by DAVID B. COE
“I’d suggest that you treat his old injuries before tackling him and giving him new ones,” the Owl-Master said dryly. “He’s young, but he’s not that young.”
Trahn hurried over when he heard this. Ursel, Jaryd realized, was standing guard over two of the outlanders.
“You’re hurt?” Trahn asked sharply.
Jaryd nodded, indicating his back with a gesture. “One of the black birds got me. It would have killed me if Baden hadn’t arrived when he did.” This last he had intended for the Owl-Master, but Baden’s attention was focused on the prisoners.
“Have they said anything?” Baden demanded of Trahn as the dark mage and Alayna tended to Jaryd’s wounds.
Trahn shook his head. “Nothing yet, no.” He stole a glance at them over his shoulder, a grin creeping across his features. “Both of them were hurt when we destroyed their weapons. You should have seen the looks in their eyes when we healed them.”
“What happened to the third?”
Trahn’s grin vanished. “I couldn’t get a clear enough angle to disable him.” He shrugged. “I had to kill him.”
“And their birds?”
“Destroyed and retrieved.”
Baden smiled, just for a moment, and he nodded. “Well done.” Then he walked over to where Ursel stood with the outlanders.
For several minutes, Alayna and Trahn worked in silence, laying their hands deftly on Jaryd’s back and shoulder until the pain had subsided to a dull throb that Jaryd knew would linger for several days. He flexed his shoulder, noting that most of its mobility had returned.
“You lost a good deal of blood,” Trahn told him, placing a hand on his good shoulder. “Take it easy for a day or two.” The Hawk-Mage smiled broadly. “I’m glad you’re all right, Jaryd.”
Jaryd returned the grin. “Thank you, Trahn. For everything.”
Trahn gave his shoulder a squeeze and then joined Baden and Ursel, leaving Jaryd and Alayna to themselves.
“I’m glad you’re safe, too,” Alayna said softly, kissing his cheek. “I was worried.”
Jaryd smiled. “Good.” He tried to kiss her, but she bit his lip instead.
“I think you’re supposed to say that you were worried, too!” she growled with mock anger.
He tried to kiss her again, and this time she let him. “I was,” he told her, his tone suddenly earnest. “More than you could ever know.” He put his arms around her and held her tight for several moments, saying nothing, and only letting her go when he saw that Phelan and Kalba had returned to the hollow.
For a long time, the Wolf-Master did not speak. He and the great wolf walked among the living, pausing to regard the two outlanders, one of whom tried unsuccessfully to hold the spirit’s icy stare. Phelan smiled coldly when the man looked away, and then continued through the hollow, stopping finally when he reached Niall’s body, and the pale owl that sat silently just above where the Owl-Master lay. “I am sorry for your friend,” the spirit offered in his deep voice. He turned to Baden. “And for the death of your familiar, Owl-Master. I am familiar with that pain.” Jaryd saw a difficult emotion working across the spirit’s features. A few seconds later, however, he spoke again. “The one you call Sartol was more powerful than we had anticipated: your losses were a result of this miscalculation.”
Phelan seemed to offer the explanation as an apology, and Baden took it as such. “You weren’t the first to underestimate him, Wolf-Master,” the mage answered, “and our error was far costlier than yours.”
Phelan nodded. “That may be so. But you have redeemed yourselves tonight, I think.” He glanced at the prisoners again. “The others are dead?”
“They are.”
The spirit nodded his shaggy head. “It is well. But,” he went on in a hard tone, his bright, wintry eyes encompassing all of them, “be wary, lest your vigilance slacken again! This threat may have passed, but others await you. You were right when you said that those who sent these men will send others. I am certain of it!”
Baden signaled his agreement with a curt nod. “We won’t be caught off guard a second time, Wolf-Master. Not while the five of us serve Tobyn-Ser.”
Once more, the Wolf-Master smiled. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Would you return to Amarid?”
Baden cocked his head to one side. “Is that possible, given Sartol’s presence in your circle?”
