Renegade Wizards

CHAPTER 2

Nothing of the city intruded upon the Three Eyes Academy-no reek of the animal pens and butcher stalls of the Merchant District, no cries of the Guild militia training in the Hall of Knights, nothing to suggest a thriving city of twenty-four thousand souls living and breathing and struggling to survive within the great walls of Solanthus.

The Three Eyes Academy was meant to be a refuge for the study and training of the magical arts. It imparted a sense of seclusion, a monastic devotion to the arcane, free of the mundane distractions of life outside. In truth, however, the wizards built the academy for students whose blood ran distinctly blue and whose purses bulged with steel. It was a place of privilege, a showpiece to display the respectability of the Orders of High Sorcery.

The Star Chamber of the Three Eyes was domed and made of the finest marble slabs from the quarries of Kayolin. While dwarf stonesmiths had cut the stones, elf artisans had sculpted the eight lithe and long-limbed statues of wizards that stretched along the curved wall. Between the statues rested pairs of fluted columns. The marble veins glittered like emeralds in the torchlight, and upon the great semicircular dais sat the three mahogany chairs with bronze trim and silver overlay. The floor was also marble, intricately carved, with inlaid brass patterns of magical knot work. From the flattened edge of the dais descended a handful of curved steps.

The light of the white moon shone into the great assembly hall from the starburst aperture in the ceiling. Although only the white and red moons shone over Krynn for most, black-robed practitioners alone could see the third moon, an ebon disc as though forever eclipsed.

Tythonnia marveled at both her surroundings and her circumstances. The uncertain honor that had her squirming in her seat, almost fidgeting with anxiety. She did not know why she had been asked to attend a wizards’ conclave, of all things. Or why the meeting was being held here and not at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth.

She sat before the dais in one of three sections, each angled to face the thrones. In each section were three rows of wood benches upon which sat the members of the conclave. It was the gathering of the greatest magical power of Krynn, an assembly of spell weavers dedicated to the responsible tutelage and understanding of the mystic arts; and Tythonnia certainly didn’t count herself among them. The White Robes sat to the far left, upon frost elm benches bleached and lacquered to the color of snow; the Black Robes sat to the far right, upon dark oak benches stained a glossy black. Tythonnia’s own order, that of the Red Robes, sat upon the middle row of mahogany benches stained cherry red.

All the hushed conversations layered atop one another, building into a buzz of noise. Conclave members seated themselves out of respect for the three presiding wizards who were perched upon their own chairs, but they chattered excitedly with other men and women who they hadn’t seen for as many as several years. Despite any racial misgivings, humans conversed freely with elf and dwarf mages. Their craft united them. And yet Tythonnia felt like an outsider, an intruder in such august company. Her gaze wandered, drinking in all the attendees. There were more than just the seven conclave members of each order. There were other luminaries who made wizards a feared word-men and women, elves and dwarves, who could strike foes cold with a glance. Tythonnia couldn’t help herself; she tapped her foot more quickly, nervously.

A hand wrapped in red silk and tapered into elegant, henna-painted fingers touched Tythonnia’s knee.

“Be still,” Amma Batros whispered. She smiled, a flash of pearly white teeth against a backdrop of lustrous mahogany skin. A tiara rimmed with a trim veil of glass beads rested on her forehead; her brown eyes shone thanks to heavy kohl that blackened the rims of her eyes and painted her cheeks in unblemished arcane script. Her ruby nose stud sparkled.

“I’m sorry,” Tythonnia said, immediately intimidated and taken with her mentor’s beauty. She felt small and lumpy in Amma Batros’s presence, her skin too pasty in contrast to her teacher’s rich brown hue, her dirty blonde hair dusty in comparison to Amma Batros’ luxuriant black mane. Where Amma was lithe and supple, Tythonnia felt pudgy and stout-like nothing but a farmer’s daughter in the middle of all the Conclave’s finery. “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

Amma Batros laughed delicately in a way that was both simple and enchanting, and Tythonnia blushed.

“As well you should be,” Amma whispered. “Our greatest are here tonight. See that Black Robe there,” she said, motioning to a seated dwarf with a pale complexion; a black, scraggly beard; and dark, scowling eyes. “That’s Willim the Black. And over there,” she nodded to a white-robed human with a youthful smile, “is Antimodes.”

