Renegade Wizards

CHAPTER 13

Red-robed wizards and acolytes bustled along the hallways, each one on some crucial errand. The desert sun of the Northern Wastes beat its heat into the rocks and stones that clothed Abrasama Keep. It was an unpleasantly hot and sticky day, but there was little complaint. Everyone was too preoccupied, for the order owing fealty to the red moon, Lunitari, was in turmoil.

Belize walked through the corridors and tried not to smile at the contained commotion around him. Everything had gone according to plan, almost as if the moons themselves ordained his plots and machinations. That day was the culmination of years of planning and aggressive daring. That day was the beginning of his rise to power.

Two red robe wizards stood outside the solid oak door on guard or on vigil. Belize couldn’t tell which, nor did he care enough to ask. He nodded to the door, and one of the wizards quickly opened it for him.

The room beyond was dark and surprisingly cool. It was hot outside and humid, thanks to the Turbidus Ocean on whose shoreline they sat. A handful of lonely orbs floating near the ceiling provided magical light, but they were so dimmed as to make candles blinding. The shadows made murky the room’s dimensions, though he could see the hint of a bed and nightstand, a bookshelf, a dresser, and a washbasin. It was a chamber he knew well, the bed even more so. A robed physician spoke a gentle word to the patient who lay in repose and glided over to Belize. A mouth appeared in the thicket of his white mustache and beard.

“You’re in time,” he said gravely. “I’ll leave you two to confer.”

Belize nodded and waited for the physician to depart. He went to stand over Yasmine’s deathbed and patiently waited for her to die.

He struggled to hide his smile. Yasmine of the Delving’s last coherent instruction was that Belize was to head the Order of Red Robes. The order had to approve his ascension, but that was almost certainly a formality.

Yasmine’s eyes fluttered open; they were half lidded, her skin so pale that Belize could read the blue map of capillaries that scored her eyelids. She struggled to smile, to speak, but only a thin rasp escaped her lips.

Belize looked around the room and cast two spells in quick succession. The first ensured they were, in fact, alone. The second ensured nobody could hear what he had to say. With those two spells in place, Belize finally allowed his smile to spill open. The words he’d kept to himself finally found their release. Belize couldn’t help gloating. He desperately needed to share with someone. It was a maneuver worthy of boasting and only successful on the condition he remained silent … until that moment.

“The other masters of the orders couldn’t make it here in time, for which they send their sincerest apologies,” Belize said. “But they’re currently dealing with a crisis. It seems that a certain three renegades have been making a mess of things. First at the High Clerist’s Tower and now in Palanthas.”

Belize chuckled to himself.

“They more than exceeded my expectations in the hunt. I knew sending Dumas after them would sow chaos, but this is beyond ideal.”

Yasmine continued staring at him in confusion. Her mouth opened and closed to speak, but no words would sound.

“Shh, shh,” Belize whispered, kissing her lips. “No need to tax yourself so. The poisons I’ve been slowly administering to you, my love, have almost run their course.” He paused, studying her wide-eyed expression. “Oh, did I fail to mention that? You haven’t been dying of illness; I’ve been poisoning you slowly. I’m quite good at it, you know. Well, I suppose you know now, but that’s beside the point.”

A strangled gasp escaped Yasmine’s lips.

“Why, you ask?” Belize shrugged. “Well, poisoning you was the only way to keep you susceptible to my suggestions. And it was the fastest way to power. But yes, I also sent Dumas and her hunters after Tythonnia, Ladonna, and Par-Salian.”

Yasmine struggled to speak, but her breath grew shallower with each indrawn hiss of air. She rasped something incoherent.

“Again with the questions,” Belize quipped. “Well, I suppose you deserve an answer. I need Berthal alive, you see. Not because I wish him success, but because I need the conclave preoccupied and looking elsewhere while I maneuver. Thanks to Berthal, and now that incident in Palanthas, nobody will examine your death too closely. In times of crisis, people want continuity and stability. Nobody will oppose my ascension to master of the order. Brilliant, no?”

Yasmine shuddered as she passed through the final stages of death. Her eyes, however, remained clear despite the pain. She focused on Belize and opened her mouth to force out one last word, a spell perhaps. Belize, however, gently clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Farewell, lover,” Belize whispered, drawing in close to her ear. “Now … shut up and die.”

The keelboat had sailed past the naval docks of Palanthas and out into the Bay of Branchala proper. It followed the mountainous coastline until the mountains turned to high-sloped hills just before the Gates of Paladine marked the mouth of the bay and the Turbidus Ocean beyond.

The keelboat anchored close to the sandy shore and ferried its passengers by rowboat to the bay’s western beach. From there, Par-Salian, Tythonnia, and Ladonna followed Raff on foot as he navigated the twisting maze of hill paths to the west. Where they were headed, Raff did not say-at least until the third night of travel, when the Vingaard Mountains were behind them and the grassy plains stretched out before them.

Tythonnia and her compatriots were glad to finally have a bed of grass to sleep on, and within moments after eating a cooked hare beneath the open sky, Ladonna and Par-Salian settled in to their bedrolls. No sooner had they closed their eyes than they were asleep.

That left Tythonnia to quietly help Raff with the cleaning of the hare meat from the bone and burying the viscera in the pouch of the animal’s fur.

“You do that well,” Raff remarked.

“Practice,” Tythonnia admitted. “My father taught me everything I know about hunting and surviving.”

“Did he teach you magic as well?” Raff asked.

“No. That was Desmora, a wise woman in our village. She had Vagros blood.”

“Really!” Raff said, his curiosity piqued. “Wyldling magic?”

Tythonnia blushed then realized there was nothing to be ashamed of, not in front of Raff. “Some Wyldling craft,” she admitted. “But it was a hard discipline.”

“Yes!” Raff said. “Discipline. People miss that fact. They think the Wyldling ways are carefree-easy. Which clan of Vagros did she come from?”

“The Gratos,” Tythonnia said. She washed her hands with a bit of water from her waterskin.

“I know them,” Raff said, nodding. “I believe they’ve settled, most of them. A few Vagros are with us.”

“That’s surprising,” Tythonnia said.

“Hunters captured one of their seers. For practicing Wyldling magics. They’re nearly the last practitioners of it, you know.”

“Ah,” Tythonnia remarked. She couldn’t help herself. She felt her skin flush at the comment. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Raff asked, scrutinizing her. “You’re not part of the Wizards of High Sorcery anymore.”

“But I was,” Tythonnia said, drying her hands. “I can’t help feeling responsible, like I failed somehow-” She hesitated.

Raff cocked an eyebrow at her and waited for her to complete her sentence.

Tythonnia glanced at the others. “The Wizards of High Sorcery don’t understand why certain magics exist.”