“He is a difficult matter,” Phelan admitted. “He will keep us from acting on your behalf for a long time into the future. But we are aware of him now. Strong as he is, he is still new to the circle of the Unsettled. Theron believes that we can control him for a while. At least for tonight, if you still wish us to transport you back to the Great Hall.”
Baden nodded. “We do. And our prisoners. But first we wish to build a pyre for Niall.”
“Very well,” the spirit agreed. “But make haste. Daylight approaches.”
With Jaryd moving to watch over the prisoners, the other mages started constructing a funeral pyre of driftwood and fallen tree limbs. The outlanders remained silent, and Jaryd said nothing to them, although he watched them with unconcealed curiosity. They were both of medium build, one with black hair and a close-cropped beard, and the other clean-shaven and blond. The bearded man sat motionless, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts, his eyes focused inward. But the other one, whom Jaryd guessed was but a few years beyond his own age, watched the mages with a mix of fear and interest. Occasionally, Jaryd found the man staring at him, or at grey Ishalla on his shoulder. But always the outlander would quickly avert his eyes.
When finally the pyre was ready, Baden and Trahn placed Niall’s body on top of it, and all five mages moved to stand before it. “With wood and fire, gifts from Tobyn and Leora,” Baden proclaimed to the night, “we release the spirit of Niall, Son of Amarid. Open your arms to him, Arick and Duclea, and grant him rest.”
The outlanders had been led over as well, so that they could be watched, and now the bearded one laughed. “Yes, open your arms,” he repeated in a strangely accented voice. “Open them wide, so that the Children of Lon can send—” A sudden blow to the stomach from Trahn’s staff doubled the man over, silencing him.
“The next time you speak, it will be to answer our questions!” the Hawk-Mage hissed. “Until then, you will be still!”
In response, the man spat at the ground in front of Trahn’s feet. He was rewarded with a blow to the small of the back that sent him to his knees.
An instant later, the mages lit the pyre with their mage-fire, and for several minutes they watched the flames rise to consume Niall’s body. Then Baden turned to face Phelan, who was standing behind them.
“We’re ready.” He gestured toward the prisoners and the pile of weapons and destroyed birds that sat nearby. “You can send these things as well?”
Phelan nodded. “We can.”
Baden bowed at the waist, as did the other mages. “Thank you, Wolf-Master. The people of Tobyn-Ser owe a debt to you, and to all of the Unsettled.”
Phelan inclined his head in acknowledgment. “We still serve the land,” he replied. “Tell this to the people.”
“We will.”
Phelan closed his eyes and began to ready himself for the transport. Then he stopped. “Tell me,” he said, looking at Baden once more, “who was your conduit for this journey?”
“Owl-Master Sonel,” Baden replied. “She told us of her encounter with you. She was the only one of us who knew the terrain.”
Phelan nodded. “I remember her. She was kind and strong, even as a young woman.” He paused. “Owl-Master, you say?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad for her. Tell her that I still recall our conversation,” the Wolf-Master requested, “and that she is welcome to return.”
“I’ll do that.”
Once again, the silver spirit closed his eyes, and so, too, did the luminescent wolf beside him. Jaryd took Alayna’s hand in his, and, a moment later, he felt the familiar rush of cold air envelo
p him as the Unsettled sent them back to the Great Hall.
23
Jaryd had expected that things would calm down a bit once those responsible for the land’s recent troubles had been captured. Certainly, he thought, the few days following the company’s return from Phelan Spur would be marked by mourning for Niall, Jessamyn, and Peredur, but also by quiet celebration for the passing of this most immediate threat to Tobyn-Ser’s safety. And he had been confident that when news spread of the Order’s innocence in the attacks of the past year, and of its role in apprehending those who had been culpable, the people of Amarid and Tobyn-Ser would be overjoyed. Nothing could have been farther from the reality of what occurred.
