Renegade Wizards

CHAPTER 12

It had been a strange and eerie ride through the empty streets of Palanthas, especially when they couldn’t see each other. There were only the echoes of hoofbeats that broke against the city walls and the odd looks from occasional travelers they encountered who were baffled by the sound of phantom horses. Tythonnia had added the invisibility spell to her repertoire following Ladonna’s little object lesson. She’d focused mostly on illusions, choosing misdirection as her weapon of choice. After the fight, she was glad she had.

Finally, after what felt like hours of travel, Ladonna whispered for them to stop at a gap between two buildings. The wood and stone structures were mere feet from each other, enough that children in either building could play catch with one another from their windows. It was more than two buildings, however. It seemed that the gap separated rows of structures, all built two or three stories tall.

It’s a street, Tythonnia realized, narrow enough that two horses could choke the throat of it. The buildings were constructed in the shadow of the wall, and their chimneys rose so close to it that the battlement was black with soot.

“Smiths’ Alley,” Ladonna said.

Tythonnia wished she could see her and Par-Salian. Ladonna sounded weak, and Tythonnia had to admit, her own shoulder wound still hurt. They needed to rest. They moved into the street, instead, the awnings of rooftops touching and forming a permanent canopy. It also walled-in the stench of humans and animals, a nauseating aroma. The horses echoed even more loudly and Tythonnia wished she had the trick to silence their hoof falls before they roused the neighborhood. She decided she would find a spell later that allowed her to travel more quietly … if they survived the night.

Smiths’ Alley lived up to its name, with building upon building advertising smithy services on wood placards. Tythonnia felt them drawing near to the end of the spell’s effect when Ladonna whispered for them to stop in front of a small building.

“Drop the spell,” Ladonna instructed.

The three of them reappeared to one another, and Ladonna definitely looked the worse for their ride. She was pale, the back of her dress glistening with blood. Par-Salian, his leg bandaged, supported her and helped her dismount. They ushered the horses into a side alley where the horses barely fit. Ladonna hammered on a large side door, a rickety piece of wood that shuddered even under her weakened fist. A curled rose, faded with age, was painted above the door.

It took a few moments of knocking before Tythonnia saw candlelight flicker between the slats of wood.

“Who is it?” a rough voice asked. It belonged to a woman.

“Ladonna … Adwin’s daughter.”

There was a pause before someone hastily undid the latch and slid the door open. It was large enough to fit the horses, but blocking the doorway was one of the largest women Tythonnia had ever seen. Her hair was white and braided around her neck like a loop. Despite the generous fat on her body, she was well muscled with a round face, gray eyes, and a strong jaw. She looked fit enough to snap them all in two. She wore a night slip that barely contained her bosom. She saw Ladonna, and at once seemed shocked.

“Look at you, child,” she said. She pulled Ladonna into the doorway and waved the rest of them in. “What happened to you?”

“Hello, Rosie,” Ladonna said, grimacing. They were inside a small barn, hay scattered about the ground, with three empty stalls. Ladonna leaned against a column of wood and breathed hard.

Rosie scowled and crossed her massive arms. “That’s the work of the Thieves’ Guild, isn’t it? Is that what you left for?” she asked. “Just so you could fall back in with that bad lot?”

“They were settling an old grudge,” Ladonna said.

“And you had nothing to do with encouraging it?” Rosie asked. It sounded like an accusation. “How long have you been in town?” she asked in the same accusatory tone.

“A week,” Ladonna admitted.

“She’s hurt,” Par-Salian said. “We all are.”

The woman laughed and pointed at his thigh. “That nick? My husband cut himself worse shaving.”

“Our injuries don’t matter,” Tythonnia said. “But Ladonna almost died.”

Rosie softened a bit at that but remained scowling. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she began helping Ladonna toward the rickety stairs at the back of the barn that led to a loft bedroom.

“Get the horses inside,” Rosie said. “I’ll see to this little troublemaker myself.”

“You’ve gotten big,” Ladonna mumbled as they headed up the stairs.

“And you still have the body of a twig.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment. Twigs are meant to be broken.”

They watched Rosie and Ladonna vanish upstairs before taking stock of their situation. The barn was simple and tucked behind a smithy’s shop, the door of which was closed.

“You, sit,” Tythonnia instructed Par-Salian. She pointed to a sawhorse leaning against the wall.

“I can help,” he said as he struggled to hobble forward. “You’re hurt, too, you know.”

“Not where it counts,” Tythonnia said. “Besides, if I can push you over with one hand-” which she did, shoving him gently but enough for him fall backward.

“Hey!”

“-then maybe you should lay down.”

Par-Salian grumbled, but eased himself down. Tythonnia took that as argument won and went back outside, where she proceeded to wrangle the horses around the tight corner and into the barn. By the time she brought the second horse in, Par-Salian looked exhausted enough to fall asleep. He kept her company, however, chatting as she removed the saddles and brushed down the horses.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Your illusions are … exemplary. Even for a Red Robe.”

Tythonnia nodded. “When I passed the test, Amma Batros gave me a tattoo.” She pulled the sleeve of her shirt up and rolled it to the shoulder. Lines of black and red, barely visible, marked the outline of a medallion.