Raff nodded and motioned for Tythonnia to sit next to him on the grass, away from the others. When they were both seated, their legs crossed, Raff planted his chin in the palm of his hand and waited for her to continue.

“They can’t tell the difference between why they practice magic and why fortune-tellers with their so-called cupboard tricks practice theirs.”

“And why do the others practice their magic?” he asked with a half-cocked smile.

Tythonnia felt like she was back with Highmage Astathan, answering his riddling questions and trying to glean the reasons behind the queries. “To offer comfort,” Tythonnia said.

Raff smiled and nodded; he seemed pleased, like a tutor’s pride for the ingenuity of his principal student.

“The orders don’t understand that,” Raff said. “They think all sorcerers study magic for the same reason: for power. That’s not what this movement is about.”

Tythonnia listened and nodded in places she thought appropriate. Only she found herself nodding more often than she realized. Raff explained how Berthal’s movement was about freeing magic again, so its use wasn’t restricted in practice or parsed out to only those who could afford it. He wanted to eliminate the barbaric practice of the test, a process that crippled or killed bright and promising students who be forced into the test too early.

The more Raff spoke, the more passionate he grew in his statements. He was truly bothered by what he saw happening with the wizards. And the more he spoke, the more Tythonnia realized that he was once a wizard himself.

Finally, after an hour of talking, Raff excused himself. It was getting late, and they all needed their sleep. Raff retreated into the darkness to relieve his bladder, and Tythonnia made her way to the bedrolls. She found Ladonna lying there, awake and watching her. Tythonnia hunkered down next to her and pretended to drift asleep.

“Good conversation?” Ladonna whispered.

“I–I think he’s Berthal,” Tythonnia responded.

“I know,” Ladonna said. “His staff holds powerful magics … too powerful for a mere guide.”

“He doesn’t trust us yet,” Tythonnia said. “For the last couple of days, he’s been leading us in circles. He’s taking his time and-shh. He’s coming back.”

Raff returned and settled down away from the three of them. Shortly after, his rumbling snores filled the air.

Over the next two days, they continued walking, though both Ladonna and Par-Salian finally realized their path was not straight and true. Raff took the time to speak with each of them, finding out why they’d decided to become renegades and how they ended up meeting.

Their stories were well rehearsed, what with all the time spent practicing on the journey to Palanthas and during their nights in the Wanderer’s Welcome. Ladonna spoke of a desire for power without the restrictions of High Sorcery impeding her ambitions. She was convincing in her story, and Tythonnia had to wonder what shred of truth made it so compelling. Par-Salian spoke of falling in love with a woman who died during her Test of High Sorcery. The grief drove him away from the principles of the wizards.

Finally, the question came to Tythonnia, and after considering her predigested answer, she decided on a different tack. Her talk with Raff had been intimacy of a sort. She found herself wanting to share her story with him and was suddenly worried that anything she lied about would sound false because it lacked any real conviction. Neither, however, could she tell him the real truth about why they were there.

The fact was, she knew why she was there, but …

“I don’t know,” Tythonnia admitted. “I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”

Everyone stared at her in surprise-her companions for her off-script remark and Raff with an enigmatic but bemused expression that said she’d caught him off guard. Beyond that, however, she couldn’t explain herself. She hadn’t realized it until listening to Raff the other night, but the fact was, she’d been feeling that way since the journey began. The nostalgia of sleeping under the stars, of hunting and surviving, of speaking with the Vagros and remembering the Wyldling spells she once learned through Desmora-all that had affected her deeply.

Ever since the test, she had been forced to reexamine her very identity, down to her sexuality. The only words that brought her comfort belonged to the voices of Desmora and Grandmother Yassa and Kandri; the only lessons that gave her strength were learned outside the books and stuffy lecture halls of the orders. The tenets of High Sorcery no longer reassured her. They were just words, applicable to everyone in general and never meant to console anyone in particular.

Everyone was still staring at Tythonnia, however, and she realized Raff would not let a remark like that slip away. So she shifted to another truth.

“There’s a member of the order,” Tythonnia said. “Justarius. He’s a good friend. Not scared of much and a bit reckless maybe. He could shoot an arrow straighter than me, and there was nobody better at handling a horse. He was better than me at spell-riding. And fast on his feet.”

“You loved him?” Raff asked.

“No,” Tythonnia said quickly. “It’s just that he reminds me of my cousins … men of the woods. Only Justarius is smarter than them. Honestly, he’s better than me at about everything I think I’m good at. Or-he used to be.”

“What happened to him?” Raff said.

“The test,” Tythonnia responded. “He survived it, but it crippled his leg. He’ll never ride well again or run or hunt. He’s now just another book-learned wizard. The test hurt the strongest parts of him while it left me untouched.”

“The test leaves no one unscathed,” Raff said.

“Maybe not. But I survived it better than he did. And he was better than me at everything. Doesn’t that mean I should’ve been hurt, not him?” Tythonnia asked.

“The test is arbitrary,” Raff said, his gaze growing distant with a sad twist of his mouth. “It kills the best of us, makes us beggars desperate for the scraps of talent left.”

The remainder of the walk was spent quietly, though it didn’t escape Tythonnia’s notice that Par-Salian and Ladonna had exchanged troubled glances when they thought she wasn’t looking.

For whatever reason, Raff seemed to trust them more after that. He led the trio to a camp nestled at the foot of the Vingaard range. There were more than three dozen tents of various sizes and almost as many wagons with countless horses either hitched or standing idly by. They rested near a mountain stream that cascaded down over polished rocks, surrounding a great fire pit that had been dug into the ground. The smell of roasted meat tickled Tythonnia’s nostrils. Nearby, children sat around a woman who read to them.

As soon as Raff appeared, several men and women greeted him with eager hails and smiles. They eyed his three companions, but there was nothing belligerent in their stares, merely curiosity.

When they called him Berthal, he merely turned to the three wizards and asked, “So when did you know?”

Ladonna smiled, Par-Salian appeared embarrassed, and Tythonnia answered, “The night we first talked, just you and me.”

Berthal smiled and made his way to one of the tents. Before entering, he motioned to the three of them and told the others to find space for them. He vanished through the tent flap.

Berthal found Kinsley and a woman waiting for him. Both were standing, as though expecting his imminent arrival, and chatting, though the woman appeared embarrassed and awkward. She was very slight, more like a young boy in frame than a woman, and she wore weathered traveling clothes made of worn leather. Yet for all her mousy qualities and a lower lip that drooped, she was attractive still. It was her brown eyes, Berthal decided, soulful and yet nothing escaped their notice. Whoever was caught in her gaze was caught completely. Around her arm, she wore a ragged, black armband.

“About time you got back,” Kinsley said. “Everything go well with the three new arrivals?”