News of what had happened at Phelan Spur seemed to ride the wind like smoke from a fire, reaching every corner of the great city and filling people’s heads with panic-inspiring visions of outlanders inundating both town and countryside by the thousands. Within hours of the company’s return from its battle with the invaders, word of the two prisoners being held in small cells beneath the main floor of the Great Hall had lured a tremendous crowd to the streets surrounding the structure. Most were merely curious. But a sizable minority, driven, no doubt, by fear as well as anger, demanded that the two outlanders be given over to them so that justice might be done quickly and correctly. It was, Radomil later told Jaryd, a scene reminiscent of the one that greeted Baden, Trahn, and Orris when they surrendered themselves to the Order to face Sartol’s accusations. Except that, in the mages’ case, other members of the crowd had been reluctant to condone such violence. These onlookers, in contrast, had no such misgivings; they were more than happy to allow the outlanders to be slaughtered in the street. It took little time for the instigators to stir the throng into a vengeful frenzy, and even the pleas and threats of mages and constables could not disperse them or curb their zeal. Throughout the day and into the night, the assembly continued to grow, and while those inciting the multitude did not succeed in pushing the people to violent acts, they did keep the mood in the streets at a fever pitch.
So much so that, late that afternoon, while the members of the company still were sleeping off the effects of their long and harrowing night on the spur, Toinan, Sonel, and a majority of the other mages decided to double the number of guards assigned to the prisoners, leading others to question whether the attendants were there to prevent the outlanders’ escape, or to keep them from harm. As it turned out, however, they failed at both.
One of the strangers—the bearded one whom Trahn had struck in front of Niall’s pyre, Jaryd later learned—succeeded in escaping from his room that first evening. Somehow, he managed to master the lock on his door, beat into unconsciousness two of the massive attendants originally hired by Sartol, despite being barely half the men’s size, and find his way to a rear door of the hall. There, however, on the verge of getting away, he stopped. Perhaps he was daunted by the sight of the angry mob outside, or maybe he was driven by his conscience to go back for his comrade. Whatever the reason, he returned to the Gathering Chamber, only to find himself confronted by five members of the Order, their cerylls ready. He quickly surrendered, and the mages escorted him back to his cell, but, after that, the attendants standing guard were replaced by mages, and their number was doubled once again. Even these steps, though, proved ineffective. Less than an hour after he was placed back in his chamber, the outlander was dead, apparently having taken some sort of poison that he had carried with him. The mages had never even learned his name.
When news of the stranger’s death reached the Owl-Masters, they immediately ordered that the other outlander, the younger, fair-haired man whom Jaryd remembered looking so frightened on the spur, be stripped of his clothing, given fresh things to wear, and placed under constant watch, lest he attempt to follow in his friend’s footsteps. A search of this second man’s cloak revealed a small tablet that had been sewn into the lining of the garment. A local apothecary determined that it was poison, although not of a type she had ever encountered before.
All of this Jaryd, Alayna, and the rest of the company learned the following morning, a full day after their return from Phelan Spur. The battle, and the emotions of Niall’s death, had left the five of them exhausted, and, after presenting the prisoners and offering a brief description of what transpired on the spur, they had gone off to get some sleep. Jaryd and Alayna took a room together at an inn near the Great Hall, and, their need of each other outweighing their fatigue, they made love in the bright morning light that streamed through the window. Tenderly, longingly, they moved together on the small bed, desperate to feel alive again after a night of killing and grief. Afterward, they drifted into a deeper sleep than either had known for several weeks, their bodies intertwined in the tangle of sheets. All through the day they slept, rising near dusk to eat a small meal and, finally, to mount Jaryd’s ceryll on the staff given to them by Theron. Then they returned to the small room and slept through the rest of the night.
They were awakened early the next morning by the tolling of the Great Hall’s bells. When they reached the structure a short while later, they found nearly three quarters of the Order already assembled around the table and conferring on the near escape and subsequent suicide of the outlander. Gathering what details he could from the discussion, Jaryd soon pieced together what had occurred.
