by DAVID B. COE
A few minutes later, reflecting on the incident in the Owl-Sage’s quarters, Sartol had assured himself that Baden’s gesture had been bravado and nothing more. But it had been terribly convincing, so much so, in fact, that Sartol had begun to wonder whether Baden might have some evidence after all. Why else would they opt for an immediate trial? As younger members of the Order, Orris and Trahn had much to gain by waiting until all the mages had returned to Amarid, and still they chose to go ahead with the process right away. A part of him wondered why, what they thought they had to gain by rushing things. Grudgingly, he acknowledged the possibility that Baden had noticed the yellow flickering of the Summoning Stone, and had deduced that Sartol was attempting to link himself to the vast crystal. But there was nothing Sartol could do about that now, and, in another few days, it would no longer be a concern. The confidence manifest in the three mages’ choice, however, did worry him. Apparently, they believed in their ability to convince the Order of their innocence. Why else would they take this path? He had to discover what they planned to do.
Which was where Niall came in. Serving as interim sage had many advantages, not the least of which was that it provided him with nearly unlimited access to the stone. But it did confine him to the Great Hall, and it demanded a certain decorum. He could not keep an eye on Baden and the others without drawing unwanted attention to himself, and he was not about to undo years of planning with carelessness and indiscretion. Instead, he turned to the silver-haired Owl-Master.
Sartol’s cultivation of Niall’s trust and friendship had begun several years ago, before Feargus’s death and the election of Jessamyn as Owl-Sage, and several years after the Order had humiliated Sartol with its reprimand. The kernel of his plan had already formed by then, and he had started to nurture it, holding it close and quiet within his heart, but giving it room to take root and grow. Though he knew nothing yet of Calbyr and the outlanders, he had already recognized that he would need to develop a rapport with the other Owl-Masters; that, whatever form his plan ultimately took, their support would be crucial if he was to gain control of the Order.
It had been quite a while since Niall’s wife had died, leaving him desolate and indifferent. Where once Sartol had seen a potential rival, he now saw a man devoid of ambition and purpose, unwilling or unable to take an active role in the Order’s deliberations. Eventually, he knew that he would reach out to Niall, just as he had already to Odinan, Baden, and several of the others. But the older man’s support did not seem crucial to his success anymore. Certainly, by that time, Niall did not represent any sort of threat.
But then Niall surprised him, all of them, in fact, by giving an impassioned speech during the final day of that summer’s Gathering, after having observed the first two days of deliberation in near total silence. Sartol no longer recalled what issue it had been that roused Niall from his grief-induced torpor, although he knew that it had been a matter of little consequence, a procedural question, if he remembered correctly—this had contributed to the surprise they all felt at Niall’s outburst. Sartol did recall, however, that Niall’s comments had come immediately after his own, and that the Owl-Master had objected strenuously to almost everything Sartol said. Afterward, as the mages lined up for the Procession of Light, which would mark the closing of the Gathering, Niall approached Sartol, looking sheepish.
“Sartol, I’d like to apologize for the tone of my remarks earlier today,” he had offered, his voice tinged with remorse. “I meant no disrespect; I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”
Sartol had grinned, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You didn’t, Niall,” he replied. “Frankly, it was nice to see in you the passion that I remember from . . . from before. I’ve missed that.”
Niall had looked away then, his expression almost shy, and the ghost of a smile touching his lips. The look in his eyes had been pained, though, and, for just an instant, Sartol thought that he might cry. “I’ve missed it as well,” he said at length.
“Then I hope that we’ll see more of it.”
“As do I, Sartol. Thank you.” There had been so much gratitude in the Owl-Master’s voice, and such warmth in his face at that moment, that Sartol knew he had won over an ally of tremendous value. This was not just a master who might someday support him in a contest for Owl-Sage. This, potentially, was someone whom he could trust with a favor, an errand of importance that might require a degree of circumspection.
