Renegade Wizards

CHAPTER 7

The High Clerist’s Tower stood snugly in the valley between the peaks of the Vingaard range. Beyond its walls lay the Knight’s High Road, a canyon trail and the only direct route through the foreboding, snowcapped mountains to the coastal city of Palanthas. To travel around the mountains was to add months to the journey.

Even before Par-Salian, Tythonnia, and Ladonna reached the rolling grasslands of the Wings of Habbakuk, they could see the tower. It was an impressive monument to the gods of old and the clerics who served them-one of the more imposing structures to have survived the Cataclysm that split and flooded the lands three centuries earlier.

Travelers, pilgrims, and merchants clogged the road leading to the High Clerist’s Tower. Small tents of weary travelers dotted the shores of the nearby stream, though a couple of garishly painted pavilions appeared more permanent, at least while the seasons remained favorable. Signs proclaimed their services, from offering drink and warm food to selling supplies for the journey ahead.

With each step forward, the structure seemed to grow taller and far more impressive. It was, in fact, two separate buildings, and the road split on its approach to both. The first and most imposing was the tower itself. The ground-level battlement was octagonal with giant ramps leading to a trio of portcullises on the three sides facing the grass fields. The road split further into a trident, each approaching one of the ramps. On each corner of the eight-sided wall stood a tower bristling with arrow slits, while between them hung a string of ramparts. The central spire itself lay behind the curtain wall. It rested upon a giant octagonal base with a ring of turrets that rose higher than the battlements themselves. They, in turn, were dwarfed by a one-hundred-fifty-foot tower that surpassed them all as it rose like a spear into the heavens. It seemed a worthy companion to the surrounding mountains.

The second structure was an adjoining keep, a later addition to the High Clerist’s Tower. Built by the city of Palanthas itself, the keep was blocky and relatively squat but imposing nonetheless. Where the tower rested against one side of the Knight’s High Road, the keep extended to the other canyon wall. A stream ran to a portcullis gate at the foot of the keep, while the second road approached a stone ramp leading up to the main gate.

As the road split between the tower and keep, so, too, did the traffic and caravans. Pilgrims and the sick traveled to the High Clerist’s Tower. Although the gods had been quiet since the Cataclysm, many followers still made the journey to worship at its temples. Some prayed for good fortune for their businesses or families or crops, while others made the journey for one last reprieve against whatever illness had struck them or their loved ones. In fact, Tythonnia could see a leper caravan moving slowly toward the tower. The other travelers steered clear of the carts that bore the yellow banners.

Merchants and others journeyed straight for the keep and, presumably, the city of Palanthas. To the chaos of that road was added the traffic leaving the pass and heading into the Plains of Solamnia. The human flow added considerably to the din of baying animals, loud voices, creaking carts, and the clop of hooves against the cobblestone road. People argued over right of way as caravans tried passing one another and carts grazed each other.

Over the chaos presided a handful of Knights of Solamnia, a token force to orchestrate the traffic. They allowed pilgrims to enter the High Clerist’s Tower to worship at the temples-for a fee, of course-but nobody was allowed to venture beyond the second level, at least according to the knight who stood upon a wood platform, shouting information over the noise and answering questions from the dozen people standing below him.

The traffic heading toward to the gate had come to an abrupt stop.

Tythonnia, Par-Salian, and Ladonna reined their horses to the side of the road, where pilgrims were selling their remaining goods and hand-carved religious icons on blankets. A group of children, meanwhile, ran about, whooping and crying in play.

“I thought this place abandoned,” Par-Salian said.

“Abandoned? Maybe in the sense that only a handful protect it,” Ladonna said. “The temples need to be maintained and the Knight’s High Road must be protected from brigands who’d use it to tax the caravans.”

“The Westgate door looks blocked,” Par-Salian said.

“Trade caravan,” Ladonna said without looking. When the others pressed her further with a glance, she continued, “From Palanthas? The knights will stop traffic and let them through after an-how do I put this delicately? — inspection.”

“They’re robbing the caravan?” Par-Salian asked, shocked.

“Robbing? Of course not,” Ladonna said with a mischievous smirk. “Encouraging, perhaps, but certainly not robbing. They ‘encourage’ caravan drivers to pay a tax to expedite the inspection. We heard about it all the time in Palanthas.”

“So they’re not stopping anyone,” Tythonnia said. “But they’ll take longer if they’re not happy with the bribe.”

Ladonna grunted by way of confirmation. It was the most words they’d exchanged in the past few days, not that Tythonnia minded. “We’ll likely be waiting a couple of hours depending on the length of the caravan and the mood of the guards.”

“But-they’re Solamnic Knights, sworn to uphold integrity and faith. Why, they’re no different than the brigands you-”

“If it makes you feel better, they give part of their earnings to the priests who maintain the tower’s temples,” Ladonna said. “Being good means committing the same sins but finding better justifications for them.”

Tythonnia shook her head. It was typical of a black robe wizard to assume the worst of everyone else. Before she could say as much, however, Ladonna dismounted and began pulling her horse along as she examined the wares on the blankets.

“Wait, where are you going?” Par-Salian asked.

“We’re here for a few hours, and I could do with some time alone,” Ladonna said.

“We should stick together,” Tythonnia said.

“Not every bloody second of every bloody day,” Ladonna said. “I’ll meet you back here in two hours. Unless you’re afraid of being left alone?”

“That’s not the point, Ladonna!” Par-Salian said.

“Good,” Ladonna replied, drifting into the crowd and waving back at them. “Two hours it is. Ta!”

Par-Salian and Tythonnia watched their compatriot vanish into the gathered mass.

“Maybe she’s right. I could do with a cooked meal,” he said, nodding at the pavilion-covered tavern. “And with eating at a table. I miss tables. And chairs.”

Tythonnia shrugged her shoulders. “Fine,” she said, though it irked her to let Ladonna get away with her little act of disrespect. “Two hours.”

Par-Salian did little to hide his exasperation. “Tythonnia,” he said. “Perhaps you should stop taking things so personally.”

Tythonnia opened her mouth to complain, but he stopped her with a raised hand. “I’d expect that of Ladonna … as a Black Robe,” he practically whispered. “You know how they are. She’s been taught to be selfish. But you, you’re of the red cloth. You should be open to both sides.”

“What about you?” Tythonnia said, her eyebrows cocked high. “What’s your job?”

“To believe in the best of you both,” he said with a congenial smile. There was a sparkle to his grin, a rare thing since the trip began.

Tythonnia felt the tension melt away, and she nodded with a smile. “Maybe you’re right. I could do with a couple hours alone. Go, go get your warm meal. And be careful.”

Par-Salian nodded and practically licked his lips in anticipation of sitting down to eat. Tythonnia spotted a camp farther away and decided to investigate. Truth be told, she was tired of fretting over her two companions, and perhaps Par-Salian was right; maybe they all needed a break from each other.

The Journeyman watched the three wizards split up, each of them heading in different directions through the crowd. After a moment of watching them, it was easy to see where each was headed. Ladonna perused the wares being sold along the road. Par-Salian’s appetite got the better of him as he tied his Qwermish to a hitching post outside the tavern. Tythonnia headed for a small encampment of travelers and their shelter wagons.

That would make his job more difficult, but of the three, history knew the least about Tythonnia. Par-Salian’s and Ladonna’s contributions to the orders were well recorded and scandalized, while the Red Robe was a relative enigma, historically speaking.

