Renegade Wizards

CHAPTER 3

It was an empty land, bereft of anything living, No grass to dapple the dusty earth, no leaves to clothe the twisted branches of trees. Winds whipped about in blind fury and left the air tasteless and stale. The lamed sun hid behind a gauzy sky, and instead of bringing heat to the world, it sucked it away and hungered for more. In the distance, monochrome thunderclouds flashed and brought down a rain of ash.

Tythonnia walked across the plains, stirring up clouds of dust with her bare feet. Her robes were filthy with it, her features and hair caked ashen gray. The world leeched her life, turning her from woman to crone. Her bones ached; her muscles screamed. Age was a locust that devoured the green of her youth. She would die soon.

In the distance lay a mote of red, the only color in a colorless world. It swirled, vibrant and charged. It pulsed like a heartbeat, and flowed in small whorls and eddies like living blood. Tythonnia knew she had to reach it, touch it. It was the last reminder of color. Without it, Tythonnia might never remember hues again in the toneless world.

Finally, with her shriveled and atrophied body, she reached out to grab the last ember of life. It hovered within reach and she was eager to consume it, to forestall the inevitable. But she hesitated. Her gnarled fingers trembled with exertion and age.

Who was she to consume that thing, just for the sake of want?

Who was she to take and not regret the fleeting moment?

Was her life worthy of the last particle?

When the world needed it more?

More than she ever could?

Or deserved?

No.

Tythonnia closed her hand and stood as straight as frail age allowed. Instead of adding its life to hers, she surrendered hers to it, so the world might have that last precious thing for a moment longer …

Tythonnia’s eyes fluttered open, and the rigors of age faded slowly from her body. Her joints ached and a dull throb stretched itself over the rack of her spine. Amma Batros sat next to her on the velvet reclining couch and smiled down at her. She cleared away an errant lock of hair.

“What-” Tythonnia asked.

“You passed,” Amma said. Her smile was wide and grateful. She helped Tythonnia sit up.

She was still in Astathan’s study, but the highmage was not within sight; only she and Amma were present.

“Passed? What happened?” Tythonnia said, struggling to root her bearings. The pain of age lingered in her joints like an echo, and she struggled to focus. Amma Batros brought a mug of steaming liquid to her lips. Tythonnia obliged with a sip before the foul concoction struck her nostrils. She almost vomited at the taste of the onion tea, but Amma tipped the mug forward, spilling more into her mouth.

“You must drink,” Amma said against her struggles. Tythonnia swallowed another mouthful before sputtering and gagging. Amma placed the mug on the floor and rubbed Tythonnia’s back as she continued coughing. “The test weakened you,” she whispered. “You need your strength back.”

“What’s happening? What test?” Tythonnia asked.

“I’m sorry, child,” Astathan’s voice rang out, “but it was necessary to administer a small test to determine your loyalty to the Orders of High Sorcery.” He appeared from behind a curved bookcase, his features drawn with fatigue.

“It was a truth spell,” Amma said gently. “But you passed.”

“Truth spell?” Tythonnia said. The word released a surge of panic. What had she revealed about herself? Did they know? “I don’t remember it!”

“Be calm, child,” Astathan said. “The spell is not invasive. It isn’t like the Test of High Sorcery … not entirely. It strips away duplicity in regards to loyalty. We neither hear nor see the test. We merely know you’ve passed.”

“I passed?” Tythonnia repeated cautiously. Amma nodded. “And if I didn’t?”

Astathan fixed her with a piercing gaze. “We would know that too,” he whispered. He returned to studying the spines of books, distracting himself with the search.

“Amma,” Tythonnia whispered. “What’s going on?”

“Compose yourself,” Amma said. “The others are almost here.”

Par-Salian, Tythonnia, and Ladonna stood before High-mage Astathan. He sat in a great chair of gold oak that was girded with bands of what appeared to be translucent jade. The armrests were two great reptilian claws that curled downward to grip two marble globes. The backrest curled up like a drake’s spine, forming a gold dragon’s head.

Tythonnia studied the others, but whatever sparkle had dazzled Ladonna’s eyes, whatever keen interest had sharpened Par-Salian’s gaze were both absent. The test had affected them differently, but no less deeply than Tythonnia.

“What you hear now does not go beyond this chamber,” Astathan said. “If you choose not to participate, it is within your right, but I will enchant you to forget this meeting happened.”