“How does one give you a tattoo?” Par-Salian said then laughed. “I thought that sort of thing is what renegades did? Cupboard magicians?”

“Where do you think some of us first encountered magic?” Tythonnia retorted. “The first bit of arcane magic I saw was through a Wyldling sorcerer.”

“Wyldling?”

“And the occasional charlatan posing as a wandering hermit or fortune teller.”

“Really?” Par-Salian said. “My father employed a house magician sanctioned by the Wizards of High Sorcery. That’s where I learned my first spells.”

“Born and bred in the order, eh?” Tythonnia asked. “You should pay more attention to your peers, especially those of the red and black cloth. By trying to teach proper magic, the orders have always overlooked certain interesting … things.”

“What sorts of things?” Par-Salian asked.

“The kind of book-learned magics you’d expect from wizards, but the foci and reagents are different. Homespun, I guess you could say. Like using spit and blood and breath to fuel a spell.”

“And tattoos?”

“Amma Batros’s people use tattoos as a show of devotion. Henna tattoos, kohl runes, and even ink,” she said, looking at her own faded mark. “I got this tattoo for passing my test. It waxes and wanes according to how often I use it.”

“It’s almost gone,” Par-Salian said, squinting at her. “Does it have practical uses?”

“It improves my glamours. I can make them last longer or stronger or extend them over a larger area. It also lets me cast one illusion, one normally outside my training.” Her voice trailed away.

Par-Salian nodded. “Is that how you … dealt with Sutler?” he asked.

“Fear kills us in small doses,” she said as she continued to absently groom the horse. “But sometimes it’s terrible enough to send you to the grave screaming.” She paused at the recollection of absolute terror on Sutler’s face. “My turn,” she said. “That medallion around your neck … the one you pulled out when Ladonna was hurt. What is it?”

Par-Salian suddenly realized it was still hanging free and shoved it back inside his tunic. He appeared sheepish. “A gift from the highmage,” he admitted. “For when our mission is complete. It’ll take us back home.”

Tythonnia stopped what she was doing and looked at Par-Salian. The slow realization burned through her. “You were going to use that to save Ladonna,” Tythonnia said, “but you didn’t. Why?”

“I almost used it,” he whispered. He looked away, unable to meet her stare. “Almost …”

They awoke to the sound of metal upon metal, a deep clanging that resounded in their ears. Tythonnia checked the bindings of her wound, which Rosie had quietly helped her with the previous night before she checked on Par-Salian’s leg. He stared at her through one eye as he lay upon his bedroll in the stall and promptly fell asleep again.

Tythonnia cleaned herself from the iron wash basin Rosie left out for them and changed clothes. She finished and found a shirtless Par-Salian washing himself as well. His eyes were practically swollen with fatigue.

The clanging persisted.

The two companions entered the smithy through the barn and were surprised to find Rosie working hard. She wore a leather smock and maneuvered the tongs expertly while she hammered away at an iron rod that glowed red at its tip. Near her anvil was a stone hearth set against the brick wall. The heat from it was blistering, but Rosie paid it no mind. On the other side of her was a stone slack tub filled with water, while all manner of metal implements hung from chains in the ceiling’s rafters.

She glanced at them, and as she spoke the hammering punctuated her words, almost obliterating them.

“How’d you sleep?” she asked.

“Fine,” Tythonnia said, practically yelling. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Par-Salian said. “Ladonna? How is she?”

“Still asleep, not that she’ll wake up any time soon.”

They were quiet a moment, the awkward silence of strangers.

“Well,” Rosie said, “there’s food in the larder, through the door beneath the loft. Go on, help yourselves.”

Tythonnia and Par-Salian nodded their thanks and had started back into the barn when Rosie stopped hammering.

“How much trouble is she in?” Rosie asked as she shoved the rod back in the hearth.

“I-uh, we’re not comfortable-discussing Ladonna’s affairs,” Par-Salian said.

Rosie stepped away from the forge and wiped the grime and sweat from her forehead. “Listen carefully,” she said. “Ladonna is the closest thing my husband and I had to a daughter. We gave her food and a bed when her fool of a father lost his forge to gambling debts. And we gave her sanctuary whenever she angered the Thieves Guild. This isn’t the first time she’s come to me, beaten and bleeding. This isn’t the first time I’ve bandaged her. Now … is this an affair of thieves or one of wizards?”

Par-Salian clearly wasn’t sure what to say, so Tythonnia intervened. “Wizards,” she said, despite Par-Salian’s sharp intake of breath. Tythonnia, however, ignored him. “I can’t say why we’re here, but Ladonna is respected among her peers. If you were her adopted mother, then you’ve got a lot to be proud of.”

Rosie guffawed. “You’re laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?” she said.

“Maybe,” Tythonnia said, “but I respect her.”

“What happened last night was an old vendetta, it seems,” Par-Salian added. “But it was necessary to put ourselves in harm’s way. For a greater good.”

Rosie grunted something that could have been approval or disbelief. In either case, she pulled the iron rod from the fire and dropped it into the tub. A tremendous rush of steam erupted, but she ignored it. She removed her smock and hung it from a hook on a wood post. “Come on,” she said, brushing past them. “Let’s see if there’s something to eat. And stop thanking me,” she said, interrupting Par-Salian. “It’s done.”

