by DAVID B. COE
They had rested there for but a few moments before remounting and driving their horses north along the hard, moist sand just beyond the reach of the tide. They had two extra horses with them, the stallions ridden to the grove by Jessamyn and Peredur, and so they changed mounts every few hours to keep the animals fresh. Even Jaryd, who had ridden only the gelding throughout the journey to the grove, bravely consented to ride the swifter, larger mounts in order to maintain their pace. For what remained of the day, they followed the meandering contours of the coastline, riding along the edge of the sea, and periodically crossing shallow rivulets where fresh runoff from the Shadow Forest completed its journey to the ocean. It was a beautiful ride, more lovely even than the two days the company had spent crossing the Parneshome Range just after leaving Amarid. But they had been unable to enjoy it, focused as they all were on finding Theron’s Path.
Legends spoke of a narrow strip of beach running between Duclea’s Ocean and the edge of the Southern Swamp. According to the old tales, this had been the route that young Theron had taken northward, in exile and bitterness, after being banished from Rholde. If it existed, the path would allow the three riders to reach Tobyn’s Plain in less time, and with less difficulty than the route leading through the Shadow Forest and the swamp. In effect, Trahn had speculated, it could allow them to make up a half day’s ride on Baden and Sartol, perhaps even more. Even if the stories were true, however, they had no guarantee that the path had survived the passage of so many hundreds of years. It could have been washed away gradually, by changes in tidal patterns, or it might have been destroyed by the violent storms that struck Tobyn-Ser’s eastern shore each autumn. If any one of these possibilities turned out to be the case, they would have to cross the swamp at its widest point. Then, all hope of overtaking the Owl-Masters before they reached Amarid would be lost.
They pushed themselves and their mounts, desperate to reach the path before nightfall made finding it impossible. But as the day progressed, as their shadows and those of the trees to the west grew longer, slicing across the beach until they reached the foaming water, Alayna realized—all three of them realized—that their ignorance of this terrain ran even deeper than they had thought. By Trahn’s calculations, they should have reached the swamp—and the path that would enable them to pass around it—by late afternoon. And yet, they continued to ride well past nightfall, guided by mage-light, their horses’ hoof beats muffled by the sand and swallowed by the constant thunder and retreat of the waves. It was not until the waning moon appeared in the sky over the ocean, dusky and red, and little more than a crescent, that Alayna finally caught the foul odor of the swamp mingling with the salt-smell of the sea. At the same time, Trahn, riding ahead of the younger mages, raised his staff, signaling them to stop.
“Do you smell that?” he called over the pounding of the surf, and then, not waiting for a response, he added, “We’ve reached the swamp. We can rest here for what’s left of the night. Tomorrow we’ll see if the path has survived the last thousand years.”
They swung off their mounts and led the animals to another of the fresh-water streams that carved through the sand to the ocean. Then they gathered driftwood and built a fire, huddling close around it and wrapping themselves in their cloaks to guard against the cold, damp ocean air. They nibbled on some dry breads and cheese as they stared at the flames, but all three of them were too exhausted to eat more than a light snack.
At one point, Jaryd turned and stared into the night, as though straining to see the path in spite of the darkness and the mist that had begun to float in off the water. “How far ahead of us do you think they are?” he asked, his voice sounding small amid the sounds of the sea, and his brown hair stirring softly in the wind.
Trahn looked at the young mage for some time before answering. “It’s hard to say,” he conceded at last. “They left a full day before we did, and the turnings of the coastline have made our journey longer than I had anticipated. They will have had some delays as well, however; don’t forget that. Crossing the forest and the swamp will have slowed them a bit. If we can find the path, and reach Tobyn’s Plain tomorrow, I still believe we’ll be able to catch them.”
Jaryd nodded, but his gaze lingered on the northern sky. “Do you think that Baden is all right?”
The Hawk-Mage smiled. “Yes,” he said without hesitation, “I’m sure that Baden is fine. I learned long ago that worrying about Baden is a waste of time, both because he can take care of himself, and because he’s too stubborn to control.”