The three wizards exchanged glances that asked the same question: what have we gotten ourselves into? But Tythonnia could also see the excitement in their faces; the chance to serve Highmage Astathan directly was an unparalleled opportunity. It could propel all three of them to greater heights within their respective orders. While it was an honor to better the Wizards of High Sorcery, Tythonnia still wanted to advance within its ranks. She wanted to be recognized as someone special, unique. By the look in Ladonna’s eyes, so did she, though Par-Salian appeared to be a different matter. He beamed, his pride at the bursting. Tythonnia could only smile.

All three of them nodded, eager for their moment in the sun.

“Do not agree to this lightly,” Astathan said, chastening them with a stern look. “It is dangerous, perhaps equal in peril to the Test of High Sorcery.”

The smiles faded from their lips, and Tythonnia tried to treat the matter more gravely.

“Since the Cataclysm, we have been at war,” Astathan began, his voice dropping a sorrowful octave. “And I have seen most of this conflict through. The fall of Istar brought about a dark time for magic, a return to the old ways, the wild ways. There was no discipline to its practice, no accountability demanded. People wielded the arcane like a knife or a sword, swinging it wildly with nothing to temper their strokes. Even tempered, magic is a violent force that requires every trained skill to use safely. Unskilled magic, however, is a chaotic, untamed thing that hurts and maims and changes the world in profound ways. People had a right to fear us, even though we’ve sought to control the use of magic for everyone’s sake. But by persecuting us, they forced us into hiding. We could not operate openly, and that allowed for the proliferation of wild sorcerers.”

Astathan cleared his throat before continuing. “Now, finally, we are no longer forced to hide. We are taming the use of the feral arts and bringing wild sorcerers to heel, advising them to follow the tenets set down by the orders, or desist. We are bringing responsibility back to the practice of magic, but there has been a setback. You witnessed it at the trial, earlier, in fact.”

“Virgil Morosay?” Ladonna asked. She cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “Ah wait, no … Berthal, his master.”

A shocked Par-Salian hushed her quickly, but Ladonna ignored him with a self-satisfied grin.

“What’s been kept from all wizards, save the conclave and our most masterful practitioners, is that there’s a plague upon us, delivered in two strokes. The first is an epidemic of betrayed principles,” Astathan said. “We are losing initiates and members alike to this renegade Berthal. Students are stealing from masters, and make no mistake, Virgil was not the first. Masters are leading their students astray from the guiding laws of High Sorcery and the safe paths set down by the moons. The longer Berthal is allowed to continue spreading his rhetoric for unregulated magic, the more he undermines the laws of magic and the safety of innocent people.

“The second stroke is equal in peril,” Astathan continued. “Berthal has not only turned his back on our guiding ethos, but he’s done so by embracing the most primordial of magics. He wields the arts that existed at the time of the Graygem, when magic wasn’t a craft, but a force of nature.”

“How is this possible?” Par-Salian asked.

Astathan sighed. “It is to our own detriment sometimes that we diligently preserve knowledge of the past. Berthal stole ancient texts detailing the path of wild magic when he broke with us. He is now teaching his followers these Wyldling Arts, teaching them to unleash their natural talents without the focusing matrices of reagents or words. A discharge of static becomes a lightning bolt from the heavens, wild in its unpredictability. A gust of wind becomes the storm’s heart, raging indiscriminately.”

“So he can will magic and bend it to his whim?” Ladonna asked. “No spell, no words, no reagents.”

“None. Just chaos for its own sake. And now he teaches others how to blanket the world in a storm of his making.”

“But Wyldling magic has always been around,” Tythonnia argued. “We know people can use passion to stoke their spells. We know others advocate its use.”

“Never like this,” Astathan replied. “Most practitioners of this ilk were unguided and unprincipled. Selfish. But, if we were lucky, their own inexperience would consume them. More to our favor, they kept their secrets to themselves, treating knowledge as a thing to be hoarded. It was like an illness that never spread because everyone shut themselves away with whatever sickness they caught. Berthal, however, is trying to bring discipline to the art. He’s teaching others how to do more without burning the wick of their souls.”

“You want Berthal … eliminated?” Ladonna asked with a grin.

“No, never!” Astathan said. “I would never condone the murder of another. To do so is to break the very ideals I’m trying to protect. You must find Berthal and lead the renegade hunters to him. He must be brought to justice, for betraying his oath as a member of the Red Robes, for fomenting this dissent, and for teaching what should have remained forgotten!”

