CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  “Well, maybe we should make you Owl-Sage instead of Jessamyn,” Alayna fired back, “since you seem to think you know what’s best for all of us!”

  Wondering how this had become his fight, Jaryd glanced at Orris, who offered a sympathetic grin and a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “I didn’t say that either,” Jaryd replied, turning back to Alayna. “All I did was disagree with you, Alayna. Adults do that sometimes. It’s called a discussion. Perhaps someday, when you’re a bit older, you’ll be able to have one, too.”

  Even in the firelight, Jaryd could see Alayna’s face turn deep red. She sat utterly motionless for another moment, glaring at him, before abruptly rising and stomping off into the night.

  No one else spoke for some time, until Trahn finally looked at Jaryd across the fire. “She had no right to say those things, my friend, but don’t you think that you were a bit hard on her?”

  Jaryd nodded. “I suppose,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know why she treats me the way she does. I guess I decided that I’d had enough of it.”

  Trahn nodded, and over the next few minutes the rest of them drifted away from the fire, leaving Jaryd alone. He stayed there for a long time, listening to the ceaseless roar of the rivers, and wondering if he and Alayna would ever have a friendly conversation.

  Throughout the following morning, the muted sound of raindrops hitting the leaves above filtered down to the riders. Water dripped on them from the branches and ran down the trunks of the trees. But by the time they stopped for lunch, the rain had ceased. Late in the day, as the company drew near the edge of the wood, the forest abruptly grew sparse, and deeply slanting rays from the sinking sun burst through sudden gaps in the canopy. Moments later, the company rode out of the shadows of Tobyn’s Wood and into a place awash with light. To the west loomed the densely wooded Emerald Hills, shrouded in a ghostlike mist that seemed to emanate from the trees themselves. To the south, its tall grasses shimmering as they swayed in the light wind, sprawled Tobyn’s Plain, reaching uninterrupted to the horizon.

  The mages stopped for the night, retiring early and rising just before dawn the next morning to begin their ride across the plain. After a light breakfast, as Jaryd prepared to mount his gelding, Jessamyn approached him. As always, Peredur was by her side.

  “Are you feeling more comfortable in the saddle, Jaryd?” the Owl-Sage asked him without preamble.

  Jaryd grinned somewhat sheepishly and nodded. “Yes, Owl-Sage. Thank you.”

  She returned the smile. “I’m glad to hear it. I would like to increase our pace now that we’re on the plain. We moved a bit slowly through the mountains and Tobyn’s Wood, and I’d like to make up some of the time we lost. Do you feel up to it?”

  Again he nodded. The sage gave him a quick smile, gently squeezed his arm, and then walked away.

  A few minutes later, as the sun appeared on the eastern horizon, huge and orange, the mages began to ride. For the three days that followed they thundered southward across the plain with their birds flying above them. Late the second morning, they came within sight of the Moriandral, and for what remained of that day, and all through the next, they rode along the east bank of the slow-moving giant. Far to the west, storm clouds crept across the skyline like dark spiders, the rain beneath them dangling like long, delicate legs. Occasionally, a thin sliver of distant lightning flickered silently from cloud to ground. But the sky above the company stayed clear, and, in the afternoons, heat waves rose from the land, causing the horizon to waver and dance. They passed several towns as they rode, but, given their experience with the villagers in Tobyn’s Wood, the mages chose to move on without stopping.

  During their third day on the God’s plain, Sartol, who had been riding with Alayna ahead of Jaryd, slowed his mount slightly, allowing Jaryd to catch up with him.

  “Are you riding alone by choice, Jaryd,” the Owl-Master asked, “or may I join you?”

  “I’d be happy if you rode with me, Sartol,” Jaryd replied. But he knew that his tone betrayed a different emotion. Alayna, rather than joining him as well, had spurred her mount forward to ride with Baden and Trahn. She had not spoken to Jaryd since their angry exchange by the Riversmeet Traverse. This of course was nothing new; she had avoided him throughout the journey, spending most of her time with Sartol, but leaving him whenever Jaryd and her mentor struck up a conversation. But puzzled and hurt as he had been by her silent indifference, Jaryd found her overt hostility far worse. They had been traveling together for days, yet the gulf between them seemed wider than ever.

