Owlsight

Darian did not have to endure the suspense for long. That very afternoon, his mysterious teacher arrived.

“You’re to come to the Vale entrance at once,” was all the hertasi would say. “Please. And dress well. Starfall wishes this.”

Then it ran off, as if it had been sent on more than one errand. Probably it had, so Darian made certain that he was reasonably well-groomed and hurried to the entrance marked by the twin pillars of rock. Starfall was already there - and so were Snowfire, Nightwind, Ayshen,

Kel, Tyrsell, Hashi - virtually everyone of any importance in fledgling k’Valdemar.

Suddenly Darian wished he had taken the time to change his tunic. Not that it was dirty, or even shabby - but he wished he’d put on the armor of fine clothing before he came to this meeting.

It was too late now, for in the distance, tiny beneath the huge trees, dwarfed by the enormous trunks, were two figures mounted on dyheli.

A snow-white bird flew over the head of one, a bird that simply could not be a raptor. Its tail was too long, and even at a distance it didn’t look or fly like anything Darian had ever seen before.

It flew acrobatically, as if it flew purely for the joy of flight. Yet there was a palpable tie between it and the rider it hovered over, as if the bond between it and the rider was visible and tangible.

There was something odd about the rider’s head -

A moment more, and Darian knew what it was. No human face was that flat - or that colorful. The rider wore a mask.

Another moment, another furlong nearer, and Darian saw more details. Long silver hair, hair that probably fell to the rider’s waist when unbound, had been made up into a single long braid for travel, now tossed over his right shoulder. The mask, of painted leather, covered the entire face - and it represented the face of the bird flying above him.

Darian only prevented his mouth from dropping open by force of will. Oh, no - it can’t be -

The rider’s costume was as fantastic as his mask, yet completely practical for a long ride, the ride from k’Vala to k’Valdemar, for instance. The garments were cut and pieced together to imitate the plumage of his white bird; it was truly an uncanny imitation.

The other rider, in his way, was just as striking as the first. His long hair, also braided, was a shining black with a single silver streak running from the temple. The cut of his riding gear was unmistakably Kaled’a’in. After several months in k’Vala, Darian knew the difference between Tayledras and Kaled’a’in styles at once. He was amazingly handsome, but there was nothing about him that suggested that he was either a warrior or a mage - or vain. Whatever his craft, it seemed likely that his only reason for being there was as company for the mage. Was this the so-called entourage?

Darian’s thoughts had come to a complete standstill, and he could only stay where he was, staring. The two riders completed their leisurely approach, and the first dismounted directly in front of Starfall.

“Well, Father, here I am,” the rider said, in a voice rich with amusement. “You have managed to drag me here entirely against my own better judgment, and if I did not know you as well as I do, I might be asking you what made you think this youngster was worth the effort of hauling me up from the south.” He cast a sidelong glance at Darian, and behind the mask, one silver eye winked broadly. “However, since I know you, I shan’t ask that particular question. This, I take it, is young Dar’ian?”

“It is, indeed,” Starfall replied, in a voice so like the rider’s that it was obvious they were related. “Dar’ian, this is your new teacher, Adept Firesong k’Treva, and his mate, kestra’chern Silverfox k’Leshya.” Only then did he step forward, and he and his son embraced with much hugging and back pounding.

Darian managed to scramble enough wits together to step forward and make a deeply formal bow. “This is - beyond an honor - sir - ” he began, searching frantically for appropriate words, feeling heat rising in his face and ears. I must be blushing as red as a scarlet jay, he thought, increasing his embarrassment.

“You won’t say that when you come to know me, youngster,” Firesong said, with a voice so solemn that Darian would have been tempted to believe him, had he not seen the wicked amusement in the eyes behind the mask. “I am a notorious taskmaster, and I have every intention of working you until you drop, then reviving you and putting you through the mill all over again.”

“Yes, sir, whatever you wish, sir,” Darian replied automatically, and quickly stepped back, hoping that the other folk would forget about him for a while. He suddenly felt as awkward as an elk-calf, and only thirteen years old again.

Dear gods! How did this happen? How could I be the student of one of the greatest Adepts in a dozen countries?