Frustrated, Ladonna returned to her own campsite. Par-Salian was seated next to a small fire, drawing figures in the ground with a stick. Ladonna sat down next to him and said nothing. He offered no remarks in return, though Ladonna suspected she knew what was wrong with him. That camp, those renegades … they were nothing like he expected. They were normal, everyday people, misguided perhaps, but people still.
She expected that Par-Salian wanted to save them, to show them that the orders could be a powerful tool for the betterment of all. He wanted to debate and argue with them as people of reason. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t there to be friends. He wasn’t there to debate and rescue them. He was there to bring Berthal to justice and end the renegade threat. He knew that and he had the strength to see it through, of that Ladonna had no doubt. But it was still a bitter wound.
Her hand found Par-Salian’s. He looked at her in surprise, but she stood and pulled him up gently. He was about to speak, but her finger found its way to his mouth. Her lips followed and she kissed him gently.
Par-Salian’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. He finally kissed her back; Ladonna marveled that a man’s lips could be so gentle and soft, and she felt as though she might sink into them. She could taste a hint of cloves on his breath.
Without breaking her gaze from his, Ladonna pulled Par-Salian by the hand. He followed willingly, off into the darkness of the plains and away from the light of the campfire.
The fire pit had turned into a sea of embers, and the sorcerers slowly drifted away. The hour was late, and fatigue seemed to wash over everyone, though nobody really wanted to leave. They wanted to continue talking until dawn overtook the day and rendered conversations ordinary again. When Tythonnia stood to wish them good sleep, and Berthal decided to retire as well, it seemed like a good time to call it a night.
Before Tythonnia could leave, however, Berthal surprised her by gently clasping her hand and asking if he could walk with her. His touch electrified her skin.
“Of course,” Tythonnia responded. Her heart quickened and her cheeks flushed with warmth. For a moment, she was happy that her own uncertainties seemed behind her, and she tried not to probe them too deeply lest they erupt anew.
Berthal spoke quietly with Kinsley a moment before the other man left for his tent. The two magicians then walked through the camp; Berthal seemed to enjoy the silence.
They reached the stream of fresh water and followed its snaking path along the grass. When they were far enough away from the tents, Berthal turned toward her and smiled.
“Out with it,” he said.
“Out with what?” Tythonnia asked.
“The questions you want to ask. The ones you’re afraid might be insulting. The ones I can hear buzzing around in that skull of yours.”
“Oh,” Tythonnia said, almost laughing. “You can hear them? That’s rude of me. I guess I should ask them so the buzzing isn’t as loud.”
“Indeed,” Berthal said.
Tythonnia paused as she thought about the questions. There were so many, and she knew she had to pick and choose the right ones.
“You said the Wizards of High Sorcery only see power, but aren’t you stealing from them? Aren’t you trying to steal some of that power?”
When Berthal didn’t answer, Tythonnia immediately regretted the question. She’d overstepped her bounds with him and betrayed her true purpose here. She was about to apologize, to retract the statement, when he spoke.
“Most people wouldn’t question why,” Berthal said. “They’d just assume it was vengeance, a stroke for a stroke. They’d assume I’m trying to build power to fight the wizards. Many of them would love nothing more than to hurt a wizard, any wizard. They want a war. But the truth is fighting the disciples of High Sorcery on their terms will destroy us. They have the training and the experience to make war a foolish pursuit.”
“Then why are you stealing books and wizards?”
“Ah,” Berthal said. “I never stole anyone. They came here of their own volition. To hear the truth. I am stealing books and artifacts, I’ll admit. But I’m trying to find something to help improve our lot, give us a fighting chance to survive. At least until we’re strong enough to resist the Wizards of High Sorcery. We want to give spellcasters a choice. Follow the three moons, or their personal brand of magic.
“This current dilemma cannot continue,” Berthal continued softly. “We can’t keep crippling and killing our best and brightest with this … this infernal test!”
“And you found something.”