He chose to follow Tythonnia.

“Welcome, sir. Sit, sit.”

Par-Salian was caught off guard when the bald-headed man rushed forward to meet him and, as quickly, ushered him to an open table. The pavilion was spacious and propped up by ornately carved poles. Six tables took up one side of the tent, while wood barrels and a makeshift bar filled the other side. A serving boy bustled through the tent flap near the bar, and Par-Salian caught glimpse of a cooking pit outside next to the stream where they washed the dishes.

The tables were made from three barrels tied together as a base with a circular tabletop. The chairs were stools and comfortable in the short term, while the bar itself was a series of barrels with planks between them as counter space. Four men and two dwarves stood at the bar, drinking a quick goblet of something with businesslike quiet, while travelers from different lands occupied two tables. The ground was muddy, the grass torn up by regular traffic.

“You got steel, do you?” the bald man asked. His arms were as thick as his accent, and his chest seemed to swell out into a hard gut.

Par-Salian nodded and lightly clinked the purse hanging from his belt. The man happily slapped him on the back, leaving a stinging spot, and sat him down on the stool with both beefy hands on his shoulders.

“Then you’re our most honored guest!” he said. “Name’s Tarmann. What drink to wet your lips?”

“The house brew,” Par-Salian said, hoping to hide his ignorance of the local customs and flavors.

That seemed to please Tarmann, who promptly grinned and moved off to the bar. Par-Salian had a moment’s quiet to reflect on the people around him. Finally, he felt at ease again … normal in the company of others. A redheaded server approached the table with a pitcher and poured the cold water to the muddy ground while Par-Salian washed his hands in the stream. A moment later, Tarmann returned with the mug of beer and gave Par-Salian the run of the menu. Unfortunately, there was only pork to be eaten warm and a crumbling rye bread, but there were a good variety of pottages including Par-Salian’s favorite, a barley dish.

Par-Salian smiled at his good fortune and eagerly awaited his cooked meal.

Tarmann poured another drink from the barrel, an expensive mead he rarely served, and handed it to the dwarf with a braided beard. He offered customers a gregarious smile to their faces when their gaze met his, but when nobody was looking, he fixed Par-Salian with look of consternation.

Finally, Tarmann motioned over the redheaded server, his young nephew. The boy obliged quickly, knowing better than to try his uncle’s patience. Tarmann brought the boy behind a stack of barrels, out of sight of the customers.

“Well?” Tarmann asked.

“He’s got lots of pouches,” the boy responded with a shrug. “I suppose them’s the kind of pouches we was told to look out for.”

Tarmann nodded. “Right then. Go find that cloaked lass who came in earlier. Tell her or her two mates we got someone that looks like they described. Go on now. Hurry.”

His nephew nodded and ran past the tent flap. Tarmann returned behind the bar’s counter, all smiles and eager glances at Par-Salian.

Ladonna pulled her Abanasinian gently, coaxing it along with a carrot. It didn’t really need much encouragement, but Ladonna was feeling particularly generous today. The few minutes spent alone, despite the crowd of people, was an unexpected luxury. And she planned to indulge in its every moment.

She scoured the knickknacks and tidbits scattered about on the blankets, looking for anything that caught her eye. Most of it was of poor craft and made with even cheaper materials, much like those made by the beggar-vendors in the Labyrinth Market of Palanthas. But even the shoddiest work could be a treasure in disguise. She loved jewelry in particular, be it a rusted locket with a dormant charm hidden within or a ring with enough of an enchanted mote to sparkle just so. Ladonna’s gift lay in discovering items with a bit of magic left in them. Even if the artifact was spent of the arcane and merely an empty vessel long forgotten of its purpose, she was drawn to it.

That was how she had earned the attention of a wizard of High Sorcery. There she was, a street urchin with fingers light enough to lift any purse and a gaudy array of jewelry and forget-me-nots best left to the dung heap. She was common trash to most, but to the wizard who spotted her, the echo of magic in everything she owned was unmistakable. If she possessed such an innate sense of the arcane, the wizard realized, then she could be trained to wield it as well. And it was easy to convince her; she took one look at the wizard’s possessions and was suddenly in love with him.

Well, not him, she corrected herself, but with the power he possessed. Hello …

Ladonna’s eye caught the glimmer of a shine coming from a child’s toy-a wood carving of a strange knight. There was nothing Solamnic about the ornate curves of the toy knight’s shoulder pieces and the twin mounted horns that spiraled upward from his helm. The paint was gone, leaving behind only the hint of a color, and the wood itself was cracked.

It’s ancient, Ladonna realized. Pre-Cataclysm.

Whatever magic it once possessed was likely gone, but even without scrying the piece, Ladonna recognized it as a child’s luck charm.

“That soldier,” Ladonna said. “How much?”

“A Lord’s pence,” the elderly woman said.

Ladonna tossed her a copper stamped with the Lord’s Palace Seal of Palanthas and grabbed the soldier. She studied the piece as she walked away, trying to divine more from it. Perhaps there was a scrap of magic left in it, enough to enthrall a child and protect him if only once. She smiled and continued walking through the crowd, searching for anything else intriguing even though she knew she was already lucky enough for one day.

It was thanks to that state of calm that Ladonna almost missed the cloaked figure moving through the crowd. Ladonna’s gaze washed over the almond-eyed woman a dozen feet away before her gaze snapped back to her. She recognized the renegade huntress Dumas from Virgil Morosay’s trial. Her heart dropped and for no reason she could justify, she suddenly feared the woman who was walking away from her.

Don’t be silly, you’re on a mission for the conclave … as a renegade, she added as an afterthought.

Dumas seemed intent on something. She was searching the crowd for someone.

Us.

Impossible, Ladonna thought. Why would the highmage complicate their assignment by sending a renegade hunter after them? It didn’t make sense, but it seemed too great a coincidence that Dumas was there at the same time as they were.

Maybe Highmage Astathan sent the renegade hunter to help us? Then why not mention it before, Ladonna answered. Hope could be a strong motivator, but it was a poor planner. Ladonna had learned that the hard way growing up. No, it was better to prepare for the worst. And the worst thing she could imagine right then was that the renegade hunter was after them. That was the safer assumption. If that was the case, however, who sent them and was Dumas alone?

Reginald Diremore?

Ladonna’s palms turned slick with sweat. Had she overplayed her hand with Reginald? Was he more vindictive then she anticipated? Ladonna wasn’t sure, but it made sense. Diremore wanted them to fail so he didn’t have to challenge Highmage Astathan’s faith in Par-Salian openly.

With a sinking weight in her belly, Ladonna followed Dumas deeper into the crowd. Her thoughts were in turmoil, however. Should she turn around and warn the others? Or continue to track the renegade hunter?

Tythonnia approached the encampment of wagons on foot. There were bow top wagons with curved roofs, and box-framed wagons that looked like miniature cabins balanced precariously on their wheels. The old wagons were all wood covered and bleached of color, but the carvings and fluting on many were intricate and beautiful. The wagons were arranged in a circle, with a communal hearth at the center.

Most people steered clear of the encampment. The Vagros were not widely trusted.