“Well enough,” Berthal said. “We’ll talk about it later. This must be Mariyah?”

Kinsley introduced Mariyah, who smiled shyly in acknowledgement. From the pack slung forward on her shoulders, she produced a small wood box inlaid with mother-of-pearl panels. She presented it to him with both hands, her smile eager.

Berthal accepted the box and sat down on his bedroll. When he noticed he was the only one seated, he motioned for the others to join him.

Inside the velvet-lined box were scrolls, bits of jewelry, and flasks of liquid-all magical, no doubt, but Berthal was eager to dig deeper. He’d heard about such pocketsafe boxes, containers that were larger on the inside than they appeared on the outside. While the box itself was impressive, it was said to hold a valuable artifact, at least, that’s what Mariyah’s overly amorous mentor had told her in one of his bids to win her to his bed.

What she must have endured, Berthal thought and stopped rummaging. “Thank you for this,” he said, putting the box on his lap.

“Don’t you wish to examine it?” Mariyah asked in surprise.

“In a moment,” Berthal said. “What’s more important is that you made it here safely.”

Mariyah smiled broadly, her expression one of shyness and a strange pride that would not be concealed. Berthal liked the strength he saw in her, which had not been immediately apparent. He glanced back into the box and saw the key made of bone lace.

“Ah,” he said, the comment escaping his lips in surprise. “It can’t be.”

“What?” Mariyah asked eagerly. “Is the key important?”

Berthal picked it up and examined it. He almost laughed.

“What is it?” Kinsley asked, trying to examine it without touching it.

“The Key of Gadrella,” he said in awe.

“Highmage Gadrella of Tarsis?” Mariyah asked. She shifted closer to examine the key under new light.

“And yet my question remains the same,” Kinsley asked. “What is it?”

“An answer to a dilemma,” Berthal said. “Well done, Mari-yah. You’ve more than earned your place among us.”

The Journeyman watched as Par-Salian, Ladonna, and Tythonnia were given a spot to lay camp. The renegade movement was growing in strength, and they were welcoming more and more people each day. They were definitely becoming a threat to the Wizards of High Sorcery, even though their number included children playing and the husbands and wives of the sorcerers making the camp livable.

Still, it was easy enough to gain Kinsley’s attention. Once the Journeyman realized who he was at the tavern in Smiths’ Alley, a little display of magic was all he needed. After that, a touch of persuasion and acting to prove his sincerity earned him an invitation here, where it was easier to continue watching the three wizards on their mission.

And if the scant records of the event were remotely accurate, here was also where matters unraveled.

Talking would be far more difficult, since a hundred people or more surrounded them. Looking around, Tythonnia realized that the accompanying families far outnumbered the sorcerers. Magic was a devotion to the Wizards of High Sorcery, and while not a celibate organization, the quest for knowledge was often thought to come at the expense of living a normal life. Unfortunately, that was also the standard that they measured others by. If one was not willing to sacrifice everything important to him to study magic, then one did not deserve the knowledge.

While Tythonnia understood the reasoning behind that notion, she also thought the wizards had somehow blown matters out of proportion. Most of them didn’t even understand why they did what they did, only that it was a tradition handed down to them that they thought should be maintained.

The more Tythonnia thought about it, the more upset she became. These people, at the camp, weren’t renegades and dangerous outlaws. There were families and men and women who tempered life and magic. And they were unjustly condemned for trying to find balance in their daily routine.

Certainly, there were sorcerers who hungered for power and who despoiled the art by using it to spread misery, but more often than not, sorcerers wanted to be left alone. They used magic to help their neighbors or themselves. They brought comfort or they protected. They raised families, they nurtured, they loved, and for that they were hunted for using a natural affinity to the Wyldling.

“You’re talking to yourself,” Ladonna whispered as they dug a small fire pit and surrounded it with rocks.

“Am I?” Tythonnia asked, embarrassed. Her mouth had been moving, she realized, and she forced herself to calm down. Whether or not she agreed with what they were doing there, she still had orders to follow and an oath to fulfill. Distasteful or not, she’d made a promise.

And still …

Par-Salian returned with fresh water from the stream, and after they were done making camp, they decided it was time to explore. The camp leaders, however, had a different idea. Two men and two women approached the trio. Their leader had ebony skin and a mixture of braided and beaded hair that ran to the nape of his neck. He looked to be of Vagros stock in his manner and style.

“My name is Shasee. Welcome to the camp,” he said, shaking hands and exchanging introductions with Par-Salian, Tythonnia, and Ladonna.

“We are a community,” he explained, “and everyone here is expected to participate and to pull their weight. I am told you three cast magic?”

The three companions nodded, listening patiently.

“Good. Welcome, then. We ask that you not cast magic around the camp, especially when it comes to your chores.”

“Why?” Ladonna asked. She was irked; she wasn’t used to someone dictating her use of the arts.

“For the children,” Shasee explained patiently. It was obvious he’d encountered that particular resistance before. “It gets the little ones excited and sets a bad example for them, implying that magic is a trick to avoid hard work, a plaything. They’re too young to understand how dangerous it can be. Unless you want a dozen children following you around constantly, begging you to show them a trick like urchins looking for steel.”

Tythonnia struggled hard to suppress her smile. Ladonna and Par-Salian were shocked; they had clearly never entertained the notion that renegades would act responsibly when it came to magic. That was something they always believed was the province of wizards alone.

“We’ll be careful,” Tythonnia said. “How can we help?”

Shasee smiled. “You tell me,” he said. “We need someone to read to the children. To help teach them.”

“I’m not a teacher,” Tythonnia said. “But I do hunt.”

“Excellent,” Shasee said. “We need more food for this coming week. Anything you can find.” He pointed to the grizzled man standing next to him. “Lorall will tell you where the hunting is good.”

Lorall nodded in greeting.

“What do you teach the children?” Par-Salian asked nervously.

“Reading and history mostly. We have no tablets for them to write on, so …” he said, trailing off with a shrug.

“I can do that,” Par-Salian said. “History is a favorite subject of mine.”

Everyone turned to Ladonna expectantly.

“Fine,” Ladonna said with a roll of her eyes. “I can mend.”

“You can?” Tythonnia asked. Even Par-Salian was surprised by the admission.

“Yes,” Ladonna said. “Rosie taught me. Now hush about it, or I’ll show you what else I can do with a needle and thread.”

Tythonnia and Lorall returned after a few hours with four hares, tied together at the legs, and a small boar, all being dragged behind them on a hunting litter. She was grateful for the hunt the past few days, the simplicity of living off the land and working her muscles to earn a meal. Her injuries burned, but it felt rewarding. Several times she found herself contemplating this spell or that to lure more game to them or to ambush their prey more easily. But the thought of hunting with magic felt abhorrent to her. Magic wasn’t a crutch. It was a dangerous tool that shouldn’t be used without heavy consideration. And yet she’d grown so comfortable with it she knew she was tempted to use it as a substitute for real work.