“It’s Master Merick,” Tythonnia whispered. Amma followed her gaze to the grizzled old man in red robes who sat to the back, away from everyone. He appeared lost in thought. “I want to ask how Justarius is doing.”

Amma, however, shook her head. “No,” she said simply. “Justarius was gravely injured during the test, and Merick is taking it hard. It’s not easy for any of us to see our pupils hurt so.”

“But he’ll recover, right?” Tythonnia asked. Her thoughts flashed on Justarius, on the hollow in his eyes. The test had changed him. It was the last and only time she’d seen him since his ordeal, and she wondered if her cousin would ever be the same.

“Time will tell,” Amma replied.

Tythonnia went quiet at that. She’d undergone the harrowing Test of High Sorcery, the three final exams that push a wizard beyond their limits, near to the point of failure or, in many cases, past it. Each test was unique, and more often than not, it permanently affected the wizard. Most escaped physically unblemished but forever mentally scored. Their thoughts would never leave that fateful day; they would remember it with a clarity that would forever reopen their wounds. They remained haunted.

A rare few suffered a physical affliction or injury. It was a reminder that magic has a cost, that it was a burden and privilege to possess an affinity for spellcraft. It weeded out those unworthy of their gifts, and for a time, Tythonnia thought she’d be among them. She’d survived, however, but the cost was something she never expected. She learned things about herself she wasn’t ready to face yet. But neither could she escape that knowledge.

All around Tythonnia, even the greatest among the wizards seemed somehow marred by their tests. Willim the Black walked with an obsidian staff mounted by an ebony orb. Other wizards carried their scars in their eyes, invisible for no one but themselves to feel and know.

If anyone could have emerged unscathed from the test, many young wizards believed it would be Justarius. He was fearless, physically adept, and level-headed. The best of the reds, it was whispered. Only, he didn’t survive intact; far from it, in fact. Whatever happened to him had left him bedridden, a shadow of himself. Some said he was crippled; others claimed he was disfigured. Tythonnia knew better, but the rumors alone created a crisis of confidence among the many wizards who had yet to take the test.

“If Justarius could almost fail and die,” a young acolyte had confided to Tythonnia, “what hope do I have?”

Tythonnia tried to counsel and console the other students as best she could, but she lacked the conviction to lie, to tell the others that everything would be all right. What happened to Justarius left her wondering: if he had undergone his ordeal before her, would she have possessed the courage to carry through with it? She wasn’t sure anymore.

She pushed such thoughts from her head and distracted herself by studying the people around her. It took a moment before she realized someone was watching her, a black-robed wizard of exceptional beauty. The female Black Robe was striking, from her wide, jet eyes to her long and braided raven hair; silver jewelry girding her fingers, wrists, and neck. Like Tythonnia, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but her gaze was unbridled. Tythonnia immediately looked away, unable to meet and match the fierce stare. She found the white-robed Pecas and studied him instead, even though her thoughts never left the other young wizard.

Servants scuttled about with jugs of water to fill the goblets of those gathered, among them the sour old Pecas. Pecas was hardly alone, but neither did he engage anyone in conversation. Everyone had by then heard of his shame: his own acolyte turned renegade and thief in stealing a handful of valuable tomes. Some wanted Pecas to discuss what happened, in some vain hope for idle gossip, but he merely grunted at whoever spoke to him until they left him alone.

Thirsty, Pecas snapped his fingers to attract the attention of a servant. As the lean man with sea-blue eyes filled his goblet with water, Pecas studied him with a sudden and intense curiosity. He’d seen the man before … recently in fact. But where?

The man nodded respectfully to Pecas and continued on his rounds. Pecas followed him with his gaze, still unsure where he’d seen him, but his memory wasn’t what it used to be. That soured his mood even more. He grumbled and returned his attentions to the three wizards waiting patiently upon the chairs.

From somewhere nearby, a gong rang, filling the chamber with its booming echo. Tythonnia started at the noise. Amma Batros continued staring straight ahead even though a small smile escaped her lips at Tythonnia’s jolt of surprise. The other wizards obediently fell silent and turned to watch as the accused was brought in.