Tythonnia thrilled at the prospect of seeing a legitimate Vagros caravan for a second time in her life. Following the Cataclysm three hundred years before, the Vagros began as refugees looking for new homes in the savage and broken continent of Ansalon. As people settled into new homes and founded new communities, however, the Vagros, or “Wanderers,” emerged as those who’d developed a taste for a nomadic life. They became insular and distrusted, thieves some would say, though Tythonnia never believed the rumors fully. She held that the misconception of Vagros as thieves came about in the dark days after the Cataclysm, when theft was sometimes a necessity of survival.

Still, the humans, elves, and dwarves shunned them, but it was said their ties with the eager and wander-struck kender were strong. In fact, Tythonnia could see three kender traveling with the Vagros, their clothing bright and garish, two with topknots, blond and brown, and one dirty-blond fellow with a short crop of hair. The kender were four feet tall, and they played games with the Vagros children, matching their energy and enthusiasm bit for bit.

Tythonnia had heard that Vagros caravans made annual stops in kender communities and in the cities of Kender-more and Hylo. The Vagros brought them gifts and stories from across the lands, and the kender offered supplies and more stories in return. They bartered in tales and whispers of adventure.

Everything Tythonnia knew about the Vagros came from the old woman Desmora. Desmora had Vagros blood and dealings with some Wanderers, especially the clan matriarchs. It was said they shared some of the same mystic traditions, though as Tythonnia grew more skilled within the Wizards of High Sorcery, she came to realize that was a generalization of all renegade magics.

Still, the Vagros possessed what the wizards disparagingly called “cupboard tricks,” and such minor magic exerted a hold over small communities. In fact, the simple people of the land put greater stock in the good luck charms, divination readings, and crop blessings of village renegades than those of any trained wizard of the orders. That said, there were a rare few such as Desmora who had tapped into the more rare, more powerful Wyldling magic.

Much to her chagrin, Tythonnia had to admit she was fond of the old ways as well. She found comfort in them, in the home remedies and the bits of common wisdom. It was that comfort that brought her to the outskirts of the Vagros encampment. If Amma Batros knew she was there, she’d never hear the end of it. Amma had grown up around wisewomen and seers such as Desmora. She even revered them once, but she put far more stock in the “respectable” practices of the wizards. Tythonnia, however, never shook her respect for the humbler magics and their practitioners-even when her training taught her that they were her enemy.

A trio of women peeling potatoes next to a bow top wagon eyed Tythonnia suspiciously. Four men speaking around the pit fire also stopped and watched her approach. Only when she stopped just outside the circle of wagons did the men stand. Even the kender stopped, and while one of them smiled and seemed ready to step forward, a young Vagros girl stopped him.

Tythonnia knew her place among their traditions. With her hand light on the reins of her Dairly, she waited until the group of men approached. A Vagros with thin features, hair peppered prematurely and a thick shadow of stubble, took the lead. He was dressed in flared trousers and black boots, his silk shirt still bright with yellow and blue hues. His thin fingers rested on his belt, close to his dagger.

“What do you want?” he said. He eyed Tythonnia suspiciously and found her wanting in his appraisals.

“I come to barter,” Tythonnia said. “A gift for the advice of your wisewoman.”

He grunted both as acknowledgment and for Tythonnia to show her offering. She pulled a mirror from her travel pouch; its back was polished wood, its handle carved with geometric designs. It was a small indulgence of vanity that Tythonnia could do without.

The Vagros studied the mirror with disinterest, the face of a haggler. “How do we know you don’t hunt us?” the Vagros asked, not addressing her directly. “Maybe you want to hurt her.”

“I … was a student. Of Desmora. She introduced me to Mother Benecia of the Gratos Clan. Mother Benecia honored me with a reading.”

The Vagros studied Tythonnia under renewed scrutiny. “Desmora, we know, and we trade with the Gratos. But Mother Benecia-”

“Passed away years ago, I know. I was very young when I met her, and she was very old. I never forgot her.”

The Vagros pocketed the mirror and motioned for Tythonnia to enter the circle of wagons. He and the others flanked her as they escorted her to a box-top wagon with spiraled fluting and stars and crescent moons carved through the wood. The windows were shuttered closed, but candlelight flickered through the carvings. The lead Vagros knocked on the door at the rear and entered when summoned. He vanished inside.

Although still under their scrutiny, Tythonnia tried not to fidget. The cabin door opened again, and the Vagros hopped down. With a sweep of his head, he motioned for her to enter. Tythonnia nodded and suddenly doubted the wisdom of her actions. It was one thing to seek Vagros counsel when she was young and didn’t know better, but the Vagros dabbled with prohibited magics. The reasons the renegade hunters and the Wizards of High Sorcery hadn’t hunted them down entirely were twofold. The first was that Vagros rarely produced anything beyond folk charms-remedies, fortune-telling, and any number of other “charlatan arts”-at least publicly. The second reason was that the Vagros stood behind their wisemen and wisewomen, and any attempt to bring a matriarch or patriarch of the clan to High Sorcery judgment was met with outright and savage warfare. More than one renegade hunter had reputedly vanished at the hands of the Vagros and more than one Vagros clan had been massacred in a horrible misjudgment. The Vagros may not have believed it, but most wizards truly regretted those incidents.

But they still couldn’t condone the clans’ use of magic and the rare threat of Wyldling arts.

Yet here Tythonnia found herself, ready to seek their counsel. She couldn’t explain why she felt more and more comfortable remembering the old ways.

What if I’m caught? she wondered.

Then say you were acting the part of the renegade, she answered almost immediately.

That little bit of justification was enough for Tythonnia to gird her courage, mount the steps of the wagon, and enter the candlelit cabin. The door closed behind her.

Par-Salian sopped the hard bit of bread in the barley soup and savored the warmth of his food as it slid down his throat. It was an average meal but long overdue, he thought. There was something bothering him, however-the owner Tarmann. Par-Salian prided himself on being able to divine people’s emotions and moods, and the owner was a strange one.

As Par-Salian was finishing his bowl, Tarmann became more and more agitated. When the owner thought nobody was looking, his gaze darted to the tent flap, as though anxious for someone’s arrival. But did that have anything to do with Par-Salian? The White Robe wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t afford to take anything for granted. He reached for his purse and saw the look of panic that flittered across Tarmann’s face.

Tarmann practically ran for his table.

“Finished, are you?” Tarmann said as he approached. “You’re not thinking of leaving without trying our sweet cakes?”

“I couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” Par-Salian said. He began fishing through his purse for the right steel, but Tarmann shoved the purse away with a laugh.

“It’s on me and the missus,” Tarmann said. “Just you wait. A finer bit of sweet I’ll warrant you’ve never tasted.” With that, he grabbed the plates from Par-Salian’s table and quickly bustled off with a final glance back.

Par-Salian knew for certain now that Tarmann was trying to delay him. The reason was a mystery, and that was enough cause for worry, especially with Tarmann staring at him, as though nailing him to the seat with his very gaze. He had to escape without provoking a confrontation.

Par-Salian slowly reached for one of his pouches and removed a pinch of wool. The table covered his movements, and Tarmann took no notice as he gestured beneath the table and whispered the words to evoke the necessary spell.

“Capik,” he said, feeling the energy trickle through his fingers and into the wool like warm water. The magic ate the wool, turning it to dust, and Par-Salian directed the invisible spell along the arrow of his gaze, pinning Tarmann to the floor with it. Tarmann’s eyes glazed over, and he simply froze.

