Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Finally, Pippa turned and said, “Are you trying to show off?”

  “No. I’m succeeding,” Rhoa said with a grin.

  Pippa chuckled. “As usual.”

  Rhett reached up and gave Rhoa a shove. Losing her balance, she brought her legs in, landing on the roof rather than tumbling over the edge.

  “That will teach you,” he said.

  Pippa arched a brow at him. “Do you even know her?”

  He laughed. “Too well. You are right. She is not likely to learn.”

  Rhoa settled on the seat between them. “You cut me to the quick with your harsh words.”

  All three laughed. Of any of them, Rhoa wore the toughest armor against such things.

  Pippa asked, “Did Stanlin say how long it will take to reach Starmuth?”

  “He told me to expect twelve days.” Rhoa ran her hand through her dark hair, gathering the loose strands. “I would think somewhere around fourteen. In the past ten years, I can’t recall one journey that has gone according to his schedule.”

  Rhett snorted. “You’ve got that right. Remember the trip from Shurick’s Bay to Illustan?”

  Pippa, the youngest of the troupe, frowned in thought. “Was that the one where we broke more wagon wheels than we had spares?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was Rhett who broke ours.” Rhoa grinned.

  He elbowed her. “It wasn’t my fault. That was supposed to be an easy trip, taking no more than a week. It took twenty-three days. We could have crawled farther in less time.”

  “Well,” Rhoa said, “let’s hope for better luck on this trip.”

  The trio fell silent for a time, watching the great city of Marquithe fade into the distance. Soon, the ground leveled and farms became more scattered, broken up by vast, grassy fields. Rhoa grew bored and climbed down, dropping to the road paved with stones.

  “What are you doing?” Pippa asked.

  “I thought to run for a bit,” Rhoa said as she hurried to the side of the road.

  “I’m going with you.” Pippa dropped from the wagon and scrambled to the side of the road before the next wagon arrived.

  The two girls set off at a jog, easing past the wagon while Rhett watched. Then he began climbing down. “Oh, you’re not leaving me here alone.”

  “Let’s run,” Pippa said with a grin and charged ahead.

  Rhoa hurried to follow.

  “Wait for me!” Rhett shouted from behind, but they were already two wagons ahead.

  The girls ran hard, not slowing until they passed Stanlin’s wagon.

  “What are you two miscreants up to?” the man shouted from the driver’s seat.

  Rhett, approaching fast, yelled from behind them, “I’ll get you two.”

  With a giggle, the girls ran across the road just strides in front of Stanlin’s team. They then continued into the grassy fields, luring Rhett after them. When they paused for a breath, he closed the gap, his arms extended. Rather than him able to scoop the girls up, each darted in an opposite direction. Rhett split the gap between them, leaving him alone.

  “Come on!” he laughed, pausing while looking one direction, then the other.

  When Rhett made a decision and chased Pippa, Rhoa turned to chase him. The game was something they played while traveling. It broke up the monotony and was good exercise. Sometimes, one of the boys would chase the girls; other times, both girls would chase one boy.

  Over the years, Willem played less and less often, especially when Gray, the older acrobat leader, died from a fall. Since then, Willem spent most of his time driving and found little joy in their games. Rhoa suspected it had to do with Willem’s age, now that he was nearing thirty. At twenty-four, Rhett was five years older than Rhoa, and Pippa was the youngest at sixteen. Even so, Rhoa had been with the troupe the longest of the current acrobats, seeing others come and go over the years.

  There were times she had thought she would live with the menagerie forever. Now that she possessed the amulet, she knew the end would soon come.

  The setting sun painted the clouds orange and pink. Rhoa and the other troupe members were busy, either setting up camp or preparing dinner. Workhorses and oxen tethered to stakes just outside of camp munched on the endless supply of grass surrounding them. Not far from the road, a fire burned at the heart of a circle formed by the colored wagons. Workers unloaded tables and chairs and arranged them around the fire.

