CHILDREN OF AMARID

by DAVID B. COE

  Thrusting his anxieties to the back of his mind, Orris glanced around the Gathering Chamber, searching for anything that might give him some insight into Sartol’s intentions. He wasn’t certain what he was looking for; perhaps a change in the appearance of the Great Hall, or even a change in Sartol himself. He hoped that he would recognize it when he saw it, or that, if he didn’t, Baden or Trahn would.

  At the far end of the huge, oval table that sat in the middle of the room, Jessamyn and Peredur’s staffs lay across the arms of their chairs, and closer to where Orris stood, two empty baskets rested in Alayna and Jaryd’s seats, no doubt the same ones the young mages had used at the Midsummer Gathering to carry the feathers they received during the Procession of Light. Proper displays of mourning for the four mages lost—or presumed lost—during the journey to Theron’s Grove, Orris noted with an odd sense of detachment. Sartol was leaving nothing to chance. Orris also noticed, with somewhat less insouciance, that his chair, along with Trahn’s and Baden’s, had been moved from its place at the table and now stood, with the other two, just in front of where Niall had halted. The three chairs had been placed in a neat row, facing the table and the rest of the mages.

  Wordlessly, Niall gestured for Orris, Baden, and Trahn to take their places. When they had complied with his tacit command, the silver-haired Owl-Master looked at Odinan, who sat at his place just to the right of the sage’s chair, and nodded once. Returning the gesture, the aged Owl-Master, with his diminutive, large-headed owl clinging to his shoulder, rose stiffly and rapped his staff once on the marble floor. The sharp sound reverberated off the walls and the domed ceiling, bringing the other mages in the room to their feet. A moment later, Orris heard a door open at the far end of the chamber.

  Looking in that direction, he saw Sartol emerge from the sage’s quarters and make his way to the table. Tall and straight-backed, the Owl-Master moved with a grace and refinement that made everyone else in the hall seem ungainly. He had schooled his tanned, chiseled features so that they revealed nothing of his mood or his plans, and his eyes swept the chamber with a commanding assurance. The great owl sitting on his shoulder—the owl that had killed Pordath—also surveyed the room with its heavy-lidded yellow eyes, looking as impressive and composed as the man who carried it. Even as he glared at Sartol, cursing the bird that had rendered him unbound and hungering for the Owl-Master’s death, even as he noted the fatigue etched in the man’s features, Orris could not help but be daunted by the air of strength that the mage and his familiar projected. For that one instant, Orris was, once more, the young Mage-Attend, experiencing Amarid for the first time. And a thought flashed through his mind, incongruous and somewhat frightening: this is what an Owl-Sage should look like.

  Orris perceived all of this in a single, dizzying moment. Then he was himself again, standing with Baden and Trahn, watching the traitor remove Jessamyn’s staff from the chair so that he might take her place at the table. But even during that moment of disorientation, he had also seen one other thing, terrifying in its implications, that made it absolutely plain to him what he and his companions would have to do.

  The rest of the mages sat back down, and Odinan began to enumerate the charges leveled against Orris and his two companions, his shrill, nasal voice echoing off the domed ceiling of the Gathering Chamber. Orris, however, could not stop thinking about what he had seen. He could not tell if Trahn had observed it as well, but he knew that Baden had. The Owl-Master had given that much away with a sharp breath and a slight widening of his eyes. Orris had found that reassuring, since he had already begun to wonder if he had imagined what he had seen. It had been so brief, a scintilla of a second. But Baden’s reaction told him that it was real, that he had seen the pale yellow glow of Sartol’s ceryll answered, for no more than the time it might take to draw a single spark from a flint, in the vast crystal expanse of the Summoning Stone.

  Quickly, Orris scanned the faces of the other mages in the chamber to see if they had noticed it as well. Most, however, had been facing the table, rather than the stone and the approaching Owl-Master. Most. But not all.

  Orris had known Radomil for nearly nine years, since the Gathering at which Orris received his cloak. The older Hawk-Mage had struck him as being nice enough: unfailingly courteous, but rather inconsequential. Radomil usually said little during Gatherings, and there seemed to be no clear pattern to his voting on important issues. And, of course, he was still a Hawk-Mage after his third binding, something, Orris had told himself on several occasions—he smiled inwardly at the memory of his youthful arrogance—that would never happen to him.

  As with so much else, though, Orris’s perception of the bald, goateed Hawk-Mage had changed, in part as a result of Pordath’s death. At this point, Orris would have been happy with any familiar at all—hawk or owl—and he knew that he would never again belittle another mage’s binding. But much more to the point, Radomil possessed courage and strength, in far greater amounts than Orris had ever acknowledged. He had shown that at the old bridge a short while ago, with an inconspicuous gesture, an offering of faith for which Orris was profoundly grateful. And now, sitting near the middle of the table, beside the empty place where Baden’s seat should have been, Radomil was staring intently at Orris, his dark eyes knowing and expectant. Clearly, he had noticed the Summoning Stone’s response to Sartol’s ceryll, and he had marked Orris’s recognition of it as well. Carefully, almost imperceptibly, his eyes holding Radomil’s, Orris nodded, confirming what the portly mage appeared already to have known: they were allies in the fight against Sartol.