Jaryd gave a small laugh, and glanced at his friend. “You should meet his brother,” the young mage commented wryly. “They’re quite similar, much more so than either one would care to admit.”
“And are you like them as well?” Alayna asked teasingly.
Jaryd turned his body back to the fire and rubbed his hands together. “I’m more like my mother,” he replied with a grin. “I’m not as overtly headstrong as Baden and my father, but I manage to get what I want anyway.”
“That’s even worse,” Trahn commented, winking at Alayna.
She smiled, finding it increasingly difficult to distrust the dark mage. Jaryd smiled as well, but, almost immediately, his grin vanished, leaving a troubled expression on his boyish features.
“Sartol is very strong,” he said to Trahn, echoing a conversation they had already had a number of times since leaving Theron’s Grove.
Trahn placed a reassuring hand on Jaryd’s shoulder. “I know. You’ve told me. And, frankly, the way you described your encounter with him left me somewhat frightened as well. But there isn’t much that we can do about it right now. Besides,” he added, trying unsuccessfully to smile, “Baden is powerful, too—perhaps he can’t defeat Sartol, but certainly he’s strong enough to escape from him if he has to.”
Jaryd nodded. He had heard these assurances before, earlier in the day, twice as they rode and once as they rested on the sand. But Alayna understood his need to hear them again, and so, too, it seemed, did Trahn. The dark mage appeared more than willing to repeat himself on this matter, and Alayna once again felt her doubts and suspicions of the Hawk-Mage slowly fading. But while she relinquished them gladly, the obstinacy with which a remnant of this distrust persisted bothered her. She had always had a capacity for trust, even as a child. Where Faren was shy and withdrawn, Alayna had been outgoing and quick to make friends. She had never had a suspicious nature. But abruptly, in the wake of Sartol’s betrayal, she had found herself questioning Trahn’s loyalty, though he had done nothing to warrant her doubts. What bothered her most was not simply that she had been wary of the Hawk-Mage—actually, given all that had happened, that was excusable—but rather that it was becoming increasingly clear to her just how wrong she had been about him. She considered herself a good judge of people, and yet, Sartol had fooled her utterly. Had she not witnessed his attempt on Jaryd’s life, had she not seen the malice in his eyes as he advanced on the two of them in the thicket by Theron’s Grove, she would never have believed that the man she considered her closest friend could be a murderer and a traitor. She knew him too well, or so she thought. She had been a fool. And now she had been mistaken about Trahn as well. Where is my judgment? she had asked herself on more than one occasion throughout this day. Where are my instincts?
Worst of all, at times it made her hesitant about Jaryd as well. If Sartol had deceived her so easily, if she could fail to recognize the decency of Trahn’s motives, could she also be wrong about her burgeoning relationship with Jaryd? It was not that she doubted his motives—even in her current state of mind, she could see that the young mage was incapable of duplicity. But she wondered if she had placed too much faith in what they shared, if she had been too quick in allowing herself to care about him as much as she did. She felt uneasy, as if she were a child again, venturing out too far on tree limbs that could not bear her weight.
She sensed her mood darkening—another product of recent events, it seemed, was the return of th
e deep mood swings she remembered from her early adolescence. When Jaryd and Trahn rose to gather more driftwood for the fire, she joined them, but she said nothing, and she would not meet either of their gazes. And during what remained of their meal, as Jaryd and Trahn talked about Theron, she continued to hold herself apart.
