by DAVID B. COE
“Owl-Master Niall,” she had whispered, not for the first time that evening. “Perhaps someday you’ll be Sage Niall.”
He had laughed, gently. “You are a vain, power-hungry woman,” he had teased. “You wish only to have a big home in a great city on the other side of the land, where men and women will come to you and kneel in obeisance.”
“I care nothing for big cities,” she protested with mock petulance. “I’m very happy on the Lower Horn. And, as for the rest, well, I feel it’s the least I deserve. I would think it a small matter, now that you’ve become a man of stature, for you to have them bring the Great Hall to me.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he had said, laughing. And then, kissing her, he had added in a different tone, “I would move the moon and the stars for you if I could.”
She had rolled onto her back then, pulling him over with her. “You already do,” she had murmured, as they commenced their candlelit dance once more.
Niall recoiled from the memory then, as he always did at that point. Because, it sometimes seemed, that had been the last night of happiness they shared. In reality, there were a few more, but not many. Three months later, she started to complain of the dull ache in her stomach, and, not long after that, she began to spit up blood. The fear of losing her had gripped him then, as a harsh winter takes hold of the land, chilling him to his very core and forcing him to close in upon himself until the two of them and her sickness were the only things in his world. It was too soon, he had pleaded with the gods; they could not take her so soon. Would that they had not listened so well.
For nearly two years, he watched her waste away, taking care of her as best he could. The local healers were powerless against the illness, and his own magic could not reach the disease that raged within her. He could ease her pain for a time, but that was all. Gradually it took her, bit by bit: her joy, her beauty, her spirit, and, finally, mercifully at the end, her life. That had been ten years ago. A decade.
He had continued to attend the Gatherings while she was ill, and he saw to the needs of the people he served. She had insisted on that much. But, in the aftermath of losing her, his ambition, the dreams she had nurtured within him, evaporated. He immersed himself in the needs of the people, seeking refuge from his grief in the one thing he had left. But his passion had died with Vardis. He became a spectator, watching as his fellow mages positioned themselves for advancement or worked to shape the Order’s priorities, but actually doing very little himself. Even his connection with Nollstra seemed to grow distant and weak.
It was so unlike who he had once been, and yet it felt so natural, so alluringly comfortable. As a younger man, newly bound to his first hawk, he had watched the aging of his father, a powerful Owl-Master in his own right, with impatience and a thinly veiled contempt. He had vowed to Vardis, and to himself, that he would not wither away as Padwyn had done; that he would never be satisfied merely to go through the motions. The Order was too important to the land to tolerate such complacency. And, when his father died, Niall had refused to offer a eulogy before the funeral rites. Later, too much later, he had come to regret that decision, just as he had come to understand the waning of his father’s drive, which had begun, he realized in the depths of his own mourning, with his mother’s death.
Eventually, after a few years, Niall had shaken off his depression and had grown more active in the deliberations of the Order. By then, however, others had made names for themselves and emerged as leaders of the various factions that vied for preeminence within the Great Hall. Niall understood that he did not wield the influence that these others did, and he knew that he would never be Owl-Sage. When Feargus died, his name was not even mentioned as a possible replacement. Unlike most of the other Owl-Masters, Niall supported Sartol over Jessamyn, although, of course, Sartol could not have known that.
All of which contributed to the surprise—and, Niall had to admit, gratitude—that he felt, just two days ago, when Sartol, who had a day before returned to Amarid with the shocking news of Jessamyn’s murder and the conspiracy within the Order, took Niall into his confidence and requested his aid in combating the renegades.