First to step into the chamber through the great archway was a woman, a renegade hunter. Many eyes flickered over her appreciatively, but Tythonnia found something reptilian in the woman’s gait and bearing. Then she found herself staring at the woman’s chest and upon the intricate bronze tome strapped to it. Tythonnia was about to ask her mentor what that was, but Amma Batros was leaning forward and squinting hard at the unusual tome. She didn’t know either.

The huntress approached, her gaze never deviating from the three chairs. Behind her was the accused, Virgil Morosay, defrocked White Robe. Tythonnia studied him, but he seemed no different than the young students who came to her for guidance or solace. She pitied Virgil and ached for the wound to his face. He seemed tiny under the angry gazes of his former masters, and his eyes remained fixed on the floor. Pecas, in particular, wore a mask of utter venom. His fingers clenched and furled, as though ready to let fly with a spell, and Tythonnia half thought she might very well witness a murder today.

Bringing up the rear were two more renegade hunters, one a bearish man with a thick beard, the other slender and blond. Quietly, the entourage made their way to the steps of the dais, where they stopped. The woman gracefully dropped to one knee, her head down. The other two hunters forced Virgil down before they knelt respectfully as well. It was only then that Virgil happened to glance at the three people sitting upon the dais. His face blanched, and he swooned under his own fear.

Tythonnia suddenly realized Virgil had no idea who’d be presiding over his fate until that very moment. They had not met thusly in years, the masters of the three orders, dressed in the most crimson of reds, ivory of whites, and obsidian of blacks-these masters of magic and mouthpieces for the wills of the three moons.

Upon the left chair sat the red-robed master, Yasmine of the Delving. Her light skin was milky for her fifty-odd years, and her black hair streaked with copper highlights was pulled back into dozens of tight braids. At her side waited her chief advisor, the wizard Belize, seen by many within Tythonnia’s order as an opportunist.

Upon the right-most chair sat the master of the Black Robes, Reginald Diremore. His skin was glossy and pale. His greasy gray hair, combed straight back, added to his almost rodentlike features, while his eyes were those of a shark searching for its next meal. One eye was the natural green of his birth, the other completely black from pupil to sclera. He studied Virgil intently, as though preparing to mount a siege against his weak points.

Upon the center chair, however, sat the most frightening of them all, the Highmage Astathan of Qualinost. If humans grew old, then elves grew ancient. Despite his short stature, there was something grand about him, something that made him appear larger than the others. Perhaps it was his reputation; he was the father of modern magics and savior of the Wizards of High Sorcery. He breathed life into the study of the arcane crafts, turning it from an art of dead tongues and dusty principles to a new frontier of exploration and renewed vigor. Astathan was certainly the oldest among the high mages, old enough to have witnessed the Cataclysm, when a mountain dropped from the sky. He was not unlike a great, old tree, his long fingers and limbs like knotted branches, his billowing white hair pulled forward and spread across his ivory-cloaked chest. The gold of his almond-shaped eyes glittered and never dulled.

Unlike Yasmine or Reginald, however, Astathan looked upon the scared Virgil with a look of the utmost pity. He didn’t see the boy’s failings, Tythonnia realized; he saw his own.

From Astathan’s side stepped another white-robed wizard, a human herald with tanned skin and a thin, black mustache.

“Rise,” the herald said.

The hunters did as instructed and the two men prodded Virgil to his feet.

“You are faced with crimes against the Wizards of High Sorcery,” the herald continued, “including theft of your master’s property, betrayal of the wizards’ conventions, and the practice of illicit and wild magics. You are further charged with abetting the enemies of High Sorcery. Have you anything to say to these charges?”

Virgil looked around, bewildered that he had been asked to speak on his own behalf. Tythonnia watched him, her breath caught in her mouth, waiting for him to beg for forgiveness, for leniency. She prayed it was the folly of youth that guided him.

The former initiate, however, suddenly straightened and proudly thrust out his chest. Tythonnia could see no apology forthcoming in his bearing, and she regretted the words she knew were coming, regretted them because she knew he would not.

“You lied to us,” Virgil said, staring directly at the three masters.

The room erupted into shouts and cries of anger. Several wizards rose to their feet in condemnation of the upstart, but it was the female renegade hunter who reacted the quickest. She backhanded Virgil, sending him to the floor. The room fell silent save for the rustle of fabric as more rose to their feet to see what was happening.

“Sit! Sit down!” the herald cried. His voice thundered across the hall and carried the hint of magic to its strength.