Thankfully, the other hunting teams did well enough. A couple bagged deer and more hares, while those less fortunate took to gathering wild apples and edible berries. Nobody returned empty-handed, and with the provisions purchased from the nearby village of Dart, the camp had four more days of food. Yet it felt like they were falling behind, that there were too many mouths to feed.

As Tythonnia helped gut and clean the food, she kept watch for her friends. Par-Salian beamed with enthusiasm as he taught the children. He spoke from the book in one hand, but his oration seemed inspired and energetic and drawn from some ancient love of the subject. The children sat forward with their mouths slightly agape, leaning on their legs as he spoke and dazzled them with the tales of great battles. Then they followed him around the camp after lessons were done.

Tythonnia smiled and searched for Ladonna. To her surprise, Ladonna sat there quietly with a small group of women. They gossiped and chatted, and Ladonna focused on her work, matching cloth from the scraps pile that best fit the clothing they were trying to mend. Her fingers flew, the needle flashing occasionally in the light.

Satisfied they were all fitting well into their roles, Tythonnia continued cleaning out the hares and shooing away a persistent Khurrish hunting dog that eyed the set-aside entrails hungrily. Finally, exasperated, she tossed the dog a bit of liver and watched it tear into its meal. The cook, a dwarf named Snowbeard with a facial mane to live up to his moniker, frowned at her. She smiled back and almost laughed when he began muttering to himself.

She was happy here; she’d spent too long with her head in books.

The evening unfurled its starry sky over the plains, leaving the cooking pit and a half dozen fires to light the camp. All the people in the camp received a modest portion for their meals, not enough to send them to bed hungry but enough to remind them that they lived lean.

Tythonnia, Ladonna, and Par-Salian sat together near the fire pit, the unofficial gathering spot for the camp, while a trickster performed sleight of hand for the children. With the meal completed, the families wandered away to tuck the little ones in, and many moved off to sleep themselves. That left the twenty or so sorcerers to finally indulge in their most passionate of pursuits: discussions of magic. The night always seemed like the perfect time to pursue such matters. It was the first time the three companions felt comfortable enough to stay.

They listened quietly as the sorcerers spoke of spells and the arcane. Many couldn’t escape their training and their need for the formulized and structured arts; Wyldling magic seemed to have no form and few global rules. The Vagros, however, explained how Wyldling magic was personal, and its exploration was, in effect, an exploration of the individual. Chaos in that manner never meant to imply “wild” or “dangerous,” only that the rules of the individual took precedence over any laws guiding the masses.

From there, the sorcerers went on to discuss different theories about the craft, some of which drew a quiet sigh from Par-Salian or the flash of an unintentional sneer from Ladonna. Tythonnia listened carefully, however, for the experiences of the men and women present closely mirrored her own. When the conversation turned to include someone seated on the periphery of the circle, only then did Tythonnia notice the mousy woman with the black armband.

“What about you?” Shasee asked the girl. “Mariyah, isn’t it?”

She nodded and smiled sweetly, and Tythonnia found herself smiling along with her.

“What about me?” Mariyah asked. “I’m afraid all my theories come from the Wizards of High Sorcery.”

A few people inhaled softly while others nodded, and Tythonnia suddenly realized the fear that many present bore toward the wizards. Ladonna and Par-Salian, however, became more attentive. Here was one of them, trained as they were, but a true renegade.

“Did you take the test?” Tythonnia asked.

“No,” Mariyah admitted. “Did you?”

Tythonnia nodded.

“Unscathed?”

At that, Tythonnia had to shrug. Unscathed held no meaning anymore. Everyone was quiet, listening to them speak. To some, she was the enemy, repentant perhaps, in their midst. That was as close as any of them wanted to be. For the others, she was a familiar face in whom they hoped to find affirmation of why they had left the orders.

“That’s what I don’t want hanging around my neck for the rest of my life,” Mariyah said.

“What?” Tythonnia asked.

“That haunted look many wizards carry. The look that says forever shall they suffer.”

Tythonnia could see Ladonna trying not to squirm as she sat there. She wanted to jump into the conversation and debate with Mariyah. She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t, not without revealing herself as a spy. Tythonnia decided to change the subject.

“Are you in mourning?” Tythonnia asked, pointing to her black armband.

“No,” Mariyah said. “In some cultures, black is the color of celebration. It’s the hem of my robe. I’m celebrating my freedom from the orders.”

At that, Ladonna stood suddenly. Both Par-Salian and Tythonnia felt the sheer panic rise into their throats.

“Time for sleep, I think,” Ladonna said, excusing herself.

“You disagree with what she said?” Shasee asked.

Ladonna’s customary grin inched out across her face, and Tythonnia cringed at what might come next.

“Disagree?” Ladonna asked. “Yes … with every single one of you in fact. You’re fools. One and all-fools.”

Tythonnia almost groaned, and even Par-Salian seemed too stunned to move. Any moment, Ladonna would reveal herself as a spy and get them all lynched. Any moment, they’d be fighting for their lives and losing. Two sorcerers jumped to their feet, ready for action. Others shifted position where they sat, their pouches in easier reach. It was Shasee, however, who rose and stepped between Ladonna and the others. His voice was steady, his smile unwavering and casual in a way that suggested he could end the argument easily.

“She misspoke, isn’t that right?” he asked Ladonna over his shoulder. He made it sound like a warning.

Ladonna, however, continued undeterred. “I spoke clearly enough, hmm? You’re angry with the orders for not sharing their power with you, but why should they when they argue and bicker over it as well? Take what you want! Nobody’s going to give it to you. Magic is struggle; to treat it otherwise is to underestimate it.”

“If you feel that way,” Mariyah said, “then why did you ever leave?” She wasn’t afraid of anything, it seemed, certainly not a confrontation with Ladonna.

“Because,” Ladonna said, “the Order of the Black Robes underestimated me. They’re jealous of my skill, so they use my beauty against me. They refuse to treat me seriously? So be it. It’s at their peril, and I’ll make them pay. But I won’t do it around a campfire, pining for a better world where we can all live like brothers and sisters. We are rivals with a common purpose. That doesn’t make us friends. That makes us convenient.” With that, Ladonna stormed away, leaving Tythonnia and Par-Salian to deal with the angry crowd.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Par-Salian said as he stood. “She’s been having a difficult time of late. I’m … going to check on her. Tythonnia?”

“I’m staying. The conversation’s interesting,” she said, glancing around at the others. Everyone seemed upset or indifferent except for Mariyah and Shasee. The two men who had stood remained standing.