Notwithstanding his past disagreements with Sartol and his awareness of the Owl-Master’s indiscretions during his first year as a mage, Niall had always liked and respected him. Niall thought him wise, courageous; he admired the mettle Sartol had shown by continuing to serve the people of northern Tobyn-Ser even after receiving a reprimand for exacting payment for his services. And Sartol had been kind to him in the wake of Vardis’s death, offering encouragement as he began to emerge from the despondency that had gripped him in the years that followed. Like most of the other Owl-Masters to whom he had spoken, Niall had long expected that Sartol would succeed Jessamyn as leader of the Order. As the bearer of Jessamyn’s staff, he seemed to Niall the logical choice to serve as interim Owl-Sage. Hearing from Sartol of Baden’s betrayal at Watersbend and of Orris’s successful effort to free the renegade Owl-Master from the jail there had convinced Niall of this even more. The other masters agreed, and formally chose Sartol as their provisional leader the evening of his return to Amarid.
Late the next day, Sartol asked Niall to join him in the sage’s quarters. The Order had entered a time of crisis, Sartol told him, and it needed a person of discretion, someone sensible and experienced, yet forceful enough to take action should the need arise.
“Conspiracies such as this one are dangerous things,” the Owl-Master had said, as the two of them sat across from each other, the deep yellow of the late-afternoon sun coloring the light in the room. “They can leave some people incapacitated with fear, while they make others see betrayal everywhere. I need someone who can be cautious without slipping into paranoia, someone who can maintain his composure without being overly docile. And,” he had added, “I need a person I can trust, a person who is above pettiness and rapacity.” The dark-haired mage had risen then, walking to the dormant hearth and toying absently with a bauble that he found on the mantel. “There is too much ambition in this hall, Niall. We both know it. When I look around the table in that chamber I see ambition and weariness, and very little in between. I trust Odinan, and some of the others, but I don’t see in them the energy or the will necessary to confront the Order’s enemies. I need someone who possesses a unique blend of qualities: honor, poise, vitality, maturity, strength. In short, Niall,” he had concluded, incredible though it seemed, “I need you.”
Driven to his feet by what he had just heard, Niall found that there was nothing to say except, simply, “I’m with you, Sartol.”
The Owl-Master had turned at that, a broad smile stretching across his handsome, tanned face. Stepping forward, he gripped Niall’s shoulder and then led him to the door, telling him that they would speak again the following morning, at which time Sartol would tell him in more detail what he needed Niall to do.
Striding across the marble floor of the Gathering Chamber after that meeting, past the oval table and beneath the image of young Amarid binding to his magnificent grey bird, Niall could not help but grin. The Order was in danger, he knew; all of Tobyn-Ser was in danger. But the smile came anyway. It was not just that he was flattered, that he felt important again in a way that he had not for years, although certainly those elements were there. But rising above his excitement and his pride, he felt resolve and purpose coalescing within him, rousing a passion to which he had not known he still had access. He had never loved anyone or anything as much as he had loved Vardis. But second to her had come the Order and the Mage-Craft. The one he had lost long ago, he could not bring her back. The others, though, were still a part of his life. Threatened, besieged, but still a part. And they needed him.
The next morning, he learned the nature of that need. The summons came early. The blue-clad attendant of the Great Hall, a large man whom Niall did not recognize, knocked on his door and informed him that Sartol wished to speak with him as soon as possible. Dressing quickly, and pausing on the gro
und floor of the inn at which he stayed only briefly enough to grab a piece of sweet bread and a cup of shan tea, Niall hurried through the narrow alleys of Amarid until he reached the hall. He found Sartol in the sage’s quarters, pacing nervously in front of the hearth. The Owl-Master looked tired, as if he had not slept at all the previous night.
He turned at the sound of Niall’s knock, smiling briefly. “Niall! Please, come in,” he said, waving the older man into the chamber. “I appreciate you coming on such short notice.” He motioned toward one of the chairs, indicating that Niall should sit. Sartol continued to pace, however, his mouth set grimly and his pale eyes looking troubled. “I expect Baden and Orris to arrive this evening. Tomorrow at the latest. And there are things I’ll need you to do when they get here.” There was no flattery in his tone as there had been the night before; no attempt to charm or curry favor. Only the hard reality of what the Order faced in the next few days. Niall appreciated Sartol’s directness, his lack of pretense. They were comrades in a battle for the very survival of the Mage-Craft and Tobyn-Ser. The land needed them to take action. This was no time for niceties.
