Renegade Wizards aot-3

by Lucien Soulban

  As Tythonnia helped gut and clean the food, she kept watch for her friends. Par-Salian beamed with enthusiasm as he taught the children. He spoke from the book in one hand, but his oration seemed inspired and energetic and drawn from some ancient love of the subject. The children sat forward with their mouths slightly agape, leaning on their legs as he spoke and dazzled them with the tales of great battles. Then they followed him around the camp after lessons were done.

  Tythonnia smiled and searched for Ladonna. To her surprise, Ladonna sat there quietly with a small group of women. They gossiped and chatted, and Ladonna focused on her work, matching cloth from the scraps pile that best fit the clothing they were trying to mend. Her fingers flew, the needle flashing occasionally in the light.

  Satisfied they were all fitting well into their roles, Tythonnia continued cleaning out the hares and shooing away a persistent Khurrish hunting dog that eyed the set-aside entrails hungrily. Finally, exasperated, she tossed the dog a bit of liver and watched it tear into its meal. The cook, a dwarf named Snowbeard with a facial mane to live up to his moniker, frowned at her. She smiled back and almost laughed when he began muttering to himself.

  She was happy here; she’d spent too long with her head in books.

  The evening unfurled its starry sky over the plains, leaving the cooking pit and a half dozen fires to light the camp. All the people in the camp received a modest portion for their meals, not enough to send them to bed hungry but enough to remind them that they lived lean.

  Tythonnia, Ladonna, and Par-Salian sat together near the fire pit, the unofficial gathering spot for the camp, while a trickster performed sleight of hand for the children. With the meal completed, the families wandered away to tuck the little ones in, and many moved off to sleep themselves. That left the twenty or so sorcerers to finally indulge in their most passionate of pursuits: discussions of magic. The night always seemed like the perfect time to pursue such matters. It was the first time the three companions felt comfortable enough to stay.

  They listened quietly as the sorcerers spoke of spells and the arcane. Many couldn’t escape their training and their need for the formulized and structured arts; Wyldling magic seemed to have no form and few global rules. The Vagros, however, explained how Wyldling magic was personal, and its exploration was, in effect, an exploration of the individual. Chaos in that manner never meant to imply “wild” or “dangerous,” only that the rules of the individual took precedence over any laws guiding the masses.

  From there, the sorcerers went on to discuss different theories about the craft, some of which drew a quiet sigh from Par-Salian or the flash of an unintentional sneer from Ladonna. Tythonnia listened carefully, however, for the experiences of the men and women present closely mirrored her own. When the conversation turned to include someone seated on the periphery of the circle, only then did Tythonnia notice the mousy woman with the black armband.

  “What about you?” Shasee asked the girl. “Mariyah, isn’t it?”

  She nodded and smiled sweetly, and Tythonnia found herself smiling along with her.

  “What about me?” Mariyah asked. “I’m afraid all my theories come from the Wizards of High Sorcery.”

  A few people inhaled softly while others nodded, and Tythonnia suddenly realized the fear that many present bore toward the wizards. Ladonna and Par-Salian, however, became more attentive. Here was one of them, trained as they were, but a true renegade.

  “Did you take the test?” Tythonnia asked.

  “No,” Mariyah admitted. “Did you?”

  Tythonnia nodded.

  “Unscathed?”

  At that, Tythonnia had to shrug. Unscathed held no meaning anymore. Everyone was quiet, listening to them speak. To some, she was the enemy, repentant perhaps, in their midst. That was as close as any of them wanted to be. For the others, she was a familiar face in whom they hoped to find affirmation of why they had left the orders.

  “That’s what I don’t want hanging around my neck for the rest of my life,” Mariyah said.

  “What?” Tythonnia asked.

  “That haunted look many wizards carry. The look that says forever shall they suffer.”

  Tythonnia could see Ladonna trying not to squirm as she sat there. She wanted to jump into the conversation and debate with Mariyah. She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t, not without revealing herself as a spy. Tythonnia decided to change the subject.