  He watched her for another moment, noting how skillfully and gracefully she rode. Then he realized that Sartol was talking to him. Despite Baden and Trahn’s warnings about Sartol’s unctuous nature, Jaryd liked the Owl-Master. He thought him highly intelligent and uncommonly thoughtful, and he appreciated the fact that, unlike the others, Sartol seemed willing, even eager, to discuss their mission to Theron’s Grove.

  “I find it very interesting,” the dark-haired mage was commenting now, “that the Order has come full circle back to Theron.”

  “Full circle?” Jaryd asked, trying to make himself heard over the drumming of their horses’ hooves. “I’m not sure that I follow your meaning.”

  “Consider the history of the Order and the Mage-Craft. Notwithstanding the legends bandied about by the people of Tobyn-Ser, we mages know that Theron, as much as Amarid, was responsible for the discovery of the Mage-Craft and the founding of this body. Obviously, he abused his powers, and, quite appropriately, he was punished. But with the curse, and his death, the mages of his time lost sight of his contributions to their heritage, an error that we perpetuate to this day. I suppose I just find it interesting that the path to our own salvation should run through the grove of the outcast.”

  Jaryd reflected on this for some time. “Do you think that he planned it this way?” he asked at length. “Do you think that’s why he’s doing all this, if he’s the one responsible?”

  “Good questions,” Sartol responded, “and I’d be as interested to hear your thoughts on the matter as you would be to hear mine. But I’m intrigued: ‘if he’s the one responsible?’ ” the Owl-Master repeated. “Don’t you share your uncle’s certitude?”

  “I don’t know that Baden’s all that certain,” Jaryd confided. “I think it’s more of a working theory than it is a conviction, although both he and Trahn believe that even if Theron isn’t responsible, he might be able to tell us who is.”

  Sartol gazed forward at Baden and Trahn, who were talking quietly with Alayna. “That he may,” the Owl-Master said at length, more to himself than to Jaryd, so that Jaryd strained to hear, “if he says anything at all.”

  Jaryd kept silent, choosing not to pursue that particular line of thought.

  A moment later, Sartol seemed to become aware again of Jaryd’s presence next to him. “It sounds as if your uncle has thought things through quite carefully,” he declared. “If this mission succeeds, the Order, and all of Tobyn-Ser, will be indebted to him.”

  Baden glanced back at them, a wry grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “And if it fails?” he called over his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Baden,” Sartol said smoothly, “I didn’t realize that you were listening.”

  Baden shook his head. “I hadn’t been,” he assured the Owl-Master. “I just happened to catch your last comment.”

  “Ah. Well, I meant it.”

  “You’re too kind,” Baden told him, again calling over his shoulder, “but you haven’t answered my question.”

  “If it fails,” Sartol remarked, without any hint of mirth, “I doubt that many will give much thought to you one way or another.”

  Baden nodded once, and the company rode on in silence. But Jaryd reflected on Baden and Sartol’s exchange for a long time.

  A few hours later, the company came within sight of the Southern Swamp, its hollowed, sun-bleached dead trees and isolated clumps of brown grasses signaling a marked shift in
terrain from the level, fertile prairie of the plain. Even from a distance, they could smell it. The heavy, sickeningly sweet odor of stagnation and decay oozed from the place like blood from a wound. Jaryd feared that Jessamyn intended to cross the fen immediately, but instead the sage turned the company to the southwest and they rode a few leagues more, skirting the swamp’s edge, before stopping for the night.

  For the next two days they continued along the edge of the quagmire, intending to cross it at its narrowest point, which lay sixty leagues to the south. They stayed just barely within sight of it, but still they were close enough for its stench to reach them whenever the wind picked up. And with every hour that brought them closer to the crossing point, Jaryd grew increasingly apprehensive. Baden estimated that even at its narrowest, the fen was nearly twenty leagues wide. They would be in the swamp, breathing its foul air, for an entire day.