“I’d like for you to watch for them, and to meet them at the city boundary,” Sartol continued. “They’ll be coming from the south; I expect them to cross the Larian at one of the old bridges.” The Owl-Master stopped pacing directly in front of Niall. “I want you to accept their surrender on my behalf.”
Niall looked up sharply. “But that falls under the purview of the sage, or, in this case, the interim sage.”
Sartol resumed his pacing. Even now, tense as he was, striding back and forth across the polished wooden floor, Niall noted the economy and elegance of his motions. “I know,” the tall man responded. “But I assure you, Baden will stop at nothing to save himself and his allies. He assaulted me at Watersbend, and then he, of all people, insinuated that I had betrayed the Order, all of this in front of the villagers. He’ll do the same if he sees me at the river. The attacks on Tobyn-Ser have already done great damage to the people’s confidence in this Order. The public spectacle of Baden and me trading accusations would only make matters worse. Do you understand? Nothing would be served by my presence there, and much could be lost.”
Niall nodded. It made a great deal of sense. “I’ll go,” he said, “but perhaps I should have the constable with me.”
“A good idea. You can also take two or three of the hall’s attendants if you’d like. You should have Orris’s ceryll confiscated and then you should take them to an inn and place them in separate rooms until their trial begins. Have mages posted outside their rooms as guards.”
“Do you expect them to resist?”
Sartol shrugged. “I don’t know what they’ll do, so we should prepare for all contingencies.”
The dark-haired Owl-Master paced for another moment or two. Then he stopped for a second time and took a slow breath, as if preparing himself. “There is a second thing I must ask of you,” he began, “something even more irregular, perhaps even distasteful.” He dropped himself into the chair next to Niall’s. “If you prefer not to do this, I’ll understand. But I owe it to myself to ask you first, before I turn to anyone else.” Sartol hesitated, wetting his lips before he went on. “As I said yesterday, Niall, conspiracies are dangerous. We must be wary of our own tendency toward paranoia. But, by the same token, we can’t deny the facts: Baden and Orris have worked together to betray the Order and endanger this land. And, for all we know, their plot may reach deeper than just the two of them. They may be working with others about whom we know nothing at all. If they are, we must learn the identities of these other traitors.”
“You want me to keep a watch on them, to see if I can figure out who else is involved.”
Sartol hesitated, his grey eyes locked on Niall’s. After a moment he nodded. “That’s what I want. As I told you,” he added without pause, “if you feel uncomfortable doing this I’ll understand.”
Niall did feel uneasy at the thought of it, but he also recognized the logic of what Sartol was asking. And that logic outweighed his personal discomfort. “How do you want me to do this?” he asked, and he was moved by the relief that flashed across the other man’s countenance.
Sartol smiled, placing a hand on Niall’s shoulder for a second before replying. “It should be very simple. From a distance, from a place where you won’t be noticed, just watch for anyone who goes to visit them. I don’t expect there to be many—perhaps there will be none at all. But if someone should come, I want you to follow them. Find out if they try, in turn, to contact others. We must find out how far the conspiracy reaches.”
“And then what?”
“To a certain degree, that’s up to you,” Sartol told him. “I don’t want you to take any unnecessary risks—I’d feel terrible if something happened to you.” He paused, holding Niall’s gaze. “But if you find yourself in a situation in which you can deal with the traitors without endangering your own life, I leave it to your discretion to act. I’ll back you up in whatever you do.”
Niall could feel the color draining from his face. He was not certain how to respond, or what to think of the wide latitude Sartol had just given him. He was not even sure that it was Sartol’s to give. Again, however, he saw the reasoning behind what the Owl-Master had proposed. What good was it to find other conspirators if one was unwilling to do anything about them?
