CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  Staring at the oncoming mass, unable to pull her eyes away from the destruction of Kaera, Cailin saw her mother and father running toward her, panic-stricken like the others. Her father, still carrying his ax, was bleeding from a gash at his temple.

  “Mama!” Cailin cried out. “Papa!” She took a step toward them as she saw them register her presence.

  “Cailin!” her father called to her. “Run!”

  They had almost reached her—her father had even started to bend over so that he might sweep her into his arms as they ran past—when one of the great, terrible birds dove down upon them like a falcon plummeting toward its prey. Cailin heard her father howl with pain as one of the bird’s claws slashed across his neck, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  “No!” Cailin’s mother shrieked, dropping to her knees beside him. “Dunstan! No!”

  Cailin screamed out for her mother, but had no time to do anything else. One of the mages, now only a few steps from where her mother knelt in a growing pool of her father’s blood, leveled his staff at her mother and, it seemed to Cailin, pressed his thumb into the side of the shaft, just below the stone mounted at its top. A crackling bolt of red fire leapt from the stone to her mother, blasting her to the ground, and enveloping her in flames before she could cry out. Again Cailin screamed, and this time the mage looked directly at her. He had his hood drawn over his head, but in the hot, orange light cast by the inferno that had been Kaera, she could see that he was bearded, with a crooked nose and dark, deep-set eyes. He smiled slightly as he regarded her. Then he casually raised his staff and moved his thumb again.

  Cailin felt the heat of the red pulse as it rushed just past her head and hammered into Zanna, throwing the older girl backward and to the dirt as if she were a rag doll. Cailin tried to look back at her friend, even though she felt certain that Zanna was already dead, but the mage, his smile deepening now, held her gaze. She wanted desperately to run, or better yet, to retrieve her father’s ax and kill this man. But instead, she felt her head begin to spin, and her stomach rising in her throat. The last thing she saw, as she fell to the ground and felt consciousness slipping away, was the mage walking toward her and then past her as if she weren’t even there.

  When Cailin came to, the fires were still burning. She still smelled the smoke and the charred flesh. But aside from the snapping of the flames, she could hear nothing. No cries; no voices of any kind. As she tried to focus her sight, she felt herself raised roughly into a sitting position. The blurry figure squatting before her was dressed in green, and a large, black shape loomed on his shoulder. And as her sight returned, she realized that it was the bearded mage. She struggled to get away.

  “Not so fast, little girl,” the man said, grinning ghoulishly. He had a strange accent, one that Cailin hadn’t heard before.

  She started to scream, but he put a callused hand over her mouth. “No scream,” he commanded, and then he grinned again. “No one to hear, anyway.”

  So everyone is dead, Cailin thought, starting to cry.

  “Listen to me,” the mage told her, removing his hand from her mouth and bringing his face very close to hers. “Listen closely: people will come; they will find you. And they will ask you who did this. When they ask, you tell them that it was the Children of Amarid. You tell them that we no longer serve Tobyn-Ser. From now on Tobyn-Ser serves us. You understand?”

  Cailin kept on crying, and she said nothing.

  “Do you understand!” he repeated loudly, shaking her by the shoulders.

  Cailin nodded.

  The man smiled. “Good.” He pulled a feather from his cloak and handed it to her. It was black and very long. Seeing it made her think of the blue feather that she still carried in her pocket, and of the wish she had made. Now she wished she were dead. “When the people come,” he told her, “give this to them as well.”

  Then the man looked up at something over her head and behind her, and he nodded once. A moment later, Cailin felt an explosion of pain in the back of her skull, and she fell back into darkness.

  10

  By skirting the western edge of the swamp and crossing it to the south of where they first encountered it, the company had taken a calculated risk, minimizing their time in the swamp, but increasing the distance they would have to cover in the Shadow Forest. The next morning, they began to pay the price of that choice. Once, the lush forest in the southeastern corner of Tobyn-Ser had been known as Duclea’s Wood. Graced by the Goddess of Water with an abundance of spring-fed brooks and sparkling cascades, bisected by the Moriandral, and surrounded on three sides by ocean and gulf, the wood had been one of the glories of the land. It had been a center of trade and, with its rich variety of hardwoods, the home of the most renowned wood carvers in Tobyn-Ser. But that had been before Theron bound to his first hawk in a grove just outside the town of Rholde and left his home, a young exile newly versed in what came to be known as the Mage-Craft, but what the people of his day called black magic.

