Renegade Wizards aot-3

by Lucien Soulban

  Par-Salian stumbled as he reappeared in his bed chamber. He was exhausted, spent of all the magic he knew. A wizard without his spells was a truly terrible thing, for his mind felt empty from the loss of knowledge and his spirit seemingly tapped beyond reach of recovery. Yet, he knew, rest would not be his reward.

  He only prayed that Ladonna had escaped safely.

  “Did you save anyone?” a voice asked.

  Par-Salian spun around in surprise. There was nobody there a moment before, but Highmage Astathan was seated there, next to his bed.

  With almost knee-jerk panic, Par-Salian wanted to explain what he’d done and why he’d done it, but Astathan motioned for him to be still.

  “Did you … save anyone?”

  Par-Salian realized Astathan knew everything already, or at least most of it. He saw no admonishment in the highmage’s eyes, only concern and a terrible sadness that seemed to reach down into his very soul. It was no time to protect himself. Astathan was speaking to him as an equal.

  “A boy,” Par-Salian admitted. “One boy. He’s with my aunt right now. She’s a kind woman.”

  Astathan nodded but said nothing. His head fell deeply until it almost touched his chest. His age truly showed in those terrible moments.

  “It-it was horrible. We must do something,” Par-Salian whispered. “The Black Robes went against your wishes and now innocent people are dead. Not just Berthal or his sorcerers, but women and children. None of them deserved this,” he said. He couldn’t stop himself from weeping at the memory, at the screams.

  “If there is justice for this action,” Astathan said. “It will not be in my time.”

  “What?” Par-Salian said. He wiped away his tears.

  “All mention of this is to be erased. You and Ladonna are forgiven your transgressions, but nobody must ever know what happened in the Vingaard Mountains.”

  “How can you say that?” Par-Salian said. “The Black Robes orchestrated a massacre!”

  “Yes,” Astathan said. He struggled to rise, and Par-Salian helped him to his feet. “And for that we are all damned for our complicity. I only learned of all this from Reginald, but heed me well, Par-Salian. There are dark times ahead. Far darker than this, I suspect, for the orders, for everyone. Already the Black Robes are pulling away, and I fear we cannot stop them.”

  “What are you talking about?” Par-Salian asked.

  “I do not envy you, my boy,” Astathan said. “You will see more precarious times than I could imagine. When I am gone, the Black Robes will drift away, and it will be your responsibility to ensure their absence doesn’t shatter the orders completely. It may even be your responsibility to bring them back again. As much as I want to see justice done, this incident with Berthal will only drive an irreparable schism between us if we demand satisfaction. And what the future holds is too important to lose the support of the Black Robes. They are crucial to our survival, and we to theirs.”

  “So … we just forget this ever happened?!” Par-Salian asked.

  “See what the future holds,” Astathan said, “and then decide. You may realize the future is more important than history. Or perhaps the future must reconcile with the past to be stronger. But wait and watch. You owe the world that patience, at least.”

  Par-Salian nodded, though he wasn’t happy with the notion. “If that is your wish,” he said, his mind dark with bleak thoughts.

  “Of course it isn’t,” Astathan said. “My wish was to save Berthal and welcome him back into the order. He was a good man. Misguided and still wounded by the death of his protégé, but good nonetheless. He didn’t deserve this.”

  “Highmage,” Par-Salian said. “What of Ladonna? Is she safe? Do you know?”

  “She is safe,” Astathan said. “I couldn’t scry Berthal’s movements, but I could follow yours. Likely, she is your best hope of keeping the Black Robes from isolating themselves completely. You have a connection with her, no?”

  Par-Salian shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with sharing his personal life with Astathan “Did anyone else survive?” he asked.

  “No … and it’s easier for history to forget about them if it believes them dead. Leave the dead where they are. The future is consigned to the living.”

  EPILOGUE

  In All Things, a Cycle

  It was a quiet night for Palanthas, but the city hummed with speculation and omens. Some rumors surrounded the growing bands of goblins that were moving through the countryside. Where they were going, nobody knew; nobody survived long enough to ask. Of greater worry, however, was the spread of the Medusa Plague. It had struck Solamnia the hardest, melting the skin of its victims, until their arms turned into three-headed snakes and the afflicted became stone. Refugees clogged the High Clerist’s Tower, but the temples were closed and the Knight’s Spur sealed to prevent Palanthas from becoming inundated. The port of Palanthas was calm. A handful of ships came and went, but the navy quarantined all arriving ships and inspected them for carriers of the plague. Still the infection somehow found its way into the city.

  It was a time of fear, and thus, the only time to travel unmolested.

  Ladonna knew the streets well, the buildings of Smiths’ Alley wedded together so closely over tight alleys and corridors. She knew the area well enough to keep a spell at the ready. No trouble met her; she arrived at her destination with her package cradled in one arm.

