by DAVID B. COE
Sartol stood a moment longer, casting his gaze around the room once more, and tasting the vindication in the still-unbroken silence that met his call for retribution.
An instant later, though, as he lowered himself into his chair, the stillness was broken by the sound of one man’s derisive applause.
“What marvelous theater,” Baden mocked, shattering the mood Sartol had created as if it were cheap glass. “Worthy, no doubt, of Cearbhall himself. But what shall we call it?” he asked, propelling himself out of his seat. “It’s too pathetic to be a comedy, and too funny to be a tragedy. Which leaves us, it seems, with farce. Wouldn’t you say, Sartol?”
Their eyes met, and Sartol felt his color rising. “I’m not sure, Baden,” he returned, his voice just barely under control, “diversions of this sort were never my strength. I prefer fact to fantasy.”
“Funny, I would have guessed otherwise.”
“Do you have evidence to present, Baden?” Sartol demanded testily. “Or will your entire defense consist of this insulting prattle?”
Baden bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Have patience, Sartol. Petulance doesn’t become you.”
Sartol opened his mouth to fling back another retort. But then he checked the impulse, leaning back in his chair instead, and permitting himself a slight smirk. The bravado with which Baden carried himself on this day had none of the power or substance or self-assurance he had shown the day before. It seemed empty, somehow; brittle. Baden was stalling, Sartol realized, the knowledge coming to him with the power of epiphany. By goading him like this, by initiating an exchange of barbs, the Owl-Master hoped not only to provoke Sartol into giving something away, but also to put off his own testimony. It seemed likely as well that Baden’s need for delay grew out of what Niall had wrought the night before. And with the thought, Sartol’s mind suddenly turned in a new direction. Sonel was irrelevant; a messenger, nothing more. But the two in the clearing, the two Niall had killed: they were another matter. Why would Sonel meet them outside the city unless these two had been hiding there? And why would Baden bother to hide two allies unless . . .
Baden was saying something about the grove, going over the events of that night once again, but claiming that Sartol, not Orris, had been responsible for Jessamyn and Peredur’s murders. Sartol knew that he ought to be listening, but his mind was racing to keep up with the series of revelations crashing over him like the breakers of an incoming tide. Two days before, when Niall reported to him that Trahn had been seen with Baden and Orris, Sartol had accepted the news without question, assuming that the Hawk-Mage had left Theron’s Grove after convincing himself that Alayna and Jaryd were dead. But what if Trahn had left the grove with them? What if the young ones had escaped somehow from Theron, only to be killed last night by Niall? And what if Baden knew nothing of this yet; what if he still expected Alayna and Jaryd to show up at this trial? What if he was waiting for them even now, wondering at this point why they had yet to arrive? It would explain both the swagger that the Owl-Master had shown the day before, and the false confidence with which he bore himself today. It would explain why the accused mages had been willing to chance an immediate trial. It would, in short, explain everything that had been bothering Sartol since Baden’s arrival in Amarid. Sensing how near he was to success, savoring the feeling as he would a cool drink on a sweltering day, Sartol looked at Niall, only to find that the older man was already staring at him, his features still pallid and taut with concern. Ah, my friend, Sartol sent wordlessly, as though the silver-haired mage might read his thoughts, if only you understood the magnitude of what you have done for me.
“It didn’t occur to me to question Sartol’s version of what had happened until three nights later,” Baden was explaining. A quick scan around the table told Sartol that only a handful of the mages in the room believed what they were hearing from the lean Owl-Master. “We had stopped for the night, having ridden Tobyn’s Plain for much of the day, and we started talking about the recent attacks. Somehow, Sartol knew already about the attack on Kaera. I hadn’t mentioned it to him, nor had Trahn, and if he had learned of it through the Ceryll-Var, from another mage, he would have told us. But he never said a thing about it, and yet he already knew. That was when I started to suspect that Sartol had allied himself with outlanders, a suspicion he confirmed the following night in Watersbend. The men we encountered there recognized Sartol; one of them even started to speak to him. That was why I tried to keep Sartol from killing them, and that was why I was so angry after he did. I wanted to interrogate them, to find out who they were and where they had come from. But thanks to Sartol, that was impossible. When Sartol went off to help the villagers, and I was taken to the jail, Orris snuck into the village square. There he found the lethal mechanical birds of which I spoke before, and the strange staffs that threw flame at the touch of a button.”
“Yes, yes,” Sartol said disdainfully, cutting off the Owl-Master. “We’ve heard all of this before, Baden. But where is your evidence?” He smiled—he could not help but smile, he was beginning to enjoy himself so. “You cannot make such ridiculous claims and expect us to believe you without presenting proof.”
Baden glowered at him. Perhaps he even began to speculate that Sartol had figured out what he had planned for his defense. Sartol never got the chance to consider that possibility. For, in that moment, the great wooden doors at the far end of the hall slowly swung open, and Sonel entered the Gathering Chamber. By itself, this signified little. Niall mentioned that she had gotten away, and Sartol had suspected that she might show up. But then he saw her catch Baden’s eye, saw a slow grin spread across her face as she gave him a reassuring nod. Sartol’s eyes flew to Niall. Who was grinning at him: an appalling, taunting grin, the malice of which reached the older mage’s dark eyes.