“Us? Really?” Tythonnia asked in shock. “But how?”

“As renegades,” Astathan said. “I’m asking you to become renegades.”

Par-Salian nodded his thanks to the servant for the glass of honey blossom Qualinesti tea and waited for him to leave the room. The two white-robed wizards sat across the engraved cherrywood table from each other, quietly sipping their warm drinks. Par-Salian occasionally glanced up at Highmage Astathan, feeling awkward. If the high-mage noticed it, he gave no sign one way or the other. He merely sampled from his glass, his eyes heavy with fatigue or thought.

The silence was unbearable. Par-Salian wasn’t sure why he was there. He opened his mouth to speak, but Astathan stopped him.

“Tea tastes better in silence,” Astathan said. He continued drinking. “Contemplate the flavor.”

Par-Salian nodded and continued to drink. He tried focusing on the flavor as instructed, tried enjoying the honey that slid down his throat, warming his chest and calming his nerves with its smooth texture. There was an underlying taste, however, one he couldn’t place. It was difficult to focus. He drank, but his thoughts drifted to everything Highmage Astathan had told them.

Berthal was a great threat to the orders. Not only was he recruiting directly from the ranks of High Sorcery itself, drawing student and teacher alike to his banner, but he was advocating the teaching of wild, primordial arts. Wyldling magic had a destabilizing effect on the world. It transmuted species and was held up to no one’s accounting. Before the orders came along, the wild arts transmitted through the eye of the Graygem were at the heart of the split that created subspecies and offshoots. It was the weapon of choice for terror, and the common folk came to see magic as a thing to be feared, a thing to be struck down. It was a viper that could kill anyone who stumbled across its path, at least until the three moons finally gave magic rhyme and purpose. They created accountability through the three orders that followed the teachings of the moons. They instilled control over the chaos and helped show people that magic was a tool for their benefit.

Berthal threatened all that, however. His sanction of untamed magic could again frighten a world already wary of its power. More so, Par-Salian realized, he could turn people against all practitioners of spellcraft and undo the positive works of mages such as Astathan.

A thought struck Par-Salian, as he put his cup of tea down. He repeated the idea in his mind, trying to study and analyze it, trying to probe it for weakness, for cracks. The idea remained strong, however.

I must help bring Berthal to the Wizards of High Sorcery for justice, he thought. Otherwise, the orders might not survive the scandal, especially since Berthal was once one of us. His flock also consists of former members of the three colors. Any wrongdoing, any evils he commits would fall upon our shoulders. Any distrust Berthal levies would be levied, in turn, against us. We would suffer the most for this because the orders would be seen as weak, as incapable of enforcing their own principles. Indeed, we would appear corrupt, for few cared to distinguish the differences between a wizard of the orders, a sorcerer, and a Wyldling practitioner pursuing power for his own ends.

Par-Salian opened his mouth to speak then realized Highmage Astathan was studying him very intently. He closed his mouth again. The tea lingered with a slightly oily aftertaste on his tongue, and Par-Salian finally recognized it. It was bekial seed from the thorn bushes of Estwilde; it acted to open one’s consciousness without the deleterious effects of most other opiates. A little was enough to put its user in a trance. Too much was toxic. And the fine line between the two was only drawn by master herbologists.

“You realize what is at stake.” Astathan asked. “You see where the roads lead.”

“Yes, indeed, Highmage,” Par-Salian replied. He focused elsewhere and was amazed at where his mind wandered. The road between things-the connections-were clear.

“It’s important you realize the dangers facing you without any prompting from me. It’s not enough to know; you must understand, and to truly understand, you must arrive at certain conclusions yourself. I say this because the two others you travel with may not recognize the full implications of Berthal’s threat.”.

“They’re young,” Par-Salian agreed. “They haven’t healed from the wounds of their trials. It’s too easy to reopen them, play upon them.”

Astathan nodded. “Berthal’s words may hook them far more deeply than they realize. You are the oldest among them. It is your responsibility to lead them, to remind them of their duties, to steep their actions in righteousness, to guide them through their own doubts.”

“And should I fail?” Par-Salian asked, anxious for the course set before him, for roads his mind was already traveling.

“Plan for failure, but do not anticipate it. That is the mark of a leader.” With that, Astathan pushed a small rosewood box to him from across the table. Inside was a gold medallion, depicting a sun with its rays curled around three interlocking moons. “As we discussed, use this only when necessary. It’s crucial.”