  By the time the company reached the crossing point late the second afternoon, the other mages seemed to have grown as concerned as Jaryd. For the final hour of the day’s ride, they settled into a strained silence that persisted for the rest of the evening. The company’s mood was made even worse by the fact that Sartol seemed to have taken ill during the course of the day. To his credit, the Owl-Master never actually complained of feeling sick, but he ate nothing after breakfast, and when he retired for the night, he was burning with fever. Baden tried to reduce the fever, but to no avail.

  The following morning the mages rose with first light, and Jessamyn, seeing that Sartol’s condition had not improved, offered to delay the crossing for a day or two. Sartol declined, however, and the Owl-Sage, obviously anxious to reach Theron’s Grove as soon as possible, took the Owl-Master at his word. They broke camp a short while later and drove their horses toward the fen. As they approached it, riding through the thin mist that still hung over the plain, Jaryd gagged on the foul odor and quailed at the prospect of what they were about to do. And immediately upon entering the swamp he realized that this day’s ride would be the longest and hardest he had yet endured. The smell was unbearable and Jaryd knew that as the day progressed, it would get worse. But, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, he also realized that the rankness of the swamp was the least of their concerns.

  The heat posed a much greater danger, particularly to Sartol, who now looked unnaturally flushed, his chiseled features glazed with perspiration. Jessamyn and Peredur, who were older than the rest, also appeared to be wilting alarmingly under the relentless force of the sun. But none of them was spared. Unlike the plain, where a steady breeze had kept them cool despite the lack of shade, the swamp seemed dead, utterly still, shrouded in an invisible fog, fetid and stifling. Riding might have helped, had they been able to move swiftly enough. But they were slowed by the thick, oozing mud and could find no relief from the intense heat.

  Mosquitoes, gnats, wasps, hornets, and biting flies of every imaginable color, size, and shape buzzed continuously around Jaryd and his companions, driving all of them, and their horses, to distraction. Jaryd had not seen this many insects in his entire life, much less in a single day. Late in the morning Jessamyn signaled for a rest stop, to eat a light lunch and feed and water the horses. Immediately the company was beset by a swarming cloud of bugs so ferocious that they hurried to care for the horses and remounted as quickly as they could, without feeding themselves. They rode on without pause, snacking on whatever they could reach without dismounting, and hoping that the horses would endure what remained of the crossing. Early in the afternoon, with the heat growing increasingly unbearable, Jaryd sat bundled and hooded in his cloak for protection. Still, he found that his face and hands were covered with red welts. By late afternoon, after riding for hours without rest, the muscles in his legs and back burned with a pain he had not experienced since the earliest days of the journey.

  The mages reached the end of the swamp as the sun went down behind them, but they continued to ride for several more miles, until the foul smell had faded to a bad memory, and they had come to the edge of the Shadow Forest. When he finally saw Jessamyn raise her hand for the company to stop, Jaryd slid painfully off his mount and lay down on the ground, grateful beyond words to be done with the day’s ordeal. His relief was short-lived, however. Sartol’s condition had worsened. The Owl-Master’s cloak was soaked with sweat, and he tottered precariously in his saddle. Orris immediately started a fire, and Baden and Alayna rushed to Sartol’s side, helped him off his horse, and, with Trahn, led the exhausted, feverish Owl-Master to a place beside the crackling flames. As he had the night before, Baden tried to relieve Sartol’s fever, but the mage’s ailment still defied Baden’s healing powers. Orris and Jessamyn also failed in their attempts to ease the Owl-Master’s discomfort. Eventually, with Alayna beside him, applying a cold compress to his forehead, Sartol drifted into a fitful sleep. Reluctantly, the rest of the mages began to eat.

  After a few minutes, Jaryd piled some food in a clean bowl and took it to Alayna. He placed it on the ground beside her, but before he could leave, she stopped him.

  “You don’t have to go,” she told him and, then, hesitantly she added, “Actually, I’d . . . I’d like the company.”

  Surprised by her invitation, Jaryd stood for a moment, before finally sitting down. He glanced at Sartol. “How is he?”

