by DAVID B. COE
“And you,” Alayna returned.
Jaryd met his friend’s gaze and smiled. “Take care of yourself, Trahn,” he told the Hawk-Mage, hoping that the tone of his voice conveyed everything that his words could not.
Orris swung himself onto his mount in a swift, compact motion. “I look forward to seeing the two of you again,” he said jauntily. “Try not to be late for our trial.”
Jaryd nodded and grinned. “We’ll do our best.”
Without another word, the two Hawk-Mages, one dark and the other fair, both with their long hair tied back, wheeled their mounts and started along the trail toward Amarid. Jaryd watched them ride until they disappeared among the trees.
“Come,” Baden commanded, steering his horse onto a narrow passage through the woods that Jaryd had not noticed before. “It’s not far, but I’d like to rejoin Trahn and Orris before they meet up with anyone else. The fewer questions we raise, the better off we’ll be.”
Surveying the main trail and the surrounding forest one last time to be sure that they were not seen, Jaryd followed Baden onto the path, and Alayna fell in behind him. As the Owl-Master had promised, they did not have to go far, although the woods were dense and the terrain rough. They reached the place Baden had described in a quarter hour. Surrounded by thick groves of fir and spruce, and angled slightly with the gentle slope of a small knoll, the clearing was covered with thick, soft grasses and strewn with wildflowers of every conceivable color. The loud droning of a thousand bumblebees filled the air, hummingbirds darted among the blossoms, and two large deer, startled by the mages’ arrival, bolted into the woods with a loud snort and the snapping of dried branches.
“You’ll be safe here,” Baden murmured, his eyes drinking in the tableau. “Only one other person knows of this place.”
Jaryd read much in what he saw working on the Owl-Master’s countenance, and he guessed who that other person might be, though he kept silent.
Alayna had climbed down off her mount and was gazing with unconcealed delight at the flowers and birds. At length, she looked up at Baden. “What an incredible place.”
The Owl-Master managed a smile. “I’m glad you like it.” He paused, clearing his throat, as if unsure of how to proceed. “I should be going,” he began awkwardly, before faltering again. “I won’t lie to you,” he continued after a moment. “Our lives may well depend on your ability to get to our trial with the evidence you carry. But your first responsibility should be to each other. Protect yourselves; you’re the land’s best hope. If it comes down to a choice between stopping Sartol and the outlanders or saving us . . .” He stopped. And then a smile lit his face. “Listen to me. The two of you survived Theron’s Grove; you don’t need my advice on how to deal with Sartol.”
“We’ll be all right, Baden,” Jaryd assured his uncle, “and we’ll be there for your trial.”
“Good,” the Owl-Master responded. “Then I don’t have to bother with a lengthy good-bye.” He turned his horse and began trotting toward a far corner of the clearing, where, Jaryd guessed, another wooded path led toward the great city. He stopped, however, before he reached the trees, swinging his mount around a second time. “Arick guard you both,” he called, his expression far more sober than it had been only seconds before.
By way of reply, Jaryd raised the altered branch that still held his ceryll and made it blaze momentarily in tribute. “And you,” he cried in return.
Alayna came and stood beside the young mage, raising a hand in farewell.
Long after Baden had vanished into the forest, they remained in that spot, facing the dark woodland, their thoughts traveling with the others toward the city and all that awaited them there.
“I think that waiting for Baden’s message will be the hardest part of this,” Jaryd remarked. “I’d rather be with them, getting arrested myself—”
“Than here, alone with me?”
“That’s not what I—” He stopped when he saw that she was smiling. “You know what I meant.”
“Yes, I do,” she told him, her smile fading. “I feel the same way, but Baden did convince me that this was the best chance we had.” She glanced at the stick he carried in his hand. “Maybe we should use this time to help you hone your skills with the Mage-Craft. We could move your ceryll from that silly stick to Theron’s staff, and that way you’d get some practice with wood-shaping.”
“Theron’s staff is as much yours as it is mine,” he insisted. “He gave it to both of us. It’s not fair for me to take it as my staff.”
