“I know.” Ladonna went quiet a moment. “The renegade-”
“Virgil?”
“Him,” Ladonna said. “He mentioned Berthal. Wasn’t he a member of your order?”
Tythonnia nodded. “Yes … before my time.”
“What happened to him?” Ladonna asked. She smiled, eager for the gossip.
“I–I don’t know,” Tythonnia admitted. “We aren’t taught much about them. The renegades, I mean.”
Ladonna’s expression returned to boredom. “Pity,” she said. She swiveled about on the bench again and lay back down, dropping her head on Tythonnia’s lap.
Tythonnia blushed; Ladonna’s familiarity and little regard for respectable distance caught her tongue-tied.
“Wake me up when something interesting happens,” Ladonna said, closing her eyes.
“All-all right,” Tythonnia said when she really wanted to say, “Get off of me, please.” She looked at the servants to see if any of them were watching with disapproval. Dutiful to the last, however, nobody was paying them any heed. Still, Tythonnia wasn’t sure what to do, especially with her hands. And she couldn’t stop glancing at Ladonna’s face, with its alabaster skin, pale and blemish free. Her lips were full and her cheeks soft and graceful. Again, she found herself admiring another woman’s beauty, admiring those qualities she felt were lacking in her own features. Somehow, staring at Ladonna’s beauty put her at rest, the exhale after tension-filled days.
Ladonna’s eyes opened suddenly, and Tythonnia quickly looked away.
“Got you,” Ladonna whispered.
“I was-”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Ladonna said, sitting up. “You wouldn’t be the first woman who was attracted to me.”
Tythonnia’s eyes went wide, a million panicked responses perched on her lips. Ladonna smiled at Tythonnia’s terror-filled expression.
“I’m not …” Tythonnia said, unable to say the words. “I’m not like that.”
Ladonna shrugged. “Like what, hmm?”
“Like that,” Tythonnia whispered. She looked around, fearful someone was watching them. Again, the servants were lost in their duties.
“It’s all right. Don’t fret,” Ladonna said.
“But I’m not.”
“Well, if you … insist.” Ladonna was already looking elsewhere, following the clop of footsteps heading toward them. The servant who had escorted Par-Salian away had returned.
“My turn yet?” Ladonna asked.
The servant nodded. “Yes, mistress. You are to follow me.”
“Where’s Par-Salian?” Tythonnia asked.
“Preparing, mistress,” the servant said before walking away.
Ladonna shrugged and followed. She spun about once, effortlessly, and offered Tythonnia a quick wink.
Tythonnia cursed herself for blushing so easily, for being so easily flustered in Ladonna’s presence. She was stronger than that, better than that. Her attractions did not rule her, could not rule her. And yet she could not escape the giddy memory of the last time a woman touched in her that way.
The memory was always the same, the senses capturing specific seconds of random moments before the minutes and days blurred. The bits of clarity lasted forever, however; the brush of Elisa’s fingertips as they held hands, the heat of her breath as she leaned in to whisper a secret.
Tythonnia still shivered, her heart forever trapped in those endless minutes, but they were always broken by the same memory: she was lying next to Elisa in the field of tall stalks and the infinite blue sky above; their lips meeting, the electricity that prickled their skin, the rough hand that pulled her up by the arm, the disgust that filled her mother’s face, the strange sadness that eclipsed her father’s. After that the memories were locked behind a wall of tears; Tythonnia couldn’t stop crying.
“She forced me to,” Elisa protested as her parents dragged her away.
Elisa and she were never friends again.
Gently the servant roused Tythonnia from her dream. She’d fallen asleep on the hard, red bench and lost track of time and place. The chamber was empty and dark, save for the lantern in the hands of the man with eyes like mountain lake water.
“Mistress,” the servant whispered. “It’s time.”
Tythonnia nodded and rose awkwardly. She shook her head, trying to wake up. “The others?” she mumbled.
“Preparing,” the servant said simply. He turned his back while she stood and straightened her garments. When she was ready, he escorted her from the dark chamber, through the unfamiliar halls of the Three Eyes Academy.
Nobody else met them; nobody was awake at whatever deep hour of night found them skulking about. The only light came from the servant’s lantern and from the basrelief wall sculptures of the great forest of Wayreth that ran either length of the long corridor; the tips of the trees glowed with motes of faerie fire, turning the passageway into a star-cluttered field of pinprick lights. Tythonnia had never seen anything so beautiful and, despite her nervousness, she marveled at the simple artistry of it.