  “Are you in mourning?” Tythonnia asked, pointing to her black armband.

  “No,” Mariyah said. “In some cultures, black is the color of celebration. It’s the hem of my robe. I’m celebrating my freedom from the orders.”

  At that, Ladonna stood suddenly. Both Par-Salian and Tythonnia felt the sheer panic rise into their throats.

  “Time for sleep, I think,” Ladonna said, excusing herself.

  “You disagree with what she said?” Shasee asked.

  Ladonna’s customary grin inched out across her face, and Tythonnia cringed at what might come next.

  “Disagree?” Ladonna asked. “Yes … with every single one of you in fact. You’re fools. One and all-fools.”

  Tythonnia almost groaned, and even Par-Salian seemed too stunned to move. Any moment, Ladonna would reveal herself as a spy and get them all lynched. Any moment, they’d be fighting for their lives and losing. Two sorcerers jumped to their feet, ready for action. Others shifted position where they sat, their pouches in easier reach. It was Shasee, however, who rose and stepped between Ladonna and the others. His voice was steady, his smile unwavering and casual in a way that suggested he could end the argument easily.

  “She misspoke, isn’t that right?” he asked Ladonna over his shoulder. He made it sound like a warning.

  Ladonna, however, continued undeterred. “I spoke clearly enough, hmm? You’re angry with the orders for not sharing their power with you, but why should they when they argue and bicker over it as well? Take what you want! Nobody’s going to give it to you. Magic is struggle; to treat it otherwise is to underestimate it.”

  “If you feel that way,” Mariyah said, “then why did you ever leave?” She wasn’t afraid of anything, it seemed, certainly not a confrontation with Ladonna.

  “Because,” Ladonna said, “the Order of the Black Robes underestimated me. They’re jealous of my skill, so they use my beauty against me. They refuse to treat me seriously? So be it. It’s at their peril, and I’ll make them pay. But I won’t do it around a campfire, pining for a better world where we can all live like brothers and sisters. We are rivals with a common purpose. That doesn’t make us friends. That makes us convenient.” With that, Ladonna stormed away, leaving Tythonnia and Par-Salian to deal with the angry crowd.

  “I’m terribly sorry about that,” Par-Salian said as he stood. “She’s been having a difficult time of late. I’m … going to check on her. Tythonnia?”

  “I’m staying. The conversation’s interesting,” she said, glancing around at the others. Everyone seemed upset or indifferent except for Mariyah and Shasee. The two men who had stood remained standing.

  Par-Salian backed away awkwardly and left the fireside quickly. Everyone was quiet a moment, most of them angry or shocked.

  “She’s harsh sometimes,” Tythonnia said, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. “If she hadn’t left the order, they would have kicked her out, I’m sure.”

  A few others nodded absently. Tythonnia slowly realized she was no longer welcome there either. She stood to leave and offered a nod to Shasee when a voice startled her.

  “Leaving already?”

  The others stood, their angry expressions gone instantly and replaced with humble glances to Berthal. The gray-robed sorcerer entered the lit circle, holding a braided staff with two dragon heads facing one another. A few practitioners muttered his name almost reverently.

  “I’m afraid so,” Tythonnia said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “And this would have nothing to do with Ladonna’s outburst?�
� he asked.

  “You heard …?” Tythonnia asked, blushing.

  Berthal sat on the ground and motioned for the others to sit. When Tythonnia hesitated, he gently grabbed her hand between his large fingers.

  “Sit. Please?” he asked.

  Tythonnia hesitated and looked to the others, but nobody was about to disagree with Berthal. Finally, she obeyed.

  “We can’t save everyone,” Berthal said. “In fact, you’re not responsible for saving everyone.”

  “I know,” Tythonnia said, “but she’s our companion-”

  “But is she your friend?”

  Tythonnia nodded. “I’d … like to think so.”