“Welcome to Palanthas.” Kinsley bowed in jest and kept the door open.

Berthal entered and pulled the hood of his cloak back. He nodded appreciatively at the abode, which was far from humble or poor. It was a square, courtyard-style building, with staircase towers to the left and right. The exterior was timber framed and lined with windows. On the interior, the entrance porch opened into a carpeted hallway, and, from there, into a side parlor with a cold fireplace and walls covered in timber paneling and tapestries.

The house was beyond the means of most citizens of Palanthas and ostentatious enough to sit proudly on the clifflike hills of Purple Ridge on the city’s edge. Berthal handed Kinsley his cloak but kept the simple walking staff. Kinsley knew an illusion masked the staff’s real appearance, but the double-headed dragon was a certain give-away to Berthal’s real identity, more so than his face.

Berthal sat in the wingback chair upholstered in red leather. He groaned happily. “Chairs. I miss chairs,” he said. He eyed Kinsley. “Whose place is this? It isn’t yours.”

“For the week it is,” Kinsley said. “It belongs to the mistress of a Nobles Hill senator. They’re on a trip to Solanthus, and she very much admires rebels,” he said with a broad smile.

“What did you tell her?” Berthal said as he studied Kinsley from under his bushy eyebrows.

“Nothing that endangers us,” Kinsley said with shrug. He dropped into a white armchair across from Berthal. “But we have much to discuss.”

“Indeed. There’s a girl-Mariyah. A Black Robe. She stole something for us from her masters. Said it was something we should see. She’ll be arriving within a few days by boat. See to her, will you?”

Kinsley nodded. “I’ll bring her to you. But there’s something else. The robbery of two shops protected by spells.”

“Were the spells triggered?”

“No,” Kinsley said with a shake of his head and a rather broad smile. “They were dispelled. The owners made quite a scene with the local wizards, complaining to whoever would listen. But that’s not the interesting part. Both stores were protected by the Thieves Guild, and on the night of the second robbery, they sent enforcers after the culprits. According to witnesses who saw the fight happen at the courtyard of an inn, there were three magicians involved. They killed their attackers, who outnumbered them five to one.”

“Robes?”

“No.”

“Fifteen thieves killed at the hands of three sorcerers?” Berthal asked. He laughed. “Unlikely.”

“The numbers? Perhaps. But several witnesses said the night was lit by plumes of flame and daggers of light. Then everyone vanished and reappeared. That made me curious, so I investigated. The inn shows burn marks along the flagstone floor and in a couple of places along the wood walls. The innkeepers were terrified. Refused to speak. I paid a soldier to let me examine the body of one of the thieves. The expression on the corpse’s face was … horrifying. Like he died of fear. The soldiers are charging people to see the corpse, you know? As an oddity.”

“When did this happen?”

“Three nights ago. But that’s not all. Dumas is in Palanthas with her men. She’s asking questions about three renegades who arrived in town recently.”

Berthal bit the tip of his thumb and decided he didn’t like the taste of it. “It’s a trick,” he said.

“Perhaps. The hunters seem very interested in Smiths’ Alley, but it’s twenty blocks long and filled with people who greatly distrust outsiders.”

Berthal remained quiet while he considered the matter. Finally, he said, “Find them; find out about them. Who are they and where are they from? We can’t afford to accept things at face value.”

Kinsley nodded and slapped his knees as he rose. “There’s a tub of hot water upstairs to bathe; my nose sincerely hopes you’ll take advantage of it. Meanwhile, I’ll see what else I can find on these three renegades. I know a couple of people in Smiths’ Alley. Maybe I can loosen their tongues a bit.”

“Wait,” Berthal said as he rose, using his staff for support. “Where was the inn where these attacks took place?”

“Merchandising District.”

“And Smiths’ Alley is to the northwest of that by many blocks, yes?”

“At least an hour’s travel, yes.”

“Then perhaps we’re looking for someone who used to live there? A prodigal son returned in desperate times? If Smiths’ Alley is so tightly knit and the hunters are searching there, it could mean the sorcerers once knew that neighborhood. That might suggest your avenue of questioning.”

“Find out who has returned after a long absence? Sounds reasonable. I guess that’s why you’re the leader.”

“That and my rugged good looks and virility,” Berthal said, scratching his beard. He straightened with a groan.

“How could I forget?” Kinsley said, chuckling. He left Berthal to enjoy the luxuries of a real bath and a real bed.

Ladonna’s condition had improved greatly over the past five days. Although still bedridden by the two dagger strokes to her kidneys, she was seated in bed with her back to the wall and the table within easy reach. Rosie’s thick quilt covered her lower body,

Par-Salian marveled at their good fortune with the innkeeper and the healing draught. There was barely a spotting of blood on her bandages when, normally, an injury of that type would take a month to recover from … if one even survived. He was determined to return their horses when they could do so safely. Right now, per Ladonna’s and Rosie’s orders, neither he nor Tythonnia were venturing far from the barn. Gossip was easy in that part of town, and two strangers wandering in and out of Rosie’s Smithy was sure fodder for chitchat. Still, there was time enough in the late evening to stretch their legs and take in fresh air.