  The building was as she remembered it, the painted rose barely visible over the barn door in the alleyway. Yes, it was still Rosie’s place, the only home she’d ever known, the one bright spot in her childhood. That brought a smile to her face. She knocked on the door and looked around just in case. Through the cracks in the barn wall, she could see the dance of approaching candlelight.

  “Who is it?” a woman asked.

  “Ladonna … Adwin’s daughter.”

  Someone pulled the latch off; the door slid open.

  The woman standing there was strong, with a thickness to her waist and arms that said her strength was muscle as well as fat. Her biceps were meaty, her hair fading from dirty blond to gray. She was no Rosie, Ladonna realized sadly, but Tythonnia was doing a good job of following in the old woman’s footsteps.

  Tythonnia cast one look at Ladonna, at the package she carried wrapped in red cloth, before gently pulling her in. The baby in Ladonna’s arms whimpered in her sleep.

  The barn had changed; the stable walls had been removed and the floor brushed of its hay. A row of bench desks faced a small podium beneath the loft, and along one wall rested a row of books. Rosie’s barn was a classroom. Ladonna inspected the books with a glance; they were all simple reading and history books, nothing of magic. Ladonna continued nursing her child as she sat on one of the benches.

  “What’s her name?” Tythonnia asked. She offered Ladonna a glass of warm cider and sat next to her.

  “Kira,” Ladonna said. “I told people the baby belongs to Arianna, my mentor, but …”

  “Par-Salian?”

  “He doesn’t know he has a daughter,” Ladonna said. “I’m keeping it that way.”

  “Why?” Tythonnia asked.

  “It’s … a long story.”

  A shuffle in the loft distracted them both. Staring down at them was a boy. He was perhaps seven or eight with brown hair and shockingly light green eyes that seemed almost gold in hue. Ladonna knew those eyes; she’d watched them die before.

  The breath fled her lungs, and she stared at Tythonnia. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Berthal,” Tythonnia answered with a wistful smile.

  Another face appeared overhead in the loft; it belonged to a mousy woman with a curiously intense gaze. Ladonna knew her as well: Mariyah. Mariyah recognized her in turn. Her eyes widened in shock.

  “Mariyah, love,” Tythonnia said calmly. “Could you please put Berthal back to bed?”

  Mariyah nodded, her gaze still on Ladonna; the suspicion never left her as she took the boy by the shoulders and ushered him out
of sight.

  “Should I leave?” Ladonna asked.

  “No,” Tythonnia replied. “Whatever anger I felt towards you for Berthal’s death is gone now. My son is alive because of you. I’m sorry if that’s why you didn’t visit while Rosie was still here.”

  “I meant to attend her funeral,” Ladonna said ruefully. She adjusted Kira and let the infant continue feeding.

  Tythonnia nodded. “If it’s any consolation, she died in her sleep. She was happy. She let me turn her barn into a classroom. She was grandmother again, to Berthal and all the children who came here to learn.”

  Ladonna tucked her head down and tried not to weep. The tears would not listen, however, and they flowed until they salted Kira’s cheeks.

  “Ladonna … what are you doing here?” Tythonnia asked.

  “I came to tell you,” Ladonna said, struggling not to sob. She inhaled deeply, but her breath seemed to stutter and skip across her throat. “Remember that thing with Dumas? Why she came after us?” she finally asked, changing the subject. “It was Belize who sent her. He was controlling her through the book on her chest. He was a renegade as well … but for his own ambitions.”

  “I see,” Tythonnia said. She stayed quiet. That was not the reason Ladonna was there, but she also knew the woman would explain herself in her own time.

  “Anyway, Belize is dead. Some time ago. Justarius now sits on the conclave, as do I,” she said rather proudly.

  “Par-Salian?”

  “Highmage,” Ladonna said quietly.

  “I’ve heard,” Tythonnia said. “But you’re not satisfied with just sitting on the conclave, are you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I wish to be master of my order.”

  “But you can’t do that with a daughter?” she asked.

  “Perhaps, if I was a Red or White Robe wizard, I might. But as a member of the Black Robes? Kira would become a-”

  “Liability?” Tythonnia asked. She couldn’t help but sneer at the thought, that once again the orders spent more time being petty than advancing the cause of magic everywhere. After the “incident,” they’d done their best to wipe out the remaining practitioners of Wyldling magic, and even the Vagros had all but vanished.

  “You may not approve,” Ladonna said, “but yes. She’ll become a target to those seeking to curtail my ambitions.”

  “Then retire. Just be her mother.”

  “I can’t,” Ladonna whispered. “Dark times are upon us,” she said, trying to soothe her fidgeting baby. “The auguries are there, as plain as day. The world is about to unleash a storm that may rival the Cataclysm in how it changes the world. We all feel it in our bones. The Black Robes are retiring into the shadows to watch and wait. Nobody who has touched upon the magic of the black moon, called upon Nuitari, can avoid this.”