The older Hawk-Mage had what seemed an infinite number of questions regarding the unsettled Owl-Master’s statements and appearance. Most of all, though, Trahn was fascinated with the staff that Theron had left for them, and he asked repeatedly to be allowed to see and handle it. Jaryd gladly indulged the Hawk-Mage’s curiosity, enthralled to be carrying such a token. Alayna shared their excitement, but on this night, not even Theron’s staff could shake her from her black mood. Fylimar flew to her shoulder from a nearby piece of driftwood and stretched out her neck for Alayna to caress. Smiling briefly in spite of herself, the young mage obligingly stroked the feathers on her bird’s chin. But Fylimar’s attempt to cheer her did little good. All Alayna could think about was Sartol, and the ease with which he had deceived her. She knew, as Jaryd had reminded her now on a number of occasions, that the Owl-Master had fooled all of them. But, considering how much time she had spent with Sartol over the last two and a half years, she, more than anyone else in Tobyn-Ser, should have known. And there was the other sign she had gotten, the one that should have told her of Sartol’s treachery, the one of which Jaryd knew nothing. Oh yes, she should have known. At least this is what she told herself as she stared at the fire, and maintained her self-imposed exile, as if by punishing herself she might make things all right.
After a time, Trahn moved off a short distance and lay down to sleep. Again a kind gesture from the Hawk-Mage—leaving Jaryd and Alayna to enjoy both the fire and their privacy. He deserved better than her cold silence. So, too, did Jaryd, who moved closer to her now, sitting on the sand beside her and staring, as she did, into the flames.
He remained still for a long time, and when at length he spoke, his words surprised her. Jaryd’s instincts, it seemed, were perfectly intact. “I can help you with the pain you must be feeling,” he offered gently. “If you and I are what I think we are, that’s the least I can do.” He hesitated, but only for an instant. “But you’re going to have to overcome the self-pity and self-doubt on your own. I can tell you that I respect your judgment, that I see your wisdom; I can tell you that I’m starting to fall in love with you. But in the end, all that means very little if you can’t respect yourself.”
It was not that he had said the wrong thing. She realized this later that night, long after she had driven him away, as she lay in the dark listening to the ocean and trying to stop the steady flow of her tears. Indeed, just the opposite was true. He had hit too close to the mark, had divined her thoughts all too well. And, of course, there was the other thing, the words that had made her pulse leap just when she needed desperately to feel that she had control over her emotions. It was not his fault at all. Nonetheless, her response, when it finally came, had been meant to wound.
“Regardless of what you think you know about me,” she asserted coldly, “the only thing I’ve come to question is whether I’ve been too quick to trust people about whom I really know very little. Including you. Especially you.”
He stared at her for but a moment before standing and saying in an even tone, “I’m sorry you feel that way; I had thought we’d moved beyond that.” Then he walked off into the darkness to sleep, leaving her alone with the fire, her melancholy, and her self-doubt.
She slept fitfully that night, waking with the silvery light that came before dawn, to grey skies and a cold, penetrating fog. Trahn was already up, sitting with his back to her and gazing pensively to the north, his long, black hair untied and falling loosely around his shoulders.
“If the path isn’t there,” the Hawk-Mage whispered, not looking back at her, but aware, somehow, that she had awakened, “there will be nothing at all that we can do.”
She did not know what to say. She felt disoriented, emotionally drained from her exchange with Jaryd the night before. She still felt the hurt of what Sartol had done, and, while she had finally begun to trust Trahn, she knew him only slightly, having spent little time with him prior to this journey. Glancing at Jaryd, who slept still, lying in the sand a few yards away—not nearly as far from her as it had seemed last night—she offered the only reassurance she could. “Jaryd hasn’t doubted for an instant that we’ll find a coastal route as you promised,” she said quietly.
Trahn turned at that, a smile on his lips, and said in a gentle tone, “I hope someday to have such trust from you as well. If you and he are to be together, you and I will have to be friends.”
Alayna looked away, turning her eyes back to Jaryd, whose face appeared at this moment so young and untroubled.If you and he are to be together . . . There was nothing she wanted more than that. Until last night, in spite of everything else that had happened since the company’s departure from Amarid, Alayna had felt a contentment and excitement that she had never known before, all of it due to the young Hawk-Mage and the feelings they shared. But, looking at the young mage now, hearing again and again in her mind the words with which she had purposely hurt him, she feared that she had destroyed their life together before it had begun. She felt ill, she wanted to cry, and, once again, she did not know what to say to Trahn.
