by DAVID B. COE
But the Owl-Master surprised them. “I have answered a great many questions,” he told them, “and now I have some of my own.” He hesitated. “I can see a great deal of what goes on in this land,” he explained a bit awkwardly, “but I know little of what it is like to live in today’s world. I would be . . . interested in what you can tell me.”
The young mages grinned, exchanging a brief glance. “We’d be happy to tell you anything you’d like to know, Owl-Master,” Alayna replied.
And so they sat beside the starlit lake, bathed in the soft, green glow that emanated from the unsettled spirit, and they responded to Theron’s questions with stories of their homes and their families and their upbringings. For several hours the three of them talked, until the waning moon appeared, large and orange, over the trees to the east. Seeing its light, reckoning the passage of time that it signified, Theron looked at his companions with an expression that Jaryd thought conveyed just a touch of regret.
“It grows late,” Theron said quietly. “You will be anxious to leave with the coming of daylight, and you have a long ride ahead of you.”
Jaryd and Alayna rose. “We wouldn’t have traded this evening for mere rest, Owl-Master,” Alayna remarked. “We’ve enjoyed our time with you.”
“I am . . . pleased to hear that,” the spirit returned, his eyes avoiding theirs. “You may sleep here, or I can lead you back to where you slept last night,” he offered, changing the subject. “It is your choice.”
“We’ll stay here,” Jaryd said.
“Very well.” The spirit turned to leave, but then stopped, and faced the mages once more. “You may have need of me again,” he told them. “I will leave something to help you contact me, should the need arise. You will find it in the morning.”
“Thank you, Owl-Master,” Jaryd answered, “for all your assistance. Be well.”
Theron nodded, and began to walk away. “Farewell, Hawk-Mages,” he called over his shoulder. “Arick guard you both.”
Jaryd and Alayna watched the gentle radiance of the Owl-Master recede into the forest. Only when the emerald light had vanished completely did they lie down to sleep on the grass by the lake. Jaryd soon heard Alayna’s breathing settle into a slow, regular rhythm, but he remained awake for a long time, looking at the stars, and listening to the music of the waterfall.
They awoke with first light, and, sitting up, gazed with astonishment at the token Theron had left for them. In the grass at Jaryd’s feet lay the Owl-Master’s staff, its top charred and splintered, and its shaft carved exquisitely with runes fromMi-rel, the ancient language.
“How is that possible?” Alayna whispered, her voice tinged with wonder.
Jaryd shook his head as he picked up the staff and examined it. It felt unusually light, but otherwise it seemed like any other wooden staff, although he marveled that this should be so. “I don’t know,” he breathed at last. “He said that he was power itself, a walking incarnation of the Mage-Craft. And it was his curse.” He shook his head again, still gazing at the staff. “I don’t know,” he repeated.
A few moments later the mages rose and, after briefly diving into the lake, they called to their hawks and started toward the western edge of the grove. The walk took them close to an hour, and, by the time they emerged from the trees, sunlight was warming the grassy clearing.
Almost as soon as they stepped into the open, they heard Trahn’s voice calling to them. Looking toward the camp, they saw the Hawk-Mage hurrying in their direction, a relieved grin spreading across his dark features.
“Jaryd! Alayna!” he cried out happily. “By the gods, it’s good to see you!”
“Stop right there, Trahn!” Alayna warned in a hard voice, as the mage drew closer.
His smile faded, and he halted.
“We’re sorry, Trahn,” Jaryd said soberly. “After the other night, we just don’t know who we can trust.”
Trahn nodded. “I understand. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“Where are the others?” Alayna demanded. “Where are the horses?”
Trahn’s eyes narrowed. “The horses disappeared for a while yesterday. I spent several hours recapturing them. One of them is still missing. Do you know something about that?”
Alayna shook her head. “No,” she conceded. “But we sent up the hawks to look over the camp, and we saw neither the horses nor you. Where are the others?” she repeated.
“Jessamyn and Peredur are dead, but I assume that you knew that already.” Jaryd and Alayna nodded, and he went on. “I haven’t seen Orris, but his bird is dead. I think he may have been the one who let the horses go.” He hesitated. “Baden and Sartol are already riding back to Amarid.”
Alayna closed her eyes. “Arick save us,” she whispered.
Jaryd spat a curse before glaring at Trahn. “We have to go after them,” he insisted. “Sartol is a traitor. He killed Jessamyn and Peredur, and he tried to kill us.”
Trahn took a deep breath. “I feared this,” he said miserably, shaking his head. “I started to figure it out after they left, although I didn’t know for certain until now. Sartol told us that Orris killed them, that he had intervened before Orris could do the same to you,” he explained apologetically. “Baden and I weren’t sure what to think, but Sartol was injured.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “He was very convincing.”
“How long ago did they leave?” Jaryd asked urgently, knowing as he did so what Trahn would say.
“Yesterday. First thing in the morning.” The dark mage looked at Alayna. “I understand your mistrust,” he said, “and I can offer no firm proof of my loyalty to the Order. But I swear to you in Arick’s name, I mean you and Jaryd no harm.”