Par-Salian nodded, and continued to drink his tea. He allowed the bekial to gently push him further along the journey, though there was one last thing he wanted to know, something that had been troubling him all night.

“Highmage?” Par-Salian asked. “What will happen to Virgil Morosay? I-overheard Master Pecas turn his fate over to the Black Robes.”

Astathan nodded grimly. “We convinced Master Pecas to show more mercy. Virgil will remain in our care for three months and be given the opportunity to repent.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then damn Berthal for putting us into this position,” Astathan whispered.

Ladonna waited patiently while Reginald Diremore paced the stage of the empty lecture chamber. The amphitheaterstyle wood benches were empty, the candle niches dark and cold. Reginald threw the occasional glance her way, and despite herself, Ladonna felt ill at ease around him. Most men she could measure by the way they appraised her beauty. Magic was the common currency of her order, and the richest men were the ones most versed in its arts. Ladonna, however, possessed currency of a different sort, and she wasn’t above using it to her advantage. She never offered her body in exchange for considerations; she was too skilled as a spell weaver to be that short-sighted. But she knew how to exploit her looks to her benefit. She knew when she could dominate or manipulate others to her will and how to hold their attention. Her beauty wasn’t a matter of sexuality. It was the valuable currency she alone possessed.

Yet Reginald was immune or, perhaps, indifferent to her charms. With his good green eye, he studied her like a master tactician, no more entranced or in love with her than a general might love one of the many ballistae at his disposal. She was a mere weapon and a tool to the master of the Black Robes, and she was fine with that. The way his black eye seemed to stare right through her bothered her, however.

“Highmage Astathan discussed the situation with you, yes?” Reginald asked.

“He did,” Ladonna replied.

“Good, good,” Reginald replied. He remained silent a moment. “Your mission is threefold, then,” Reginald said. “Help the others find Berthal and his camp of renegades-”

“And capture them?” Ladonna asked, arching one of her delicate eyebrows as she did. She still wasn’t certain why Berthal should be left alive when he posed such a risk.

Reginald stopped pacing and stared directly at Ladonna. It was a warning in no uncertain terms. “Do as Astathan instructs,” Reginald said. “He has earned that right and our respect.”

Ladonna nodded. “Of course. I didn’t mean-”

Reginald waved off her apology with a dismissive gesture and continued pacing. “Besides,” Reginald said. “Astathan won’t be around for much longer. He’s old and he has his eye on another, a successor he wishes to groom personally.”

“Really?” Ladonna said. “Who might that be?”

“Par-Salian,” Reginald replied.

“Par-Salian? That White Robe who is far too pretty to be handsome? He isn’t even on the conclave.”

“After this assignment, you may well see his star rise quickly. That’s why I want you to take the opportunity to foster ties with him. Make him easier for us to manipulate if the time comes.”

Ladonna was never known for her patience or her dull tongue. She often spoke her mind before questioning whether her opinion could cost her. This was once such moment.

“So that’s why I was handpicked for this assignment?” Ladonna asked, her tone challenging. “To seduce a White Robe?”

Reginald stopped, his surprise and annoyance etched across his face. “Are you good for anything else?” he asked.

For a moment, Ladonna couldn’t speak. Astonishment robbed her of speech, and anger made it difficult to think. Reginald controlled the order, and by serving him well, Ladonna would improve her standing. More important, the other wizards would treat her more seriously. Beauty and skill were in antithesis to each other, especially in scholarly circles where the mind is prized over physical attributes. This assignment, Ladonna had hoped, would shatter any misconceptions that her ability was a purely physical one.

But it appeared as though she was nothing but a toy as far as her order was concerned. Not a weapon, but a plaything-a harlot-to seduce Par-Salian. The words slowly found their way out, consequences be damned, Ladonna thought.

“Really? And did I seduce the monsters that attacked me during the test to pass as well? Mm? Perhaps I seduced the books I studied to surrender their secrets?” she said, despite the venomous glare being leveled against her. “Perhaps I seduced Highmage Astathan when I passed his little trial to his satisfaction.”

“You forget yourself!” Reginald said.

“And your ignorance bores me,” Ladonna snapped. “Find some harlot plying her trade at the Palanthas docks to seduce Par-Salian. Replace me if you want, but I wish you luck explaining to the highmage why you need to find someone else to take my place. Especially since he complimented my skill,” she said proudly, almost to herself. “How many others will be able to claim the same? Will there be enough time for you to find out?”