  Ladonna shook her head. “Anyways. Better Kira know the love of a real mother than one too busy with her own ambitions.”

  “You want me to raise her?” Tythonnia said. Her eyes widened.

  “I want you to give her the same chance Rosie gave me. You’re my-you’re her only hope.” Ladonna covered her breast and slung Kira’s head unto her shoulder. She patted the infant’s back, waiting for her to burp. “Please,” Ladonna begged. “I don’t know where else to turn.”

  “Won’t anyone miss her?” Tythonnia asked.

  “I’ll say I gave her to a henchman to deliver to a family in Palanthas. She was lost at sea in a storm.”

  “If anyone reads your thoughts-”

  “They’ll find the lie there as the only truth I know. Protecting Kira means deceiving everyone. Including myself. I’ll take steps to ensure that.”

  Tythonnia hesitated, a storm of emotions brewing on her face.

  “I love my daughter,” Ladonna insisted. Her voice was low, shadowed by sadness. “But she would come to hate me and my ambitions eventually. Better I make the choice my father was too spineless to make for me. Better she has a loving home.”

  Tythonnia sighed and finally motioned for the baby. Ladonna wept softly as she handed Kira to her.

  For the last time in her life, Ladonna kissed Kira on her forehead and stepped back. She pulled a pouch of steel from her belt, the weight alone a fortune for those of modest means. She dropped it on the bench.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, not trusting her voice to crack.

  “I’ll protect her as my own.”

  “I know,” Ladonna said. She slipped through the door and out into the chill air of Palanthas. It would be her last visit there. This city was no longer her home.

  Outside, children laughed and played, and the sun would not be refused as it found its way into Smiths’ Alley. Inside the barn, Tythonnia played with Kira as the child sat in her lap. She’d cried for the first couple of nights away from her mother, but she came to accept cow’s milk for her meals and smiled when Tythonnia or Mariyah picked her up.

  The boy Berthal stood nearby and watched the new baby girl cautiously. She was still a stranger in his life, but Tythonnia knew her son was kind and good-natured. He would come to love Kira as his sister.

  Tythonnia was proud of him and motioned him closer. She kissed his forehead, and he wiped it clean with his forearm and let out a tiny yelp of protest.

  “Stop,” he said. “I just washed.”

  Tythonnia laughed and pointed upstairs with a flick of her head. “Go,” she said. “Go get your special books.”

  “Are we learning more … Wyldling?” he whispered cautiously in her ear as though the baby might overhear them.

  “As soon as Mariyah comes back, yes. We’ll read a new chapter.”

  He nodded and was about to race off when a thought struck him. “Will you be teaching Kira too?” he asked.

  “When the time comes,” Tythonnia said. “Yes. Who knows? By then you might be old enough to start teaching her yourself.”

  He beamed at the thought.

  “But you can’t tell anyone, right?” she asked.

  “I promise,” he said. “I haven’t even told my friends.”

  “Good boy,” Tythonnia said. “Now go.”

  Berthal raced up the stairs and began rummaging around the loft as he pried the books from their hiding spot.

  Tythonnia sat there and marveled at the wide-eyed innocence of Kira. Like Berthal, Kira had come from a family of strong magic; her grasp of it, her knowledge, would almost be intuitive. Like her adopted brother, she could grow very powerful in the Wyldling craft and free from the interference of the Wizards of High Sorcery.

  Tythonnia spoke the truth when she told Ladonna she no longer harbored a grudge against her. No, her conflict was with the Wizards of High Sorcery, and there were still ways of fighting them. Maybe the struggle wouldn’t unfold in her lifetime, but it might happen through her son and daughter, or their children. There would be a reckoning.

  Berthal would not be forgotten; his ethos and compassion and generous nature. He would live on through his son and adopted daughter. And maybe, eventually, Berthal would be remembered by people, not stricken from history and he’d be honored as a hero.

  Tythonnia smiled at the thought and continued playing with Kira. She could already see great potential in her deep black eyes and her brown hair. The strength of her parents ran true through her veins. The magic in her practically sparkled.

  A knock on the barn door distracted her. Tythonnia hefted Kira up to her shoulder as she got up and slid the door open. A man stood there. He was slight of frame and ordinary in almost every way. He wore worn leather trousers, and his lean frame was tucked inside his cloak.

  “Yes?” Tythonnia asked.

  “I was wondering if you still did smithing here?” the man asked.

  “No, sorry,” Tythonnia said. “We haven’t in years. We’re a school now.”

  The man nodded. “Thank you.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he said. “You have a beautiful girl. She takes after her mother.”

  Tythonnia thanked him and watched him wal
k away. She paused, continuing to stare at him until he rounded the corner and vanished into Smiths’ Alley. He seemed familiar, somehow, the stranger with the eyes of the blue sea.

  But Tythonnia couldn’t place him for the life of her. She closed the door and prepared for her son’s lesson and the other chores of the day.

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