  Berthal smiled kindly and gently steered the topic away to different matters. As he spoke, a hush fell over the assembly, and they listened with careful consideration to each and every word. Even Tythonnia lost herself in his discussion and felt uplifted for it.

  Par-Salian walked among the tents, trying to find Ladonna, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was neither at their campsite nor among the clumps of people seated around the smaller fires, not that Par-Salian expected to find her there. Finally, tired of looking, he went back to check on Tythonnia and found her seated among the sorcerers. Ladonna wasn’t there either, but Kinsley and Berthal were. Berthal was speaking with hypnotic fervor.

  Curious, Par-Salian drifted closer to the fire pit until he was well within earshot of the conversation but outside the light. He preferred the anonymity of the darkness; he felt tired of having to watch his every gesture and word for fear of betraying his mission. More so, he was tired of lying to these people. He wished they were rough and crude and evil. By the moons, how he wished they were evil so he could feel less guilty about doing what he was doing. Instead, they had children and they were kind and generous. They were also careful with magic, treating it with a reverence he had thought exclusive to wizards.

  But they were wrong, absolutely and flat-out wrong. Wyldling magic was unpredictable and chaotic, a thing so devoid of order that the gods themselves had stopped its practice. The passage of a great artifact called the Graygem changed the foundations of the world itself, all because of wild magic. What-just because Berthal and his ilk thought they could handle it, were they justified in endangering the lives of all those around them? Spells and conventional magic didn’t exist because of the magic of weaker minds, as the Vagros claimed. No … spells and rituals existed to minimize the collateral effects of wielding the craft. Fire had to be tamed to become a weapon and a provider; water had to be controlled and diverted before it could become a life-giver to agriculture. Nature had to be conquered before it became tempered. Such was the truth with magic. Wyldling magic had to be broken like a stallion before anyone could ride it safely.

  Par-Salian didn’t want to like these people but he did. And that frustrated him even more. Why couldn’t they see the truth? Why couldn’t they realize the danger they put themselves and their children in? He was so ready to hate them but he couldn’t. He could only ache to save them.

  Why couldn’t they be evil?

  “Of course we offer the gods their due. But no more than that,” Berthal said. “More than that, and we hobble our will to their whim.”

  “What about the passage of the Graygem?” Tythonnia asked. “There was a time when magic was truly destructive, and even now there are those that would use magic to hurt others. Aren’t the rules needed?”

  Par-Salian wandered closer. He suddenly feared Tythonnia was revealing too much of her own allegiances. If it bothered Berthal, however, it didn’t show. In fact, he seemed to thrive on debate and questions. He wasn’t interested in blind adoration. He liked his company to think and challenge him.

  “The orders had their place,” Berthal said, a statement that surprised Par-Salian and several others by their expressions. “Many of us here believed that once. In fact, we still wrestle with it. But what once brought structure to magic has been used to manipulate the orders themselves, to force them to adhere to the rules governing the practice of the arcane, not a respect for magic itself. It’s the curse of all churches. We’ve bound ourselves to the service of the moons, not to the arcane. It’s blind obedience. And where has that gotten us? How many times have we been used to further the cause of the three gods themselves? Been enemies and not cousins?”

  “You keep saying ‘we,’” Mariyah pointed out.

  Berthal chuckled and nodded his head deeply. “I do. I do. Hard habit to break, trust me,” he admitted before continuing. “That is why we must return to Wyldling magic. To again learn from it and forge our own path this time. The way must be ours. We are no longer the infants of the moons. We’re no longer savages either. Why are we being punished like we are? Until we take accountability for our own actions, the gods will never respect us. Not truly.”

  Despite himself, Par-Salian sat upon one of the rocks and continued listening. It was hard to ignore Berthal. It was harder still not to like the man. Only distantly did he wonder where Ladonna had gone.

  Ladonna moved past the tents as quietly as she could. The fires in this part of the camp had died, the people long asleep, but one misstep could awaken the wrong lot. Ladonna had seen Berthal join the group at the fire pit, and she planned to take advantage of the opportunity. She wasn’t sure when she’d get another chance.

