from its monuments. Amarid is made into some kind of deity, while Theron’s name is equated with a violation of Amarid’s Law. It seems to me that there’s a need for some balance.”
Trahn and Baden exchanged a look. “This, too, Trahn has been telling me for some time,” the Owl-Master said somberly.
Jaryd turned to Trahn, remembering something from their first encounter on the avenue. “You said this afternoon, when we first met, that the difference between Amarid’s fate and Theron’s might be causing the problems we’re facing now. What did you mean?”
“You should know before you answer,” Baden interrupted, his blue eyes fixed on the dark mage’s face, “that Jaryd already has heard my theory on what’s happening now in Tobyn-Ser.”
Trahn raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should as well.”
The Owl-Master’s voice fell to a whisper and he glanced around to reassure himself that no one else could hear. “I believe that all these attacks are the work of Theron and the other unsettled mages. I’m not sure how; maybe they’ve found a way to alter the curse and allow their spirits to roam beyond the confines of their binding places. And I don’t know whether the other Unsettled joined Theron willingly, or whether through power, or trickery, he coerced them. I have wondered why, but perhaps the two of you have hit upon the answer to that mystery. But I am convinced that Theron is behind this; I just don’t see any other explanation.”
For a moment, Trahn said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed deeply. “I have, reluctantly, reached a similar conclusion. I can think of no one else with both the contempt for the Order, and the power necessary to carry out so many attacks in so many different parts of the land.” He looked at Jaryd, and the Mage-Attend could see the pain in his bright green eyes. “It saddens me deeply, not just for the lives lost and ruined, but also because I share your dismay at what’s been done to the memory of Theron. We might have averted this sorrow by finding a place for Theron in the history of the Order.”