“I don’t mind,” she told him. “Besides, I already have a staff. Even if it was given to me by Sartol, it’s mine, and I’ll keep it.” She smiled sadly. “I guess in a sense, Sartol gave both of us our cerylls.”
And suddenly she was crying, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Jaryd gathered her in his arms and held her to his chest, feeling her entire body shake with her sobbing. She had denied herself this release for so long, he knew. Beginning with their encounter with Theron, and continuing through their furious ride northward in pursuit of Baden and Sartol, there had been no time for her to mourn the loss of her mentor.
Even now, he sensed that she was crying not only out of grief, but also out of fear. Yes, they had faced Theron and seen the horrors of Watersbend. But there was so much yet to be done, and all of it seemed to depend upon them. And, of course, there was still Sartol to be dealt with. So Jaryd held her, stroking her long dark hair and whispering to her soothingly. After a time, her sobs subsided. Jaryd eased his hold on her.
“No,” she said softly, still clinging to him. “Don’t stop holding me. Please.”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and her cheeks still damp with tears. Lacing her fingers through his hair, she slowly pulled his lips down to hers to kiss him long and deep. Jaryd returned the kiss, gathering her in his arms once more and feeling her body strain toward his. In that moment, their sorrows and fears seemed to vanish, leaving only the love and desire that rushed through them like an autumn wind, swirling through the limbs of one of Leora’s trees and carrying them to the cool, fragrant grass as if they were the Goddess’s golden leaves set free by the gale. And for just a while, as the warm sun caressed their skin and lit the flowers that surrounded them, they allowed their passion to carry them far from the world of outlanders and traitors and trials, until the only things that seemed real were the two of them and the soft ground on which they lay and the rhythm they shaped together in the sunlight and the light wind.
A person could get used to almost anything, it sometimes seemed. He could adjust to the strange daily patterns of travel, in which one might ride all day, until the movement of the horse became a sort of waking dream, and function in a more normal sense after dark, when the movement ceased. He could have his perceptions of the people around him, even the mythic figures of his childhood, altered so completely that it felt as though the world itself would have to change to accommodate his new outlook. He could even lose a friend, or a creature to whom he had been closer than he had to any human companion, and, eventually, he would adapt, and come to embrace the grief and the loss as but another part of life’s lesson.
Orris did not consider himself an especially adaptable person, but neither did he see himself as overly rigid. He had grown used to the endless riding of the past several weeks. He had come to trust Baden, to admire Jaryd and Alayna; he would even concede, having listened to the young mages’ description of their encounter with Theron, that the unsettled Owl-Master might not be the figure of pure evil that Orris had always assumed him to be. And, slowly, the Hawk-Mage had begun to accept that Pordath was gone, and that eventually, perhaps soon, he would bind to another bird. But on this day, Orris learned the limits of his tolerance: he could not abide being called a traitor.
Orris and Trahn did not meet anyone prior to their reunion with Baden on the main trail into Amarid. Soon after, however, as the three of them drew closer to the city, they began to see increasing numbers of ma
ges returning from the patrols that Orris himself had advocated and Ursel had organized. Fortunately, none of the men and women they greeted along the path appeared to have any notion of why the Order had been called back to Amarid, and Orris, Trahn, and Baden made their way to the southern bank of the Larian River unmolested. At that point, though, things started to go very badly.
For the past several days, Baden had spoken casually, almost cavalierly of their impending arrest, until Orris had gotten used to the idea of it. Or so Orris had thought. Nothing, though, could prepare him for the humiliation of what awaited them on the central bridge leading across the Larian into Amarid’s old town commons. As Baden had predicted, speaking in hushed tones during the final few miles of their ride, Sartol had not come, but he had seen to it that their arrest would be as public an event as possible. The traitorous mage had sent Niall to act in his stead, and the older Owl-Master stood in the middle of the bridge, his maroon ceryll held out before him and his pale owl hunched and indifferent on his shoulder. The chief constable of the city was there as well, waiting on the far side of the bridge with several of his officers and three of the largest, most imposing Great Hall attendants that Orris had ever seen. Behind them, in the streets of the old section of the city, a huge crowd had gathered, including not just residents of Amarid, but also a number of mages, many of whom Orris recognized. Immediately, Orris felt himself shrink from the open spectacle he knew was coming.