Par-Salian immediately dumped coins on the table for his meal and headed out the tent flap. Tarmann had yet to react. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to for a few more seconds. Par-Salian quickly darted into the crowd of people waiting for the gate to be cleared and caught a glimpse of a panicked Tarmann shoving past the tent flap and looking around. He cursed his luck when he remembered he left his Qwermish steed behind.

“There he is!” a voice shouted.

Several people looked about, startled, but Par-Salian recognized the redheaded server pointing a finger at him. Accompanying the server was a bear of a man with a bushy beard. He was larger than Tarmann and dressed in black with a hood pulled over his head.

Par-Salian blanched; he recognized the renegade hunter, as well as the intent in his black-eyed expression. The renegade hunter was after him, though why, he didn’t know. The hunter pushed the boy out of the way then hesitated. There were too many people between him and his quarry.

Par-Salian jammed his fingers into one of his many pouches with practiced familiarity and pulled at the reagents as the spell words flew to his lips. Somewhere in his mind, a page inscribed with the ink of thought burned with a flash. The script vanished and the spell made itself felt through Par-Salian’s fingertips.

Before the renegade hunter could react, Par-Salian whispered, “Dumak edar,” and threw the bit of bone wrapped in bat fur to the ground. Darkness exploded from the bone, swelling up into a great sphere of night that engulfed Par-Salian and the crowd around him. Nobody could see, save for the white wizard. People screamed in panic, and the mob scattered in all directions, blindly trying to escape.

Par-Salian ran away from the renegade hunter and used both the mob and the dome of darkness to hide his retreat. He wasn’t sure how much time he just gained, but he knew he had to flee toward the High Clerist’s Tower.

Ladonna watched in horror as shouts pierced the air and a short distance away, a twenty-foot dome of shadows suddenly appeared. The panicked crowd surged away from the darkness, pushing Dumas and Ladonna away from it as well. Dumas struggled to fight her way upstream, but Ladonna knew better. She mounted her Abanasinian and, upon succeeding-barely-pulled away from Dumas to search for the others. They had to leave this place, but if they didn’t reach the other side of that keep, they would never make it to Palanthas. No, they had to find a way around the blocked gate.

It was only by chance that she spotted the brown-topped head of Par-Salian as he fought his way toward the keep. Ladonna kicked her horse forward and pushed through the crowd to reach him.

Tythonnia stared at Grandmother Yassa; she had a young face, younger than hers, but such ancient eyes they might have belonged to another woman. She’d been swept past the strange whirlpool of wrinkles around Yassa’s eyes and into their black pools. The young woman commanded authority with her words and her gaze. She was a stick of a person with thin fingers that spread from the branches of her thin arms. The beaded lace shawl that covered her head did little to hide her prematurely white hair. She was truly an ancient soul, young for her time.

Yet it was her words that had robbed Tythonnia of her senses and continued to echo and linger in her thoughts. Tythonnia struggled to say something, anything, but the arguments would not come.

Grandmother Yassa, however, continued as she swept up the painted cards and hid them back under the veil resting upon her wooden table. “You hide behind too many masks. You’ll die a stranger, among strangers. Nobody will ever know you. Change, or you live alone. Embrace that change, or you die lonely.”

Tythonnia nodded absently, trying to digest the proclamation. It was true enough: Ever since the Test of High Sorcery, her life seemed to be unraveling. She was no longer who she thought she was, no longer who she wanted to be.

“Is it your aim to be unhappy?” Grandmother Yassa asked.

Tythonnia shook her head. “No, of course not, but how do I know so little about myself? I feel like I’m turning into a … stranger, as you said.”

“It is the way of things,” Yassa said, nodding knowingly. “Magic is alive, dynamic. Not even death is stagnant. Why should you be?”

“Magic?” Tythonnia said, suddenly uncomfortable. “Why do you say magic?”

Yassa fixed Tythonnia with a scorn look that hooked into her soul. “You reek of it, girl. Your fingers are stained from powders and unguents; your hair practically dances with electricity. I smell it on you, wizard.”

“I-” Tythonnia began, but the old woman cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“I also smell the older magics on you as well. You learned the wilder ways first, did you not?”

There was no use lying, Tythonnia realized, so she merely nodded.

“Our ways are the old ways, before the moons could speak. The moons have forgotten to respect the wisdom of their elders.”

“That’s not true,” Tythonnia protested. “It’s … more complicated than that.”

“So you say. But when you are most troubled, you return for our comfort and not the wisdom of your moons.”

“I thought …” Tythonnia said, but she bit her tongue. The Augury of Cards wasn’t specific in its readings, and for all of Yassa’s wisdom, she didn’t know the details of what bothered Tythonnia. She knew only that something troubled her and there was an internal battle for her heart. But the words came unbidden in Tythonnia’s thoughts, as did Yassa’s words.

You have strangers living inside you, Yassa said. And yet they know you better than you know yourself. For they have made a home of your heart. Let them guide you.

I want children. I want to be married, Tythonnia pleaded with herself. She had promised her mother children, had promised her father a legacy. She wanted to grow old with a man and find contentment in his love. But the stranger in her heart answered with the memory of Elisa.

“What was her name?” Yassa asked.

“Sorry?” Tythonnia said, shaken into cold panic.

“The other girl I can see by your side. The one who enters and leaves your heart freely when you yourself are locked outside of it. Who is she?”

Tythonnia hesitated. She had never spoken about that to anyone before. Her inclination was to dismiss the question, to laugh it away. She opened her mouth to lie, but Yassa cocked her head in warning, as though she knew what was coming.

“Elisa,” Tythonnia managed to whisper, and the sound of it on her ears sent a shock through her system. She’d done her best to suppress the memories of Elisa until the Test of High Sorcery dredged them all back up again.

“Elisa,” Tythonnia repeated, just to be sure she’d spoken it aloud. “But it’s wrong,” she said weakly.

“That is not your voice speaking. You let other people speak for you?” Yassa responded. “It-”

A rattle at the door startled Tythonnia from her thoughts. The Vagros who brought her to Yassa stood at the door, blocking it. He had his hand on the shoulder of a girl in her mid teens. She had brown hair and blue eyes and was breathing hard.

“Tell them what you told me,” the man urged.

“Renegade hunters,” the girl said breathlessly. “They’re looking for three people. Two women and a man … renegades.”

The Vagros man fixed Tythonnia with a poisonous stare. “Go. You are done here.”

Tythonnia rose to leave, but Grandmother Yassa clasped a hand over hers and pulled her down to whisper in her ear. Her breath flushed Tythonnia’s skin with its warmth.

“It takes strength to love, not weakness,” Yassa whispered. “Trust your inner voice and worry not about the disapproval of others.”

Tythonnia left the encircled camp in a daze, her thoughts overwhelmed. There were Yassa’s words, her own uncertainties, and finally, the renegade hunters. The hunters had to be searching for her and her companions. Why renegade hunters were on their trail was a question she couldn’t answer. She had to find Par-Salian and Ladonna.

The area was in turmoil. Travelers and pilgrims alike stared in awe of the dome of shadow that rose over two stories high. Knights forced their way through the crowds, their swords already drawn and their demeanors rough.

