Renegade Wizards aot-3 Page 6

  “Excellent,” Belize replied. “Your reputation is well earned, I see.”

  Dumas, however, said nothing. Compliments did not interest her. In fact, they annoyed her. She continued listening, surrendering nothing, not even a smile.

  “As I’m sure you well know, the number of renegades and theft of High Sorcery property is on the rise.”

  That was not news to Dumas, she who was already involved in apprehending a handful of wayward wizards and stolen artifacts, all successfully, she noted with some satisfaction.

  “Unfortunately, three students have gone missing, and we suspect them of trying to join the renegade Berthal.”

  “We?” Dumas asked. She looked around to emphasize her curiosity.

  “Well, therein lies the problem,” Belize said. “Two of the students are prodigies, the chosen pets of their colors. Par-Salian of the White Robes and Ladonna of the Black. Both of them are-were-very much the pride of their orders. As such, Highmage Astathan and Master Reginald Diremore are too embarrassed to make such a request themselves. This reflects badly upon them, you see.”

  “And the third renegade?”

  “One of our own. A Red named Tythonnia. Nobody of consequence really, but still embarrassing for us, you understand.”

  Dumas wondered if he would ever get to the point.

  “I think it most prudent, for the sake of the orders,” Belize said, “if these three renegades were apprehended and eliminated, yes?”

  “Eliminated?” Dumas asked, surprised.

  “Yes … an embarrassment of this magnitude could prove costly to our society.”

  Dumas scowled and studied Belize carefully, trying to divine his motives. The three orders had three customary ways of dealing with renegades. The Whites advocated capturing the targets and trying to redeem them; the Order of the Black Robes used death and sometimes even torture to deal with traitors; while the Reds fell neatly between both extremes. Not only was it strange for a red wizard like Belize to make such an extreme request, but to do so without the open support of Yasmine of the Delving, Reginald Diremore, and Highmage Astathan was highly suspect.

  “I will need the sanction of the masters of the orders,” Dumas said.

  “I speak for Yasmine of the Delving,” Belize said. “And besides, the masters are too embarrassed by this betrayal to speak openly of it. I do it in their stead.”

  “Then let them tell me that,” Dumas replied. “I am discreet with the society’s business, but I am not an assassin to be sent on private errands.” She turned on her heel and stalked away. The conversation was at an end, and there were too many peculiarities about it not to report Belize’s request.

  “Pity,” Belize said.

  Dumas sensed her mistake immediately. Her hand flew to the pommel of her blade as she started to turn, but it was too late. Belize uttered a single word; it was a thing of power but simple enough to be spoken more quickly than she could react.

  “Capik,” Belize whispered. The word seemed to roil and echo. It struck her in the small of her back and unfurled up her spine.

  The huntress was shocked. The book strapped to her chest should have stopped part of the spell, diminished its effect. Instead, she fell to the hard ground, her muscles locked and her jaw clamped down. Her body was no longer her own.

  Belize smiled down at her as he rolled her onto her back and faced her to the sky.

  “This won’t do,” he whispered as he ran his fingers along the bronze tome. “Not at all.”

  His finger pressed something on the cover of the book, and Dumas gasped as she heard the lock snap open. He raised his hand, his fingers undulating like a spider suspended. The cover flew open, and the pages flipped rapidly.

  “It’s quite the artifact,” Belize said. “I’m quite proud of having contributed to its construction. I’m even more proud that I had the foresight to leave behind a little spell of my own crafting.” He stopped waggling his fingers, and the pages stopped turning. He leaned in closer to study the script. “Ah yes, here we are.”

  Dumas struggled against the paralysis, but her body no longer obeyed her. She lay there, screaming with a voice that echoed only in her own skull as Belize spoke a spell from the book. It was a spell that seemed to unravel the very tapestry of her will …

  A breeze rustled the high grass and whispered through the leaves and branches of the copse of trees. In the distance, lights flecked the fields where farmers and woodsmen settled in for the night, their clusters of homes small islands of comfort in the darkness. It was a peaceful place, filled with the memories and the voices of the past. Tythonnia could hear her parents and friends in the sounds. She could smell the lamb and potato stew that her mother made.