  Odinan concluded his listing of the accusations against them, and Niall, still standing near their chairs, motioned for the three mages to be seated.

  “You have heard the charges,” Sartol intoned from the Owl-Sage’s chair, his voice resonant and disconcertingly calm. “How would you proceed?”

  “May we have a moment to consult amongst ourselves?” Baden asked mildly.

  Sartol nodded. “You may.”

  Orris and Trahn leaned closer to Baden, who sat between them. They were aware that, with the hall relatively empty, even their whispers would echo and carry, but they could do little about that.

  “You saw?” Orris inquired softly, looking at Baden and hoping that the question would reveal little to the other mages in the room.

  “I did.”

  “Our choice seems clear.”

  “I agree.” Baden offered a rueful grin. “It appears that you’ll have to convince the Owl-Masters after all.”

  Orris shrugged, smirking in return. “I suppose so.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Trahn commented, “but I take it we’re opting for an immediate trial?” The dark man asked the question plainly, implying no reservation as to their judgment, but merely seeking confirmation of what he believed they had decided. The trust conveyed by his tone, on a matter of such monumental importance, left Orris humbled, and grateful beyond words for the Hawk-Mage’s friendship. He saw the same emotions flash briefly across Baden’s face.

  “I think we’d better,” the Owl-Master replied. “I’ll explain later. But if you prefer—”

  Trahn shook his head, cutting Baden off. “I never liked the idea of waiting,” he said. “Let us unmask the traitor and be done with it.”

  Baden allowed himself another smile and gripped his friend’s shoulder. Then he turned back toward Sartol. “As is our right under the rules that govern this Order,” he announced in a ringing tone, “we demand an immediate trial, to begin tomorrow morning.”

  A murmur of surprise from the other mages greeted Baden’s words, and Orris thought he saw fear and doubt chase themselves briefly across Sartol’s features. But then the Owl-Master’s mouth stretched into a grin, although there was no trace of mirth in the rest of his face, and, once more, Orris found himself questioning what he thought he had seen.

  “My witnesses have not yet arrived from Watersbend,” Sartol replied solicitously. “I would like to wai
t until they arrive.”

  Baden shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Sartol. You may present their testimony for them. I trust you to do so accurately. We shall begin tomorrow morning.”

  Sartol’s smile faded. “Very well,” he answered, and there could be no mistaking the animosity suddenly laid bare in his tone. “Tomorrow morning.” He stood abruptly, his glare never leaving Baden’s face. “Take them to the nearest inn and place them under guard. The bells will be rung at mid-morning to convene their trial.”

  He spun away from the table with a rustle of cloth and strode swiftly back toward the Owl-Sage’s chambers.

  Niall moved in front of Baden. “Come along,” he said severely, gesturing with his staff. “I’ll take you to your rooms.”

  The three of them rose, and Baden and Trahn followed the older man back out into the street. Orris lingered, however, watching Sartol retreat to the back of the hall. And, again, just as the traitor swept past the Summoning Stone, the massive crystal appeared to flicker with a pale yellow light.

  18

  “All of life’s paths are circular,” a popular saying went, “and the gods delight in making us dizzy.” The inn to which Niall led them, it turned out, was the same establishment to which Orris and Trahn had chased the vandals who shattered the Great Hall’s window during the recent Gathering.

  “There’s an omen in this,” Trahn commented to Orris as they entered the building, the lightness of his tone not quite concealing his concern. “But I don’t know how to read it.”

  The accused mages, and four other members of the Order who had been chosen to guard them, followed Niall up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor of the tavern. There, in the dark hallway, unlit save for his wine-colored ceryll and the glowing crystals of the guards, Niall indicated the three rooms that had been set aside for the alleged traitors.

  “You’ll each take one of these rooms,” Niall began. “In the morn—”

  Baden placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder, stopping him. “Thank you, Niall,” he said crisply. “For now the three of us will meet in my room. We have much to discuss. Please arrange to have some food brought to us, and inform the mages you’ll be posting here in the hallway that we’re to be allowed visitors.”

  Niall hesitated, his brown eyes uncertain beneath the shock of silver hair.

  “We haven’t been convicted of anything, Niall,” Baden went on in a gentler tone. “According to the laws of the Order, we’re still free men. We surrendered to you as a gesture of our good intent, and we’ll not break faith with you now. But, in return, we expect to be treated appropriately.”

  Niall regarded them for some time, the muscles in his jaw knotting with tension. At length he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Baden gave a small smile, and the three of them stepped into the middle room, closing the door behind them.

  After the dinginess of the hallway, the sunlit room seemed bright, almost cheerful, albeit a bit spare. A small bed with a quilted cover sat along the righthand wall with its headboard in the far corner. Next to it, by the single window, which had been left open to allow a light breeze to stir the thin white curtains, stood a small wooden night table with an oil lamp on it. There was a plain chair in the other corner and an overly large bureau against the unadorned wall opposite the bed. A beige-colored oval rug, stained in two places, lay in the middle of the wooden floor. Baden claimed the bed, reclining on it with his back against the wall. Trahn dragged the chair out into the middle of the room, and Orris sat on the windowsill, where he could enjoy the breeze and the warmth of the sun.