“Maybe,” Berthal said and continued walking. “I think we have, but that means risking more lives to steal it. And therein lies my quandary.”
Tythonnia nodded and stilled her curiosity about what Berthal wanted to steal. She suspected he wouldn’t tell her. There were other questions, however, more questions she felt compelled to ask. None of them involved the moment; all of them involved Berthal the man. She knew that he had left the Wizards of High Sorcery but not the specific reasons why. So she asked that instead.
The question seemed to unstitch a deep wound inside Berthal, and his green eyes flickered as they struggled to keep the memory from biting too deeply again. Tythonnia fell silent, embarrassed she caused him such pain yet terribly curious. He answered, though he never looked at Tythonnia when he did. She suspected he was pretending he was alone, speaking his tale to the stars.
“His name was Joss, and he was the brightest, most capable student I ever taught. He was like a son to me. And the test killed him … savagely. I thought he could pass. He was strong and able, quick-witted, and a natural with magic. He spoke the language of magic as fluidly as his mother tongue. He never had to grasp for words or struggle through the gestures and intonations. They just came to him. Like breathing.
“He didn’t fail,” Berthal continued. “I failed him. I sent him to die-”
“But you didn’t know,” Tythonnia said.
“But I did,” Berthal said as he turned to face her. His expression was grave, furious, stricken. It didn’t know where to settle. “I knew the test didn’t reward the most able, only the most suicidal. It rewards anyone who forsakes love, happiness, passion. It rewards cold, calculating ambition above all else. Where is the strength in that? Where is our hope in that? Ambition doesn’t console you, love you. It is unforgiving.”
“I-” Tythonnia felt as though she should defend the test, somehow, but her thoughts drifted to her own ordeal.
“The test divorces us from everything that makes us who we are. It strips away our father’s strength and our mother’s love. All that remains is a blind loyalty to the moons. We swear an oath to three fickle lovers who never love us back-not in any way that matters. They give us power, yes, but there’s nothing of substance. And to ensure we never love anyone other than them, their so-called test leaves us with a scar that never heals. A scar that forever cleaves us from other people and reminds us just how alone we truly are.
“The test divorces us from life. But why should it be this way, when the arcane is a part of life, as certain in the earth as it is in the trees and in the blood? Sorcery … Wyldling magic is the magic of passion, of living. Life isn’t regimented or ordered! Why should magic be so disciplined as to cripple? Let it flow like the river and dance like the wind. Let it stand tall as the mountains and warm our souls like fire!”
Berthal was breathing heavily, his rant far from spent, but his lungs were winded. Tythonnia couldn’t help but stare and marvel at his passion.
“I despise the test,” Berthal said with a whisper. “It deprives the freedom, the natural right of those gifted to practice what comes naturally to them.”
“But …” Tythonnia hesitated. “The test is only there to stop people from learning magic beyond their ability. From hurting others. Or themselves.”
“Really?” Berthal asked. “So to prevent one or two miscreants from practicing the arcane, we kill some and censure others? Tythonnia, anyone with the ambition t
o hurt or kill will find a way to do so. Anyone can pick up a sword and kill with it. Anyone can take any of the basic spells and use it to do harm. Those trying to learn magics beyond their means will hurt themselves. It’s inevitable. Magic doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Anyone who is capable of wielding stronger spells and crafts will find a way to do so with or without the wizards. The test is nothing more than a mechanism of control. It doesn’t regulate or enforce. So why is it there? It’s there to fill the coffers of the three moons with worshipers.
“I’m not saying the wizards don’t serve a purpose. Perhaps enforcement is necessary to stop some spellcasters who hurt others. But the wizards are depriving the rights of everyone when no crime is committed, when no wrongdoing has taken place.”
“They’re trying to stop it from happening in the first place,” Tythonnia said. “Before anyone gets hurt.”
“Conditional liberty is the language of tyrants,” Berthal said.