As the Hawk-Mage and his companions dismounted and stepped onto the bridge, Niall pounded the base of his staff on the thick wooden plank on which he stood. He did it only once, but that was sufficient to quiet the crowd and draw the gaze of every pair of eyes in the marketplace. Facing the Owl-Master, who looked taller and younger than he remembered, Orris could not help but recall the angry words he and Niall had exchanged during the Gathering just a few weeks before. He wondered with passing interest if the other man was thinking of this as well. An instant later, such idle thoughts vanished.
“In the name of Amarid, First Mage and founder of the Order,” Niall proclaimed in a voice that carried clearly over the rush of the river, “and on behalf of Owl-Master Sartol, who serves Tobyn-Ser as interim Owl-Sage, I hereby command you to relinquish your staves and surrender yourselves to my authority.”
“For what cause?” Baden inquired formally, speaking for the other two as was proper, given his status as Owl-Master.
Orris steeled himself.
“To answer charges that the three of you did conspire against the people of Tobyn-Ser in planning and carrying out recent attacks on the land, including the murders of two people at Sern, the razing of Taima, and the wholesale destruction and mass murders at Kaera and Watersbend. That the three of you did plan and carry out the murders of Owl-Sage Jessamyn, First of the Sage Peredur, Hawk-Mage Alayna, and Hawk-Mage Jaryd. And that the three of you did conspire in the attempted murder of Owl-Master Sartol.”
The mob erupted with a babble of excited conversation and exclamations of amazement. Several people shouted for the immediate execution of the three traitors, and others demanded that they be stripped of their cerylls and familiars, and handed over to the people for swift, appropriate justice. With a detachment that he knew was little more than a defense against the deeper emotions he was fighting, Orris noted that the huge, blue-robed attendants from the Great Hall might end up, before the day was through, serving as their bodyguards rather than their captors.
Niall, his dark eyes betraying a hint of apprehension from beneath his thick silver hair, struck his staff on the bridge several times in an effort to silence the increasingly unruly throng, but the clamor continued unabated. Orris glanced at Baden, and saw the Owl-Master staring avidly into the crowd. Incredibly, he was grinning. Following the line of his gaze, Orris saw why. Amid the angry faces of the men and women, in a small cluster of mages, stood Radomil, looking back at Baden. The Hawk-Mage had surreptitiously placed his right hand over his heart, his four fingers straightened and pressed together, and his thumb folded beneath his palm. The sign of fealty under the gods. Even after the accusations, before he had even heard their response, the Hawk-Mage had pledged his aid to their cause. Jaryd had been right: Radomil was to be trusted. In spite of everything, Orris permitted himself a slight smile.
Some time later, after he finally succeeded in bringing order to the thousands of onlookers, Niall fixed Baden with a stolid glare, as if to tell the Owl-Master that he was now waiting for Baden’s reply to the catalog of accusations and his earlier demand that the three mages give themselves up.
Slowly, but with his shoulders straight, the shadow of a smile touching his lips, Baden strode forward to stand before Niall. “We will hand over our staves and place ourselves in your custody as you request, Owl-Master Niall,” he said, his voice ringing out boldly over the city. “But hear me!” he went on, cutting off a second wave of whisperings that had begun to spread through the crowd. He seemed suddenly to have grown in stature, as he encompassed the gathered multitude with a confident gaze. “All who witness our peaceful compliance should know that it in no way signals an admission of our guilt. We hand over our cerylls because we respect the laws that govern the Order and this land, and because we are certain that a fair trial will exonerate us. We know who committed the crimes of which we have been accused, and, before this process is concluded, those responsible will be punished.” Baden fell silent, but he continued to stare out at the crowd, as if his single gaze could hold all of theirs at once. After a moment, he motioned for Trahn and Orris to step forward and hand their staffs to Niall. No sound at all came from the assembled mass.