During the day, they took turns helping Rosie, studying their spells, and keeping Ladonna company. To Par-Salian’s surprise, Ladonna was easier to talk to, as though her injury had stripped her of all the pretensions that accompanied members of the Black Robes. She smiled more often, despite the lingering pain, and laughed more easily. Par-Salian found it difficult reconciling the woman he met in Solanthus the previous month and the different sides of the woman he had discovered: Ladonna the Black Robe, Ladonna the orphan, Ladonna the street waif, Ladonna the fighter.

“What?” Ladonna said, looking at Par-Salian as he stared at her.

“Sorry,” Par-Salian said, shaking his head. “I was just thinking about everything you’ve been through. Nothing like that’s ever happened to me.”

“No hardship? Ever? Nothing bad?”

“My father was very protective. Oh!” Par-Salian said suddenly. “I did stub my toe once. Father was very upset. We held a vigil.”

Ladonna laughed, wincing at the pain it caused. “Stop making me laugh, you idiot,” she said, though her expression was far from serious.

“I’m sorry,” Par-Salian said. He couldn’t stop grinning. “I’ll stop.”

“Fine,” Ladonna said and abruptly switched topics. “What about the test? You can’t tell me you didn’t face hardship there?”

“Oh, that. That was hard, yes,” Par-Salian admitted. “I was forced to face my worst ordeal, my … gravest fear.”

“Can I ask what that was?” Ladonna asked.

Par-Salian hesitated then nodded gravely. “Yes,” he whispered.

Ladonna drew closer.

“I stubbed my toe again,” Par-Salian said.

Ladonna’s voice rang in a new peal of laughter.

“Stop laughing,” Par-Salian protested. “It was both feet this time!”

She laughed harder with yelps of pain, but there were tears rolling down her face. Par-Salian had to admit, he liked making her laugh.

“Don’t make me come up there!” Rosie shouted from the barn floor. The giggles and laughter died down a little but continued in whispered fits like two small children sharing a secret.

Rosie smiled and motioned for Tythonnia to set down the wooden crates they were carrying. They weren’t heavy but they were unwieldy for just one person, and Tythonnia’s shoulder still hurt. She healed quickly even though the injury was still enough to limit her mobility. Tythonnia’s muscles hurt from the exertion, but it felt good to be working so hard. She missed the simple life, the heavy days accompanied by hours of the deepest sleep one could imagine. Magic set the mind working constantly, and insomnia was a common curse for all wizards.

Tythonnia leaned against the pillar, trying not to breathe hard in front of Rosie.

Rosie, however, seemed pleasantly distracted by the voices upstairs. When she noticed Tythonnia watching her, she said, “How’s the shoulder?”

“Good enough for any job you have in mind,” Tythonnia said.

“You’re a sturdy girl. It’s good to have a pair of strong hands helping out again.”

Tythonnia nodded. “A farmer’s upbringing,” she admitted.

Rosie sat on a wood crate and patted the one next to her. Tythonnia joined her.

“That explains it,” Rosie said. “You didn’t strike me as the wizardly type.” When she saw Tythonnia’s expression, the slightly pained one, she amended her statement. “Don’t take it that way. Most of the wizards I’ve seen are frail little sticks never blessed with the joy of hard work,” she said. “But you’re like them in one regard, if that helps.”

“How’s that?” Tythonnia asked.

Rosie tapped her own temple with her finger. “You live up here too much.”

“I know,” Tythonnia said and went quiet at all the thoughts raging in her head.

“You’re doing it again,” Rosie said. Another fit of laughter in the loft, however, seemed to distract Rosie. She laughed, winking at Tythonnia.

“I’m not the only one,” Tythonnia said.

“It’s been too long since I heard happy voices,” she admitted.

“No children?” Tythonnia asked.

“Not for a lack of trying, but no. The only children we had were the ones we welcomed into our home. Orphans of the Alley, my Lawry called them. Ladonna was one of many, but she was also the most precious of them.”

“You stopped taking care of children?” Tythonnia asked.

“The Alley is changing,” Rosie admitted. “The city has closed down many smithies because our smoke is tarnishing the walls of their beautiful Palanthas,” she said with a sneer. “More people are leaving and strangers are moving in. It’s not the home I remember.”

The two were quiet for a moment, indulging in memories of homes lost and families forgotten. Finally, Rosie patted Tythonnia’s leg. “I have work to do and an errand to ask of you.”

“Ask,” Tythonnia said.

“I need you to go to a couple of shops nearby. We need provisions and I have work to finish up here.”

Tythonnia nodded happily. She was looking forward to sunlight and fresh air, or at least as much as Smiths’ Alley could provide.

Sunlight dropped into the Alley as slivers of light, making the shadows deeper. The street bustled with life, however, a thin traffic of humanity made thicker by the street’s width. Tythonnia made her way past windows where tough-looking women leaned out and jabbered with their friends, past gangs of kids running through the crowds, past shops that were so shallow in depth they’d barely gouged the stone and wood of the storefront.