An errand like this one. At subsequent Gatherings, Sartol developed his friendship with Niall, feeding it with compliments and confidences. He also observed Niall’s hunger for a return to the inner circle of power. Many mages cared little for influence, but Niall had possessed it once. Desire for it was in his nature, and now he wanted it back. Sartol could see it in the way he hovered at the fringes of conversations among the more powerful mages; in the look of resignation with which he cast his vote for the new Owl-Sage after Feargus died; in the renewed vigor with which he participated in debates around the council table. Sartol doubted that any of the others noticed it; indeed, he had a feeling that Niall himself was but dimly aware of his own yearning. But Sartol watched the need grow within the Owl-Master, understanding how it felt, and how he might use it to steer Niall to his purposes. For, at root, Niall and he were quite similar. The only difference being that once Sartol had power, he would never let it slip away.
So he was not at all surprised by the ease with which he enlisted Niall’s aid in keeping watch on Baden and the others. It was not just that he had spent several years securing the older man’s loyalty. He was offering Niall a second taste of leadership, another chance to wield influence within the Order, to move in that circle from which he had fallen a decade ago. The Owl-Master could not refuse him.
Sartol had not taken into account, however, Niall’s overly developed sense of morality. The Owl-Master had obviously been reluctant to spy on Baden, and he had blanched visibly when Sartol left to his judgment how to handle any of Baden’s allies that he might encounter. In the aftermath of that discussion, Sartol had feared that he might have to entrust to one of the gargantuan thugs whom he had recruited as Great Hall attendants the task of rooting out those who sympathized with the accused mages. He did not relish the idea, for it carried great risks, but he could not allow Niall’s priggishness to subvert his entire scheme. Fortunately, Trahn’s unexpected arrival on the scene gave Sartol a chance to test Niall’s resolve. Sartol never had any intention of allowing the dark mage to roam freely about the streets of Amarid. He was not a fool. But he needed to see how Niall would treat the situation, and the Owl-Master had responded splendidly. It had taken all of Sartol’s will to maintain his grave demeanor when Niall declared his intention to arrest Trahn as well. Sartol had wanted to laugh aloud.
Experiencing once again the satisfaction he had felt in that moment, Sartol tried to make himself relax. Whatever advantage Baden thought he might have, Niall would learn of it, and so, too, would Sartol. In fact, the older mage would be arriving shortly to report on what he had seen and learned the night before. There would be no surprises on this day, at least not for Sartol. Others who entered the Great Hall, though, might be surprised, even shocked, if they took the time to examine closely the Summoning Stone. This was the other reason why Sartol should have had no trouble soothing his frayed nerves. Even if something did go wrong today—if, for instance, too many mages noticed the subtle but unmistakable yellow hue that now, in the wake of last night’s work, emanated from the stone—he felt reasonably certain that he could subdue all of the mages in the chamber. Against the entire Order, he would not stand a chance, at least not yet. Against the number who had been there yesterday, however, and the few more who had probably trickled into the city last night and this morning, he could prevail. In a way, he almost hoped the others would give him an excuse to try.
He had prepared for this for so long. For a time he had even wondered if it was possible. As far as he knew, no mage had ever bound to two
cerylls before. But then his alliance with Calbyr had forced him to try. He needed some way to communicate with the outlander. So he poured his power into one of the extra cerylls that he had taken from Ceryllon, much as he had poured his power into the wooded lake in Tobyn’s Wood. And soon, this second ceryll glowed as brightly as his first. But he didn’t stop there. Using his immense power, he then altered the second stone, tuning it to his first, as Amarid had tuned the Summoning Stone to all cerylls, so that he could contact Calbyr when he needed to.
After that, he knew that the Summoning Stone would be his. Yes, it was immense, but so was his power. It was just a matter of time and access, both of which he finally had. The night before, he had felt the power surge through his body like an ocean tide as he slowly, inexorably exerted his control over the giant crystal, turning it into a lens for the strength that he channeled from Huvan. And doing so, Sartol had experienced an exhilaration unlike any he had ever known before. He was so strong, so very strong. And he would grow stronger yet, until, just a few days from now, he would be the mightiest mage ever to have lived.