Reginald and Ladonna stared at one another, neither blinking, neither surrendering. Ladonna, however, broke a sly, satisfied grin. She saw him working through the issues, deciding on the best course. His green eye was his window, but instead of a soul revealed, she could see the cogs and wheels beneath spinning and moving. What was also common knowledge was that Reginald’s ego was thickly armored. He was vain and self-centered, but he knew when to sacrifice personal opinion and face to accomplish his means. In the hierarchy of things, the Order of the Black Robes was above his own wishes, his own desires. That was what made him calculating, and that was why Ladonna knew she’d bested him.

“So,” she asked, “since I’m no longer bound to the three things you wanted me to do, I am to do two things-locate the renegade Berthal and … what was that second thing?”

“Books?” Tythonnia repeated.

Yasmine of the Delving nodded. “Yes. We know the Black Robes lost very valuable books when three from their order joined Berthal.”

“Books of what?” Tythonnia asked. She glanced around the room, her eyes drinking in all the astrological parchments and the black ceiling painted with the stars. The three of them stood beneath the Book of Souls constellation, a good omen, Tythonnia thought, given the vow of the Red Robes to stand as the balance point between light and dark, good and evil.

“The nature of the books is unimportant,” Belize said. He was fidgeting, his thumb playing with his black goatee, his eyes thoughtful-scheming. “All that matters is that they are dangerous in the hands of renegades and, I might add, with the Black Robes as well.”

Tythonnia glanced at Yasmine to see her reaction, but she was listening to Belize. She deferred to him, her gaze almost loving and respectful. Tythonnia wondered if they entertained each other in bed, then quickly thrust the unwanted image from her mind. Personally, Belize turned her stomach.

“You’re saying I should … steal the books back?”

“Appropriate them,” Belize corrected. “For the safety of everyone involved. We think the Black Robes did not report their theft because the tomes were dangerous.”

Tythonnia suppressed the frustrated moan building in her throat. Belize was being deliberately vague and condescending in that power-hungry manner that seemed to grip small men with too-big ambitions. Yasmine of the Delving was the head of her order and, as such, should have been the one instructing her. Belize shouldn’t even be there; his presence was an unwanted and annoying intrusion.

“What is it, Tythonnia?” Yasmine asked. She seemed genuinely concerned, though distracted. Her eyes drifted in to and out of focus.

“It’s just-” Tythonnia faltered, then made a deliberate effort to ignore Belize. She faced Yasmine. “I can’t do my duty if I don’t know more. What do the books look like? Are they books of rituals? Are they cursed?”

“I told you earlier, the precise nature of the books is unimportant,” Belize snapped.

“If they’re not important, we wouldn’t be looking for them,” Tythonnia said, her gaze fixed on Yasmine. She pleaded, hoping to shake Yasmine from her torpor, “Out of the three orders, we’re the ones who can’t afford to work in ignorance. We need all the facts so we can decide where the balance lies.”

“We’ve already decided where the balance lies,” Belize said, his agitation growing. “We’ve decided the books are to be retrieved to rest in our care, and as a member of the order, you are to carry out your duty without question. Frankly, we wouldn’t have chosen you to begin with, had it not been for Justarius’s injuries. But rest assured, if you will not do this, we’ll find someone else who can!”

“No.”

Yasmine’s statement was simple, strong, and without hesitation. And it saved Tythonnia from faltering under Belize’s threatening glare. Yasmine’s eyes seemed to regain their clarity, and even Belize acted surprised. He was ready to complain, but a glance from Yasmine stopped him. She was still master of the Red Robes, and he her servant.

“Highmage Astathan wants Tythonnia on this mission to provide a balance to the overly cautious Par-Salian and the volatile Ladonna. There is no other choice; there never was.” Yasmine took both of Tythonnia’s hands in her own. “The books we seek are The Scarred Path of the Gem, The Ways Lost, and Forgotten Tongues.”

“I’ve never heard of them,” Tythonnia admitted.

“Few have. They are books masters read from when there is nothing else left for them to learn.”

“Are they spellbooks?”

“No … something far more powerful. They are books of knowledge, collections of papers and diary pages and treatises, all works dealing with the years before the Cataclysm shattered the world. They are powerful precisely because anyone can read and understand them and put their knowledge to use.”

“So … they’re books on Wyldling magic.”

“No,” Yasmine explained. “More like an accounting of the past. A tally of things missing.”

“Why does Berthal want them?” Tythonnia asked.