Most of the crowd stayed clear of the shadow bubble, but Tythonnia caught a glimpse of a hooded man moving toward the High Clerist’s Tower. She didn’t recognize him, but she spotted Ladonna pushing her horse through the mob a dozen yards to his side. They were both chasing the same person.

A renegade? Tythonnia wondered. Then she realized they were both chasing after Par-Salian. Tythonnia shoved people aside with little care for etiquette. She had to reach Ladonna.

The throng of people was like a troubled sea, and Tythonnia continued to see and lose track of Ladonna and the hunter. They were heading for the central ramp leading up to the tower. Tythonnia swung up onto her saddle and prodded the Dairly forward.

As she neared Ladonna, Tythonnia could see there were two hunters in the crowd, the second a woman headed straight for Ladonna. Tythonnia almost panicked when she recognized the female hunter from Virgil Morosay’s trial. She’d forgotten her name, but she feared the other woman just the same. Ladonna had no idea she was about to be overtaken.

Less than a dozen feet away from Ladonna and the huntress, Tythonnia realized she would be too late. The woman raised her hand and uttered words that were lost in the din of the mob. More screams followed when strands of web flowed from the huntress’s fingers and snapped between two giant wood poles from which flew the Solamnic banners of the crown. The spell immediately snared Ladonna and her horse. The horse whinnied in panic and tried to buck as strands anchored it and several people together. Those not caught pulled away, sparking a stampede of humans and animals alike.

Ladonna was removing her cloak and trying to struggle out of the web. Unfortunately, the huntress was almost upon her. Tythonnia watched in horror as the huntress unsheathed her flattened blade and prepared to run the trapped Ladonna through.

Ladonna saw her attacker and tried to react, but she was still trying to wriggle free of the strands that had ensnared her right arm. She was powerless as the huntress raised her blade for the downward stroke. But for some reason the huntress hesitated, as though awakening to her own actions.

Tythonnia saw the opportunity and took it. She raised her hands and gestured, forming a rapid series of signs with interlocking fingers.

“Sihir anak!” She felt her heart surge four times at each fast, panicked beat. The daggers snaked and darted toward the huntress, bolting around anyone in the way.

The renegade huntress pivoted to face her. The bronze tome sent out a spark of electricity that traveled along one set of chains and up her blade arm. Her thin blade moved of its own volition, blocking each of the incoming missiles and bursting them. Tythonnia was too shocked to act; no one had ever been able to intercept that spell before.

Fortunately, since the huntress faced her, she didn’t see Par-Salian emerge from the crowd behind her. As he strode forward, Par-Salian raised his hand. A sphere of shimmering energy suddenly enveloped the huntress, trapping her like a fly in amber. She struggled to escape, but the sphere of energy held her solidly. Par-Salian kept marching straight toward Ladonna, intent on helping her. The second hunter, a burly man, emerged from the crowd near Par-Salian and took a second too long to assess the situation.

With nary a hesitation, Par-Salian snapped one arm across his body so his hand pointed over his shoulder back at the hunter. A sudden wind rustled Par-Salian’s clothes. The upturned grass rippled at its push, and both the hunter and the shocked bystanders around him were suddenly bowled over by the savage gust. The air seemed to wrinkle and form a solid mass of wind that ripped and tore at the ground.

Tythonnia broke through the mob, which was drawing away from the scene, and rushed to Ladonna and Par-Salian just as Ladonna pulled herself free. Unfortunately, her panicked Abanasinian still struggled against its webbed prison, as did four other men and women caught in the magic. In the distance, knights shouted and struggled to reach them.

“My horse,” Ladonna said.

“No time,” Par-Salian replied. “We must leave, now!”

“Why are they after us?” Tythonnia asked, helping Ladonna to her feet. She stared at the huntress, who glared back through the sparkling globe of energy.

“Enough time for that later,” he whispered. “The keep gate is blocked. Can we go through the Clerist’s Tower?”

Ladonna nodded. “But there will be guards.”

“To the tower, then,” Par-Salian ordered.

“What about the horses?” Tythonnia said.

“We’ll have to improvise.”

The three wizards aimed for the tower’s central ramp. The wall of people seemed to melt at their advance, unwilling to touch or be near them. Fortunately, the deeper they drove into the mob, the more they blended in. Only a handful of people had seen them, and soon the companions moved past pilgrims and gate guards who were trying to get a better vantage of the action.

They reached the ramp and assessed their situation. A group of knights was confronting the two renegade hunters, though the huntress was still trapped in the sphere. The larger man was arguing with two knights who had drawn their blades and was pointing in their direction. Par-Salian urged them to keep moving.

A great stone ramp led up to the mighty steel gate of the exterior battlements, which were open. The gate alone was worth a dragon’s ransom in wealth for the steel-starved continent.

Tythonnia and her compatriots passed under the large archway of stained rock and into a narrow courtyard that buffered the outer battlements from the octagonal tower. The central courtyard where they found themselves was sealed off, however, by two double doors to either side.

Par-Salian uttered a minor curse under his breath. They couldn’t use the courtyard to circumnavigate the tower. They had to get inside.

Directly ahead of them, a pair of stairs rose to the exterior ledge of the second story, where the temples were located. Pilgrims dotted the path. Between the stairs was a large corridor, which ended at a mammoth and rusting portcullis that barred further entry into the tower. The passage was also lined with angular columns shaped like serrated teeth.

Shouts drew their attention to the battlements above. A knight on the outer ramparts was pointing down at them and screaming something unintelligible but loud enough to attract attention. Par-Salian pushed Tythonnia and Ladonna up the stairs, past a handful of startled pilgrims. It was only then that one of the guards at the gate noticed them. He rushed across the courtyard, intent on giving chase.

They reached the top of the stairs, where a rail hedged the ledge and a tower archway opened into a small temple. Par-Salian led them toward the archway, the shouts behind them growing in volume.

Par-Salian snarled as he looked inside the temple. Beyond the row of intricately decorated pillars, past the pilgrims genuflecting at the kneeling slabs, was an altar, and behind it, a massive golden door that was sealed.

“Not that way!” Par-Salian said, pointing toward the ledge around to the right.

“Stop!” a knight shouted. He’d just reached the top of the stairs while trying to draw his sword.

“Don’t hurt him!” Par-Salian cried just as Ladonna raised her hand in his direction. An onyxlike stone from her ring finger levitated into the air before the color vanished from its surface, turning milky white. The knight’s eyes widened and he suddenly cried a scream that cut right through them. He sliced at the air with his blade, desperately fending away some unseen horror before he stumbled down the stairs in panic. He tripped and fell down the remaining steps.

Par-Salian grabbed Ladonna’s arm. “I said not to hurt him!” he roared.

“And we can’t be caught!” Ladonna shouted back as she pulled free of his grip.

“Let Tythonnia handle them,” he said, pushing them along the ledge again.” Your illusions!” Par-Salian said to Tythonnia. “Use your illusions.”

Tythonnia nodded, even as she pulled a small crystal rod from a pouch. As they cleared the first corner of the eight-sided tower, they could see more stairs leading upwards and a knight left to guard its access. He was alert and debating whether to investigate the shouts or remain at his post.

“Hold on here. What’s going on?” he demanded and pointed his broadsword at them.

Tythonnia reacted and pointed the crystal rod at him. There was no need to mouth the words of the spell as she envisioned the kaleidoscope of a shattered rainbow, the lights hypnotic. Colors filled the gap between the two of them, a shifting blur of hues. The colored lights swarmed the knight, who instantly relaxed, his expression deadening until he looked serene. His sword clattered to the ground, and the colors vanished.