Sartol appeared to read the doubt in his expression. “I’ve disturbed you, Niall,” he said with genuine concern. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to overstep the authority with which you and the other Owl-Masters have entrusted me.” He rose and began to pace again. “It’s just that these are dark times, and I want to keep Baden and Orris, and whomever else they’ve enlisted in their cause, from destroying the Mage-Craft and all that you and I have devoted our lives to protecting.”
Niall shook his head. “It’s all right,” he told the Owl-Master. “This is no time for squeamishness. Exigency creates its own rules.” He knew as the words left his mouth that it was true that, under the circumstances, he could do what Sartol had requested. “If I find that there are others involved, I’ll subdue them somehow, and I’ll have them arrested along with Baden and Orris.”
Again, Sartol grinned, his relief and gratitude manifest on his features. “Thank you, Niall,” he said, as if letting out a long-held breath. “We may not know what they have in mind, or whom they’ve turned to their purposes, but at least now we’ll be ready for them.” The Owl-Master rose, and Niall had the sense that he was expected to do the same, that their meeting had ended. “Make whatever preparations you feel are required,” Sartol told him, leading him toward the door. “Tell anyone who asks that you are acting at my behest.”
Niall nodded and turned to go.
“Niall,” Sartol called, stopping him. “There is one other matter I would like to at least mention before you leave.”
The older man turned back to face him once more and waited.
“The circumstances are not what I would have chosen, but it seems likely that I’ll soon be named Owl-Sage.”
“It seems that way to me as well,” Niall agreed. “The Order and Tobyn-Ser will benefit from your leadership.”
“You’re too kind.” Sartol paused, absently stroking the chin of his regal owl. “I’ve been giving some thought to my selection of a first.” Again, he faltered. “There’s no graceful way to do this, except to say it: I want you to consider the position, Niall. The same qualities that convinced me to ask for your help in these matters would make you a fine First of the Sage.”
Niall was speechless; it was so unexpected, so far beyond the aspirations he had allowed himself in recent years that he could think of no words with which to respond.
Sartol’s smile broadened. “You’ll want some time to ponder this, and I want you to give it serious thought. We can discuss it again in a few days.”
“Of course,” Niall managed. And then, “Thank you, Sartol. Thank you very much.”
That was yesterday. Despite the preparations Niall made for the rest of that morning and throughout much of the afternoon, the traitors did not arrive before nightfall. Indeed, not until late morning on this day did the first word of their approach reach Amarid. And, it seemed, Baden and Orris were not alone. Trahn had joined them, and the three of them were but a few miles from the southern bank of the Larian. Niall hurried to the Great Hall, where he conveyed this news to Sartol.
The Owl-Master had appeared saddened by the information, but not surprised. “I would like to believe that Trahn is not involved,” he remarked, his voice subdued, “that Baden and Orris have concealed their treachery from him.” He looked up at Niall. “Perhaps we should act on that assumption, and arrest only the two of them.”
“If Trahn is innocent,” Niall countered, “the trial will establish that. But we’d be foolish to risk permitting him to wander freely through the city. You asked me to watch for possible accomplices: Trahn seems the most obvious. He and Baden are quite close, so much so that I find it hard to accept that Baden could conceal anything from him. I believe Trahn should be arrested with Baden and Orris.”
Sartol considered this, passing a hand over his brow. At length he acquiesced with a reluctant nod. “If you feel that it’s necessary, I’ll accept your judgment. But I regret deeply that it’s come to this.”
Sitting in the Crystal Inn several hours later, Niall reflected on that exchange with a combination of sympathy for Sartol’s despair and astonishment at his own implacability. It was not like him to be so firm, so unrelenting. Or, rather, it was not like who he had become. The old Niall, the man who had been married to Vardis, would have understood. It was not that he disliked Trahn, or that he did not share Sartol’s hope that the Hawk-Mage would be found innocent. In truth, he was not only fond of Trahn, but also of Baden. The possibility that they might have betrayed the Order disturbed him greatly. He even hoped that Orris, with whom he had never seen eye to eye, would turn out to be blameless in all that had happened over the past several months.