Alayna’s expression remained grim. “I’d like to believe you,” she told him. “Forgive my suspicion, but recent events have left me reluctant to trust anyone.” She hesitated. “I’ll try, though.” She turned to Jaryd. “We’d better get going. They have a substantial head start on us.”
“You’re right,” Jaryd replied crisply. He turned back to Trahn. The Hawk-Mage was staring with awe at the marred staff he carried. “It’s Theron’s,” he said, somewhat needlessly. “We’ll tell you about it along the way.”
Still gazing at the staff, Trahn nodded. “I would like that,” he commented, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The three mages rushed back to the camp, where they hastily packed the food and supplies before saddling the remaining horses. Then they mounted, and, with a last glance back toward Theron’s Grove, they rode into the Shadow Forest, as Sartol and Baden had done more than a day earlier.
13
For nearly three days, the Owl-Masters rode at a punishing pace, pushing themselves and their mounts to the brink of exhaustion. Rising at dawn the first day, pausing to rest and eat as infrequently as they could, and continuing to ride well past nightfall with their cerylls blazing brightly to light their way, they managed to cross through the Shadow Forest in half the time it had taken the delegation to do so. It helped, of course, that they were only two, and that they had negotiated the wood once before.
Unfortunately, these factors did nothing to mitigate the slowness of the Southern Swamp, which they entered the following morning. They did get through the fen in one day, but they found once again that its maddening terrain made swift travel impossible. When they finally reached Tobyn’s Plain that evening, shortly after dusk, they were too fatigued to go on, and they settled in for what remained of the night.
During this, their first day on the plain, however, they had more than compensated for their slow passage through the swamp. Already, they had covered over thirty leagues, and the western sky still glowed with the fiery brilliance of the setting sun. Even their birds had been hard pressed to keep up with them. At this rate, the return trip to Amarid would take little more than half the time consumed by the delegation’s journey to Theron’s Grove.
And Sartol would have Baden to thank. Since their departure from the grove,
the lean mage had driven them toward Amarid with a grim single-mindedness. As a result, they had made excellent time, which ultimately worked to Sartol’s advantage. Provided, of course, that they didn’t kill themselves before they reached the Great Hall. Sartol’s back and legs ached with fatigue, and his mount was lathered. Spurring his horse forward to draw even with Baden, Sartol caught the mage’s attention by raising his staff.
“We should rest a moment, Baden,” he called over the pounding of their horses’ hooves, hoping that he didn’t sound too desperate.
After a moment, Baden nodded.
They slowed to a halt and dismounted. Immediately, the horses began to chomp on the prairie grass, taking from it what moisture it had to offer. Baden drank some water and ate a few pieces of dried fruit before walking several feet ahead and staring northward across the darkening plain. Anla and Huvan flew off in search of food.
“We probably can’t reach the river tonight,” the Owl-Master finally said over his shoulder, his pale eyes illuminated by the dying sun, his thinning red and grey hair stirred slightly by the breeze, “but we can go a bit farther. I’d like to cover another six or seven leagues, if possible.”
“Fine,” Sartol agreed. “I’ll be ready to go on in a few minutes.”
Baden nodded again, and faced north once more.
That had been the extent of their conversations since leaving Theron’s Grove: When do we leave? When should we rest? How far will we go today? Normally, Sartol would not have minded, but Baden had been so quiet, so withdrawn that Sartol had grown uneasy. It was fine if Baden’s reticence grew out of his grief for Jessamyn and Jaryd. That, he could understand; perhaps he could even turn it to his advantage. But if Baden’s silence arose from suspicion of Sartol, that was another matter. Unfortunately, there was little that Sartol could do. He could force a dialogue, but that might seem far more peculiar than merely accepting the silence. Besides, he had his own problems to ponder.
His plans for the delegation had fallen apart in rather dramatic fashion, although, with one significant exception, he had been quite fortunate in how matters had turned out. Jessamyn and Peredur had been ridiculously easy to kill; and, no doubt, Theron had taken care of Jaryd and Alayna for him—every day that passed without word from Trahn made that more clear. He could still count on the Owl-Masters to select him as the new sage; nothing had changed that. And, while he had originally hoped to rid himself of Baden in Theron’s Grove, the Owl-Master was again proving himself a most valuable, albeit unknowing ally. If Baden could be persuaded to become his first, the Owl-Master’s prestige, particularly his links to some of the younger members of the Order, would buy Sartol enough time to implement the second stage of his scheme. By the time Baden or anyone else suspected a thing, he would be more powerful than any of them; indeed, more powerful than all of them combined. After that, any opposition, even Baden’s, would be irrelevant.
More important, however, Sartol hoped that Baden’s backing would help him deal with the single largest problem he faced in the aftermath of that night by Theron’s Grove: Orris had managed to escape before Sartol could kill him. It seemed ironic, in a way, that with all the lies he had told Baden and Trahn when they found him, it should be the truths that now troubled him the most. Orris was alive, and he had been stronger than Sartol had anticipated. Not so strong that Sartol could not handle him, but a good deal stronger than the sage and the first had been. Strong enough to surprise him.