“You demand proof, Sartol?” Baden crowed triumphantly. “Then you shall have it!”
And feeling abruptly as though he had been thrust to the very brink of a vast, yawning abyss, tasting in that instant his own death, Sartol watched Alayna and Jaryd step forth into the chamber, bearing their magnificent hawks and another thing that he could scarcely comprehend.
20
There had come a moment the day before, as he followed Sonel down shadow-darkened alleys and through the late-afternoon crowd in Amarid’s old market area, when Niall felt a strange giddiness take hold of him, intoxicating him with the thrill and the danger of what he was doing. Beyond the satisfaction and pride of having been called upon by the interim sage for such a critical assignment, he actually enjoyed the intrigue, the challenge of keeping the Owl-Master in view while making sure that she did not see him. It seemed a bit peculiar, given the circumstances, but he was having fun.
Obviously conscious of the fact that Sartol might have her followed, Sonel took a roundabout route into Hawksfind Wood, backtracking several times, and winding unpredictably through various sections of the city. Twice, Niall almost lost her: once in the labyrinth of cobblestone passageways that ran among Amarid’s white and grey buildings, and a second time in the bustle and confusion of the old town center. Both times, however, he managed to spot her again. He had expected that Baden’s errand would eventually carry her out of the city and, since the Larian bordered Amarid on three sides, he guessed that she would have to cross one of the bridges. Knowing where she would end up made tracking her that much easier.
His task grew somewhat more complicated when Sonel first entered the wood. Aware of how difficult it would be to move silently through the forest, yet wary of allowing Sonel to get so far ahead of him that she might veer off the path unseen, Niall moved with excruciating care. It paid off. By the time night fell, Sonel had apparently convinced herself that no one was following her. Why else would she have lit the trail with her vivid green ceryll, not bothering to shield its glow from view, and giving Niall the opportunity to follow at a safer distance? For his part, Niall muted his crystal, providing himself with just enough light to keep from stumbl
ing on the rocks and roots that lay in the path.
At length, Sonel did leave the trail, turning onto a narrow offshoot that meandered through dense woodland and tangled brush. Niall followed, and, a short while later, he heard a voice call out to her, one that sounded puzzlingly familiar, and he saw a blue light blaze in the night. From the conversation that ensued, Niall determined that he had, indeed, found another who sympathized with Baden’s cause. When the mage with the sapphire ceryll invited Sonel to join him, Niall began to creep closer so that he might hear what they said. It took him a while, concerned as he was with not making any sound that might alert Sonel and her companion to his presence. Long before he actually heard anything of their discussion, Niall realized that a second mage had also been waiting for the Owl-Master in the large clearing. This other person carried a purple crystal, and, unlike the blue, it seemed to Niall that this was a color he had seen before. He knew, though, that this could not be, that the mage who had wielded that ceryll was dead.
He would learn their identities soon enough, he decided, moving noiselessly among the trees, but first he had to glean what they planned to do. So he drew close enough to listen as they spoke of treason, and of other allies, and of turning the people of Tobyn-Ser against Sartol, all the while gathering his courage to do what he now understood was necessary. Any lingering doubts that he might have harbored as to Baden’s guilt, and the validity of Sartol’s concerns, evaporated in those few minutes. And with those doubts went his reluctance to take matters into his own hands. So certain was he that the conspiracy existed as Sartol had described it, that he felt capable of killing the mages before him—something he would never have dreamed possible just a few days earlier.
After several more moments, having heard enough, he stepped into the clearing, raising his maroon ceryll over his head and making it flare like midsummer lightning to shine with the light of justice on the faces of the renegades.
A great deal had changed for him in the last few days; much had happened to make him feel alive again, to give him back his passion and purpose, to restore his self-respect. But none of it could have prepared him for the shock of what he saw in the wine-colored radiance of his mage-glow. He thought them apparitions at first, unsettled spirits of the young mages lost in Theron’s Grove. But while one had, in fact, bound to his first familiar in this forest just a few weeks ago, the other’s binding place was a hundred leagues from here. Besides, Niall had seen an unsettled spirit once—that of his own father, who died only four weeks after losing his last familiar. These two were not ghosts; they were as human as Niall himself, though how and why this should be, Niall did not understand.
For a long time, Niall said nothing, his mind reeling with the implications of Jaryd and Alayna’s impossible appearance in Hawksfind Wood. For their part, notwithstanding what he would later tell Sartol, the young mages did not run, although fear and despair shone in their eyes as they regarded him silently. Sonel stared at him as well, but her expression revealed little.
Finally, Niall lowered his ceryll and muted the dazzling light he had summoned from it upon entering the clearing. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said into the stillness, looking at the young mages, “but I don’t know whether to rejoice in your safe return or to demand that you surrender yourselves, along with your friend here, so that you can face charges of treason.”