Instead of responding to his comment, she rose quickly, and, mumbling something about needing to wake herself with a bath, ran to one of the fresh-water streams and followed it back into the woods for a short distance. There, she undressed and plunged into the clear, frigid water, scrubbing furiously at her scalp and skin, as if she could wash away the memory of what she had done.
After a few minutes in the bracing cold, she stepped out of the water and stood shivering in the fog. It had not been, she thought ruefully, the smartest thing she had ever done. She had no change of clothes, no cloth with which to dry off. And so, with her teeth chattering, and her lips, no doubt, turning as blue as Jaryd’s ceryll, she waited for the air to dry her skin. She had not dried off entirely when she finally dressed. Nonetheless, though still cold, she realized that her bath had improved her mood somewhat. It certainly had woken her up. Returning to the camp, with Fylimar gliding overhead, she saw that Jaryd was up, and that he and Trahn had rekindled the fire. Seeing her approach, Jaryd brought her a cup of some steaming liquid.
He handed it to her wordlessly, and then they started back toward the fire. Alayna wrapped both of her hands around the cup, feeling the warmth flow into her fingers and palms. From the sweet, cool fragrance of the steam that caressed her cheeks, she knew, before Jaryd told her, what the vessel contained.
“Shan tea,” he said quietly, his grey eyes meeting hers for only an instant before looking away. He gave a wan smile. “Trahn’s been holding out on us; seems he has a full pouch of the stuff.”
“Thank you for bringing it to me.”
He nodded, gazing at her again for just a moment. Then he moved away.
She sat down beside the fire and stared out at the ocean. Even without looking at him, she was aware of Jaryd’s every move as he and Trahn prepared breakfast and then readied the horses for the day’s ride.
The three of them ate quickly and then broke camp. All of them seemed impatient to be moving again, and anxious to see if the path existed. Almost as soon as they began riding, the odor of the swamp grew stronger, but, while the forest ahead of them and to the west appeared to be thinning, the fog made it impossible to determine precisely where the trees ended and the quagmire began. Only when the first ripples of the foul mud appeared through the pale sand several yards ahead of them did they realize that they had reached the fen. There was no sign of Theron’s Path.
They stopped, and Trahn dismounted, walking until the sand beneath his feet began to give way to the dark ooze. Bending, he picked up a fist-sized stone and tossed it into the mud. It struck with a sickening splat and sank several inches into the mire.
> “The horses can’t cross this,” he observed in a flat voice, still facing away from Jaryd and Alayna. “And the path doesn’t appear to exist anymore.” He turned around and held out his hands in supplication. “Forgive me; I was wrong.”
Alayna felt a cold clenching in her stomach. As her trust of the Hawk-Mage had grown, so, too, had her belief that they would find Theron’s Path, until she had shed almost all her skepticism of the old tales. Faced now with swamp and ocean, and nothing between the two, she felt her mood of the night before descending upon her once again. Unable to meet Trahn’s sorrowful gaze, and unwilling just then to look at Jaryd, she swung her eyes toward the ocean. And doing so, she saw the tide curling in upon itself strangely several yards beyond land’s end. She smiled, entertaining another memory from her childhood, and then she swung her horse around to face her companions.
“You may not have been wrong after all, Trahn,” she declared, pointing to the churning waters. “Look there.”
Both men stared in the direction she indicated, but, from their expressions, she could see that neither of them understood.
“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” Jaryd admitted. “I can see that the tide—” He stopped and looked at Alayna, comprehension lighting his face as though the sun had suddenly melted away the mist. “It’s shallower there!” he cried with excitement.
Alayna nodded. “My father calls them sandbars,” she explained to Trahn, who still appeared confused. “The path still exists—perhaps at a lower tide it still looks just as it did when Theron crossed it—but, right now, it’s partially submerged.”