Tythonnia was only vaguely aware her companions were gone, their bedrolls empty. Berthal’s words continued to echo in her thoughts, and his gentle kiss good night still tickled her cheek.
There was too much going on in her head to think clearly, so she did what she always did in those situations and compartmentalized her thoughts. She went over the debates in her head as a way of distraction.
She disagreed with Berthal on a couple of points; she thought some regulations were needed to ensure evil men and women were deprived the magic that would allow them to hurt others. Then she thought about the Black Robes and realized that the test didn’t stop evil from happening; it only gave it the air of respectability-evil by sanction.
Berthal’s words resonated with her concerns and fears, and she studied the components of her own test. They lived in vivid echos in her thoughts, the test remembered with such clarity it might be transpiring at that moment. So consumed was she with the thoughts of it she sat there while the burning wood disintegrated into glowing nuggets. Only when she felt cold did she distract herself long enough to throw more branches onto the fire. Her thoughts overtook her again, and she thought about her test.
What would she sacrifice to practice the arcane, the test asked of her. Who would she sacrifice? Then it showed her who she loved and asked her to choose between them and the craft. The only surprise was the one she loved-not who she expected. She saw the women of her life and few men. She recognized them for who they were, as father, as grandmother, as mentor, as friend. She saw Elisa. But she saw others in a new light and was forced to choose between their love and the love of magic.
Amma Batros was there, as mentor and more. Though Tythonnia had never shared anything intimate with her teacher, the visions in her test had been specific and embarrassingly erotic. She never thought of Amma in that way, but when she saw her now, all her previous actions and thoughts suddenly carried a different nuance. Suddenly, it wasn’t Elisa she kissed in the high grass of the fields, but Amma Batros and a handful of other women she’d unknowingly gravitated toward. And it wasn’t her mother who caught her, but slavering monsters of shadow and web.
The test was forcing her to reveal her true self, for nobody could maintain a lie and practice magic. Perhaps that was the true meaning of the test. It wasn’t choosing between the arcane and those she loved. It was choosing whether to hold on to a lie so perfect she believed it herself, or to burn away the deceit and practice magic without the proxy of masks. So Tythonnia immolated herself instead of the monstrosities threatening her loved ones. She set herself ablaze with her own magic and screamed through the fire.
When Tythonnia had emerged from the test, there were no burn scars, though the heat blossomed from her skin for days after. There were no marks on her, but the sense of pain remained. Her skin felt uncomfortably tight, as though still healing, and she could remember her anguish in perfect detail. Still, despite all that, she could still feel the kiss on her lips and the heat of Elisa’s breath in her mouth. That burned worse than anything else.
Amma Batros proclaimed her success a miracle, not a single blemish showing, but Tythonnia knew better. She knew the fire that burned her was on the inside and that if she ever cut herself open, her organs, not her skin, would bear the scars.
So Tythonnia sat there, considering how much was too much and trying desperately to ignore the phantom tickle of a beard against her cheek.
The grass was comfortable beneath their backs, the sky their beautiful ceiling. Par-Salian’s head rested on Ladonna’s naked stomach, and she tousled his brown hair absently.
“I’m not too heavy, am I?” Par-Salian asked.
“No,” Ladonna said.
They fell back into calm silence, each one lost in the nothingness of their thoughts. Lovemaking had a way of clearing the mind of all its woes and securing people in the moment. And what a moment it was, thought Par-Salian. The wind lightly caressing their bodies and cooling their skin, the campfires distant. Like the world was made for them and untouched by anyone else.
It couldn’t last, however. Perfection existed for a few moments at most then was gone. Life would move forward again, and things would change. Par-Salian sighed at the thoughts that returned.
“You’re questioning our role here, aren’t you?” Ladonna said gently.
“Yes,” he admitted. He shifted position and lay on his elbow to face her. She turned to face him as well, their whispers intermingling. “Don’t misunderstand-I am still loyal to the Wizards of High Sorcery. But I can’t help but think these renegades may have a point. In some regards,” he amended.