Still, life was rich here, every day a luxuriant tapestry of noises and experiences. It felt alive and far less austere than the indifferent arrogance of the people and stores in the Merchandising District. Tythonnia relished it far more than she thought she would. She preferred the wilderness, she always did, but there was a flavor to the city that she loved as well.

Tythonnia entered Grimble’s, a small shop filled with grains and all sorts of preserved fruits and nuts. The fresh varieties were rare and only to be found closer to the docks and nearer the city gates. She placed her order on Rosie’s behalf and was told to expect the provisions later that day. Her second stop was Dawler and Sons Butcher, which included a surprisingly large animal pen in the back that jutted outside the Alley. Again, she placed orders for specific cuts of beef and pork as well as cured meats.

With her errands done, Tythonnia spent a moment admiring the cows and chickens and pigs, all nestled in their stalls. She missed being on the farm and almost asked the butcher if she could help feed the animals.

As she prepared to leave the stall fence, however …

… Don’t move.

A foreign voice entered her thoughts, pushing hers aside. She began looking around when the voice stopped her.

Don’t move; don’t look around; don’t say a word. I have an arrow trained on you as we speak.

The voice was definitely male, though one she’d never heard before.

Move your mouth or wiggle your fingers, and I unleash my arrow with the second arrow nocked before the first one ever reaches you. Tense your muscles, and I shoot you. Better you dead than me. Understand?

Yes, Tythonnia thought.

Good. I can discern lies. You know the spell?

Yes. She was also familiar with the spell that allowed her stalker to speak into her mind. Fortunately, it did not allow him to read her thoughts, only hear what she chose to share.

I will ask questions; you will answer them. Lie to me, and I kill you.

What do you want?

Are you a renegade?

Tythonnia faltered. All their work, traveling and eluding those renegade hunters … all of it hinged on her answer to that question. The problem was her response depended on whoever was asking the question. Was it a hunter who had her in his sights, or Berthal’s lieutenant? And if she answered wrongly, she risked their only potential contact with Berthal by admitting she was a Wizard of High Sorcery.

Well?

Who are you? Tythonnia asked, trying to stall.

Answer me! My arm is growing tired, and my arrow might slip!

Tythonnia closed her eyes and prayed the odds played out in her favor.

No, she admitted.

Say what you are. Say it!

It was hard not to run, but run where? The speaker was hidden somewhere, and if she ran, was she running toward him, or away?

I am a Wizard of High Sorcery, she thought and felt the world slip out from beneath her. After all their work, she felt ashamed to betray their identities so easily. She half expecpted to die any second, the arrow lodged in her brain before she could regret a single thing. To her greater regret, nothing happened. It felt like forever, that moment of silence.

Are you there? Tythonnia thought, hazarding a question. She could still feel the pressure in her mind.

Here still, the voice replied. Why is there an execution order on the three of you?

What? Tythonnia thought. With who? The Thieves Guild?

No … with us. We’re the renegade hunters you eluded at the tower. Why have the masters of the orders sanctioned your execution?

Tythonnia was too stunned to answer. Her mind grasped at the greasy thoughts, but they squirmed free. Her face contorted in confusion, and she quickly shut her mouth when she remembered the warning not to cast spells.

That’s impossible, Tythonnia thought. It’s the masters who sent us to find and spy on Berthal… with the highmage’s blessing!

They told you this directly?

Yes! Tythonnia said. It was growing hard not to vocalize her rampaging thoughts. They told you to murder us?

Yes… no. Not directly. Not me. What do you-

We need to speak … face-to-face.

The barkeep maneuvered in the narrow corridor behind the plank of wood. The stools were in the street and had to be moved when a horse came by, and the drinks were all served from barrels stacked behind the bar.

Kinsley sat upon one of the stools. He nursed a weak pint and watched the barkeep go about his business. The man was thin and unsympathetic looking, but at that point Kinsley was too tired to care. He hated the neighborhood. He was sick of it with its scrunched-up buildings and scrunched-up people with their sour faces and sour attitudes.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said to the barkeep.

The man grunted in response and served a man with sea-blue eyes seated two stools down. The barkeep wasn’t interested.

“Look,” Kinsley said, pointing at the mug in front of him. “How many mugs of this armpit sweat you call a drink do I have to buy from you to get information?”

The barkeep considered it carefully. He held up all the fingers on both hands.

“Nine?” Kinsley repeated. “I won’t survive one.”

The barkeep looked at the bare stub of his missing pinky and wiggled that too.

“Fine, how about I just pay you for ten, and you tell me what I want to know?”

The barkeep shrugged.

Kinsley sighed. “Shrug yes? Or shrug no?”

The man shrugged again.

“Here!” Kinsley said and dropped a couple of pieces of steel on the bar. “I’d like to buy a letter from you. Perhaps a whole word if you’re feeling generous.”

The barkeep walked over to Kinsley and cleaned his spot on the bar with a rag. The coins vanished and the barkeep leaned against the wood, waiting for Kinsley’s question.

“I’m looking for strangers,” Kinsley said.

“He’s a stranger,” the barkeep said, nodding toward the blue-eyed man.

Kinsley offered a patient smile that said he was anything but. “Three strangers, two women and a man. My age.” He began describing what he could of the trio, from the bejeweled, black-haired woman’s beauty to the man’s refined features. Of the blonde woman, there was little to share, other than hair color. Otherwise she was common enough.