“It won’t last long,” Tythonnia said as they passed him. “Hurry.”

Another corner passed and another side of the octagonal tower stood revealed. They faced more stairs descending into the adjoining keep-definitely not an escape option-and another temple entry. As they ran past the archway, they saw the same layout as before, with the column, altar, and golden door, but no pilgrims this time. From the side stairwells, they could hear men below making their ascent. And ahead of them echoed more shouts.

Par-Salian hesitated. There was no way out except the way they had come. Ladonna’s eyes lit up, however, and she pulled Par-Salian by the arm into the temple. Tythonnia followed.

“There’s a door,” Par-Salian protested. “Likely locked.”

“Once a thief,” Ladonna mumbled.

“What?”

“Trust me,” she shouted more forcibly. She ran past the kneeling slabs and up behind the altar. Once at the golden door, she ran her fingers along its yellow surface, a smirk on her lips. The voices outside grew louder.

Ladonna leaned in close to the door and whispered a word …

“Ufta.”

Something clicked, a cog unhinging itself perhaps, and the golden door quietly swung open. The voices outside seemed as though they were right at the archway.

“Quickly, inside,” Par-Salian hissed.

The three slipped through the narrow opening and put their backs to the door, forcing it shut again. It closed with the barest whisper. They stood there a few moments, listening for any noises outside, any shouts of discovery or hammering on the door. For a moment, there was nothing then finally a muffled voice that said, “They’re not here.”

After that, silence.

Par-Salian and Tythonnia breathed a slow sigh of relief and only then caught Ladonna’s wonder-filled expression. It was a simple corridor, nothing extravagant in its design save for the carved friezes showing a procession of priests and pilgrims heading off in different directions down the corridor. Otherwise, it was shrouded equally in shadow and dust.

“We’re inside,” Ladonna whispered, her tone almost giddy. “Nuitari’s Kiss … we’re inside the High Clerist’s Tower. Not even the knights venture inside the tower proper these days. Not while there’s no High Clerist living here.”

“I know precious little about this place, I must admit,” Par-Salian said.

“My teacher, Arianna-bless her for this-had me spend much of my training in the library of Wayreth. I read a great deal about this place. I fantasized about finding a way inside. And now … I have,” she said with a great, honest smile that lit up her face. She caught herself a moment after, and the smile vanished behind those cunning eyes. “We have quite the task ahead of us,” she said. “This place is reputedly a maze with secret passages and false corridors-oh! And haunted at that.”

“Is that why it’s abandoned?” Tythonnia asked.

“As a religious center, it lost much esteem when the gods left us. Politically, the Solamnic Knights aren’t well liked, so as favor with them waxes and wanes, so, too, does this place. When the Solamnics are in favor, this place is partially opened to serve the religious and political needs of various noble households, pilgrims, and the clergy. Think of it as a meeting place, a conclave of sorts.”

“So when the Solamnic Knights aren’t in favor,” Tythonnia said, “nobody comes here except pilgrims? Like now?”

“Like now,” Ladonna responded. “It’s the best time to explore this place … unravel her secrets.”

“We can’t stay here,” Par-Salian said.

“I know.” Ladonna moaned. “More’s the pity.”

“It won’t take them long to realize where we are,” Tythonnia said. “We best move.”

They explored the right corridor first, but within a few steps, they hit a dead end. Without their travel packs, Tythonnia enchanted the blade of her dagger to glow. It did not trouble the shadows to stir, but it was still enough to see by.

From the walls hung dust-coated tapestries depicting great moments in Krynn’s past, from the passage of the Graygem, which created many of the demiraces and monsters, to the heroism of men and women such as Vinas Solamnus and Huma. Simple doors opened into empty rooms and cells, each one possessed of intact desks, tables, cots, and shelves. Thick cobwebs coated whatever the shadows didn’t claim, speaking volumes of its long isolation, but stacks of papers and books lay waiting in orderly piles.

As the corridor turned another corner, again following the contour of the octagonal walls, Par-Salian motioned for them to join him. He stood at an opening opposite one of the golden doors. The chamber beyond was a narrow room, with an ornate bas-relief of the Fisher King carved into the opposite wall. It was a blue phoenix with feathers that seemed to curl into licks of flames. In its claws was a sword engraved with a rose, its hilt pointed left. Its eyes glittered with large gems, and a crown of jewels surmounted its beaked head.

Ladonna’s eyes widened as she registered the gems, and she took a step forward, but Par-Salian blocked the door.

“Don’t enter,” he said and motioned to the left and right of them where two statues stood at either end of the small room. They were iron knights bearing the rose-engraved swords of the Solamnic Order. Both swords were pointed to the floor as the knights grasped the hilts. “In every story read to me as a boy,” Par-Salian said, “if there’s a statue, it comes to life.”

“True enough,” Tythonnia said. “Let’s search somewhere else. We can come back here if we have to.”

They quietly agreed, though Tythonnia noticed Ladonna throwing one last forlorn peek back at the bejeweled Fisher King. The three followed the corridor further, encountering more small rooms and cells, a third golden temple door facing the outside wall, as well as another narrow room dedicated to the Fisher King. It was a replica of the previous room. There was no way out they could see other than the three golden doors, each leading to one temple outside.

“You said the tower was riddled with secret passages?” Par-Salian asked.

“That I did,” Ladonna responded.

“Maybe one of the rooms with the iron knights?” Tythonnia offered.

“Unfortunately, I think so as well,” Par-Salian said. “There’s something peculiar about those two rooms.”

“Maybe we have to pry the jewels free to open the door,” Ladonna suggested with a smile. “I volunteer.”

Par-Salian said nothing, but a grin escaped him.

They stood at the door once again, staring at the Fisher King carving. Something was off, something that wasn’t entirely right. But what was it? The jewels? The flaming feathers? The sword pointed to the right?

“The sword,” Par-Salian said with a snap of his fingers. “The knights would never point a sword to the right in any standard … always to the left.”

“I’ll check,” Tythonnia said, and before anyone could stop her, she stepped into the room. She walked up to the carving and noticed that both the claw and the sword were slightly removed from the wall. Tythonnia grasped the hilt and turned it downward. It resisted with age-rusted joints. Tythonnia could see the seam in the claw’s wrist, where the mechanism was supposed to rotate, but it wasn’t budging. She put her weight into it and struggled to rotate it one way then the other.

“Tythonnia!” Ladonna shouted.

The heads of both iron statues snapped up. A metal groan filled the chamber, and dust shook loose from the shoulders and heads of the statues. In unison, they pulled their feet loose of their moorings and stepped forward, their footfalls echoing sharply. Both raised their swords in mirrored precision.

Tythonnia grunted and pushed all her weight into the sword. With a rust-grinding click, the sword swung down and to the left, toward the sinister. The two statues strode forward, their blades poised to strike. The Fisher King’s sword locked in place, and the wall panel upon which the bas-relief was carved heaved open.

The two statues stopped immediately, and in perfect imitation of their advance, reversed their course move for move, back to attention again. Par-Salian exhaled in relief while Ladonna grinned; she was enjoying it.

The secret panel opened into another corridor that paralleled the one they just left. No tapestries hung there, however, no doors to entice the curious. There was only a winding stone stairwell at one end that corkscrewed upward.