  All that had changed a thousand years ago. With Theron’s Curse, and the return to Theron’s Grove of the Owl-Master’s unsettled spirit, Duclea’s Wood became a place of fear and evil. Within five years of Theron’s death, the people of Rholde, whom the unsettled mage tormented mercilessly, had abandoned their homes. Within one hundred years, the entire forest, indeed all the land below the Southern Swamp, had been forsaken. Theron’s Grove became the most dreaded place in Tobyn-Ser, its name synonymous with death, and Duclea’s Wood became the Shadow Forest. It held neither the awesome power of Tobyn’s Wood, nor the dazzling beauty of Leora’s Forest. But the Shadow Forest had a wildness that those others lacked. It had lain undisturbed for hundreds of years, shaped only by the passage of time and the changing seasons. And now, in the bright sunlight of this warm, summer day, it resisted the company’s advance, as stubborn and indomitable as an ocean storm tide.

  Nothing in the forest could match the virulence of what they had just experienced in the swamp. But the wood presented obstacles and frustrations of its own. Their progress was maddeningly slow, hindered by the writhing tangle of brambles and vines that wound among the trunks of the trees, and the false paths through dense thickets that lured the company into the forest’s shadows and then vanished without warning, like candles extinguished by a sudden breeze. The trees grew so thickly in some places that the mages were forced to ride single file. Even in the more open stretches, gnarled roots and the impenetrable undergrowth made it impossible for them to ride at a full gallop. Jaryd had hoped to ride through the forest with Alayna, but it was all he could do merely to navigate his mount through the forest. He was so focused on riding that he was only dimly aware of Ishalla gliding overhead. For her part, Alayna was occupied with Sartol, who, though looking and feeling better than he had in the swamp, was still weak and uncertain on his horse.

  The company rode until the sky that peeked through the branches overhead had darkened to a deep indigo and they could no longer make their way through the wood. Even so, they had covered just barely more than half the distance to Theron’s Grove, far less than they had hoped. They sat around the fire that night, aggravated by their lack of progress, girding themselves for one last day of travel. For the first time in several nights, Sartol joined them, his weathered face looking gaunt and pale in the shifting light of the fire. His appetite had returned, and long after the rest of them had finished eating the fowl killed for them by several of the hawks, the Owl-Master continued to supplement his meal with cheese, bread, and dried meat. As he ate, Jessamyn began speaking to the company about their coming encounter with Theron.

  “With luck, we will arrive at Theron’s Grove late tomorrow afternoon,” she explained, her brown eyes focused on the fire, as the white owl on her shoulder encompassed the company with a slow turn of its head. “If we do, I want to waste no time before entering the grove. Hence, I’d like to work out our strategy this evening, so that tomorrow, upon our arrival, we can make whatever preparations are necessary wi
th a minimum of delay.” She looked at Baden, who sat opposite her on the far side of the fire, his face looking even leaner than usual in the shifting light. “Baden, we’re here largely because of you. I would ask that you speak for the Order tomorrow night.”

  “I’d be honored, Sage Jessamyn,” the Owl-Master said soberly.

  “Do you have advice for those of us who will accompany you into the grove?” the Owl-Sage asked.

  Baden hesitated for a moment before responding. “It will come as no surprise to any of you that I’ve never done this before,” he commented, a wry smile springing to his face and then vanishing just as quickly. “But Trahn and I have spoken of this at some length, and we have some thoughts on the matter.” He stood and began pacing slowly in front of the fire, his lanky frame taut, his gestures angled and tense. “From what we know of the Unsettled, from what they have told us of themselves, it seems that they can’t lie to us; they can merely choose to withhold information. Thus, our questions should be as specific as possible; the more pointed our questions, the more informative his answers will be.”