The barkeep thought about it a moment before finally answering. “Haven’t seen them together,” he said. “Alone … seen the man and maybe your blonde woman.”

“When?”

The man shrugged. “But I seen them both coming from that way and leaving that way,” he said, nodding to the north.

Kinsley offered the man a flat smile; the meager morsel was the most information he’d gotten in the past few days, and it was still close to a frustrating nothing. He was about to leave when he spied the man next to him again. The blue-eyed patron’s fingers had stopped moving, a whisper still on his lips. The barkeep had missed it, his back was to the customer, but Kinsley recognized the workings of magic. Suddenly, a stack of steel coins sitting next to one of the barrels lifted into the air and shot over the bar, into the man’s hand. They barely made a sound.

The man walked away as quickly as he could, practically toppling the bar stool in the process. Kinsley smiled and followed the man for a block before finally stopping him.

“I saw what you did,” Kinsley said.

“Please, sir,” the lean, blue-eyed man said. “I didn’t mean no harm by it. Just a little steel to eat.”

“Then stop wasting it on drink,” Kinsley said. “But that spell you cast … how much more do you know?”

The man looked around nervously. “Enough to get me in trouble with the wizards,” he said, turning to walk away.

Kinsley stopped him again, more gently. “We should talk. Unless you like living like a rat?”

They met in the shadow of an alley off the main street, between two buildings and the blackened Old City Wall. Tythonnia recognized him instantly, the blond-haired hunter who had brought Virgil before the conclave. His features were gentle, but his fierce, black eyes were a startling contrast to the rest of his face. He carried a powerful and etched longbow, and they spoke in whispers, each relating their part of the story, from Solanthus, to the attack of the dolls at the ruined village, to the High Clerist’s Tower, through to that moment.

Tythonnia was relieved to hear Thoma harbored doubts about the instructions to execute them. He was struggling to believe that his companion Dumas was either lying to them or somehow enchanted. He did admit, however, she’d been acting strangely.

They both agreed Thoma needed to speak with the other two.

They’d just arrived at that consensus when Thoma’s eyes widened. Tythonnia barely had time to react before Thoma grabbed her shoulder and threw them both to the ground. The air above them crackled and sizzled as a wall of heat pushed past them. A ball of fire exploded against the Old City Wall behind them, and flames peppered the adjoining roofs.

Dumas stood there, between them and the Alley, her face contorted in livid anger. It was the murderous look of a woman scorned. Thoma scrambled to his feet, caught in the hesitation of whether to draw his blade or not.

“Dumas-” he managed.

“You dare?” she screamed. Before Thoma could respond, Dumas’s hands flew into a pattern, her lips moving to unlock a spell.

“Run!” Thoma managed.

Tythonnia got to her feet just as electricity flowed from the tome’s chains into Dumas’s arms. The spell, whatever it was, ruptured the ground between the two hunters, and the force of it slammed into Thoma. He flew backward and struck the city wall. He landed in a heap and struggled to rise.

Instinct took over and Tythonnia grabbed his arm to lift him, but Thoma shoved her away, toward the narrow defile between the buildings and the battlement.

“Run,” he cried again. With a shout of fury, his hands flew into a quick pattern. “Halilintar!”

A jagged blade of lightning coursed from his hands directly towards Dumas. Tythonnia rounded the corner, but in her peripheral vision, she could have sworn the lightning bolt struck the tome on Dumas’s chest before simply vanishing. A moment later, she could hear Thoma shouting, “Dumas, what are you-”

Something cut his voice to a strangled halt.

Tythonnia ran even harder, turning down one alley and across another. Finally she hit Smiths’ Alley, in time to meet with a surge of locals. Two buildings were on fire, and the denizens of the Alley were reacting quickly by forming water chains. It was enough to clog the streets and, Tythonnia hoped, hide her escape.

By the time Tythonnia reached Rosie’s shop, the older woman was outside, watching the commotion.

“What’s going on?” Rosie asked.

Tythonnia grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back into the barn. Par-Salian was coming down the stairs while Ladonna was out of bed and looking down at them from the loft.

“Hunters,” Tythonnia said. “Dumas’s gone mad. She killed her companion to get to us.”

Par-Salian’s face turned ashen. “Dumas is here?”

“We leave now!” Tythonnia said. She rushed into the stall and began shoving whatever she could grab into her pack.

Rosie ran up the stairs to help Ladonna while Par-Salian was at Tythonnia’s side.

“The horses?” he asked.

“Street’s too crowded,” Tythonnia said. “We go on foot.”

“Dumas?” he asked again, shoving his personal effects into his bag. “You’re certain?”

“Yes!” Tythonnia shouted. “And don’t ask me why. I don’t know!”

Kinsley watched pandemonium unfold around him as people ran back and forth along the street. He managed to grab someone by the arm, a young woman who looked ready to punch him. He flashed a copper coin in front of her eyes to quiet her down.

“What’s going on?”

The woman plucked the coin from Kinsley’s fingers before answering. “A woman set the buildings on fire with witchcraft!” she said. She pulled free of Kinsley’s grasp and raced down the street.