“Down,” Par-Salian said, exasperated, “we must go down.”

“Sometimes you have to go up to go back down,” Ladonna suggested cheerfully.

Par-Salian grumbled something under his breath that Tythonnia couldn’t hear, but Ladonna’s smile widened.

The stairs opened into a small corridor that ended at a wall. A quick examination by Ladonna, however, and a touch of her light fingers, revealed a latch. The brick-faced door swung open into a dining room. It was a large chamber with a great table running along the room’s spine and dark chandeliers above. The places were all set, the silverware reflecting Tythonnia’s dagger torch, the goblets filled with some dark drink, and the plates stacked with potatoes and rice and a generous carving of boar meat. Seven doors lined the sides of the room while opposite the secret passage lay a wide corridor.

Dust and spiderwebs and shadows encrusted the room, save for the table, which appeared freshly cleaned and served, except … no smell came from the food and no warmth graced the room. The three exchanged glances, knowing full well the scent of magic when they encountered it.

“It’s like it’s waiting to be lived in again,” Tythonnia said.

“Everything’s preserved until needed,” Par-Salian said. “Papers, the food … the important things protected until this is again a home.”

“If it’s ever a home again, don’t you mean?” Ladonna asked.

Par-Salian shrugged. “I hope so,” he said. “Reopening this place could mean a return of … hope. Or some such thing.”

“A return of the gods?” Ladonna said with a laugh. “You didn’t strike me as a believer.”

“They still bless us with magic,” Tythonnia said. “Their constellations are where they’re supposed to be in the sky. Why shouldn’t they come back?”

“Maybe because they withdrew the healing arts, dropped a mountain on our heads, and then left us with all the tools to murder each other,” Ladonna replied. “If you ask me, they’re waiting for us to kill each other so they can start anew. The gods can be as petty and as angry and as shortsighted as any of us. The only difference is they have the patience to do it for much longer.”

Par-Salian shook his head at Ladonna’s glib response, but he also grew quiet.

“Keep looking,” Tythonnia said quietly. “We need to get out of here.”

They traveled down the wide corridor, looking into the barrack rooms with their empty cots and chests, into sealed chambers off the dining hall that once served as officers’ quarters. Par-Salian was adamant that nothing be touched or violated, but every time they passed a closed chest or lockbox or bureau, Tythonnia could see Ladonna struggling not to look. She thrived on mystery, and it was killing her to curb her curiosity.

Finally, they found another passage off one of the doors in the dining room, a corridor that opened into a large chamber. It was a railed balcony ledge surrounding a wide flight of stairs that led to the floor below.

“Finally,” Par-Salian said, but before he could leave the corridor, Tythonnia stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulders. She nodded to the head of the stairs. The room was nearly octagonal, except for one side where the wall jutted out like a peninsula, and arrow slits along it faced the stairwell.

“It’s a strangle point,” Ladonna said. “I read about these … rooms where archers could slow and even halt an enemies’ advance.”

“That’s why this chamber is open,” Par-Salian whispered. “Do you think anyone is inside that room?”

“No,” Ladonna said, “I don’t think they had time yet. But I don’t know for certain.”

“I have an idea,” Tythonnia said. She closed her eyes and imagined herself melting, her identity protean. A dozen ideals sprang to mind, people she wished to be … all women. She focused on the knights they saw outside.

“Perubahan saya,” she whispered. The magic overtook her body like long trickles of cold water down her dry skin. She suppressed a shiver.

“Wonderful,” Par-Salian exclaimed with a smile.

Even Ladonna nodded in appreciation. Tythonnia quickly studied her arms and body; she was covered in chain mail and a blue tabard with a sword stitched down its front. The illusion held no weight, but for all appearances, she was a female Solamnic.

Tythonnia entered the hall and walked directly toward the strangle point chamber. It bristled with arrow slits, and she tried not to show any fear. In the strongest voice she could muster, she demanded, “Have you seen them yet? Report!”

There was no answer, and she was easily within arrow-shot of anyone inside.

“Who’s in there?” Tythonnia demanded. Again, there came no answer. She hazarded a glance through one of the arrow slits, but the interior of the chamber was dark. She examined the surrounding doors, pulling them open to discover a small chamber and brick-lined walls behind two of the false iron doors. In one of the side rooms, however, was a staircase that wound its way up. After a quick study, she felt reasonably certain the area was empty. She motioned the others over.

“Down the stairs,” Par-Salian advised them, but Ladonna shook her head.

“Not yet. I read in the accounts of the tower that where one found false doors, one could find secret doors as well. The tower has two layers to it. What an invader might see and what a defender sees. Are you following?”

“Yes I understand, but-”

“Let her finish,” Tythonnia said. “She knows this place better than we do.”

Ladonna nodded gratefully. “The route of the invader is meant to confound and trap them. The route of the defender will be more direct. We are currently in a maze meant for the invader.”

Par-Salian blushed and nodded. “You’re right, of course. Find the secret door, and we find our escape. If there is one,” he added as a warning.

“Just search,” she advised.

The three of them drifted to different parts of the chamber, each of them feeling along walls. They pushed exposed bricks, tugged at sconces, and leaned against sections of wall. Her illusory skin shed, it was Tythonnia who discovered the incongruity along the peninsula wall covered in arrow slits. One panel of slits didn’t go all the way through. They were there for show.

Tythonnia jabbed each hole with her lit dagger until finally, she was met with a bit of give. The click of the door mechanism seemed to fill the chamber, and drew her companions to her. The door into the stranglehold point opened, and the three entered the brick-lined room with its archer alcoves. Par-Salian quietly squeezed Tythonnia on the shoulder, and she tried not to blush at the silent praise.

The stranglehold room opened up into an octagonal chamber with a thirty-foot square pit in the center. There were four archways, including the one they entered through, each located along the chamber’s cardinal point. Three archways opened into strangle point rooms, while the fourth exited onto the tower’s exterior ledge. Unfortunately, they were still fifty feet below the outside battlement, meaning any rampart guard could spot them if they stood in the archway.

The pit in the center of the chamber was a supply shaft for the tower’s defenders, with a series of ropes, winches, and pulleys extending down its length. A wood platform rested on the temple floor a hundred feet below, with ropes tethered at its four corners. Each floor below and above them had an opening where the platform might stop, though there was a good fifty feet between them.

Directly above them, however, were a handful of floating shapes, half gauze and half human, in advanced states of decay. They appeared to be drifting aimlessly. Par-Salian quietly motioned Ladonna and Tythonnia back, away from the lip of the shaft and out of sight.

“See? I told you this place was haunted,” Ladonna said in a low voice.

“We can try our luck with the outside ledge,” Par-Salian said, “though at this point, I can’t tell which direction we’re facing.”

Tythonnia glanced outside and said, “North. Toward Palanthas. There’s also the stairs we saw earlier, one going up and the other-”

“No, no,” Par-Salian said with a shudder. “I don’t wish to press our luck with the tower. No more stairs. No more maze. It’s the pit or outside.”

“Then we have three problems,” Tythonnia replied. “The first is getting down. The second is unlocking one of the giant steel gates that surround the courtyard. And the third is escaping on horses we no longer have … though I could conjure a horse.”

“Really?” Ladonna asked with a bemused eyebrow raised.