Already, he longed to use that power, to show the others just how far he had taken the Mage-Craft. They had chosen Jessamyn over him; they had reprimanded him for violating one of Amarid’s Laws. But soon, very soon, they would realize that he had become more than Amarid, whom they exalted; more than Theron, whom they feared; more than they could ever be themselves, even if they combined their power and challenged him as one. They would not be able to stop him, and Tobyn-Ser would be his. Even Calbyr and his men, and the lethal creatures they carried on their shoulders, would fall before him. So very, very soon.
Sartol shook his head, resisting the temptation to stand and resume his pacing. He didn’t really understand it. Even after all the planning, even given Niall’s unwitting complicity and his own mastery of the Summoning Stone, why did he still find it so hard to calm himself?
He propelled himself out of the chair, striding impatiently to the folding oak desk that stood near the hearth.
“It’s the waiting,” he said aloud, as if by making himself hear the words, he might settle his nerves.
Perched on the mantel, Huvan opened her yellow eyes and turned to gaze at him dispassionately.
Sartol began to pace again. It’s the waiting, he silently told himself again. As soon as the trial begins, I’ll feel better. He took a deep breath, wishing Niall would get there already.
It was just a few minutes later when he heard the quiet knock at the door, although it seemed an eternity.
“Come in!” Sartol called, in a tone more intense than he had intended. Carefully, he cautioned himself as the older mage opened the door. “Come in, Niall,” he said again, more gently this time, and with a smile. “You have news?”
The Owl-Master looked pale, shaken. Obviously, he had learned something. Sartol fought to slow his pulse.
Niall lowered himself into one of the chairs. He sat still for a minute, collecting himself, and then looked up at the Owl-Master. “You were right,” he began, “this conspiracy goes far beyond just the three accused. Yesterday, late in the afternoon, Sonel visited their room, briefly, and then headed out into Hawksfind Wood. I followed her to a clearing, where she met with two other mages, and I hid among the trees so that I might eavesdrop on their conversation. They spoke of defying the will of the Order, of keeping you from becoming Owl-Sage; they even vowed to turn the people of Tobyn-Ser against us, if necessary.”
Sartol sat down beside Niall, his eyes widening with unfeigned astonishment. This was more than he had expected, more than he had dared hope. Regardless of what evidence Baden might possess, Sartol now had another witness, this one an Owl-Master, who would confirm the existence of a conspiracy against the Order. Only an extreme exertion of self-control enabled him to suppress the fit of laughter that had begun to rise within him, like the cresting of a rainfed river.
“You say it was Sonel?” he managed, trying to sound grave.
“Sonel, yes,” Niall replied dismally, obviously pained by what he had seen and heard. “Along with two others.”
“Did you recognize them as well?”
Niall shook his head, refusing to meet the Owl-Master’s gaze. There was something else, something he wasn’t saying. Sartol could read it in his eyes, in the pallor of his features, and in the nervousness with which he rubbed and twisted his trembling hands together. “I failed you, Sartol,” Niall admitted after some time, “and I’ve done a terrible thing.”
It couldn’t possibly matter, so glorious were these tidings. “Tell me,” Sartol said gently, placing a hand on the older man’s arm. “It’s all right, I’m sure. Just tell me.”
Niall took a steadying breath. “After I listened for a while, growing angrier and angrier, I finally decided that it was time to . . . to do something. So, I stepped forward into the clearing, raised my ceryll-light, and demanded that they surrender themselves. Sonel froze—I think she was so startled by my appearance that she didn’t know what else to do. But the other two . . .” Niall faltered, closing his eyes for a moment and allowing himself another long breath. “The other two ran. I yelled for them to stop, but they wouldn’t. I yelled again—I was so angry . . . Before I knew what had happened I had flung a bolt of mage-fire at them. It all happened so fast; it was just instinct.” He swallowed. “They’re dead, Sartol. I killed them both. I hadn’t intended to, but I did. And I was so upset at what I had done that I allowed Sonel to get away. I tried to chase her, but I lost her in the woods.” He stopped, looking now directly at the Owl-Master. “I’ve let you down. I’m . . . I’m terribly sorry.”