  More so, she relished the smell of wild grass and smiled as whirring insects took to the air in fright. The sky above blazed with a diamond-studded panorama of stars; even the air seemed so much clearer, cleaner.

  Tythonnia felt young again as she crept forward, deeper into the small thicket of trees. Her dagger felt reassuring in her grip. It was another reminder, a token of her past when her father taught her to hunt the land for her food, and magic had yet to dominate her life. For certain, she was grateful for her studies, but she remembered another time as well … a time when magic was a thing of awe and wonder. It was more organic, somehow. It wasn’t fossilized in reagents or cocooned in words. It wasn’t formulaic and rehearsed.

  In the quiet of the hunt, Tythonnia’s thoughts drifted to home. She remembered the local wisewoman, a sorcerer named Desmora. Her magic flowed naturally-a protean, Wyldling thing. Everyone told their children to stay far from Desmora, but everyone bartered with her for the goodwill of the elements all the same.

  Desmora was both legend and monster in Tythonnia’s childhood-a crone to be feared or adored, her powers a frightening mystery. And more frightening was when Desmora took Tythonnia as her pupil. Tythonnia would hunt the occasional hare for Desmora, and Desmora taught her a trick or three in return. The old crone frightened her to bits, but never once did the older woman justify that fear. Desmora was primal and fierce and she knew how to whisper to the world.

  For a while, Tythonnia thought she might forget that particular part of her life as she’d almost forgotten the incident involving Elisa, but out there, in the absolute darkness of the wild, surrounded by familiar echoes that plied the strings of all her senses, the memories returned. Hunting, Desmora, the magic, her parents, her flirtation with Elisa … all of them rose to the surface again with surprising clarity.

  Her muscles remembered as well, and she continued advancing slowly, making as little sound as possible. Her eyes were well adapted to the darkness, and she could make out the tan Heartlund hare. Tythonnia raised her dagger to throw it as her father had taught her; years of training remembered in a rush of memories.

  The hare bolted upright. Tythonnia heard it a second later; the heavy scrape of boot against earth. The hare bolted.

  “Sihir anak!” a woman’s voice cried from behind Tythonnia.

  Tythonnia yelped as four darts of light trailing glowing streamers appeared from over her shoulders, zipping around her body. Their glow temporarily blinded her night-accustomed eyes before they slammed into the hare. The four bolts shredded their target, blasting it apart, scattering two of its limbs and splattering its entrails on the tree. It didn’t even have time to scream. From the underbrush, more noise rose as other animals scattered.

  Tythonnia whipped about to find a startled Ladonna behind her. “What’re you doing?” Tythonnia said, practically screaming.

  “Helping you hunt,” Ladonna said. A surprised chuckle escaped her mouth. “But I wasn’t expecting that!”

  “I told you to collect firewood!”

  “No need … I cast an Unseen Servant to take care of that for us. We have more than enough now. In fact, why are we even hunting? Can’t you just use a spell to stun-”

  “No!” Tythonnia said. She could feel her temper slip, her voice rise in pitc
h, and her anger provoking the better of her. Another part of her, however, was content to let that happen. “Is everything magic with you? Can’t you survive without it?”

  “Better than any of you know,” Ladonna said, her voice chilled.

  “Really? Or maybe you just can’t let anyone else prove their worth? It has to be about you and what you can do.”

  “Or maybe,” Ladonna said, “I was trying to help you.”

  “You can help me by staying out of my way. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh yes, skulking about in the darkness like a beast, that’s a fine talent. Maybe it’s not me who’s desperately trying to prove her worth.”

  “I’m doing this for you!” Tythonnia protested. “The both of you!”

  “I don’t need your help,” Ladonna said.