Par-Salian backed away awkwardly and left the fireside quickly. Everyone was quiet a moment, most of them angry or shocked.

“She’s harsh sometimes,” Tythonnia said, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. “If she hadn’t left the order, they would have kicked her out, I’m sure.”

A few others nodded absently. Tythonnia slowly realized she was no longer welcome there either. She stood to leave and offered a nod to Shasee when a voice startled her.

“Leaving already?”

The others stood, their angry expressions gone instantly and replaced with humble glances to Berthal. The gray-robed sorcerer entered the lit circle, holding a braided staff with two dragon heads facing one another. A few practitioners muttered his name almost reverently.

“I’m afraid so,” Tythonnia said. “It’s been a long day.”

“And this would have nothing to do with Ladonna’s outburst?” he asked.

“You heard …?” Tythonnia asked, blushing.

Berthal sat on the ground and motioned for the others to sit. When Tythonnia hesitated, he gently grabbed her hand between his large fingers.

“Sit. Please?” he asked.

Tythonnia hesitated and looked to the others, but nobody was about to disagree with Berthal. Finally, she obeyed.

“We can’t save everyone,” Berthal said. “In fact, you’re not responsible for saving everyone.”

“I know,” Tythonnia said, “but she’s our companion-”

“But is she your friend?”

Tythonnia nodded. “I’d … like to think so.”

Berthal smiled kindly and gently steered the topic away to different matters. As he spoke, a hush fell over the assembly, and they listened with careful consideration to each and every word. Even Tythonnia lost herself in his discussion and felt uplifted for it.

Par-Salian walked among the tents, trying to find Ladonna, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was neither at their campsite nor among the clumps of people seated around the smaller fires, not that Par-Salian expected to find her there. Finally, tired of looking, he went back to check on Tythonnia and found her seated among the sorcerers. Ladonna wasn’t there either, but Kinsley and Berthal were. Berthal was speaking with hypnotic fervor.

Curious, Par-Salian drifted closer to the fire pit until he was well within earshot of the conversation but outside the light. He preferred the anonymity of the darkness; he felt tired of having to watch his every gesture and word for fear of betraying his mission. More so, he was tired of lying to these people. He wished they were rough and crude and evil. By the moons, how he wished they were evil so he could feel less guilty about doing what he was doing. Instead, they had children and they were kind and generous. They were also careful with magic, treating it with a reverence he had thought exclusive to wizards.

But they were wrong, absolutely and flat-out wrong. Wyldling magic was unpredictable and chaotic, a thing so devoid of order that the gods themselves had stopped its practice. The passage of a great artifact called the Graygem changed the foundations of the world itself, all because of wild magic. What-just because Berthal and his ilk thought they could handle it, were they justified in endangering the lives of all those around them? Spells and conventional magic didn’t exist because of the magic of weaker minds, as the Vagros claimed. No … spells and rituals existed to minimize the collateral effects of wielding the craft. Fire had to be tamed to become a weapon and a provider; water had to be controlled and diverted before it could become a life-giver to agriculture. Nature had to be conquered before it became tempered. Such was the truth with magic. Wyldling magic had to be broken like a stallion before anyone could ride it safely.

Par-Salian didn’t want to like these people but he did. And that frustrated him even more. Why couldn’t they see the truth? Why couldn’t they realize the danger they put themselves and their children in? He was so ready to hate them but he couldn’t. He could only ache to save them.

Why couldn’t they be evil?

“Of course we offer the gods their due. But no more than that,” Berthal said. “More than that, and we hobble our will to their whim.”

“What about the passage of the Graygem?” Tythonnia asked. “There was a time when magic was truly destructive, and even now there are those that would use magic to hurt others. Aren’t the rules needed?”

Par-Salian wandered closer. He suddenly feared Tythonnia was revealing too much of her own allegiances. If it bothered Berthal, however, it didn’t show. In fact, he seemed to thrive on debate and questions. He wasn’t interested in blind adoration. He liked his company to think and challenge him.

“The orders had their place,” Berthal said, a statement that surprised Par-Salian and several others by their expressions. “Many of us here believed that once. In fact, we still wrestle with it. But what once brought structure to magic has been used to manipulate the orders themselves, to force them to adhere to the rules governing the practice of the arcane, not a respect for magic itself. It’s the curse of all churches. We’ve bound ourselves to the service of the moons, not to the arcane. It’s blind obedience. And where has that gotten us? How many times have we been used to further the cause of the three gods themselves? Been enemies and not cousins?”

“You keep saying ‘we,’” Mariyah pointed out.

Berthal chuckled and nodded his head deeply. “I do. I do. Hard habit to break, trust me,” he admitted before continuing. “That is why we must return to Wyldling magic. To again learn from it and forge our own path this time. The way must be ours. We are no longer the infants of the moons. We’re no longer savages either. Why are we being punished like we are? Until we take accountability for our own actions, the gods will never respect us. Not truly.”

Despite himself, Par-Salian sat upon one of the rocks and continued listening. It was hard to ignore Berthal. It was harder still not to like the man. Only distantly did he wonder where Ladonna had gone.

Ladonna moved past the tents as quietly as she could. The fires in this part of the camp had died, the people long asleep, but one misstep could awaken the wrong lot. Ladonna had seen Berthal join the group at the fire pit, and she planned to take advantage of the opportunity. She wasn’t sure when she’d get another chance.

Berthal’s tent was ahead, at the edge of camp-close enough to be a part of it yet far enough away for its occupant to remain an outsider among his own people. That was just fine for Ladonna. She walked across the gap between the main encampment and Berthal’s tent, stopping well short of her goal. She had little to fear about being seen, with the spell of invisibility sheltering her from prying eyes. Only her footfalls could betray her, but her ill-spent youth gave her a light step. What she had to worry about were the magical wards protecting Berthal’s home. For that, Ladonna had just the spell prepared. Her fingers flew together and apart, as though stitching the very air.

“Mencelik sihir,” she whispered.

Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Ladonna stood her ground and studied the earth and the grass, the tent and the tent flap. Nothing glowed or glittered. There was nothing that marked any sort of enchantment or mystical ward. It was possible Berthal was so skilled in the arcane crafts he could cast something far beyond her ability to see it, but she doubted it. The more powerful the magic, the easier it was to see. More likely, he was confident in the company he kept, and wasn’t securing his tent every time he walked away. Or perhaps the wards were inside.

Ladonna maintained her focus as she stepped forward, up to the tent. She had to keep concentrating, lest the spell dissipate. She gently moved the tent flap and peered in.