The servant reached a large bronze door that dominated the end of the corridor; floral patterns and glowing magical script of elven make were etched on its surface. The servant rested his fingers against the door; it silently glided open as though mounted on the exhalation of one’s breath. The servant bowed his head and motioned for Tythonnia to step through. He then closed the door behind her.
The chamber was large, two floors in height and the interior the size of a modest tavern. The upper walls were a strange fusion of green rock and red metal, fluid droplets caught in their molten states. The lower half of the walls was a jigsaw of mahogany wood pieces, varnished and fit perfectly together. Spiraled columns of solid stone branched into irregular ribs along the green ceiling, like a tree trunk opening its branches to the canopy. In fact, the entire room was organic in its design. Few hard edges adorned its space, including curved experiment tables of granite that bore the appearances of artists’ palettes.
Behind a row of Qindaras clay pots and Abanasinian glass urns stood Highmage Astathan. Tythonnia knelt immediately, her heart racing at the honor of meeting him.
“Child, stand,” Astathan said, motioning with his hand. He had a delicate way about him, despite his age.
Tythonnia obliged, but could not bring herself to hold his gaze.
“Come,” he said. Another gesture drew her to his side. He took both her hands in his own, his slender digits still strong and nimble. To her surprise, he turned her hands this way and that and, before releasing them, nudged her head left then right with a finger. Tythonnia blushed under his golden-eyed scrutiny; she wasn’t sure how to react.
“Master?” she asked.
“Impressive,” he said, nodding to himself all the while. He let her go and walked to a row of jars mounted on shelves. He studied them, his back to her. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you’d never undergone the test.”
“Um, thank you?” she said. She was uncertain how to respond or what he wanted to hear.
“It’s the deepest recesses of your eyes that betray you,” he said, still studying the urns. Finally, he tapped one. “Ah,” he exclaimed and brought it to the table where more jars and urns lay.
“My eyes?”
“The test wounds everyone,” Astathan said, uncorking various jars and bottles, and smelling each in turn. He nodded to some and sealed others right back up again. “Why?”
“Why?” Tythonnia asked. “Oh-why do they wound everyone?”
Astathan glanced at her long enough to nod before returning his attention to the table’s contents.
“It’s a reminder, Highmage. That magic has a price.”
“That’s a patterned answer,” Astathan said. “It’s something I’d expect from an initiate reciting his lessons, not from someone who underwent the test herself. Why does the test wound us?”
Tythonnia stammered. She wasn’t sure what to say. Was she supposed to stay silent and learn at t
he feet of the greatest mage of their time? Listen was the pivotal axiom of Amma Batros’s teachings. Or was Astathan testing her?
He played at distracted, but she could tell he was listening intently. He genuinely wanted to hear her answer. He was curious-curiosity meant there wasn’t one possible response. Then it hit her. The test is never the same from one person to the next, therefore, why should the consequences be. She once heard someone say that the test wounds and injures in a manner specific to one’s ordained path, a path that embraces the study of magic and draws one away from life’s distractions. Call it a cruel mistress who demands attention, or perhaps the insistence of destiny, but the trials of a wizard are the roadmap of his or her future.
Astathan wasn’t interested in why the test wounded its applicants, Tythonnia realized. He was interested in why it wounded her.
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Tythonnia said, framing her response carefully as she spoke. “But maybe I was injured to reveal a …” she hesitated. The admission frightened her, but she was more afraid of lying to Astathan. He was a mythic name, a living legend, and any number of powers was ascribed to him. Discerning falsehoods among them, perhaps? His gaze penetrated her flesh, rendering her genderless and naked to the soul. “To reveal something about myself, like a truth,” she said finally.
“And this truth … it troubles you?” he asked, looking up to study her.
“It scares me.”
“As well it should,” Astathan said. “Those hurt physically must overcome adversity, yes, but rarely are their lives stripped of any pretense. Rarely are they forced to face their true selves. Many of us wrap ourselves in our lies. We let them define us for fear that others will hate us for what we despise in ourselves. Soon it becomes our flesh; its whispers, our voice.”
Tythonnia nodded, barely following the gist of the conversation. Astathan, however, continued speaking.
“But the test … ah, the test,” he said, a wistful smirk on his face. “It forces us to face the naked truth. The test is there to humble us, to forever remind us that we are never greater than the magic itself. Each of us burdened, each of us forced to remember that a greater cost exists. Do you follow?” he asked. He looked Tythonnia straight in her eyes.
“I–I think so.”
“Good. Because you’re about to be tested again. Tidur et mencelik betina batin santet!”
Before Tythonnia could respond or react, Astathan opened his palm and blew a handful of dark powder into her face. Everything went black.
CHAPTER 3
The Ghostwalk
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.
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