KIRINS: THE SPELL OF NO'AN (Book One)

Chapter 10

Standing on the elevated cooking platform in his apartment, a rankled Speckarin was preparing an herbal tea to soothe himself after a trying day. It's perplexing enough, he thought, that young Hut disappeared without a trace. By the looks of his room, he dressed hurriedly and left during the night. More baffling is that two squirrels are missing, the lad's and his sister's.

It's all very unnerving, he thought, sniffing the fragrant tea. Hut's nearly too old for Stala, is preparing himself for a bird ilon, and knows never to ride after dark. He's an impetuous lad, and perhaps decided to go on a last trek with his old chum. But it isn't even clear they left together. And if so, why in the middle of the night? It's unheard of for an ilon to leave without a master, except in a dire emergency, which was certainly not known to have occurred here. So why in the world is Aassa gone?

No one can explain it. Hut's family's worried sick. Search parties have found nothing. The lad might be spending the night alone in the forest. Why did he leave? Where did he go?

It's dark now, we can do nothing more until daylight, and I must try to relax.

Glancing about the beloved old chamber, his longtime home, and weary of the day's events, he allowed himself to reflect upon the room and his many years living in it. While a typical kirin lodging is comprised of small, interconnecting rooms, a magician's is usually a single space. It's centrally located and—in the case of tree-dwelling kirins—cut skillfully into a trunk or branch where it's unlikely to harm the tree.

To his immediate left was the wooden door, a detailed rendering of a raven in flight carved into its inward surface. The only entrance to his quarters, it opened onto the clan's gathering place. On the far side of the room was the stone fireplace, the largest in the clan, its gentle fire illuminating the room. The scent of the fire is soothing, he thought, and I need that now.

He glanced toward the working area between the doorway and the fireplace, a tall magician's chair standing before a long, cluttered workbench. Shelves above were stuffed with objects and documents concerning the varieties of magic he managed. Above everything, hanging on the wall, was the Guardian Magician's circular emblem.

His eyes falling upon this insignia, he was uncomfortably reminded that many years ago communication with the High Council stopped. When Xorin was clan magician before me, thought Speckarin, such communication was common. But the last messages received were in the beginning of my tenure here. They were unsatisfactory, distasteful, even distorted, as if something improper had come between the Council and we magicians of outlying territories. After that there were no messages. I've often wondered why, and I suspect—heaven forbid—something's gone wrong.

But since I've been magician, things have thankfully gone well, for us and surrounding clans, and the need to be in touch with the source of magic hasn't been pressing. Some magicians are distressed by the lack of communication, others not. Some sense the same undertones I have, others don't. I've discussed these matters with my friend, Duan, and we simply can't agree. I've long suspected something's wrong at the highest level of our magic.

Frowning, he turned away from the insignia. His gaze fell on the living area to his right and the furnishings for entertaining his too infrequent guests.

I've lived here a long, long time, he mused, magician to the Yorl clan for forty-one years. He thought back to the first time he saw these quarters, when he was about to assume the position of clan magician from Xorin, retiring after nearly thirty years. I remember standing in the doorway of this recently created chamber, carved for me before the clan moved into the tree, and sensing the similarities between myself and my new lodgings. How fresh and raw the wood smelled. How young and untried I felt. I've guided my charges through trials and misfortunes. But no crisis has arisen like the one I fear is on the horizon. This business of Hut gone missing has kindled old suspicions.