  “You saw something,” Trahn commented as he lowered himself into the chair, his green eyes swinging from Orris to Baden. “Tell me.”

  Baden took a measured breath and passed a hand through his thin red and grey hair. His angular features looked wan and fatigued. “Obviously, I can’t speak for Orris,” he began, “though I assume he marked it as well, but as Sartol emerged from the sage’s quarters, I saw the color of his ceryll echoed briefly in the Summoning Stone.”

  “What?” Trahn whirled toward Orris. “You saw this, too?”

  “I did.”

  “And you’re both certain that it wasn’t merely a reflection, a visual illusion that made the light appear to come from the stone?”

  Orris shook his head. “This was no illusion; it happened a second time, when Sartol left the table and went back into the chamber.”

  Baden looked at Orris keenly before turning back to Trahn. “That, I didn’t see,” he admitted, “but I’m certain, too. What I saw was real.”

  Trahn exhaled through his teeth, making a characteristic hissing noise. “Arick guard us all,” he whispered reflexively. “If he can link himself to the Summoning Stone, with the power he already possesses, not even the combined strength of the entire Order will be able to stop him.”

  “I know,” Baden acknowledged. “That’s why we had to demand an immediate trial. Obviously he’s begun to alter the stone, but he hasn’t mastered it yet and, we can hope, he won’t be able to complete the process overnight.”

  “But even now, we don’t know how far his control over the stone goes,” Trahn pointed out, “and, with the trial set for tomorrow, he’ll only need to defeat one third of the Order. I don’t question the wisdom of the choice you made,” the Hawk-Mage added quickly, “I just fear that we may already be too late.”

  Baden shrugged. “We have to proceed on the assumption that we’re not, and concentrate on the more immediate task of swaying those mages who are present to our side.”

  “Radomil is with us already,” Orris declared.

  “That, I did see,” Trahn confirmed. “He offered the sign of fealty at the bridge.”

  “He also caught my eye after the first flicker of light from the Summoning Stone. He understands what Sartol is doing.”

  Baden fixed Orris with an appraising eye. “I missed that as well. I think I’m glad to have you as an ally, Orris.”

  The Hawk-Mage felt himself flush slightly, and, before he could help it, he was grinning. “It took you this long to decide that?” he chided.

  The Owl-Master chuckled. “Actually, no,” he replied with meaning. “Just to say it.”

  “I’ve always liked Radomil,” Trahn commented, “but I don’t know him very well. Do you think we can trust him to carry a message to . . .” he paused, glancing suspiciously at the door, “. . . to the others?”

  “I’m certain that we can,” Baden answered. “But I don’t think he’s the best choice for that job.”

  Orris had come to trust Baden’s judgment on such things. Nonetheless, this surprised him. “Why not?” he asked.

  “Radomil was out on a patrol,” the Owl-Master explained. “Sartol might try to raise doubts about his loyalty to the Order as well.”

  Orris shook his head. “It would never work. Even Sartol doesn’t have that much nerve.”

  “You’re probably right, but I don’t want to take any chances at all. We’ll be placing whomever we select for this task in grave physical danger; we can hardly help it. But we can try to minimize their risk. We need an Owl-Master who remained here for the entire time we were gone, so that if Sartol accuses this person of complicity in the attacks and the murders, the other Owl-Masters will be less inclined to believe it.”

  “I’m sure there are a few among those who stayed in Amarid whom we can trust,” Trahn observed. “But do any of them trust us enough to help?”

  Before Baden could respond, they all heard a soft knock at the door.

  Grinning, the Owl-Master swung himself off the bed and reached for the door handle. “I believe,” he said buoyantly, “that the answer to your question has just arrived.”

  It had been years, Niall thought, a great many years, since he had felt this good. For the first time in what had been a very long while, people within the Order were treating him as a man of consequence. He had respect and responsibility; he
had a role to play in the momentous events currently unfolding in the Great Hall, events that would shape the future of the Mage-Craft. He had not been able to say that about himself for the better part of a decade. Adecade. Sitting at a table in the darkest corner of the Crystal Inn—named for its proximity to the two small statues that adorned the round towers of the Great Hall, rather than for any sparkling quality of its interior design—Niall shook his head slowly, marveling at the swiftness of time’s inexorable passage. Twelve years had gone by since his binding to Nollstra, twelve years since he became an Owl-Master. And it had been ten years since Vardis’s death. Vardis, whose hazel eyes and black curls had lured him to her like a moth to a candle during his first visit to the Lower Horn, the region he would later serve as Hawk-Mage and Owl-Master; whose humor and love had warmed his days and fired his nights for more than half a lifetime. She had been so proud when she first saw Nollstra on his shoulder that she had cried.

  He still remembered that night with a clarity that made it stand out above all the rest. How they had lain together in the afterglow of their passion, Vardis tracing patterns on his chest with her fingertips, her eyes large and luminous with candlelight and ceryll-glow, the playfulness of her smile unable to conceal entirely her pride in him.