“We should interrogate the prisoner who remains as soon as possible,” Baden observed. The Owl-Master appeared wan and fatigued, as if he had slept poorly the previous night and day. Jaryd found himself glancing repeatedly at his uncle’s shoulder or at the empty, curved perch on the Owl-Master’s chair, as if he couldn’t get used to the idea that Anla was dead. He couldn’t even imagine what Baden must have been feeling and he repeatedly reached for Ishalla with his mind, as if to reassure himself that she was still there. “He may no longer have the poison,” the lean mage went on, still referring to the second outlander, “but he might find some other way to harm himself.”
“Or he might try to escape,” Trahn added. “I agree with Baden. We should begin immediately.”
For once, the mages arrayed around the table seemed to be in accord, as they signaled their agreement with nods. At least most of them did. “He is a dangerous man,” Odinan wheezed from the far end of the council table, looking even more burdened and weary than he had a few days before, “just as his companion was. I believe we should wait until the rest of the Order arrives before deciding on any course of action.”
Even this, Jaryd thought, shaking his head in disbelief. He saw Orris’s jaw clench, but, surprisingly, the Hawk-Mage said nothing, leaving it instead to Baden to counter the old man’s argument.
“We can’t afford to wait, Odinan,” Baden reasoned. “If this man escapes, or kills himself, we’ll be right back where we were before we went to Phelan Spur. We need information that only he can provide.”
“Perhaps, but do we need it right now?”
“I think we do.”
“Such rashness cost Niall his life!” the aged mage said hotly, the color in his hollowed cheeks rising.
“If you wish to look at it in that light, fine!” Baden shot back. “It also cost me my familiar! Does that mean that we should do nothing!” The Owl-Master paused, trying to regain his composure. “If we delay, Odinan,” he continued a moment later, his tone softer, “and this man escapes or dies, Niall’s death, and my Anla’s death, will have no meaning. You don’t want that, do you?”
“Of course not!” Odinan snapped. He glanced around the chamber, the look in his eyes hostile and defensive. “You have the votes to overrule me, Baden. I’d suggest you use them. I’m not going to give in again. I did when you wanted to go to the grove, and Jessamyn and Peredur died. I did a second time when you wanted to speak with Phelan; now Niall is dead. There will be no third time. I’ll not be party to another tragedy.” He crossed his arms and glared at the other mages a second time. “You have heard what I have to say; now act! But don’t bother me anymore with your coaxi
ng and logic. I’m not interested.”
Baden continued to gaze at the older man for some time, sadness in his pale eyes. When finally he spoke again, his tone was flat. “I propose that we begin interrogation of the remaining prisoner as soon as possible,” he said formally.
Sonel, who had apparently been chosen to serve as interim sage, took a deep breath, glancing sidelong at Odinan. Then, her back straightening, she scanned the chamber, her green eyes coming to rest at last on Baden. “The proposal is heard,” she replied in a strong voice. “Let us vote.”
In the end, eight or ten of the older Owl-Masters sided with Odinan, but the vast majority of those present supported Baden’s motion.
“So how do we do this?” Radomil asked, after the vote had been tallied. “Do we bring him before the entire Order—at least those of us who are here—or do we select a few people to do it?”
Orris shrugged. “It shouldn’t matter. If we use the probing it won’t matter where we do it or how many of us are present.”
“The probing?” Jaryd asked.
Baden turned to face him. “Remember that night at Cullen and Gayna’s house, how I got you to describe your dream?”
Jaryd nodded.
“That’s a probing.” The Owl-Master looked back at Orris. “You’re right: if we use the probing, it doesn’t matter. And it may come to that. But I’d like to try this first without using magic. I’d like to see if we can do this just by asking him questions.”
Jaryd expected Orris to argue, but, again, the burly Hawk-Mage surprised him with his forbearance. “Why?” he asked.
Baden grinned. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but I’m hoping to win this man’s trust. Right now we just need what information he carries, but at some point we may need his insights, his understanding of Lon-Ser. Perhaps even more than that. The probing is only as effective as the questions we ask: at a certain point we may not know the right questions.”