The tent was sparse: a bedroll for sleep and a small table and chair for study. On the table were a quill and inkwell, as well as a stack of books. Ladonna checked the interior; she detected the faint glimmer of magic from one of the books in the pile and nothing else. It glowed softly, the memory of candlelight. She slipped inside and examined her surroundings more closely. Surely there must have been an alarm, something to protect his tent?

When Ladonna realized there was nothing of the sort, her dislike of Berthal grew. He was nothing but a fool leading other fools. How he had passed the Test of High Sorcery, much less served as a Red Robe, was beyond her. Disgusted, she crossed to the table and studied the bindings.

The Scarred Path of the Gem, The Ways Lost, and Forgotten Tongues … those were the books Master Reginald Diremore wanted. Well, that and for her to seduce Par-Salian, which she had refused to do. She was a wizard, a scion of the order, a disciple of Nuitari. She served a greater power than the self-interest of sorcerers and the ambitions of men such as Diremore. But then, that was before she knew Par-Salian. He seemed weak at first, for all his compassion and quiet ways, but Ladonna had come to realize he was far better skilled than she, perhaps even more skilled than Reginald. Par-Salian hid it well. He was humble and so comfortable with the magic at his disposal that he saw no reason to prove himself through boasts.

Thus, for Ladonna, her dislike turned into grudging admiration for his prowess. He was also handsome in ways her ego didn’t let her recognize at first, not until those days spent recovering at Rosie’s, not until he made her laugh and his eyes brimmed with the twinkle of youthful mischief she never expected to see in a white wizard. There was a bit of the trickster in him, a scoundrel made respectable by his learning and position, but a scoundrel nostalgic for capers nonetheless. She wondered how far she could coax that element from him.

She wanted to act upon her attraction then corrected herself. It wasn’t attraction; it was pure, physical desire-a need for companionship with someone whom she respected. But how could she seduce him without looking like she was succumbing to Reginald’s orders and bowing to pressure? It grated on her, this dilemma.

Ladonna swallowed a curse. She saw none of the books she needed in the pile. She looked closer at the one that glowed. There was no title embossed on its spine. Carefully, Ladonna cleared away the books atop it and stared at the cover. She was instantly disappointed at the title: Arcanum Unearthed. It was a rudimentary spell book, the magic only cover-deep and meant to protect the tome from wear. She quickly flipped through the book, but saw that it was nothing more than what it appeared.

There was nothing here of importance to the Black Robes and nothing to impress her concerning Berthal. It was almost better to kill him there and then and dispense with their entire charade. She closed the book.

Berthal was in the middle of a sentence when he paused. A small grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced off into the distance, toward his tent. He continued speaking after that, though the smile lingered for a few minutes longer.

Frustrated, Ladonna returned to her own campsite. Par-Salian was seated next to a small fire, drawing figures in the ground with a stick. Ladonna sat down next to him and said nothing. He offered no remarks in return, though Ladonna suspected she knew what was wrong with him. That camp, those renegades … they were nothing like he expected. They were normal, everyday people, misguided perhaps, but people still.

She expected that Par-Salian wanted to save them, to show them that the orders could be a powerful tool for the betterment of all. He wanted to debate and argue with them as people of reason. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t there to be friends. He wasn’t there to debate and rescue them. He was there to bring Berthal to justice and end the renegade threat. He knew that and he had the strength to see it through, of that Ladonna had no doubt. But it was still a bitter wound.

Her hand found Par-Salian’s. He looked at her in surprise, but she stood and pulled him up gently. He was about to speak, but her finger found its way to his mouth. Her lips followed and she kissed him gently.

Par-Salian’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. He finally kissed her back; Ladonna marveled that a man’s lips could be so gentle and soft, and she felt as though she might sink into them. She could taste a hint of cloves on his breath.

Without breaking her gaze from his, Ladonna pulled Par-Salian by the hand. He followed willingly, off into the darkness of the plains and away from the light of the campfire.

The fire pit had turned into a sea of embers, and the sorcerers slowly drifted away. The hour was late, and fatigue seemed to wash over everyone, though nobody really wanted to leave. They wanted to continue talking until dawn overtook the day and rendered conversations ordinary again. When Tythonnia stood to wish them good sleep, and Berthal decided to retire as well, it seemed like a good time to call it a night.

Before Tythonnia could leave, however, Berthal surprised her by gently clasping her hand and asking if he could walk with her. His touch electrified her skin.

“Of course,” Tythonnia responded. Her heart quickened and her cheeks flushed with warmth. For a moment, she was happy that her own uncertainties seemed behind her, and she tried not to probe them too deeply lest they erupt anew.

Berthal spoke quietly with Kinsley a moment before the other man left for his tent. The two magicians then walked through the camp; Berthal seemed to enjoy the silence.

They reached the stream of fresh water and followed its snaking path along the grass. When they were far enough away from the tents, Berthal turned toward her and smiled.

“Out with it,” he said.

“Out with what?” Tythonnia asked.

“The questions you want to ask. The ones you’re afraid might be insulting. The ones I can hear buzzing around in that skull of yours.”

“Oh,” Tythonnia said, almost laughing. “You can hear them? That’s rude of me. I guess I should ask them so the buzzing isn’t as loud.”

“Indeed,” Berthal said.

Tythonnia paused as she thought about the questions. There were so many, and she knew she had to pick and choose the right ones.

“You said the Wizards of High Sorcery only see power, but aren’t you stealing from them? Aren’t you trying to steal some of that power?”

When Berthal didn’t answer, Tythonnia immediately regretted the question. She’d overstepped her bounds with him and betrayed her true purpose here. She was about to apologize, to retract the statement, when he spoke.

“Most people wouldn’t question why,” Berthal said. “They’d just assume it was vengeance, a stroke for a stroke. They’d assume I’m trying to build power to fight the wizards. Many of them would love nothing more than to hurt a wizard, any wizard. They want a war. But the truth is fighting the disciples of High Sorcery on their terms will destroy us. They have the training and the experience to make war a foolish pursuit.”

“Then why are you stealing books and wizards?”

“Ah,” Berthal said. “I never stole anyone. They came here of their own volition. To hear the truth. I am stealing books and artifacts, I’ll admit. But I’m trying to find something to help improve our lot, give us a fighting chance to survive. At least until we’re strong enough to resist the Wizards of High Sorcery. We want to give spellcasters a choice. Follow the three moons, or their personal brand of magic.

“This current dilemma cannot continue,” Berthal continued softly. “We can’t keep crippling and killing our best and brightest with this … this infernal test!”

“And you found something.”

“Maybe,” Berthal said and continued walking. “I think we have, but that means risking more lives to steal it. And therein lies my quandary.”

Tythonnia nodded and stilled her curiosity about what Berthal wanted to steal. She suspected he wouldn’t tell her. There were other questions, however, more questions she felt compelled to ask. None of them involved the moment; all of them involved Berthal the man. She knew that he had left the Wizards of High Sorcery but not the specific reasons why. So she asked that instead.