  Berthal’s tent was ahead, at the edge of camp-close enough to be a part of it yet far enough away for its occupant to remain an outsider among his own people. That was just fine for Ladonna. She walked across the gap between the main encampment and Berthal’s tent, stopping well short of her goal. She had little to fear about being seen, with the spell of invisibility sheltering her from prying eyes. Only her footfalls could betray her, but her ill-spent youth gave her a light step. What she had to worry about were the magical wards protecting Berthal’s home. For that, Ladonna had just the spell prepared. Her fingers flew together and apart, as though stitching the very air.

  “Mencelik sihir,” she whispered.

  Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Ladonna stood her ground and studied the earth and the grass, the tent and the tent flap. Nothing glowed or glittered. There was nothing that marked any sort of enchantment or mystical ward. It was possible Berthal was so skilled in the arcane crafts he could cast something far beyond her ability to see it, but she doubted it. The more powerful the magic, the easier it was to see. More likely, he was confident in the company he kept, and wasn’t securing his tent every time he walked away. Or perhaps the wards were inside.

  Ladonna maintained her focus as she stepped forward, up to the tent. She had to keep concentrating, lest the spell dissipate. She gently moved the tent flap and peered in.

  The tent was sparse: a bedroll for sleep and a small table and chair for study. On the table were a quill and inkwell, as well as a stack of books. Ladonna checked the interior; she detected the faint glimmer of magic from one of the books in the pile and nothing else. It glowed softly, the memory of candlelight. She slipped inside and examined her surroundings more closely. Surely there must have been an alarm, something to protect his tent?

  When Ladonna realized there was nothing of the sort, her dislike of Berthal grew. He was nothing but a fool leading other fools. How he had passed the Test of High Sorcery, much less served as a Red Robe, was beyond her. Disgusted, she crossed to the table and studied the bindings.

  The Scarred Path of the Gem, The Ways Lost, and Forgotten Tongues … those were the books Master Reginald Diremore wanted. Well, that and for her to seduce Par-Salian, which she had refused to do. She was a wizard, a scion of the order, a disciple of Nuitari. She served a greater power than the self-interest of sorcerers and the ambitions of men such as Diremore. But then, that was before she knew Par-Salian. He seemed weak at first, for all his compassion and quiet ways, but Ladonna had come to realize he was far better skilled than she, perhaps even more skilled than Reginald. Par-Salian hid it well. He was humble and so comfortable with the magic at his dispo
sal that he saw no reason to prove himself through boasts.

  Thus, for Ladonna, her dislike turned into grudging admiration for his prowess. He was also handsome in ways her ego didn’t let her recognize at first, not until those days spent recovering at Rosie’s, not until he made her laugh and his eyes brimmed with the twinkle of youthful mischief she never expected to see in a white wizard. There was a bit of the trickster in him, a scoundrel made respectable by his learning and position, but a scoundrel nostalgic for capers nonetheless. She wondered how far she could coax that element from him.

  She wanted to act upon her attraction then corrected herself. It wasn’t attraction; it was pure, physical desire-a need for companionship with someone whom she respected. But how could she seduce him without looking like she was succumbing to Reginald’s orders and bowing to pressure? It grated on her, this dilemma.

  Ladonna swallowed a curse. She saw none of the books she needed in the pile. She looked closer at the one that glowed. There was no title embossed on its spine. Carefully, Ladonna cleared away the books atop it and stared at the cover. She was instantly disappointed at the title: Arcanum Unearthed. It was a rudimentary spell book, the magic only cover-deep and meant to protect the tome from wear. She quickly flipped through the book, but saw that it was nothing more than what it appeared.

  There was nothing here of importance to the Black Robes and nothing to impress her concerning Berthal. It was almost better to kill him there and then and dispense with their entire charade. She closed the book.

  Berthal was in the middle of a sentence when he paused. A small grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced off into the distance, toward his tent. He continued speaking after that, though the smile lingered for a few minutes longer.