Renegade Wizards (32 page)

The Journeyman watched as Par-Salian, Ladonna, and Tythonnia were given a spot to lay camp. The renegade movement was growing in strength, and they were welcoming more and more people each day. They were definitely becoming a threat to the Wizards of High Sorcery, even though their number included children playing and the husbands and wives of the sorcerers making the camp livable.

Still, it was easy enough to gain Kinsley’s attention. Once the Journeyman realized who he was at the tavern in Smiths’ Alley, a little display of magic was all he needed. After that, a touch of persuasion and acting to prove his sincerity earned him an invitation here, where it was easier to continue watching the three wizards on their mission.

And if the scant records of the event were remotely accurate, here was also where matters unraveled.

Talking would be far more difficult, since a hundred people or more surrounded them. Looking around, Tythonnia realized that the accompanying families far outnumbered the sorcerers. Magic was a devotion to the Wizards of High Sorcery, and while not a celibate organization, the quest for knowledge was often thought to come at the expense of living a normal life. Unfortunately, that was also the standard that
they measured others by. If one was not willing to sacrifice everything important to him to study magic, then one did not deserve the knowledge.

While Tythonnia understood the reasoning behind that notion, she also thought the wizards had somehow blown matters out of proportion. Most of them didn’t even understand why they did what they did, only that it was a tradition handed down to them that they thought should be maintained.

The more Tythonnia thought about it, the more upset she became. These people, at the camp, weren’t renegades and dangerous outlaws. There were families and men and women who tempered life and magic. And they were unjustly condemned for trying to find balance in their daily routine.

Certainly, there were sorcerers who hungered for power and who despoiled the art by using it to spread misery, but more often than not, sorcerers wanted to be left alone. They used magic to help their neighbors or themselves. They brought comfort or they protected. They raised families, they nurtured, they loved, and for that they were hunted for using a natural affinity to the Wyldling.

“You’re talking to yourself,” Ladonna whispered as they dug a small fire pit and surrounded it with rocks.

“Am I?” Tythonnia asked, embarrassed. Her mouth had been moving, she realized, and she forced herself to calm down. Whether or not she agreed with what they were doing there, she still had orders to follow and an oath to fulfill. Distasteful or not, she’d made a promise.

And still …

Par-Salian returned with fresh water from the stream, and after they were done making camp, they decided it was time to explore. The camp leaders, however, had a different idea. Two men and two women approached the trio. Their leader had ebony skin and a mixture of braided and beaded hair that ran to the nape of his neck. He looked to be of Vagros stock in his manner and style.

“My name is Shasee. Welcome to the camp,” he said, shaking hands and exchanging introductions with Par-Salian, Tythonnia, and Ladonna.

“We are a community,” he explained, “and everyone here is expected to participate and to pull their weight. I am told you three cast magic?”

The three companions nodded, listening patiently.

“Good. Welcome, then. We ask that you not cast magic around the camp, especially when it comes to your chores.”

“Why?” Ladonna asked. She was irked; she wasn’t used to someone dictating her use of the arts.

“For the children,” Shasee explained patiently. It was obvious he’d encountered that particular resistance before. “It gets the little ones excited and sets a bad example for them, implying that magic is a trick to avoid hard work, a plaything. They’re too young to understand how dangerous it can be. Unless you want a dozen children following you around constantly, begging you to show them a trick like urchins looking for steel.”

Tythonnia struggled hard to suppress her smile. Ladonna and Par-Salian were shocked; they had clearly never entertained the notion that renegades would act responsibly when it came to magic. That was something they always believed was the province of wizards alone.

“We’ll be careful,” Tythonnia said. “How can we help?”

Shasee smiled. “You tell me,” he said. “We need someone to read to the children. To help teach them.”

“I’m not a teacher,” Tythonnia said. “But I do hunt.”

“Excellent,” Shasee said. “We need more food for this coming week. Anything you can find.” He pointed to the grizzled man standing next to him. “Lorall will tell you where the hunting is good.”

Lorall nodded in greeting.

“What do you teach the children?” Par-Salian asked nervously.

“Reading and history mostly. We have no tablets for them to write on, so …” he said, trailing off with a shrug.

“I can do that,” Par-Salian said. “History is a favorite subject of mine.”

Everyone turned to Ladonna expectantly.

“Fine,” Ladonna said with a roll of her eyes. “I can mend.”

“You can?” Tythonnia asked. Even Par-Salian was surprised by the admission.

“Yes,” Ladonna said. “Rosie taught me. Now hush about it, or I’ll show you what else I can do with a needle and thread.”

Tythonnia and Lorall returned after a few hours with four hares, tied together at the legs, and a small boar, all being dragged behind them on a hunting litter. She was grateful for the hunt the past few days, the simplicity of living off the land and working her muscles to earn a meal. Her injuries burned, but it felt rewarding. Several times she found herself contemplating this spell or that to lure more game to them or to ambush their prey more easily. But the thought of hunting with magic felt abhorrent to her. Magic wasn’t a crutch. It was a dangerous tool that shouldn’t be used without heavy consideration. And yet she’d grown so comfortable with it she knew she was tempted to use it as a substitute for real work.

Thankfully, the other hunting teams did well enough. A couple bagged deer and more hares, while those less fortunate took to gathering wild apples and edible berries. Nobody returned empty-handed, and with the provisions purchased from the nearby village of Dart, the camp had four more days of food. Yet it felt like they were falling behind, that there were too many mouths to feed.

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.