Ladonna nodded and waited for him to continue.
“Have we become too political? Too involved with ourselves to notice the world around us? Despite the Wyldling magic they practice, these people work to benefit each other. They help one another. They guide and nurture. What do we do? We bicker and we jockey for status. We fight over the most mundane things. Who are we benefiting?”
Ladonna smiled and shook her head. It was a sympathetic look she wore, not one of admonishment or disappointment. She pressed closer to Par-Salian until her lips could almost touch his.
“I can see why you’d find their intentions attractive. It’s not my way; we both know that. I think competition breeds stronger wizards and benefits the practice of the arcane as a whole. We sometimes fight too much or work at cross-purposes too often; I’ll admit that. We do pay for it. But Berthal and his followers are naive if they think they won’t suffer the same fate. Idealism is a great motivator, Par-Salian, but eventually idealism becomes the status quo. And the first thing the status quo does is defend its power and philosophies against all threats. The renegades here can afford their idealism because they haven’t been forced to put it into practice.”
“You’re saying they won’t be any better than the wizards? That seems more like a condemnation of our practices, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Ladonna said. “By the time they reach our place in life, we will have moved past the problems they have yet to face. We will have grown … matured. Maybe a more open society of wizards is called for, but why start from the beginning again? Why not steer what we have now towards something better, instead of abandoning it and running into the same exact troubles later?”
Par-Salian studied Ladonna’s eyes intently, his gaze lost in her dark pools.
“Par-Salian, it is the nature of all groups to undergo this trial. Idealism becomes acceptance; acceptance becomes status quo. After that, the people in power will dictate rules and regulations to preserve their standing. They become exclusionary, the hierarchy more rigid. Infighting occurs, and backbiting, yes. But eventually change comes, and when it does, it must be from within.
“These people have served their purpose,” she concluded. “They’ve opened your eyes to what must be done. But they aren’t the answer. You are.”
Par-Salian nodded, taking a moment to digest what she said. The words felt like an epiphany, a cleansing of his soul.
“You’re right,�
�� he whispered. “We’ve done our work. We found their camp. We have to leave.”
“Not just yet,” Ladonna replied. “We have two problems right now. The Black Robes lost valuable books to the renegades, and we need them back. They are a danger to whoever possesses them.”
“Very well,” Par-Salian said. “We’ll try to find them. What else?”
“Tythonnia,” Ladonna said. “I think we’re losing her.”
Berthal stepped into his tent to find Kinsley asleep atop his bedroll. Kinsley, however, was a light sleeper and quickly stirred.
“Rest, rest,” Berthal said, motioning for Kinsley to remain still. “I’m not tired.”
“Mm,” Kinsley responded and yawned. “How was your walk?”
“Good,” Berthal said. He sat in the chair and fell silent in thought.
“What?” Kinsley asked, sitting up.
“We’re going to have to move soon.”
When Kinsley threw him a troubled look, Berthal continued. “Our three new recruits are most certainly spies for the Wizards of High Sorcery. They’re endangering the camp.”
Kinsley straightened, his fatigue gone in an instant. “You’re sure? Lorall and I can handle it, if you want.”
“No,” Berthal said. “I don’t want them killed. They’re still young.”
“Not Par-Salian.”
“He’s naive and that’s perhaps worse. I don’t want them harmed. They aren’t evil people … only misguided.”
“What about Tythonnia? She seems sympathetic.”
“I think she is,” Berthal replied. “We can sway her to our side.”
“Not the other two?”
“No,” Berthal said. “Par-Salian is a born and bred wizard. And Ladonna … well, given that she ransacked my tent earlier I don’t think she has much sympathy for our cause. Casting that spell on the Arcanum Unearthed was a good idea, by the way. But no, we handle this quickly and move elsewhere before Ladonna or Par-Salian can send for reinforcements. But we need to get Tythonnia on our side first.”
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