Tythonnia shrugged. “Well, you know-‘once a rider’,” she said. “It’s a trick all riders learn. But I’d need to study my spellbook to summon horses for all three of us. I’d have to conjure well enough for them to last half a day’s travel at least. Enough to get away from here.”

Par-Salian nibbled on his thumb a bit before nodding. “Very well. We can’t escape until dark as it is. That gives us some time to prepare. Tythonnia, study your spells. Ladonna, the spell you used to open the gold door, will it work on the steel doors?”

“No,” she said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to open it by hand. But how do we get down?”

“Feather fall,” Par-Salian said. “I have the very spell. It’ll carry our weight, but not the distance. We’ll have to jump twice: from one level to the next and then down again.”

Ladonna and Tythonnia exchanged glances. If the plan sounded a bit dubious, Par-Salian’s worried expression robbed them of their remaining courage. But for now they said nothing. Instead, they retreated into the strangle-point chamber behind them, pulled out their spellbooks, and began studying the necessary incantations.

The studying was done in a few hours, while there was still sun to stretch light across the four horizons. Par-Salian was the first to fall asleep, leaving an anxious Tythonnia and introspective Ladonna to sit there, brooding while their compatriot snored.

Tythonnia’s nerves played with her patience and imagination. Was the pass beyond filled with knights waiting for them to emerge? Why were the renegade hunters after them? And were there more of them? She glanced at Ladonna, who also looked preoccupied by her own thoughts.

“What did you mean by ‘once a thief’?” she asked Ladonna.

Ladonna looked at her and smiled at some faint memory. “I’ve had a colorful past,” she admitted playfully. “There is no secret in that, even if I keep the details to myself. But my mistress, Arianna, she once told me to start thinking like a wizard. But once you live as a thief, it’s hard not to keep thinking like one.”

“I know the sentiment,” Tythonnia said. “My spells kind of reflect my upbringing, as a farm girl.”

“And your desire to misdirect … hide in plain sight, hmm?” Ladonna said.

Tythonnia decided not to argue a point that was likely truer than she wanted to admit. She was tired of her rivalry with Ladonna. “Maybe,” she admitted.

“Par-Salian’s more the straight arrow type,” Ladonna said with a quiet chuckle. She nodded toward the white wizard and whispered, “Funny that he’s attracted to me.”

A smirk graced Tythonnia’s lips and she nodded. “I’ve noticed. You two should marry, a Black and White Robe together … have some nice gray-robed babies.”

Ladonna laughed aloud and rushed her hand over her mouth, but Par-Salian remained fast asleep. “I envy your ability with them,” Ladonna whispered in a gentler tone than Tythonnia had heard from her, “with illusions. Arianna was never good at them, so I never learned them with any real skill. When we have more time, maybe you can teach me?”

“A Black Robe learning from a Red Robe?”

“One wizard of High Sorcery to another,” Ladonna amended.

Tythonnia nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

Ladonna smiled. “Now hush and get some sleep. We’ve got a hard night ahead of us.”

Tythonnia felt calmer, more ready to face the evening. She lay on her back, her arm tucked behind her head, waiting for sleep to overcome her. And just when she thought she’d never fall asleep, she finally did.

It began quietly, in the darkness of the evening, with no light save the glitter of stars and the stare of the red moon. They understood their role, each of them, and the only words spoken were the kind that electrified the skin, words of power that unlocked the hidden mechanisms of the world, words of magic.

“Pfeatherfall.”

Both Ladonna and Tythonnia gasped as they stepped from the edge of the shaft. There was a difference between an absolute faith in the arcane and the unspoken laws that ruled mind, body, and nature. Their hearts felt as though they dropped faster than the rest of them, but Par-Salian calmly held the hands of both of them during their long, lazy drop to the level below. Their feet touched the floor, and Par-Salian cast the second spell before either of them lost their nerve.

“Pfeatherfall.”

Again they meandered downward to the wood platform of the ground. Tythonnia was unsteady on her feet, her knees wobbly and unable to take her weight. Ladonna, on the other hand, was laughing nervously, heady excitement and fear mixed together.

After needing a moment to recover, Tythonnia did her part.

“Tak’kelihatan.”

She turned Ladonna invisible with a touch, while Par-Salian mumbled the words to render himself unseen.

“Tak’kelihatan.” Tythonnia repeated the spell and turned invisible as well. She strode down the north ramp and into the courtyard between the battlements and the tower. She walked up to the steel gates, up to the counterweight pull ring. No guards could be seen, either on the grounds or on the battlements. Likelier, she thought, the knights would be outside, or perhaps they thought they’d already escaped. Regardless, it was a small force of knights, not enough to maintain watch everywhere.

Tythonnia waited until she heard Ladonna and Par-Salian arrive next to her.

“Ready?” Par-Salian whispered.

They replied in the affirmative and put their combined weight into tugging on the pull ring. All they needed was a foot or two, enough to slip through. The gate, however, was heavy and required every bit of weight they could muster to budge it an inch. It creaked open, loud enough to sound like thunder. Another jump dragged the large iron ring down, and the double steel gates spread open a little wider.

“It’s enough,” Par-Salian said. “Go, go.”

They ran for the gate and peered through. They could see the mountain pass rising up on either side and the two knights staring nervously up the ramp. Tythonnia tried to slip through, as it was agreed that she would be the first, and was almost stuck in the pinch of the door. She tried not to grunt as someone pushed her through; her flesh stung, but she was grateful for the escape. She could hear the rustle of cloth as Par-Salian or Ladonna came through next.

Thankfully, the two knights were just far enough away to hear nothing. Instead, they eyed the double gate warily until the brown-haired, walrus-mustached Solamnic said, “Summon the captain and them hunters. I’ll stay ’ere and make sure nothin’ gets through.”

The other knight nodded and ran to the keep just as a couple more knights were running up to the ramp.

“Hurry,” Par-Salian said with a hiss of a whisper.

Carefully, quickly, Tythonnia moved down the ramp on an arc away from the knight who was pointing his sword at the door. She held Ladonna’s hand lightly, enough to guide them along and stay in contact.

“Come on then, Mr. Door,” the knight said nervously. “No need to be opening like that on yer own. Just ain’t natural. How about ya close yerself up again and we can go on then, nice and peaceful, eh? No fuss.”

Down the ramp and onto the soft, lush green of the plains, Tythonnia was grateful to put the tower behind her. That side of the pass was empty of caravans and camps, though the grass was flattened in places. Since the knights were behind them, Tythonnia moved faster. After another moment, they were along the mountain walls of the Westgate Pass and behind a fold in the skirt of the cliff. They were out of sight of the keep and in near darkness.

Three times, Tythonnia grasped a tuft of horse hair, her hands moving into interlocking gestures and mouthing the words, “Stahaliun emersa.”

Three times, the script of rune vanished from her thoughts, like a word almost remembered and out of tongue’s reach. Three times, the air shimmered dimly as a brown horse fifteen hands high with golden eyes and a mane the color of the darkness between stars seemed to emerge from somewhere unseen. The horses were equipped with bit and bridle, their bodies lean and made for the run. Par-Salian, Tythonnia, and Ladonna quickly mounted their steeds.

All but Ladonna were happy to put the Tower behind them. She cast a wistful glance back, a wish unspoken to return someday and explore the tower at her leisure.