  “Provided that he chooses to speak with us at all,” Orris interjected.

  Baden nodded. “We have no guarantee of that,” he concurred.

  “Can we compel him to talk?” Jaryd asked his uncle.

  “No,” Baden answered, shaking his head. “At least, I don’t think so.” He glanced at Trahn, who also shook his head. “As Trahn has mentioned in the past,” Baden went on, “we should also keep in mind that the Unsettled have knowledge that goes far beyond their realm. Even if Theron isn’t responsible for the attacks on Tobyn-Ser, he may be able to help us find out who is.”

  Alayna looked at Baden, as if she wished to be recognized.

  “Alayna,” the Owl-Master invited, “do you have something to add?”

  “I do,” she said. She took a breath, glancing around the circle of mages. “Everything we know of Theron’s life tells us that he had a keen and subtle mind. He may toy with us, giving us hints and clues in his phrasing or choice of words. We must listen closely to everything he says. We should also avoid sounding obsequious. He didn’t respond well to that when he was alive, and he probably won’t now, either. And we should be as honest with him as we can be—given how brilliant he was, he’ll be hard to fool. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the grove if he catches us in a lie. Finally, I’d suggest that we avoid any mention of Amarid’s name when we address Theron. If we greet him formally, we should do so ‘on behalf of the Order and the people of Tobyn-Ser,’ not ‘in the name of Amarid, founder of the Order.’ We should refer to Amarid’s Laws as ‘the laws that govern the Order,’ or something like that. If we want him to speak with us, we can’t go to him as emissaries of the First Mage.”

  The others nodded in agreement. “Sound advice,” Baden observed. The Owl-Master took a deep breath. “That brings us, I’m afraid, to the darker realities of this mission. As soon as we enter the grove, we’ll alert Theron to our presence. From that time on, we’ll be at grave risk. Trahn observed during the Gathering that Theron has no ceryll of his own, and that, without access to ours, any power he has might be limited. Obviously, we don’t know if this is the case, but it makes sense in theory, and I’d recommend that all of us leave our cerylls before going to meet with him. Still, even if we take that precaution, Theron remains a very dangerous adversary. At the first sign of real trouble we must leave the grove. As we know from the history of this forest, his power extends beyond that small group of trees, but most likely he’s strongest there. We’ll have a better chance of withstanding his assault outside of the grove.”

  “Arick grant that it doesn’t come to that,” Peredur muttered quietly.

  “I hope that he hears you, old friend,” Jessamyn said, getting to her feet. “But as Owl-Sage, and leader of this mission, I must prepare for all contingencies.” She glanced at Baden. “Thank you, Owl-Master, for your wise counsel.” It was a dismissal of a sort, a reassertion of her control over this discussion. Taking it as such, Baden nodded once and sat down. “Thank you all for your strength and your good sense,” the Owl-Sage continued. “We will have need of all that you have to offer before this is over. But not all in the same capacity. It seems to me that some in this company should wait outside the grove when the others go in, just in case our meeting with Theron . . . goes awry. Someone should be left to take news of our failure back to the Great Hall.”

  Jaryd felt the rest of the company take a collective breath. All of them, he realized, had come a long way to confront the unsettled Owl-Master. None wished to be excluded.

  “Alayna, Jaryd,” Jessamyn went on, looking from one of the young mages to the other, “I’m certain that I speak for all the rest of us when I say that I wish I could leave the two of you behind. Not because I’ve found either of you lacking. On the contrary: I see much promise in both of you, and I want to guard that for the future of this land. But Alayna, we need your knowledge of Theron. And Jaryd, as Baden has argued before, the vision you had outside of Taima started you down this path a long time ago. Arick has deemed that you have a role to play in this, and I’ll not presume to deny his will.”

  If someone had told him six months ago that he would be pleased by the news that he was to enter Theron’s Grove within a day, Jaryd would have thought that person a lunatic. But as he listened to Jessamyn, he felt a tremendous sense of relief. Glancing at Alayna, he saw the same emotion register on her features. She looked back at him, and they shared a brief smile.