Kinsley looked around, hoping to spot the likeliest culprits.

It wasn’t the first fire Smiths’ Alley had had to deal with, but that didn’t diminish the chaos. Parents escaping with their children and a fire line struggling to pass water buckets forward filled the street. The buildings were packed tightly enough that it was easy for the fire to spread. People raced around not so much to douse the blaze that ate at two buildings, but to throw water on the adjoining roofs.

With murder in her eyes, Dumas pushed through the crowds, unmindful of the yelps of protestation that greeted her. She couldn’t believe Thoma was dead; she could still see the renegade Tythonnia cutting him down with a spell-

But why do I see my own hand extended?

She was trying to save him. That’s what it was. Thoma was about to die, and she couldn’t save him from-

You.

From Tythonnia! She couldn’t save him from Tythonnia. Indeed, she made an effort to remember it more clearly: Ladonna and Par-Salian were there too. They were torturing Thoma and keeping her at bay.

“Dumas!”

Dumas turned and found Hort racing toward her. “What happened?”

“The renegades,” she said, grabbing Hort by his cloak. “They killed Thoma. They did this. Find them! Kill them and spread their guts across the rooftops!” she cried.

Hort appeared dazed, his eyes glazed at the news.

“You go that way,” she said, pointing north along the street. “I’ll go south! We can’t let them slip by us. Not this time.”

He nodded absently as he moved away. With each step, however, he seemed to gain momentum like a juggernaut. He didn’t seem to care who he pushed out of the way; he was out for blood, and Dumas wasn’t entirely sure why that pleased her so.

Within a few minutes, they were packed and ready to leave. Rosie forced Ladonna into a hug, and despite her protests, she seemed to relax in the older woman’s embrace. Par-Salian thanked her in turn, and to Tythonnia’s surprise, even she was swept into the woman’s arms.

“You have a home here. Visit,” Rosie whispered in her ear.

“I will,” Tythonnia said and meant that promise with teary-eyed fierceness. She liked Rosie and hoped she could return to spend time with the older woman.

The three wizards melted into the street crowd. The fires still raged several blocks away, and the line struggled to keep the blaze contained. For the moment, they were winning, and Tythonnia prayed the fire wouldn’t make it to Rosie’s place. The older woman, in fact, moved into the crowd, trying to help with the line. Her strong arms would be a welcome addition.

They followed the stream of traffic to the north, toward the docks. Men and women not involved in staunching the blaze took their children, their elderly, and a handful of possessions for safekeeping just in case the fire spread.

Tythonnia kept glancing over her shoulder, searching for Dumas or the other hunter. She could see nothing, however; the street was too crowded to do anything but brush over the many faces in the rush. Ladonna walked with some difficulty. The wound needed more time to heal, but she was supported by Par-Salian.

Several people in the crowd gasped, and before Tythonnia could register what was happening, a bank of fog swept over them. At first, she thought it was smoke from the fire, but when the sulfur smell of rotten eggs struck a second later, she understood the nature of the spell.

The stench was overwhelming, and before Tythonnia could stop herself, she’d fallen to her knees and was vomiting violently. Ladonna and dozens of others also succumbed, some clutching their chests and guts as waves of nausea swept over them. The stench of bile made her even sicker, and she was overcome by a bout of dry heaves, her stomach cramping to void what wasn’t there.

She couldn’t move without triggering a new wave of nausea, couldn’t think clearly enough to cast a spell. Two people, including Par-Salian, were still standing. He was fighting the nausea well enough though he seemed a touch green around the gills. He looked around and Tythonnia, in turn, realized none of them could see very far. The cloud extended a considerable distance, and with everyone trapped within the narrow confines of Smiths’ Alley, it may well have extended for several blocks in either direction.

Par-Salian’s fingers danced and slipped over one another before he raised both arms and cried, “Belit gusta!”

Gusts whipped at his trousers and shirt, and the cloud was pushed away. Par-Salian directed its course and cleansed the air around them with a sweep of his hand. He was able to cut a swath through the noxious cloud, though he couldn’t push its effects away from everyone entirely. Only a handful of people were safe, including them.

The fresh air was a welcome blessing, but before Tythonnia could stand, four bolts of light suddenly appeared from the mist ahead of them and slammed into Par-Salian. The blow knocked him off his feet. He hit the street hard, the back of his head bouncing on the cobblestone ground. He groaned in pain, and a weakened Ladonna crawled over to help him.

Tythonnia squinted, trying to see where the bolts had come from. When she realized she couldn’t see their attacker, she decided to go on the defensive until they could rally. She fumbled for the bit of eyelash trapped in amber as she rose to her feet. Her hands moved and the magic responded with a spark that traveled up her spine and into her skull.

“Tak’kelihatan lingkaran,” she said. The spell had saved them before; perhaps it could do so again. The script of magic vanished from her thoughts just as the three of them vanished from sight.

A moment after that, the whole world vanished.

Tythonnia stopped, sudden panic overwhelming her.

No sound came to her, nothing of the screams and cries of the people in the street around her. No sight came either; the world was dark as though the gods had blown out the candle of the sun. She could still smell the lingering sulfur and bile, the sweat and stale air. She could still feel the clothing on her back and the street beneath her.