  “What’s going on?” a voice asked. Par-Salian stood in the shadow of a tree, his gaze curious but cautious.

  Without a word of explanation, however, Ladonna turned and brushed past him as though he were nothing more than another branch. He turned to ask Tythonnia, but she was too upset to respond. She simply waved him off and shook her head. Don’t ask.

  Par-Salian shrugged and followed Ladonna, leaving Tythonnia alone. A moment later, their footfalls faded Tythonnia took the quiet moment to regain her thoughts before creeping forward again, hunting for another meal. She listened intently, but the copse was silent, its denizens scared away by the intruders and the strange scent of magic. The red wizard could sense the change as well; even her memories refused to return. They were gone, as were her feelings of contentment. It was nothing like home anymore.

  Tythonnia spit a curse that would have shocked her father, who always swore a blue streak, and headed back to her camp. There would be no cooked meal to warm the bones and fill their sleep with happy thoughts. It would be rations-salted beef, pickled carrots, and perhaps a candied fig to wash down the taste.

  Maybe their hunger tomorrow would instill Ladonna with some regret. Tythonnia doubted it, however.

  “Where are you going?”

  Ladonna didn’t bother turning around to face Par-Salian. “A walk,” she said, heading for the open field. She didn’t want to be around them right then. She was angry. It made it hard to think, and more important, it made her spiteful. In that instant, she despised everyone. She hated Tythonnia and she hated Par-Salian. And Par-Salian’s attempts to mollify her grated on her nerves even more.

  “It’s not safe out there.”

  Ladonna turned around long enough to level Par-Salian with a seething gaze. “I’m sure I can handle any wayward cows,” she said.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Par-Salian replied. “I think we should talk about-”

  “Not now,” Ladonna said as she walked away. “And I suggest you learn to understand women better. I don’t need your help.”

  To Par-Salian’s credit, he didn’t pursue the matter. Ladonna marched into the darkness and continued past the high grass that stroked her hips. In the lonely quiet, her anger bled away and her nerves went still. Ladonna turned to gain her bearings; she could barely make out the clutch of trees against the distant sky, but it would be enough to guide her back eventually.

  Ladonna found an outcropping of rocks that broke the sea of grass and sat upon her granite throne. It was too peaceful out here, too quiet. Absent were the noises she found familiar, the sounds of a city that never truly slept. The noise of humanity. The sleeping breath of other children. She missed that; she missed the sense of family, the close-knit bonds that made survival more bearable. She inhaled deeply, as though winded by the memories.

  What’s bothering me? she wondered. She was usually in better control of her emotions. She angered too easily these days, too quick to the boiling. And too quick after that to the overflowing, rash decisions and actions she would always regret.

  It was a step back, a relapse into someone-something she was before. She grew angry again, her ire slowly flaring. She recognized elements of her old self, the volatile temper and its aftermath. The violence was still there, the child made into beast, a creature of stark instincts. She wasn’t that animal anymore. In fact, she hated that animal. It took years to tame it and break its conditioning. But why was it returning? Why was she relapsing into someone she abandoned years before?

  Palanthas, she realized. Her city, her den. She was returning home, and that meant facing a legion of fears and bad memories. She was going back to face the monsters, a child at the mercy of the merciless. That alone spurred her heart to racing faster.

  Sutler.

  Ladonna shifted uncomfortably on the rock. Palanthas was stripping away her crafted veneer, exposing the frightened little thing beneath.

  Stop this! Ladonna chastised herself. What am I afraid of? That I’ll become that child again? I am a wizard of the black robes, the most feared of practitioners, the strongest of spellcasters.

  She forced herself to dispel the storm of emotions that welled within her. She was no longer that defenseless child, that urchin thief. A gulf of fifteen years separated who she was then from herself at that moment. It had been fifteen years of magical preparation and dedication, fifteen years of training to survive and surpass one life-altering test for a lifetime of power and mystical prowess. She commanded fire, ice, shadow, wind, earth, and even death itself. She communed with those things that could not be seen, and how they feared her.