The question seemed to unstitch a deep wound inside Berthal, and his green eyes flickered as they struggled to keep the memory from biting too deeply again. Tythonnia fell silent, embarrassed she caused him such pain yet terribly curious. He answered, though he never looked at Tythonnia when he did. She suspected he was pretending he was alone, speaking his tale to the stars.

“His name was Joss, and he was the brightest, most capable student I ever taught. He was like a son to me. And the test killed him … savagely. I thought he could pass. He was strong and able, quick-witted, and a natural with magic. He spoke the language of magic as fluidly as his mother tongue. He never had to grasp for words or struggle through the gestures and intonations. They just came to him. Like breathing.

“He didn’t fail,” Berthal continued. “I failed him. I sent him to die-”

“But you didn’t know,” Tythonnia said.

“But I did,” Berthal said as he turned to face her. His expression was grave, furious, stricken. It didn’t know where to settle. “I knew the test didn’t reward the most able, only the most suicidal. It rewards anyone who forsakes love, happiness, passion. It rewards cold, calculating ambition above all else. Where is the strength in that? Where is our hope in that? Ambition doesn’t console you, love you. It is unforgiving.”

“I-” Tythonnia felt as though she should defend the test, somehow, but her thoughts drifted to her own ordeal.

“The test divorces us from everything that makes us who we are. It strips away our father’s strength and our mother’s love. All that remains is a blind loyalty to the moons. We swear an oath to three fickle lovers who never love us back-not in any way that matters. They give us power, yes, but there’s nothing of substance. And to ensure we never love anyone other than them, their so-called test leaves us with a scar that never heals. A scar that forever cleaves us from other people and reminds us just how alone we truly are.

“The test divorces us from life. But why should it be this way, when the arcane is a part of life, as certain in the earth as it is in the trees and in the blood? Sorcery … Wyldling magic is the magic of passion, of living. Life isn’t regimented or ordered! Why should magic be so disciplined as to cripple? Let it flow like the river and dance like the wind. Let it stand tall as the mountains and warm our souls like fire!”

Berthal was breathing heavily, his rant far from spent, but his lungs were winded. Tythonnia couldn’t help but stare and marvel at his passion.

“I despise the test,” Berthal said with a whisper. “It deprives the freedom, the natural right of those gifted to practice what comes naturally to them.”

“But …” Tythonnia hesitated. “The test is only there to stop people from learning magic beyond their ability. From hurting others. Or themselves.”

“Really?” Berthal asked. “So to prevent one or two miscreants from practicing the arcane, we kill some and censure others? Tythonnia, anyone with the ambition to hurt or kill will find a way to do so. Anyone can pick up a sword and kill with it. Anyone can take any of the basic spells and use it to do harm. Those trying to learn magics beyond their means will hurt themselves. It’s inevitable. Magic doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Anyone who is capable of wielding stronger spells and crafts will find a way to do so with or without the wizards. The test is nothing more than a mechanism of control. It doesn’t regulate or enforce. So why is it there? It’s there to fill the coffers of the three moons with worshipers.

“I’m not saying the wizards don’t serve a purpose. Perhaps enforcement is necessary to stop some spellcasters who hurt others. But the wizards are depriving the rights of everyone when no crime is committed, when no wrongdoing has taken place.”

“They’re trying to stop it from happening in the first place,” Tythonnia said. “Before anyone gets hurt.”

“Conditional liberty is the language of tyrants,” Berthal said.

Tythonnia was only vaguely aware her companions were gone, their bedrolls empty. Berthal’s words continued to echo in her thoughts, and his gentle kiss good night still tickled her cheek.

There was too much going on in her head to think clearly, so she did what she always did in those situations and compartmentalized her thoughts. She went over the debates in her head as a way of distraction.

She disagreed with Berthal on a couple of points; she thought some regulations were needed to ensure evil men and women were deprived the magic that would allow them to hurt others. Then she thought about the Black Robes and realized that the test didn’t stop evil from happening; it only gave it the air of respectability-evil by sanction.

Berthal’s words resonated with her concerns and fears, and she studied the components of her own test. They lived in vivid echos in her thoughts, the test remembered with such clarity it might be transpiring at that moment. So consumed was she with the thoughts of it she sat there while the burning wood disintegrated into glowing nuggets. Only when she felt cold did she distract herself long enough to throw more branches onto the fire. Her thoughts overtook her again, and she thought about her test.

What would she sacrifice to practice the arcane, the test asked of her. Who would she sacrifice? Then it showed her who she loved and asked her to choose between them and the craft. The only surprise was the one she loved-not who she expected. She saw the women of her life and few men. She recognized them for who they were, as father, as grandmother, as mentor, as friend. She saw Elisa. But she saw others in a new light and was forced to choose between their love and the love of magic.

Amma Batros was there, as mentor and more. Though Tythonnia had never shared anything intimate with her teacher, the visions in her test had been specific and embarrassingly erotic. She never thought of Amma in that way, but when she saw her now, all her previous actions and thoughts suddenly carried a different nuance. Suddenly, it wasn’t Elisa she kissed in the high grass of the fields, but Amma Batros and a handful of other women she’d unknowingly gravitated toward. And it wasn’t her mother who caught her, but slavering monsters of shadow and web.

The test was forcing her to reveal her true self, for nobody could maintain a lie and practice magic. Perhaps that was the true meaning of the test. It wasn’t choosing between the arcane and those she loved. It was choosing whether to hold on to a lie so perfect she believed it herself, or to burn away the deceit and practice magic without the proxy of masks. So Tythonnia immolated herself instead of the monstrosities threatening her loved ones. She set herself ablaze with her own magic and screamed through the fire.

When Tythonnia had emerged from the test, there were no burn scars, though the heat blossomed from her skin for days after. There were no marks on her, but the sense of pain remained. Her skin felt uncomfortably tight, as though still healing, and she could remember her anguish in perfect detail. Still, despite all that, she could still feel the kiss on her lips and the heat of Elisa’s breath in her mouth. That burned worse than anything else.

Amma Batros proclaimed her success a miracle, not a single blemish showing, but Tythonnia knew better. She knew the fire that burned her was on the inside and that if she ever cut herself open, her organs, not her skin, would bear the scars.

So Tythonnia sat there, considering how much was too much and trying desperately to ignore the phantom tickle of a beard against her cheek.

The grass was comfortable beneath their backs, the sky their beautiful ceiling. Par-Salian’s head rested on Ladonna’s naked stomach, and she tousled his brown hair absently.

“I’m not too heavy, am I?” Par-Salian asked.

“No,” Ladonna said.