Let me down?Sartol wanted to say, again fighting the urge to laugh.Let medown? You have done more than I ever dreamed you would. You have deniedBaden two of his allies. You have given me further evidence of a conspiracy andthe name of another accomplice. You have, in short, delivered the Order into myhands, Niall. Instead, though, he picked up the crystal bell and rang it once. Immediately, Basya appeared at the door. “Bring Owl-Master Niall some water, please,” he instructed. The girl nodded before hurrying off, and Sartol moved his chair closer to Niall’s so he could place a sympathetic arm around the mage’s shoulder. “I know that you will be punishing yourself for what you’ve done,” he offered quietly. “I probably would do the same. But these mages betrayed the Order; for all we know, they had a hand in the attacks on Taima and Kaera and the other villages. No one will blame you for what’s happened. Such a thing goes against your nature, I know; it will be a source of pain for you. But I’m grateful for the sacrifices you’ve made to protect Tobyn-Ser, and it is I who should be sorry for putting you in this position.”
A single knock on the door stopped him, and Basya entered the room with a tall, crystal glass filled with ice water. “Thank you, Basya,” Sartol said, as she handed the glass to Niall. She offered a small bow, and slipped silently out of the chamber.
Niall sipped at his water, and the two of them sat without speaking for a long while. Finally, somewhat abruptly, the older man stood, setting the half-empty glass on a low table in the middle of the room. “I should go,” he said, his voice rough. “The trial will be beginning soon, and I’ve taken too much of your time already.”
Sartol rose as well. “Not at all. But we should get things started. You will be all right?”
The mage nodded, trying without success to smile.
Sartol led him to the door, pausing at the threshold to grip Niall’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in the Gathering Chamber shortly, my friend. Thank you for all you’ve done. All the people of this land are indebted to you.”
Niall gazed at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, wordlessly, he turned and walked across the marble floor of the hall toward the massive portal at the far end.
Sartol closed the door to his quarters and allowed himself a broad grin. Niall had proven himself more valuable than he had ever imagined possible. Perhaps, he would keep his promise to make the Owl-Master his
first, at least until he had complete control over the Summoning Stone. Why not make the old man happy?
But first, he would rid himself of Baden. He glanced over at his owl, which still sat languidly above the hearth. “Yes,” Sartol told her, as if confirming something she had said. “It’s time we rung the bells.”
Again he picked up the crystal bell and shook it gently, and, again, Basya appeared at his door within a few seconds.
“It is time to begin the trial,” he told her. “Have the bell-keep call the mages to order.”
The attendant withdrew, and, shortly after, Sartol heard the heavy tolling of the bells begin. It would take a while, he knew, for the mages to arrive, and he sat down by the hearth to wait. The urge to pace had passed, replaced by a giddy thrill of anticipation. At last, it had come: the culmination of all his planning. This was not a time for impatience or disquiet; this was an occasion to be savored.
Soon, he began to hear voices in the Gathering Chamber, as masters and mages took their places around the dark wooden table. He rose, adjusting his cloak and running a hand through his thick, dark hair. The noise outside his quarters continued to swell, and then it took on a different tone, indicating to Sartol that Niall had arrived with the accused. It would not be long now. He closed his eyes, took several slow breaths. He had gone over what he would say again and again, until it had become a sort of litany, repeating itself constantly in his brain. It was very convincing; he almost believed it himself.
Odinan’s staff rapped resoundingly on the chamber floor, silencing the other mages. Still, Sartol did not move. Eyes closed, he listened to his heartbeat. The delay would make his entrance that much more effective. Finally, slowly, he opened his eyes and raised his arm for Huvan. And then, feeling her alight on his wrist and hop up to his shoulder, he stepped to the door, flung it open, and strode purposefully into the chamber.