  A smile crept across Ladonna’s lips. Oh how she would have loved to have possessed those powers as a child, to have protected herself and provided for the brothers and sisters she made on the streets of Palanthas. She could think of a few men and women who would have benefited from her more punishing magics. The lessons she could have taught men such as Sutler …

  Sutler.

  Her bones still ached from his touch.

  Ladonna rose from the rocks and slowly made her way back to the others. Palanthas wasn’t a reunion to be feared, she told herself. Palanthas was an opportunity to fulfill the wishes of a vindictive street urchin who never had the strength to fight back. She was returning home a conqueror, and as all conquerors are wont to do, she was looking forward to the settling of old scores.

  Par-Salian continued watching her, even after she’d vanished into the night.

  Should I go after her? he wondered. When he was a young man, he’d once courted a woman who flew into tantrums and stormed off. She wanted to be chased and mollified. She wanted the attention regardless of the cost. Par-Salian hesitated. Ladonna was nothing like the women he’d bedded, albeit all those years before. The near two decades of study and consideration had softened his ardor, and the years had dulled the adventure and romantic zeal from his blood. He questioned himself and his decisions more. In fact, Highmage Astathan’s recent interest in him made him uncomfortable. He knew that the White Robes held some expectations for him, and that frightened him.

  What if I fail?

  What if I’m not up to the task?

  Like tonight, he thought miserably. He had been asked to lead the small expedition and maintain their cohesion. Yet here they were, on their first night alone, and already he could see the schisms forming. Worse, perhaps, nobody wanted to tell him why. Tythonnia was hunting and stewing in her anger, and Ladonna was off somewhere in the darkness, alone with her thoughts. He wanted to help her, to make things better, but her gaze spoke clearly enough. She wanted to be alone. She didn’t need his help. She didn’t need his leadership. She was perfectly fine without him.

  And that troubled him.

  Still, Par-Salian couldn’t leave her alone. The Heartlund countryside wasn’t dangerous aside from the occasional brigand or wandering pack of goblins, but still, the danger was there.

  “Cas mata,” Par-Salian muttered as his fingers danced and intertwined. He closed his eyes and felt the magic spark along his bones and raise the hair on his arms. A shiver ran its fingers up the nape of his neck, and he opened his cat-slit eyes. The world had become a monotone of green shad
es, but the horizon of darkness had been pushed back much further than he expected, thanks to the many stars. Off in the distance, he could see Ladonna walking blindly ahead. She must have been several hundred feet away, and in danger of vanishing into the mist that marked the edge of his sight, the mist that seemed to obliterate the world itself.

  Par-Salian stepped forward and matched her progress step for step. He would not intrude, but neither would he leave her alone.

  It was only in the deepest recesses of his thoughts that he wondered why he was eager to watch over Ladonna and not Tythonnia. Perhaps it was because the Red Robe was familiar with the wilderness, but the answer came after too much searching; it felt too much like a justification. Par-Salian did not dwell upon that, however, and continued following Ladonna. She needed him more than Tythonnia, he reasoned to himself. He was going to help her.

  From the sanctuary of the tall grass, he watched them. The spell of his devising narrowing the distance between Ladonna, Par-Salian, and himself in sight and in sound. He heard them as clearly as his ears heard his own voice, saw them as clearly as his eyes saw his own hand. Despite the mile between them and the shadows of night, he might as well have been standing next to them.

  The Journeyman made himself more comfortable and watched Par-Salian keep Ladonna within sight. He observed Ladonna seated upon a rock, talking to herself. He saw Par-Salian maintain a distant vigil, his gaze scanning for danger but returning more often to study Ladonna. Did he know he was holding his breath when he looked at her?

  Probably not.

  He understood that, the Journeyman did. He knew the history of the two and the events to unfold and shape their lives. But it was Tythonnia’s role that remained intriguing … that and the event that would obliterate almost all knowledge of Berthal’s fate.

  CHAPTER 6