“We think he is searching for something,” Yasmine of the Delving said, “though we don’t know what. All we do know is that if he wants it so badly, we cannot allow him to have it. He misbalances the already uneven scales. We must know what he wants … and why he wants it. That way, we can keep that knowledge out of his hands and out of the hands of anyone else who would dare use it for their own gains.”

Tythonnia nodded. “All right, I’ll find your books.” Then, as an afterthought to irk Belize, she added. “I live to serve you, Mistress Yasmine of the Delving.” But Yasmine’s eyes seemed remote again, lost in a maze of her own thoughts. Belize, however, appeared angry, and made no secret of his feelings as he glared at Tythonnia.

“Highmage Astathan?” the servant asked as he collected the tea glasses from the table. “Do you need anything else tonight?”

“It’s morning,” Astathan said, staring out at the curtain of purple overtaking the horizon. “The days move more quickly now, you know. Or maybe it is my advanced age, moving quickly, forcing me to pay for my actions.”

The servant nodded politely and tried to show deference. Something obviously troubled Astathan, a weight that pressed upon his shoulders and made heavy his entire body. “I’ll be turning in soon,” he said with almost a whisper.

“As you wish,” the servant with sea-blue eyes said. He carried the glasses to the large bronze door, and was about to leave when Astathan spoke again.

“Tomorrow I commit three students to hardship … perhaps even death. And they go willingly,” Astathan said. He shook his head. “What a burden that power is, that good men and women will die for you. How terrible a thing, loyalty.”

The chamber was quiet as Astathan ruminated aloud on those things only he saw, those tortured thoughts he alone was privy to. What he endured those past centuries, the servant did not know. But he could imagine … indeed, he’d seen the centuries pass with his own eyes. Only his was the blessing of knowing what tomorrow brought and knowing he could escape it. Still, he had to wonder-why was Astathan sharing his thoughts with him?

“The three renegades haven’t experienced much of the outside world. We haven’t sheltered them, but they’ve been weaned on a diet of study. I wonder if the hardship of the road ahead might not be too much for them. We’ve risen from the muck of the Cataclysm, but I wouldn’t call these enlightened times either. They face many dangers.”

The highmage studied the servant, piercing him with a furious gaze. Those eyes, the servant realized, those eyes could divine most answers. “Watch over them,” Astathan said.

“Highmage?” the servant asked.

“You’re here for them, aren’t you?”

The servant said nothing, his counsel better kept in silence. He was confused, however, uncertain of what Astathan wanted. Or better yet, why.

“I’m tired and perhaps I look forward to my sleep a bit too much,” Astathan said finally. He ran a slender finger along the leather binding of a book on the table. “So do this old elf the courtesy of not refuting what I know is true. I know what you are, Journeyman. I have lived long enough to have seen you before … looking much the same as you do now, perhaps younger now than when I last saw you. One does not lead the Wizards of High Sorcery for so long without learning a dangerous secret or two.”

“I see,” the servant said. Part of him wanted to deny the charges; it was one of the first things taught to him, to deny and conceal. But it was obvious that the Journeyman’s masquerade as a humble academy servant was at an end.

“I’ve had some most interesting … conversations with your predecessors. I’ve also fought one of your kind before, someone who wasn’t there just to observe, though I did not realize that until much later.”

The Journeyman said nothing, choosing instead to remain quiet, to listen, but the comment puzzled him. What did the highmage mean by “his kind”? He knew himself to be the only one traveling as he was, observing and recording history through time. It was feasible that others might have done it before him, or after.

“Or perhaps you are the first,” Astathan mused, studying his expression. “Yes, perhaps you are … no matter. You are here to watch, but can you do more? Will you do more?”

“I can’t alter what’s already happened,” the Journeyman said, hazarding a neutral response.

“So you’ve said before,” Astathan remarked. “But you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a question that already exists … an uncertainty. The uncertainty directs you; that much I know. Therein is your leeway.” Astathan stood and straightened his back with a slight groan. He ambled to the door. “The three renegades travel tomorrow, before the dawn. They’ll stay parallel to the road until they reach Palanthas. After that, it’s anybody’s guess where fate will direct them. In watching over them, perhaps your questions will be answered. Perhaps uncertainty will guide you to act for their benefit.”

With that, Astathan left the room and the Journeyman alone to his troubled thoughts. There was no reason to maintain the charade any more, however, and he set the glasses down. He had to prepare for the upcoming journey.