  Alayna shrugged, concern etched across her brow. “He’s sleeping,” she said simply. “I suppose that’s good.”

  Jaryd nodded, and they sat there awkwardly, without speaking. Lightning from a distant storm fanned out across the western sky, and a bird cried from the Shadow Forest, causing Ishalla and Fylimar to stare curiously into the blackness of the wood.

  After some time, Alayna gave a small laugh and shook her head. “We’re not very good at this, are we?”

  “Well, I’m not the one who runs away every time we might have to say something to one another!” Jaryd shot back with more heat than he had intended.

  The expression in Alayna’s dark eyes hardened and she opened her mouth. But then she seemed to stop herself and she glanced down at Sartol. It was almost dark, and his damp features shone with the light of his ceryll, which Alayna had placed beside him. “I guess I haven’t been very nice to you,” she said at length. “I’m sorry.” She looked at Jaryd again. “But you’ve been pretty mean yourself! You had no right to say those things to me the other night! Calling me immature! I’ve been a mage longer than you have!”

  “You’re right,” Jaryd replied, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I apologize. But I’m confused. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what I did to offend you.”

  Alayna smiled ruefully and shook her head. “You didn’t do anything, at least nothing you could control.”

  Jaryd cocked his head. “Nothing I could control? I don’t understand.”

  “I know,” Alayna said. She took a deep breath. “Look, let’s just start over, all right? Pretend none of this ever happened. Can we do that?”

  Jaryd grinned and nodded. “Yes. We can do that.”

  She returned his smile. “Good.”

  They held each other’s gaze for another moment, before Jaryd glanced over at the rest of the company. “If you want to get some sleep,” he offered, turning back to Alayna, “we can set up shifts to watch over Sartol. I’m sure everyone would be willing to help, and I’ll take the first one.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think that’s necessary.” She looked at the sleeping mage. “He seems to be all right. I’ll just sleep over here. If he needs me, Huvan will wake me,” she added, indicating Sartol’s large owl, which was perched a few feet away, its bright yellow eyes wide and watchful, its ear tufts raised expressively.

  “All right,” Jaryd said quietly, as he climbed to his feet. “Sleep well.” He took a few steps toward the firelight and then turned back toward her. “And thanks.”

  She smiled, and Jaryd went off to find a place to sleep, happier than he had been in many days.
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br />   “Cailin!” she heard her mother call, in a voice that sounded small and far away. “Cailin! It’s almost time for dinner!”

  The little girl smiled as she continued to play in the muddy sand along the riverbank. Almost time for dinner, her mother had said. That meant that she still had a few more minutes playtime before her father took his turn at calling her. When Papa called, then she’d start back to the house. Papa got angry sometimes if she didn’t come home when he called.

  She stood to admire her work, brushing her dark hair away from her face with a dirty hand. Then, belatedly aware of the sand on her fingers, she wiped both hands down the front of her plain, beige dress.

  The castle she was building by the river was nearly finished, and she didn’t want to leave it quite yet. Sometimes when she built castles and left them overnight, the older boys from her school would come by and destroy them. She wasn’t sure why they did it, but by now she just expected it. And this castle was so good that she wanted to stay with it for a little while longer before she went home. It had high, thick walls with walkways on top of them, and a rounded tower at each corner from which guards could see in all directions. In the center of the courtyard sat the main keep of the castle, which was very large and had windows that looked out over the walls toward the slow waters of the Moriandral. Atop the keep, she could see multicolored flags that fluttered in the wind, and behind it, lit by the late-afternoon sun, the beautiful gardens of the princess who lived there.

  Cailin found a few more of the river-polished stones that she had been using for the windows and carefully pushed them into the sandy facade of the keep. She had found soft green grasses and some tiny yellow flowers for the garden, and she had taken leaves from a nearby tree and torn them into flags for the castle’s roof. But she was most proud of the deep moat she had dug around the edge of the castle. Using a sharp stick, she had made a canal leading from a still pool along the side of the river to the moat, and had managed in this way to fill the trench with water.