  When her tasks were complete, Rhoa sat with the other acrobats, who treated each other like siblings. The hulking strongman, Juliam, and his wife, Sareen, joined them.

  “It was a pleasant day for travel, wasn’t it?” Sareen held out a basket filled with day-old bread.

  “It was fine,” Willem replied, accepting the basket.

  “Cheer up. It could have been raining,” Rhett said. “I recall a few trips where it rained so hard, we had to stop at the side of the road for days to wait for it to dry.”

  Juliam nodded as he finished pouring himself a glass of wine. The carafe appeared tiny in his big, meaty paw.

  Sareen leaned close to Rhoa and lowered her voice. “Will you tell me where you and my husband went last night all dressed up? Despite my cajoling, he insists it needs to come from you.”

  Rhoa considered how to respond. From the day she had first joined the troupe over a decade ago, Juliam and Sareen had treated her like a daughter. Juliam was often overly protective of Rhoa but had proven he would do anything for her. Tall, pale, and blonde, Sareen looked nothing like Rhoa, but the entire troupe treated the woman as if she were her natural mother. Sareen had done an admirable job of guiding Rhoa along the path to womanhood. That had created a lifelong bond between the two women, even if they didn’t always see eye-to-eye.

  “I…” Rhoa didn’t wish to lie to Sareen, so she crafted something close to the truth. “A patron invited me to a party at Wizard Forca’s mansion.”

  “I see. Does this patron have a name?”

  Rhoa recalled the boy who had pursued her and smiled. “The wizard’s son, Godwin.”

  Pippa leaned close. “You were with a high wizard’s son? He knows you are ungifted, right?”

  Rhoa shrugged. “I may not have been truthful with him.”

  “Rhoa…” The tone of Sareen’s voice made Rhoa grimace. “I am disappointed. While we may not be royalty, there is a nobility in using your talent to entertain others. Do not pretend to be what you are not. Stand firm and be proud of who you are.” She gestured to the people surrounding them. “Be proud of your family.”

  Rhoa swallowed hard and stared at her plate, her previous hunger suddenly gone. Sareen had an uncanny ability to make her feel guilty. “You don’t understand, Sareen. I did what I had to do.”

  Sareen glanced at Juliam, who had suddenly taken a focused interest in the potatoes on his plate. “What, exactly, does that mean?”

  Anger stirred inside Rhoa. She didn’t want to have this conversation. “I wanted others to see me as something else, if just for a night.” She stood. “Excuse me. I need a moment to myself.”

  She took a walk, circling the outer ring of the camp. The sky was clear, and the bright globe of the moon provided ample light for her to see.

  “What you must think of us,” Rhoa said, talking to the moon as she did sometimes. “You peer down at humans as we come and go and chase our foolish dreams, while you persist, forever in the sky.” She sighed. “Even the sun sleeps at night, but you are ever vigilant. I wonder at the things you have seen as the ages of man pass. I wonder what marvels existed a hundred years, a thousand years, even ten thousand years ago.”

  Rhoa considered what she knew of history, an education rooted in her travels and the stories she had heard. The great cities and other structures were said to be very old, relics from a time when legendary beings were said to have walked the lands. The Makers, some were called. Based on what she had seen, their ability to shape and fit stone far exceeded what was known today. Over the prior ten years, she and the troupe
had journeyed far. The cities built by man, cities where years numbered in decades or centuries, were poor comparisons to the great cities, which were well over a thousand years old.

  By the time Rhoa had lapped the camp twice, her anger had cooled. She loved Sareen and knew the woman had her best interests at heart. Yet what Rhoa intended was the one thing sure to set Sareen on edge. Whenever the subject of revenge arose, Sareen would rail against it, insisting Rhoa move on, saying it would only lead to a bad ending. But she didn’t understand. Rhoa could never forget the horror of watching her parents’ capture, or forgive the man who had killed them.

  She entered the camp to find her fellow troupe members cleaning up after dinner. The Family, as the troupe called itself, numbered twenty-eight people, most of whom were in the show. Being performers at heart, dinner was a prelude to the spectacle that followed.