Everyone complied, sitting back down as the two hunters lifted a staggered Virgil to his feet.

“Huntress Dumas,” Astathan said in a clear and steady voice. “We appreciate your service to High Sorcery, but you will refrain from striking the boy.”

Dumas blushed and bowed her head quickly. “Forgive me,” she said.

“The boy has a right to speak,” Astathan said, addressing everyone. “Otherwise, we serve justice in ignorance, and I cannot abide ignorance. Now, boy, when have we lied to you? And how does that justify your betrayal?”

Tythonnia suddenly felt a warm hand over hers. Amma Batros was touching her lightly and staring at her in concern. Amma’s gaze was questioning, and it took Tythonnia a moment to realize she was shaking. Tythonnia nodded that she was fine and willed herself to calm down, for the adrenaline to seep away.

Although Virgil spoke through his tears, his voice was too large for the chamber, strong in its dedication to be heard and matured, somehow. His posture changed as well, suddenly more in command of himself than she believed someone so young could muster. “You betrayed us,” he reiterated, and it was then that Tythonnia realized the words had a rehearsed quality to them. She glanced at Amma Batros and found her mentor studying the captive in turn.

“You decide who learns magic, and you cripple us in teaching it,” Virgil continued. “Your faith serves the bureaucracy of the three moons. You have become a religion of your own making, a failed experiment!”

Astathan’s eyes narrowed and he exchanged glances with the other two masters. They sensed something amiss. The black-robed Reginald Diremore nodded and casually strode up from his seat. He grabbed Virgil by the front of his jerkin and pulled him to within inches of his face.

“Youngling,” Reginald said, “I would have your words in your own tongue!”

“It’s a glamour of some sort,” Amma whispered to Tythonnia.

Tythonnia was about to ask what she meant when Reginald hissed out a spell. His words were like an oily snake, and his fingers contorted and knotted into hand gestures. The hairs on Tythonnia’s neck prickled, and a flash of light ebbed on the tips of Reginald’s fingers. Virgil was somehow weaker for the spell. He stumbled back and was pushed forward again by the blond-haired hunter. He looked around, his mouth agape and his expression dumbfounded. The certainty was gone from his posture, his shoulders weighted by fear and his head darting. A mere youth once more, scared with the courage brutally ripped from him. He didn’t act like the same person speaking a moment earlier.

“Let’s see you speak rhetoric now, mouthpiece,” Reginald said. With a triumphant smirk, he returned to his chair and sat back down.

“We give you the opportunity to speak your mind, boy,” Astathan said as he shook his head, “and instead you allow another to speak through you. Since you have nothing of your own to say in your defense, answer me this: Who do you serve? Who just acted through you?”

Virgil appeared panicked. He was adrift and forced to speak with his own timid voice. “Berthal,” he said finally, almost shrinking at the admission. “I serve the one true master, Berthal. And I’d gladly ask him to speak for me again!”

Tythonnia, the black-robed woman who had been staring at her, and an older white-robed wizard were asked to wait outside after Virgil’s admission. The black-robed woman was beautiful with alabaster skin and black, braided hair. There was a rough air about her, however, in the way she sat and watched everyone. She was no woman of society nor one concerned with any specific social graces.

The white-robed wizard, however, was another matter. He appeared pleasant, a faint smile on his face and shy, darting blue eyes. His hair was a light brown, as was the pinch of a beard on his chin. Tythonnia estimated him at ten years their senior, putting him somewhere in his mid to upper thirties.

“Par-Salian,” he said, introducing himself to Tythonnia and the other woman.

Tythonnia was glad for his congeniality. He possessed an easy way about him.

The black-robed woman was curt, however. Only after a moment’s prodding did she finally introduce herself as “Ladonna.”.

Par-Salian shrugged to Tythonnia and sat down on one of the gilded benches that lined the hallway outside the meeting chamber. Tythonnia studied the inlaid marble and alabaster geometric patterns on the floor while Ladonna paced a bit and studied the busts of former wizards stuffed into the alcoves.

A servant quietly served them water from a jug while they waited then darted past the double doors, back into the conclave’s chamber. In doing so, he left the great wooden doors framed in burnished iron open a crack. Voices drifted through, the great wizards still in deliberation. Ladonna, without a shred of shame, drifted to the open door and began listening.