Orris knew, of course, that he had done nothing wrong. Nonetheless, as he moved toward Niall and relinquished his staff, he could feel every pair of eyes in the old town commons burning into his skin like glowing irons, branding him with words likerenegade andbutcher. There were mages in the crowd, men and women who had been and would continue to be his colleagues. And he wanted to scream at them all, to proclaim his innocence, to tell them who had really done these horrible things. But he remained silent—he wasn’t sure how he managed it, the urge to cry out was so strong—and he kept his eyes riveted on Niall’s face as the Owl-Master took his staff. The older man refused to meet his look.
It was over quickly enough—a small grace—and the three mages took a step back as Niall held up the staffs for the people to see. Orris had expected a cheer, or some other acknowledgment of their capitulation, but all he heard was a low ripple of voices commenting on what had transpired, and the impassive murmuring of the river. Two of the constable’s officers came forward and led the mages’ horses away, promising to care for them.
“Well, Niall,” Baden said quietly, as the Owl-Master turned once again to face them, “why don’t you lead us to the Great Hall. He’ll be expecting us.”
The silver-haired mage opened his mouth to reply. But then he closed it again and, without a word, turned and began striding toward the magnificent domed building where Sartol awaited them.
The sea of people parted peacefully for the mages as they moved through it. Many of the men and women stared at the accused with hostile expressions, but others seemed less certain of their guilt. In truth, though, Orris paid little heed to the crowd. He was more concerned with the mages who had watched as the drama played itself out on the bridge. To his relief, most of them had walked on ahead so that they might already be in the Gathering Chamber when Baden, Trahn, and he arrived for the formal issuing of charges. Eventually, he knew, he would have to face them. But he did not feel ready for that quite yet.
“That went pretty much as I had expected,” Baden commented as they walked. “Sartol may be confident, but he still seems intent on stirring up public sentiment against us. He must be harboring some doubts.”
“Quiet!” commanded one of the burly attendants.
Baden halted and glared at him. “We are free men who have been convicted of nothing, my friend,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
“You would do well to remember it.” He moved closer to the brute, looking like a schoolboy next to him. “You might also keep in mind that, even without my staff, my bird and I are capable of turning you into a torch with no more than a wave of my hand.”
The attendant flinched slightly and nodded. “Y-yes, Owl-Master,” he stammered. “I’m sorry.”
An instant later, Baden pivoted and began walking again. “Have you noticed,” he asked blandly, “that the attendants seem to be getting bigger?”
Orris and Trahn burst out laughing, earning a sullen glance from the aggrieved steward, and a scornful look from Niall.
They came to the Great Hall several minutes later and, with little fanfare, continued up the broad marble stairs and through the great doorway. Even under the circumstances, Orris found himself moved by the sight of the hall as he and the others walked toward it on the main thoroughfare, and then around it to the arched wooden entrance. As always, the sparkling crystal statue of the First Mage and Parne; the enormous blue-tiled roof with its constellation of golden medallions, including, somewhere on the other side, his own—his and Pordath’s; and the intricate inlaid images on the massive oak doors made him think back to his initial journey to Amarid, and the first time he saw the meeting place of Hawk-Mages and Owl-Masters.
Orris’s memory of that first visit to the great city and its splendid hall grew even more distinct as he followed Niall into the Gathering Chamber and glanced upward, as he always did upon entering the structure, to see the portrait of Amarid at the moment of his binding to Parne. A moment later, however, Niall motioned for the three accused mages to stop, and Orris, reluctantly, let go of his recollections and focused on his immediate problems. Most of the mages had yet to return from their patrols; nearly two thirds of the chairs gathered around the oval table stood empty. The vast majority of those present were Owl-Masters, who had remained in Amarid with Odinan and Niall; there were only a handful of Hawk-Mages in the room. This, too, Baden had anticipated, although he had been far less concerned about it than Orris. As one of the younger mages, indeed, a leader among them, who had been more than willing to challenge the conventional wisdom of the Order, Orris feared that some of the older masters, like Niall and Odinan, would delight in seeing him condemned as a traitor. He recognized, however, that this was not reason enough to opt for a later trial. Indeed, if the preponderance of Owl-Masters did end up dictating their strategy, it would mean that he and his allies had learned nothing of Sartol’s scheme. That was not an attractive proposition.