  As they did most evenings when not performing, the band played for the sheer joy of it. The music was lively, inviting others to clap along. Rhoa joined in, dancing and laughing, doing the best to enjoy herself – at least on the outside. Pretending joy was the only thing she knew.

  Despite her smile, the darkness lingered – scars from a painful past and the specter of a future likely to see her dead before the year was out.

  8

  The Hunt

  The setting sun tinted the clouds over Marquithe with hues of orange, pink, and red, leaving the streets covered in shadow. The business activities in the High District were drawing to an end. In Marquithe, evenings were meant for entertainment, something the wealthy pursued with a fervor Jace admired.

  The three-story house he watched likely held more than a dozen rooms. A modest house among wizards, but a mansion for anyone else, save the wealthiest among the ungifted.

  A man in flowing, gray robes with a yellow sash emerged from the house and paused, waiting for his wife. The woman stepped out wearing a ruffled yellow dress and a black cape. She took his arm as the servant holding the door scurried ahead to reach the carriage before his masters. He opened the door, holding it as the wizard and wizardess climbed in. The door closed and the driver urged the horses into motion. The servant watched the carriage until it turned and faded from view. From his position down the street, Jace saw his chest rise and fall with a deep breath of relief. He imagined the man’s sigh.

  The servant returned to the house, shouting something as he entered. With the homeowners away, Jace’s plan simply required the proper timing. So he waited.

  He had spent the previous two nights circling the outer ring of the city while visiting the seedier taverns. Dice were thrown, ale was consumed, and laughter was frequent. By the time each night had ended, his coin purse bulged. His luck was, of course, manufactured. Sleight of hand and weighted dice tended to shift things in his favor. Those dice were always with him, just in case.

  At his last stop on the second night, he had ended up in a fist fight after a big win at the Spotted Cow Tavern. It had been him against three angry traders from out of town. The men had left with a broken nose, a broken arm, and a severe limp, in addition to numerous bruises. Jace’s knuckles were still tender, as were his swollen eye and sore ribs, but recalling the fight brought a grin to his face.

  That was good fun, he thought.

  Fights with visitors to the city were a common event for Jace. Bigger men assumed him an easy target because of his short stature. They didn’t know him by reputation as the locals did. Of course, those same locals now refused to throw dice with him for the same reason.

  Despite his efforts, he had not discovered any leads regarding his true mission. Nobody he had spoken with knew of a girl with blades able to cut stone. Having no luck after visiting the establishments where he was welcome, he decided to alter his search closer to the heart of the city. The gentry tended to be a far more boring lot, but his quest was urgent and would take him where it wished, not where he might prefer.

  Only after darkness had consumed the western sky did Jace rise. With casual ease, he crossed the street and entered the wizard’s house.

  A grand entryway greeted him with a ceiling two stories above, a stairwell before him rising to a balcony, and a waiting area below with pale marble tiles. He walked up the stairs, not trying to be particularly quiet, but achieving near silence anyway. Years of sneaking made even his normal steps soft.

  Reaching the second floor, he passed three bedrooms, then took another staircase to the third floor. At the top was an open door that brought him to the room he sought.

  The master bedroom covered the entire floor. A circular window at one end looked out over the street, Lord Malvorian’s palace beyond it. As if on his command, the blue flame in the uppermost tower flared brightly, sprouting beams of blue light in four directions. Bells in the citadel pealed, other bells repeating the sound throughout the city. From within the house, the chant of Devotion hummed. Everyone else in the city, and throughout the wizardom, would perform the ritual, as they did every night. Those caught not participating were hauled off to the city dungeon. When they were next seen, they would be lacking an appendage. The first offense was a finger. The second, a hand. The third, well… Jace had never met anyone who had been caught three times. The penalty in Farrowen was harsher than most wizardoms, but he suspected it was a mandate by Malvorian and nobody could say otherwise. After all, who would challenge a wizard lord?