“Psst,” Par-Salian whispered. “What are you doing? Get away from there!”

Ladonna waved him off and continued listening. Par-Salian stared at Tythonnia with a look of apprehension, and the red-robed wizard felt obligated to intervene. She quietly strode over to Ladonna, whose head was near the open crack. She glanced at Tythonnia, but her expression remained inscrutable. Tythonnia was ready to say something, to drag her away from her breach of decorum, but then she heard Master Astathan speak. It was hard to hear his voice and not listen.

Tythonnia found herself approaching closer, and before she realized what she was doing, she’d rested against the wall nearest the door. Astathan’s voice was soothing and almost lyrical. A mischievous smirk played on Ladonna’s face, a delighted look that lit her eyes with fire. Tythonnia couldn’t help herself. She grinned back and continued listening, despite the huffs of frustration coming from Par-Salian.

“Master Pecas?” Astathan was asking. “You were wronged most grievously by Initiate Virgil’s betrayal. What have you to say on the matter?”

Pecas coughed to clear his throat. The chamber hung upon his every word, as did Tythonnia and Ladonna. Even Par-Salian had gone quiet.

“Virgil was my trusted apprentice for many years,” Pecas said plain for all to hear, “and would have made a tolerable addition to our ranks. But his betrayal of me, of our ideals, is a grave sin. If I were not cloaked in the white robes of our order, I’d almost say … unforgivable. Indeed, we must make an example of him. We who wear Solinari’s robes believe there is always the possibility of redemption, of hope within each soul, but there is also a time when we must make a statement to all those who would follow in his steps,” he said, stamping his cane into the ground. “Therefore, I say, hand him over to the Black Robes for punishment. He deserves no mercy from me.”

The room exploded into argument, and even Ladonna and Tythonnia exchanged glances. They both looked at Par-Salian, but he, too, appeared shocked. Such a thing was unheard of, a White Robe offering judgment of a renegade to the Black Robes. One espoused mercy, the other punishment. One was compassionate, the other ruthless.

Suddenly, the servant who served them water popped his head back through the doorway, surprising Tyhonnia and Ladonna, who edged back. With an apologetic look, he quietly closed the door on the conclave. They could hear no more.

Ladonna sighed, the soft sound echoing throughout the chamber. The members of the Conclave had been dismissed after several hours of deliberation, but Tythonnia, Par-Salian, and Ladonna were asked by their mentors to remain behind. When pressed, all Amma Batros would say to Tythonnia was, “Answer truthfully and don’t be scared. You’ll do well.” With that, she left her student.

Then a servant had come to fetch Par-Salian to a private meeting. The servant told them they would be summoned in turn. That had been two hours earlier.

Tythonnia sat on the rearmost red bench, feeling the muscles slowly knot their way up her back. Ladonna lay on one of the white benches, facing the ceiling and playing with the jewelry on her fingers. The red wizard envied that small streak of rebelliousness in her compatriot. Still, she wished Ladonna were a bit chattier, but the other woman tended to answer questions with silence and an air of scrutiny. Tythonnia gave up any hope of being cordial and, instead, watched the servants sweep the hall.

Ladonna sighed again, and Tythonnia could bite her lip no more.

“For the love of the three moons!” Tythonnia snapped. “You’re bored. I get it! You’re not alone here, you know.”

The black-robed woman turned her head toward Tythonnia. A single brow levitated high above Ladonna’s eye and a smirk snaked across her lips. “All right,” Ladonna said, never losing her mischievous look. She pivoted and sat up in one supple motion. “How do we amuse ourselves, Red Robe?” she asked as she sauntered over to Tythonnia’s bench.

“Tythonnia.”

“I know.” Ladonna went quiet a moment. “The renegade-”

“Virgil?”

“Him,” Ladonna said. “He mentioned Berthal. Wasn’t he a member of your order?”

Tythonnia nodded. “Yes … before my time.”

“What happened to him?” Ladonna asked. She smiled, eager for the gossip.

“I–I don’t know,” Tythonnia admitted. “We aren’t taught much about them. The renegades, I mean.”

Ladonna’s expression returned to boredom. “Pity,” she said. She swiveled about on the bench again and lay back down, dropping her head on Tythonnia’s lap.