“We aren’t traitors!” Jaryd fired back, his wiry frame coiled with tension, his pale eyes glimmering with mage-light and flame. “Any more than Sonel is! Nor, for that matter, are Baden, Trahn, and Orris!”
“I would expect you to say that,” Niall replied coldly, “given that Baden is your uncle.”
“Given what you know of me, Niall,” Alayna broke in, her tone calmer than Jaryd’s, “would you expect me to say that it was Sartol who murdered Jessamyn and Peredur? That it was he who chased Jaryd and me into Theron’s Grove?”
Niall’s mouth went dry, and he could not think of any response. Alayna had been Sartol’s Mage-Attend. They had been close friends. Just within the last few days, the Owl-Master had spoken tearfully of his grief at losing her. But now she stood in this clearing, alive, claiming that Sartol had tried to kill her. It made no sense, but it made no more sense for Alayna to lie about such a thing.
“The two of you were actually in Theron’s Grove?” he managed.
Alayna nodded. “We were.”
“And you escaped?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak with him? Did you complete the delegation’s mission?”
“In a sense, yes,” Jaryd told him, his tone wary, but without the belligerence he had shown a moment before. “Theron had nothing to do with the attacks, but he has offered to help us find those who did.”
Niall shook his head. “The two men who died in Watersbend—are they . . .” He trailed off, uncertain of how to proceed.
“We arrived in Watersbend after they were dead,” Alayna told him. “Trahn was with us. But, from what Baden and Orris told us of the battle there, and given what we learned from Theron, we believe that they were but two of many who have come to Tobyn-Ser to commit the crimes for which Baden and the others are to stand trial.”
Niall’s blood turned cold. “Come to Tobyn-Ser?Outlanders?”
Again, Alayna nodded.
“What do they want?”
“We don’t know for sure. But they seem intent upon so weakening the Order that we’ll be unable to guard Tobyn-Ser from an invasion.”
“You believe that Sartol is connected with these people in some way, that he has allied himself with them?”
“That’s what Theron told us,” Jaryd answered, “and Baden and Orris both believe that the men in Watersbend recognized Sartol and would have spoken to him had he not killed them first.”
The Owl-Master took a steadying breath, attempting to grasp all that the young mages had told him. He was aware of their eyes on his face, of Sonel, taciturn and watchful, gauging his reactions. An eerie stillness blanketed the clearing, broken only by the occasional popping of the fire and the distant, repetitive call of a whippoorwill. A few minutes ago he had been prepared to kill these three mages as traitors. Now . . . now he didn’t know what to think. Their accusations against Sartol were no more convincing than the charges Sartol had made against Baden and the others. Indeed, they were probably less so. Sartol, after all, had carried the staffs of Jessamyn and Peredur back to Amarid as physical evidence of what he claimed had happened. He had witnesses.
Yet, here were Jaryd and Alayna, claiming that Sartol, not Orris, had killed the Owl-Sage and her first; claiming that they had survived a confrontation with Theron, and that Sartol, not Orris, had forced them into the grove. It was absurd. Except, listening to them speak, Niall found himself, almost against his will, acknowledging that their story had the ring of truth to it. Their mere presence in this clearing cast doubt on Sartol’s story, but, more than that, Niall perceived something in their manner that gave him pause. Terrifying as it was, Niall forced himself to consider the possibility that Sartol might have lied to them all.
“You have evidence, I take it,” he said at last. “You can prove all of this.”
“We have physical evidence that will prove some of it,” Jaryd replied cautiously. “The rest you’ll have to take on faith.”
Alayna passed a rigid hand through her long hair. “We would have more—at one point Orris had the weapons used by the outlanders—but Sartol destroyed it all.”
“You saw him do this?”
She shook her head. “We can only assume that this is what he did.”
Niall took another deep breath. “Perhaps you should show me what you do have. We’ll see if it’s enough.”
It very nearly was. While not convinced entirely, Niall did find his faith in Sartol badly shaken by what the young mages showed him. Clearly, Jaryd and Alayna had been to Theron’s Grove as they said. But, while the objects they claimed to have gathered in Watersbend looked peculiar, even alien, th
ey did not prove conclusively that the attacks had been committed by outlanders.
“You’ll have to tell this story to the rest of the Order,” he told the young mages, breaking the lengthy silence that followed their description of the events at Theron’s Grove and the ravaged village. “You’ll come with me, so that you can attend tomorrow’s trial.”
“No!” Sonel insisted, speaking for the first time since Niall’s arrival.
“You’re in no position to disagree, Sonel. I’ve been given the authority—”
“I know that you aren’t a foolish man, Niall,” the Owl-Master cut in, her voice level. “I know as well that you wouldn’t knowingly harm the Order or any of its members.” She stepped forward, straight-backed and tall, until she stood directly in front of him, her eyes, green as the grass on which they stood, even with his. “But it sounds to me as if you haven’t listened to anything these two have told you. They are the only witnesses to Sartol’s crimes. He’s already tried to kill them once. If you take them back to Amarid, he’ll undoubtedly try again.”