  He passed the oversized, four-poster bed and entered the walk-in wardrobe. To one side, dresses, bodices, capes, and shoes adorned the walls, waiting to be worn by the mistress of the house. To the other, Jace found what he sought. While he appreciated the wizards who wore flashy apparel, he also found such garb too memorable to bystanders. In his line of work, it was better to be less conspicuous.

  Upon choosing a dark gray robe, he gathered it in one arm and found a dark red sash to match. He then exited the room and proceeded down the stairs. When he reached the main floor, he heard someone behind him.

  “Who are you?”

  Jace turned toward the servant from earlier, the man on his knees with his hands in the air. From deeper in the house, he heard other servants chanting.

  “I’m from the restaurant where your master and mistress are dining.”

  “The Illustrious Inn?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Why are you here, and why do you have Master Millani’s robe?”

  “Oh.” Jace held it out, patting it with the other hand. “There was an accident, one that involved cream soup and wine staining Master Millani’s outfit. He demanded I run here and retrieve a new one immediately.”

  “But… But…,” the man stammered. “What about Devotion?”

  “Oh, it started right as I arrived. I figured a quick run upstairs would go unnoticed, take less time, and save both of us added trouble from your master.” Jace leaned forward and whispered, “I’m sure you would rather he not be in a bad mood when he returns.”

  The man blinked and nodded. “You are right about that.”

  Jace grinned. “Good man.” He stepped to the door. “Now, I’m going to pop outside and kneel until Devotion is finished. As soon as we hit the last note, I am off and running. It’s quite a trek, you know.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Jace glided out the door and shifted to the shadows.

  As Devotion continued, the city chanting in harmony, their prayers directed to the tower of blue flame, Jace donned his new robe and sash, then slipped into a new persona to match.

  Jace was gone, replaced by Master Ferrol Wrenthal of Shear. Yes, impersonating a wizard was an offense punishable by death. It was the fourth law Jace had broken since the sun rose. He was approaching his average.

  Jace stepped into The Golden Lyre and looked around. The tables were filled with well-dressed men and women dining in candlelight. Some of the men wore robes, marking them as wizards, others wore the fine coats or doublets suitable for city officials or wealthy merchants. Waitresses dressed in tight, black gowns circled the room, pouri
ng wine and taking food orders. In one corner, a woman wearing a white dress strummed a harp, the music fluid and soothing. In another corner, six men played cards. The ambiance was pleasant, professional, and refined. Jace was already bored by it.

  He crossed the room, nodding to others who happened to glance at him. Recognizing a couple wizards, Jace stopped and shook each man’s hand, telling them both that it was good to see them again. As expected, each stammered a reply, but neither questioned who he was. It was poor form to forget the name of a fellow wizard, and people were uncomfortable about such things.

  When Jace reached the table where cards were being played, he stopped behind the only empty chair. “Mind if I join you?”

  “I don’t recognize you,” the man shuffling the cards said.

  “Oh. Forgive me.” Jace held his hand to his chest. “I am Wizard Ferrol Wrenthal from Shear.”

  An older man dressed in dark green robes said, “Ah, the Wrenthals. I met a Wrenthal once. I think his name was Gerald.”

  Jace nodded, actually having met Gerald Wrenthal a number of years earlier. “That would be my father.”

  “How is your father?”

  Shaking his head, he replied, “Not well, I’m afraid. He had a bit of bad luck some years back and never fully recovered.”

  Jace recalled the event clearly. Sorry about the poison, old man. I couldn’t have you showing up and upsetting my plans. Still, the dose had been minimal, and the man had survived.

  The man at the table shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. My name is Parwick. This is Dermont, Benby, Charleston, and the man dealing is Olen.” He gestured toward the empty chair. “Please, sit. You do know how to play Hanapuli, correct?”

  “Yes, but it has been some years since I’ve played. I never was very good.” Jace gestured toward the piles of coins in the center. “How much to join in?”