Of course, it hadn’t helped that Sartol was already fatigued from killing the ancient ones and battling Jaryd and Alayna. Orris had been unable to injure him—yes, the Hawk-Mage’s bird succeeded in cutting his forehead, but Sartol had been forced to give himself that burn on his leg, if only to make Orris appear more powerful, and more threatening, than he really was. But Orris had been strong enough to stave off Sartol’s attack and flee. Huvan had slaughtered his accursed hawk, but Orris was still alive, the only living soul who knew that Sartol had betrayed the Order.
That’s where Baden came in. Baden and Orris had never gotten along—any fool could see that—and so Baden had been more than willing to believe Sartol’s story. Beyond that, Baden, it appeared, had succeeded in convincing Trahn to believe it as well, which was no small feat. Sartol was aware of how Trahn felt about him. When the time came, he would enjoy killing the dark mage almost as much as he had relished killing Peredur and the Hag. But he was getting ahead of himself. What mattered for now was that, if Orris returned to Amarid and accused him of treason and murder, Baden would support Sartol’s version of what happened by the grove. Orris would not be able to convince anyone of his own innocence, not with Baden against him.
The larger danger lay in the possibility that Orris and Trahn might find each other. If Orris swayed Trahn to his side, Trahn might be able to convert Baden. In that case, Sartol would have to have all three of them executed as traitors to the Order and Tobyn-Ser, a far more complicated proposition. He would need to move quickly to implement the next phase of his plan. Nothing mattered as much as that. But first, he had to be sure that Baden believed his story.
The lean mage turned to look at him. “Ready?” he asked.
Sartol stretched his back. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really,” Baden replied, grinning and shaking his head.
“Then I’m ready.”
The Owl-Master gave a small laugh.
A smile, Sartol thought to himself. That’s a start.
They remounted and began again to gallop northward, skirting the western edge of the swamp much as the company had done a few days earlier. Anla and Huvan soared into view from the east and flapped overhead, keeping pace with the mounts.
As the last vestiges of daylight vanished, the two mages again drew on their powers to light the plain with the cerylls they carried. Bright stars emerged in the sky above, and, in the distance, to the northwest, candles burned in the windows of a small cluster of homes. Still, they rode without speaking, thundering across the plain for several more hours, until at last Baden signaled with a raised hand for Sartol to stop.
As he painfully climbed out of his saddle, Sartol noted with satisfaction that Baden’s movements were as stiff and awkward as his own. He thought about saying something about how much progress they had made, but, once more, he resisted the urge to pry conversation out of the Owl-Master. Instead, he pulled the cheese, dry breads, and dried meats from his saddlebag, sat down on an exposed rock, and began to eat. Baden sat on the ground opposite him, and Sartol tossed him the pouch containing the meat. Wordlessly, Baden removed a strip and began to chew on it, his eyes staring without focus at the grass at his feet.
“Can you pass me the water?” Sartol asked a few minutes later, indicating the leather bag that Baden had carried over with him from the horses.
Baden leaned forward and handed it to him, before sitting back and taking another bite of his food.
Sartol raged inwardly at the lean mage’s silence. This was like traveling with a rock or a log. He no longer cared how it might seem; he had to find out if Baden suspected him.
“How are you holding up, Baden?” he chanced. “You’ve hardly said a word since we left the grove.”
Baden gave a wan smile. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such terrible company.” He paused. “I’m worried about Jaryd, just as you must be about Alayna. And I still can’t believe that Jessamyn is gone; she’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.”
Sartol nodded. “I know you were very close. I can’t get my mind off Alayna. We were friends for only a short time compared with how long you knew Jessamyn, but I’m going to miss her terribly.” And just once before I killed her, he thought to himself, I would have liked to feel her young body beneath me.
Baden looked at him gravely. “So, you’ve given up on the possibility that she and Jaryd survived the grove.”
It took him by surprise. “Well, yes. I . . . I guess I have. You haven’t?”
Baden sh
ook his head. “I realize it’s probably foolish of me, but I can’t help thinking that they’ll find a way out.”
Arick forbid! Sartol said to himself with an inward shudder. “I certainly hope you’re right, but I’m not optimistic.”
Baden paused, taking another mouthful of food. A moment later, he continued. Sartol thought it funny in a way: suddenly, Baden seemed to be in a mood to talk. “Quite apart from everything that happened,” the Owl-Master was saying, “I regret leaving before we could confront Theron. More than a fortnight has passed since the Gathering, and we’ve accomplished absolutely nothing.”
Sartol smiled to himself, sensing an opportunity to strengthen his hold on Baden’s support. “That’s not entirely true,” he countered. “We’ve unmasked a traitor within the Order. Surely, that has some value.”
Baden gave a small nod. “I suppose you’re right. But even so, we never even got the chance to interrogate Orris. The point is, we still don’t know who’s responsible for these attacks, or what their ultimate purpose might be, beyond just destroying the people’s trust in the Order.”