Tythonnia blushed; Ladonna’s familiarity and little regard for respectable distance caught her tongue-tied.

“Wake me up when something interesting happens,” Ladonna said, closing her eyes.

“All-all right,” Tythonnia said when she really wanted to say, “Get off of me, please.” She looked at the servants to see if any of them were watching with disapproval. Dutiful to the last, however, nobody was paying them any heed. Still, Tythonnia wasn’t sure what to do, especially with her hands. And she couldn’t stop glancing at Ladonna’s face, with its alabaster skin, pale and blemish free. Her lips were full and her cheeks soft and graceful. Again, she found herself admiring another woman’s beauty, admiring those qualities she felt were lacking in her own features. Somehow, staring at Ladonna’s beauty put her at rest, the exhale after tension-filled days.

Ladonna’s eyes opened suddenly, and Tythonnia quickly looked away.

“Got you,” Ladonna whispered.

“I was-”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Ladonna said, sitting up. “You wouldn’t be the first woman who was attracted to me.”

Tythonnia’s eyes went wide, a million panicked responses perched on her lips. Ladonna smiled at Tythonnia’s terror-filled expression.

“I’m not …” Tythonnia said, unable to say the words. “I’m not like that.”

Ladonna shrugged. “Like what, hmm?”

“Like that,” Tythonnia whispered. She looked around, fearful someone was watching them. Again, the servants were lost in their duties.

“It’s all right. Don’t fret,” Ladonna said.

“But I’m not.”

“Well, if you … insist.” Ladonna was already looking elsewhere, following the clop of footsteps heading toward them. The servant who had escorted Par-Salian away had returned.

“My turn yet?” Ladonna asked.

The servant nodded. “Yes, mistress. You are to follow me.”

“Where’s Par-Salian?” Tythonnia asked.

“Preparing, mistress,” the servant said before walking away.

Ladonna shrugged and followed. She spun about once, effortlessly, and offered Tythonnia a quick wink.

Tythonnia cursed herself for blushing so easily, for being so easily flustered in Ladonna’s presence. She was stronger than that, better than that. Her attractions did not rule her, could not rule her. And yet she could not escape the giddy memory of the last time a woman touched in her that way.

The memory was always the same, the senses capturing specific seconds of random moments before the minutes and days blurred. The bits of clarity lasted forever, however; the brush of Elisa’s fingertips as they held hands, the heat of her breath as she leaned in to whisper a secret.

Tythonnia still shivered, her heart forever trapped in those endless minutes, but they were always broken by the same memory: she was lying next to Elisa in the field of tall stalks and the infinite blue sky above; their lips meeting, the electricity that prickled their skin, the rough hand that pulled her up by the arm, the disgust that filled her mother’s face, the strange sadness that eclipsed her father’s. After that the memories were locked behind a wall of tears; Tythonnia couldn’t stop crying.

“She forced me to,” Elisa protested as her parents dragged her away.

Elisa and she were never friends again.

Gently the servant roused Tythonnia from her dream. She’d fallen asleep on the hard, red bench and lost track of time and place. The chamber was empty and dark, save for the lantern in the hands of the man with eyes like mountain lake water.

“Mistress,” the servant whispered. “It’s time.”

Tythonnia nodded and rose awkwardly. She shook her head, trying to wake up. “The others?” she mumbled.

“Preparing,” the servant said simply. He turned his back while she stood and straightened her garments. When she was ready, he escorted her from the dark chamber, through the unfamiliar halls of the Three Eyes Academy.

Nobody else met them; nobody was awake at whatever deep hour of night found them skulking about. The only light came from the servant’s lantern and from the basrelief wall sculptures of the great forest of Wayreth that ran either length of the long corridor; the tips of the trees glowed with motes of faerie fire, turning the passageway into a star-cluttered field of pinprick lights. Tythonnia had never seen anything so beautiful and, despite her nervousness, she marveled at the simple artistry of it.

The servant reached a large bronze door that dominated the end of the corridor; floral patterns and glowing magical script of elven make were etched on its surface. The servant rested his fingers against the door; it silently glided open as though mounted on the exhalation of one’s breath. The servant bowed his head and motioned for Tythonnia to step through. He then closed the door behind her.

