said. He shook his head. “What a burden that power is, that good men and women will die for you. How terrible a thing, loyalty.”
The chamber was quiet as Astathan ruminated aloud on those things only he saw, those tortured thoughts he alone was privy to. What he endured those past centuries, the servant did not know. But he could imagine … indeed, he’d seen the centuries pass with his own eyes. Only his was the blessing of knowing what tomorrow brought and knowing he could escape it. Still, he had to wonder-why was Astathan sharing his thoughts with him?
“The three renegades haven’t experienced much of the outside world. We haven’t sheltered them, but they’ve been weaned on a diet of study. I wonder if the hardship of the road ahead might not be too much for them. We’ve risen from the muck of the Cataclysm, but I wouldn’t call these enlightened times either. They face many dangers.”
The highmage studied the servant, piercing him with a furious gaze. Those eyes, the servant realized, those eyes could divine most answers. “Watch over them,” Astathan said.
“Highmage?” the servant asked.
“You’re here for them, aren’t you?”
The servant said nothing, his counsel better kept in silence. He was confused, however, uncertain of what Astathan wanted. Or better yet, why.
“I’m tired and perhaps I look forward to my sleep a bit too much,” Astathan said finally. He ran a slender finger along the leather binding of a book on the table. “So do this old elf the courtesy of not refuting what I know is true. I know what you are, Journeyman. I have lived long enough to have seen you before … looking much the same as you do now, perhaps younger now than when I last saw you. One does not lead the Wizards of High Sorcery for so long without learning a dangerous secret or two.”
“I see,” the servant said. Part of him wanted to deny the charges; it was one of the first things taught to him, to deny and conceal. But it was obvious that the Journeyman’s masquerade as a humble academy servant was at an end.
“I’ve had some most interesting … conversations with your predecessors. I’ve also fought one of your kind before, someone who wasn’t there just to observe, though I did not realize that until much later.”
The Journeyman said nothing, choosing instead to remain quiet, to listen, but the comment puzzled him. What did the highmage mean by “his kind”? He knew himself to be the only one traveling as he was, observing and recording history through time. It was feasible that others might have done it before him, or after.
“Or perhaps you are the first,” Astathan mused, studying his expression. “Yes, perhaps you are … no matter. You are here to watch, but can you do more? Will you do more?”
“I can’t alter what’s already happened,” the Journeyman said, hazarding a neutral response.
“So you’ve said before,” Astathan remarked. “But you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a question that already exists … an uncertainty. The uncertainty directs you; that much I know. Therein is your leeway.” Astathan stood and straightened his back with a slight groan. He ambled to the door. “The three renegades travel tomorrow, before the dawn. They’ll stay parallel to the road until they reach Palanthas. After that, it’s anybody’s guess where fate will direct them. In watching over them, perhaps your questions will be answered. Perhaps uncertainty will guide you to act for their benefit.”
With that, Astathan left the room and the Journeyman alone to his troubled thoughts. There was no reason to maintain the charade any more, however, and he set the glasses down. He had to prepare for the upcoming journey.
CHAPTER 4
The encampment was small, the tents poor shields against the crisp mountain air. A lone fire sparked and raged in the grip of the frosty weather, forcing the men and women seated around it to huddle closer and tuck their chins behind their scarves and cloaks. Over the fire rested a large pot of boiling water, tended by a dwarf with a frosted beard that served as his apron.
Kinsley patted a few people on the shoulder for encouragement before heading for one of the tents. He was comfortable despite the cold, though he’d never gotten used to the remedy against the Vingaard Mountain chill. Beneath the layers of his cloak and his wool-lined jacket was a pouch tied by string around his neck. Inside the pouch was a boiled potato, a few hours old and still emanating the heat of the fire. It was a farmer’s trick, but it worked. Regardless, Kinsley looked forward to returning to Palanthas and eating at a real inn. He was tired of hot potato for company and cold potato for his meal.
After scratching at the growth along his jaw, he decided that he was looking forward to a good lather and shave as well. However necessary, the outdoors experience was entirely to his disliking. His round, boyish face, green eyes, and delicate fingers were better suited to seducing the daughters of noblemen and offering charms and enchantments to their wives. Potions to spark a husband’s sexual fervor, trinkets to appear younger or shapely once more, scrolls to improve private fortunes, and the rare curse to punish a cheating lover: Kinsley provided many favors for the spoiled noblewomen of Palanthas, magics often looked down upon by the Wizards of High Sorcery. And therein lay the problem; were it not for the Wizards of High Sorcery and their zealous enforcement of magical law, Kinsley wouldn’t be here in the Vingaard Mountains, freezing his potatoes off.
He stood at the closed flap of the tent and cleared his throat.
“Come in,” a voice called. It was deep and sounded annoyed.
“I have to return soon,” Kinsley said as he entered the tent. He tried to sound disappointed but couldn’t wait to leave.
Berthal nodded absently as he continued reading the book set upon his lap. He was a bearish man with a black beard and mustache. His black hair was a touch messy, and he wore gray robes. Even seated cross-legged on the mat, he was imposing. In another life and without any talent for magic, he might have been a warrior. Instead, he sat, mouthing the words from the page with a scholar’s intensity. Leaning against the tent wall was his staff, two braided pieces of wood that unraveled at the top into two dragon heads that faced each other.
“Anything of interest?” Kinsley asked, nodding to the book.
“Not interesting enough,” Berthal said, slamming the book shut. “Damn fool of a boy got caught for pinching the wrong books.” He waved the leather-bound tome to make a point. “Only a desk-trained practitioner would consider this important. Too much theory … not enough practical stuff in it. Just like the orders.”
“What about the other books,” Kinsley asked, motioning to the three other volumes on the mat next to him. “Please tell me I didn’t break my back bringing them to you for nothing.”
“Well, you didn’t actually break your back,” Berthal said, “so I feel no pity. But here,” he said as he tossed Kinsley the tome. “Throw it on the fire. Nothing in there worth keeping, so it might as well keep us warm.”
Kinsley looked at the book and shrugged. “Don’t you think we should hold on to them, just in case?”
“Just in case this Wyldling magic doesn’t work, you mean?”
“Honestly, Berthal,” Kinsley sighed. “Are the old ways really so terrible?”
“These are the old ways,” Berthal replied. He held up his hand. Liquid light flowed from his elbow, up the column of his forearm. Threads of yellow energy undulated between his fingers and were spent in pops and snaps. Berthal’s eyes sparkled with their light; he delighted in the touch of raw, naked magic, unformed and uncontained by spell or word, ready to become something at the merest provocation. Pure, shapeless energy. Wyldling energy. It was the spark of creativity and the flush of inspiration before the artist turned it into something manifest.
“You know what I mean,” Kinsley said. He worried when Berthal got into those almost ecstatic states, as if he might lose himself and never return.
“Very well,” Berthal said. He sounded frustrated. His fingers flared open, and the light vanished, but the magic was never so easily dismissed. That which was called would never return willingly. Pages fluttered in the tent; the flame in the hooded lantern turned blue; two books rose an inch, then fell; Berthal’s eyes went white, then returned to normal; the temperature increased by several degrees inside the tent.