  The Owl-Sage looked down at the first, sitting beside her. “Peredur, my friend, I had also hoped to leave you out of this delegation, but leaders cannot always protect those whom they love the most.” She raised her voice. “Baden, as I said, will speak for the Order. Peredur and I will be there as well. I have decided, therefore, that Orris, Sartol, and Trahn will stay behind.”

  Orris and Sartol began to protest, but the Owl-Sage silenced them with a gesture. Trahn, characteristically, said nothing, but Jaryd could see the muscles of the dark mage’s jaw working as he stared into the fire.

  “I know that all three of you wish to accompany us into the grove,” she told them in a soothing tone. “And please believe me when I tell you that none of us questions your courage or your devotion to the Order and to this land. But Sartol, you have been ill, and you are still weakened, too much so for what we may face in the grove.”

  “I’ve recovered, Owl-Sage,” the Owl-Master countered. “My fever is gone. You’ll need me.”

  Jessamyn smiled at him, a kind smile. “You are getting better, Sartol. I see it, and I’m glad of it. But one doesn’t recover fully from a fever such as yours overnight.”

  “But by tomorrow—” Sartol began.

  “I have decided, Sartol,” Jessamyn told him, effectively ending their discussion. She turned to Trahn and Orris. “The two of you have the trust and support of the younger mages. You’ll be needed should the rest of us be lost.”

  “We’ll be needed in the grove even more!” Orris argued, his beard bristling. “We’re stronger than the young ones; we should go in their place. The boy has a vision and suddenly—”

  “That’s enough, Orris!” Jessamyn broke in angrily, her tone commanding. She glanced around at the others, her eyes glowing like embers. “My mind is set!” she told them in a hard voice. “I’d suggest that you all get some sleep.”

  Without saying more, Jessamyn stepped out of the firelight and walked off to find a place to lie down. Peredur followed her, leaving the rest of the company to sit in awkward silence, the Owl-Sage’s words still ringing in their ears.

  At length, Baden stirred and took a deep breath. “I suppose we should go to sleep, as she said.”

  Orris shot to his feet, glaring at Baden, a single, rigid finger leveled at the Owl-Master accusingly. He started to say something, but then checked himself, and stomped out of the circle.

  Trahn watched the Hawk-Mage go before he, too, stood to face Baden, a sad smile
on his lips. The two of them held each other’s glance for some time before Trahn gripped his friend’s arm and then walked off into the night.

  Baden looked over at Sartol. “It wasn’t my decision,” he said softly, as if seeking absolution.

  “I know,” Sartol told him, trying to smile, but grimacing instead. “None of us blames you, Baden. We’re just disappointed, and men like Orris need a target at which to lash out in times like these. Don’t worry about it.”

  Sartol rose, and slowly, the two Owl-Masters went off in search of sleep.

  “I suppose I should be mad at Orris,” Jaryd said to Alayna, who was looking at him in the dying firelight, “given what he said about the two of us not belonging in the delegation. But I think that I would have felt the same way had I been in his position.”

  Alayna nodded, but she remained silent. When finally she spoke, she surprised him. “We wasted a lot of time that would have been better spent getting to know each other,” she said, running a hand through her dark hair in a gesture Jaryd had come to know quite well, “and it’s possible that neither of us will make it out of Theron’s Grove alive. But if you’d be willing, I’d like to ride with you tomorrow.”

  Jaryd felt his heart skip a beat. It was funny, he thought, that after all he had been through, such a simple gesture from this woman could affect him so. “I’d like that,” he told her. “But you should realize that if by some chance we do survive, we run the risk of becoming friends.”

  She laughed. “I guess that’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

  “I guess it is,” Jaryd responded with a smile.

  They both withdrew to find places to rest, and, for the second night in a row, Jaryd fell asleep thinking of Alayna.

  He lay on a bed of leaves and pine needles, listening to the sounds of the forest night, and grinning in the darkness. “None of us questions your courage or your devotion to the Order and to this land,” the Hag had said. And in his mind he had replied,Yes, and for that, you will die. Things were going very well. Oh, there were a few minor complications with which he would have to deal eventually, but nothing of consequence; nothing that he couldn’t handle.