The chamber was large, two floors in height and the interior the size of a modest tavern. The upper walls were a strange fusion of green rock and red metal, fluid droplets caught in their molten states. The lower half of the walls was a jigsaw of mahogany wood pieces, varnished and fit perfectly together. Spiraled columns of solid stone branched into irregular ribs along the green ceiling, like a tree trunk opening its branches to the canopy. In fact, the entire room was organic in its design. Few hard edges adorned its space, including curved experiment tables of granite that bore the appearances of artists’ palettes.

Behind a row of Qindaras clay pots and Abanasinian glass urns stood Highmage Astathan. Tythonnia knelt immediately, her heart racing at the honor of meeting him.

“Child, stand,” Astathan said, motioning with his hand. He had a delicate way about him, despite his age.

Tythonnia obliged, but could not bring herself to hold his gaze.

“Come,” he said. Another gesture drew her to his side. He took both her hands in his own, his slender digits still strong and nimble. To her surprise, he turned her hands this way and that and, before releasing them, nudged her head left then right with a finger. Tythonnia blushed under his golden-eyed scrutiny; she wasn’t sure how to react.

“Master?” she asked.

“Impressive,” he said, nodding to himself all the while. He let her go and walked to a row of jars mounted on shelves. He studied them, his back to her. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you’d never undergone the test.”

“Um, thank you?” she said. She was uncertain how to respond or what he wanted to hear.

“It’s the deepest recesses of your eyes that betray you,” he said, still studying the urns. Finally, he tapped one. “Ah,” he exclaimed and brought it to the table where more jars and urns lay.

“My eyes?”

“The test wounds everyone,” Astathan said, uncorking various jars and bottles, and smelling each in turn. He nodded to some and sealed others right back up again. “Why?”

“Why?” Tythonnia asked. “Oh-why do they wound everyone?”

Astathan glanced at her long enough to nod before returning his attention to the table’s contents.

“It’s a reminder, Highmage. That magic has a price.”

“That’s a patterned answer,” Astathan said. “It’s something I’d expect from an initiate reciting his lessons, not from someone who underwent the test herself. Why does the test wound us?”

Tythonnia stammered. She wasn’t sure what to say. Was she supposed to stay silent and learn at the feet of the greatest mage of their time? Listen was the pivotal axiom of Amma Batros’s teachings. Or was Astathan testing her?

He played at distracted, but she could tell he was listening intently. He genuinely wanted to hear her answer. He was curious-curiosity meant there wasn’t one possible response. Then it hit her. The test is never the same from one person to the next, therefore, why should the consequences be. She once heard someone say that the test wounds and injures in a manner specific to one’s ordained path, a path that embraces the study of magic and draws one away from life’s distractions. Call it a cruel mistress who demands attention, or perhaps the insistence of destiny, but the trials of a wizard are the roadmap of his or her future.

Astathan wasn’t interested in why the test wounded its applicants, Tythonnia realized. He was interested in why it wounded her.

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Tythonnia said, framing her response carefully as she spoke. “But maybe I was injured to reveal a …” she hesitated. The admission frightened her, but she was more afraid of lying to Astathan. He was a mythic name, a living legend, and any number of powers was ascribed to him. Discerning falsehoods among them, perhaps? His gaze penetrated her flesh, rendering her genderless and naked to the soul. “To reveal something about myself, like a truth,” she said finally.

“And this truth … it troubles you?” he asked, looking up to study her.

“It scares me.”

“As well it should,” Astathan said. “Those hurt physically must overcome adversity, yes, but rarely are their lives stripped of any pretense. Rarely are they forced to face their true selves. Many of us wrap ourselves in our lies. We let them define us for fear that others will hate us for what we despise in ourselves. Soon it becomes our flesh; its whispers, our voice.”

Tythonnia nodded, barely following the gist of the conversation. Astathan, however, continued speaking.

“But the test … ah, the test,” he said, a wistful smirk on his face. “It forces us to face the naked truth. The test is there to humble us, to forever remind us that we are never greater than the magic itself. Each of us burdened, each of us forced to remember that a greater cost exists. Do you follow?” he asked. He looked Tythonnia straight in her eyes.

“I–I think so.”

“Good. Because you’re about to be tested again. Tidur et mencelik betina batin santet!”

Before Tythonnia could respond or react, Astathan opened his palm and blew a handful of dark powder into her face. Everything went black.