They fell back into calm silence, each one lost in the nothingness of their thoughts. Lovemaking had a way of clearing the mind of all its woes and securing people in the moment. And what a moment it was, thought Par-Salian. The wind lightly caressing their bodies and cooling their skin, the campfires distant. Like the world was made for them and untouched by anyone else.

It couldn’t last, however. Perfection existed for a few moments at most then was gone. Life would move forward again, and things would change. Par-Salian sighed at the thoughts that returned.

“You’re questioning our role here, aren’t you?” Ladonna said gently.

“Yes,” he admitted. He shifted position and lay on his elbow to face her. She turned to face him as well, their whispers intermingling. “Don’t misunderstand-I am still loyal to the Wizards of High Sorcery. But I can’t help but think these renegades may have a point. In some regards,” he amended.

Ladonna nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Have we become too political? Too involved with ourselves to notice the world around us? Despite the Wyldling magic they practice, these people work to benefit each other. They help one another. They guide and nurture. What do we do? We bicker and we jockey for status. We fight over the most mundane things. Who are we benefiting?”

Ladonna smiled and shook her head. It was a sympathetic look she wore, not one of admonishment or disappointment. She pressed closer to Par-Salian until her lips could almost touch his.

“I can see why you’d find their intentions attractive. It’s not my way; we both know that. I think competition breeds stronger wizards and benefits the practice of the arcane as a whole. We sometimes fight too much or work at cross-purposes too often; I’ll admit that. We do pay for it. But Berthal and his followers are naive if they think they won’t suffer the same fate. Idealism is a great motivator, Par-Salian, but eventually idealism becomes the status quo. And the first thing the status quo does is defend its power and philosophies against all threats. The renegades here can afford their idealism because they haven’t been forced to put it into practice.”

“You’re saying they won’t be any better than the wizards? That seems more like a condemnation of our practices, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Ladonna said. “By the time they reach our place in life, we will have moved past the problems they have yet to face. We will have grown … matured. Maybe a more open society of wizards is called for, but why start from the beginning again? Why not steer what we have now towards something better, instead of abandoning it and running into the same exact troubles later?”

Par-Salian studied Ladonna’s eyes intently, his gaze lost in her dark pools.

“Par-Salian, it is the nature of all groups to undergo this trial. Idealism becomes acceptance; acceptance becomes status quo. After that, the people in power will dictate rules and regulations to preserve their standing. They become exclusionary, the hierarchy more rigid. Infighting occurs, and backbiting, yes. But eventually change comes, and when it does, it must be from within.

“These people have served their purpose,” she concluded. “They’ve opened your eyes to what must be done. But they aren’t the answer. You are.”

Par-Salian nodded, taking a moment to digest what she said. The words felt like an epiphany, a cleansing of his soul.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “We’ve done our work. We found their camp. We have to leave.”

“Not just yet,” Ladonna replied. “We have two problems right now. The Black Robes lost valuable books to the renegades, and we need them back. They are a danger to whoever possesses them.”

“Very well,” Par-Salian said. “We’ll try to find them. What else?”

“Tythonnia,” Ladonna said. “I think we’re losing her.”

Berthal stepped into his tent to find Kinsley asleep atop his bedroll. Kinsley, however, was a light sleeper and quickly stirred.

“Rest, rest,” Berthal said, motioning for Kinsley to remain still. “I’m not tired.”

“Mm,” Kinsley responded and yawned. “How was your walk?”

“Good,” Berthal said. He sat in the chair and fell silent in thought.

“What?” Kinsley asked, sitting up.

“We’re going to have to move soon.”

When Kinsley threw him a troubled look, Berthal continued. “Our three new recruits are most certainly spies for the Wizards of High Sorcery. They’re endangering the camp.”

Kinsley straightened, his fatigue gone in an instant. “You’re sure? Lorall and I can handle it, if you want.”

“No,” Berthal said. “I don’t want them killed. They’re still young.”

“Not Par-Salian.”

“He’s naive and that’s perhaps worse. I don’t want them harmed. They aren’t evil people … only misguided.”

“What about Tythonnia? She seems sympathetic.”

“I think she is,” Berthal replied. “We can sway her to our side.”

“Not the other two?”

“No,” Berthal said. “Par-Salian is a born and bred wizard. And Ladonna … well, given that she ransacked my tent earlier I don’t think she has much sympathy for our cause. Casting that spell on the Arcanum Unearthed was a good idea, by the way. But no, we handle this quickly and move elsewhere before Ladonna or Par-Salian can send for reinforcements. But we need to get Tythonnia on our side first.”

“And this has nothing to do with your interest in her?” Kinsley said. “Oh, don’t look at me that way. I know you like her.”

Berthal shrugged. “I suppose I do.”

“Lecherous old goat,” Kinsley said, resting his head again. “She’s young enough to be your daughter.”

“Says the man who has done his share of wooing daughters from their fathers.”

“Lies!” Kinsley said, throwing a finger high into the air. “Spread by my enemies.”

“Spread by your own mouth,” Berthal said.

The two men chuckled at their wit and let the fatigue overtake them.

The docks creaked beneath his feet and swayed with the urging of the shore waters, though that could have been the mead talking. Thrack was built like a stone tablet, from his frame to his dwarf constitution. He could drink the customers of any tavern along the docks under the table, though it took some of the fight out of him.

He staggered back to his keelboat, tugging on his braided beard as though trying to right himself. There was a woman and a large man in his way, looming over him. He lurched to the left, and they stepped in his path again.

Thrack looked up at them, not intimidated by the size of either of them, but he almost tipped over backward trying to see the big one’s face. They wore cloaks, like thieves, though the woman had an odd metal book strapped to her chest. Some people had the strangest notion of what constituted armor. Thrack guffawed.

“You are the shipmaster Thrack Greenstone,” the woman stated.

“Correct. I’m glad we cleared that up.” He tried to move past them again, but the big one stepped in his way.

“You smuggle people in and out of the city,” the woman continued.

“Perhaps. If I did, though, I’d have to charge double for the big one here.”

“I am looking for two women and a man, both injured. Where did you take them?”

“Don’t recall them …” He paused to count. “Three?”

“You will remember,” the woman said, unsheathing her thin, glowing sword. “Or you will die.”

“Will I now? Well, lass, I make my living on the ocean, something no sane dwarf would ever do without getting drunk enough to knock Reorx down with his breath. So death threats don’t work on me. Now if you wanted to threaten me with coins. Well, coins, I find downright frightening. Especially the bronze or steel ones. Very scary.”

The big human looked at the woman and shrugged. She seemed annoyed that she wasn’t going to be killing anyone that night and sheathed her blade before tossing him a small purse, which he barely caught.

“Take us where you took them,” the woman demanded.