“The three renegades,” Dumas said, “they’re responsible for this.”
Thoma and Hort exchanged glances.
“You sure about this?” Thoma asked.
“I’ve been told to expect this,” Dumas said, taking the reins of her horse from Hort.
“We should send word, no?” Hort said, his brow furrowed.
“No,” Dumas said, mounting her Blödegeld. “We were told to stay hidden. It’s more imperative than ever that we find the renegades and kill them before they can murder anyone else.” She nodded to the ruin around her. “Before they can do this again and cast the name of the wizards in disrepute.”
CHAPTER 7
The Frail Path
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 spark
le 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.
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