She swayed, finding it difficult to maintain her balance. The cloud left her weak. Panicked, she swept her arms out in front of her and cried the names of her friends. But if they responded, she couldn’t hear it against the pressure of silence. Time turned momentum against her, the seconds slowly turning into minutes, turning into hours. She felt suspended in an inkwell, not even hearing her own voice, her own breathing.

The blow came out of nowhere, shocking the breath from her lungs and paralyzing her entire body. It struck her in the stomach, like a kick to her midsection. Tythonnia dropped to her knees, unable to inhale. She clutched her belly and tried to curl up into a ball. Another kick stomped down on her shoulder and drove her to the ground. She screamed in pain as the wound tore open again. And yet she heard nothing.

Again the blows came, vicious and without mercy. One attacker, one heavy foot, drove into her again and again, the attack made worse by the horrible, pressing quiet. She screamed even louder, if only to hear her own voice, and flailed to grab the angry foot, to stop the attack. The next kick blew past her hand, however, and struck her squarely in the jaw.

The rush of blood filled her ears. Blind, senseless, she reached out to stop the attacks. Her hands brushed against the ground and swam through the empty air. Nothing came and the nothing lingered. Was it mercy or cruelty that stopped the attack? Did her attacker take pity on her, or was he toying with her?

Bright light filled her vision and drove iron nails into her skull. She shielded her eyes and suddenly realized she could see again. Sound returned too, like liquid filling an urn. She blinked and swooned, the blow still ringing through her head. Her jaw felt wet, and her fingers came away glistening red. It took a moment to realize someone was helping her off the ground.

“… on,” the voice said, filtering through the cotton in her skull. “Can you walk?”

Tythonnia found herself staring at a handsome young man with slightly rounded features, a clean face, and green eyes. He was dressed well, with a crimson and silk doublet and flared, red pants.

“Who…?” Tythonnia managed.

“The man who just saved your life,” he said.

Tythonnia saw Par-Salian and Ladonna rising from the ground as well as the body of a large, cloaked man. She recognized the hunter from Virgil’s trial and the High Clerist’s Tower. The stench cloud had dissipated, and everyone was taking as wide a berth around them as they could.

“Is he-?” Tythonnia asked, motioning to the hunter.

“Dead? No,” the man said. “That would cause too many problems with the local constables. Follow me.”

“What?” Tythonnia asked. She was still confused and not a little dazed.

“Do you want sanctuary or not?” the man asked them. By then, Par-Salian and Ladonna were also exchanging glances as they approached. “Anyone who runs afoul of renegade hunters is safe with us.”

Ladonna took the initiative since both Par-Salian and Tythonnia seemed knocked clear of their wits. “Sanctuary, yes,” she said. “Get us out of here, please.”

The man nodded and ushered them through the crowd as best he could. Within minutes, they were outside Smiths’ Alley with the unforgiving daylight beating down upon them. Minutes after that, they’d located a coachman to take them away entirely.

The man introduced himself as Kinsley. He explained how the renegade hunter had incapacitated all three of them before he started kicking Tythonnia. Had Kinsley not intervened, the big man was surely going to beat all three of them to death.

The coachman arrived at Merchant’s Pier, at a harbor keelboat with a large deckhouse that dominated the vessel’s profile. The ship was one of many that catered to the larger galleys that were waiting to dock and couldn’t afford to keep their cargoes aboard for a minute longer. For the moment, it was wedded to a small pier, its lower deck empty and ready to receive wares. The captain, a dwarf of all things, asked no questions while Kinsley brought his three passengers on board and settled them belowdecks. He promised to return later.

Hurt and spent by their recent ordeal, the three companions quietly tended to each other’s injuries before exhaustion overtook them. They fell asleep atop their bedrolls, to the gentle rocking of the swell and the crooning of creaking lumber. By the time they awoke, it was night outside and their only light came from a dirty lantern. They ate a meal of cured meats and fruits, devouring their stock with barely a care before the deck above them creaked under the weight of footsteps.

Each of them prepared their spells, their reagents hidden in their hands and the arcane words ready to be spoken.

Kinsley walked down the stairs accompanied by a second man. The companion wore gray robes; he was a large man, wide at the shoulders, and his mouth and chin pinched with a black beard and mustache. The same colored hair hung in long wild locks from his head. In his hand he carried a plain gnarled staff, but Tythonnia realized Ladonna was studying the staff.

“I hope you’ve all rested,” Kinsley said, “because as of right now, you three are hunted fugitives wanted for starting a fire in Smiths’ Alley and for murder.”

“That wasn’t us,” Tythonnia said in protest.

“Perhaps,” Kinsley said. “But we protect our own. You can’t stay in Palanthas.”

“Who’s he?” Ladonna asked, nodding to the large man.

“My name is Raff,” the man said. “And I’m here to bring you to safety.”

“Safety?” Par-Salian said. “Where are you taking us?”

“To meet our leader,” Raff said, “Berthal.”

“That’s nice,” Ladonna said, bluffing. “And who in the Abyss is Berthal?”

“The man who’ll save us all,” Kinsley said. “Now enough chatter. It’s time to leave.”