Renegade Wizards (34 page)

Ladonna swallowed a curse. She saw none of the books she needed in the pile. She looked closer at the one that glowed. There was no title embossed on its spine. Carefully, Ladonna cleared away the books atop it and stared at the cover. She was instantly disappointed at the title:
Arcanum Unearthed
. It was a rudimentary spell book, the magic only cover-deep and meant to protect the tome from wear. She quickly flipped through the book, but saw that it was nothing more than what it appeared.

There was nothing here of importance to the Black Robes and nothing to impress her concerning Berthal. It was almost better to kill him there and then and dispense with their entire charade. She closed the book.

Berthal was in the middle of a sentence when he paused. A small grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced off into the distance, toward his tent. He continued speaking after that, though the smile lingered for a few minutes longer.

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 to 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.