Everything Tythonnia knew about the Vagros came from the old woman Desmora. Desmora had Vagros blood and dealings with some Wanderers, especially the clan matriarchs. It was said they shared some of the same mystic traditions, though as Tythonnia grew more skilled within the Wizards of High Sorcery, she came to realize that was a generalization of all renegade magics.
Still, the Vagros possessed what the wizards disparagingly called “cupboard tricks,” and such minor magic exerted a hold over small communities. In fact, the simple people of the land put greater stock in the good luck charms, divination readings, and crop blessings of village renegades than those of any trained wizard of the orders. That said, there were a rare few such as Desmora who had tapped into the more rare, more powerful Wyldling magic.
Much to her chagrin, Tythonnia had to admit she was fond of the old ways as well. She found comfort in them, in the home remedies and the bits of common wisdom. It was that comfort that brought her to the outskirts of the Vagros encampment. If Amma Batros knew she was there, she’d never hear the end of it. Amma had grown up around wisewomen and seers such as Desmora. She even revered them once, but she put far more stock in the “respectable” practices of the wizards. Tythonnia, however, never shook her respect for the humbler magics and their practitioners-even when her training taught her that they were her enemy.
A trio of women peeling potatoes next to a bow top wagon eyed Tythonnia suspiciously. Four men speaking around the pit fire also stopped and watched her approach. Only when she stopped just outside the circle of wagons did the men stand. Even the kender stopped, and while one of them smiled and seemed ready to step forward, a young Vagros girl stopped him.
Tythonnia knew her place among their traditions. With her hand light on the reins of her Dairly, she waited until the group of men approached. A Vagros with thin features, hair peppered prematurely and a thick shadow of stubble, took the lead. He was dressed in flared trousers and black boots, his silk shirt still bright with yellow and blue hues. His thin fingers rested on his belt, close to his dagger.
“What do you want?” he said. He eyed Tythonnia suspiciously and found her wanting in his appraisals.
“I come to barter,” Tythonnia said. “A gift for the advice of your wisewoman.”
He grunted both as acknowledgment and for Tythonnia to show her offering. She pulled a mirror from her travel pouch; its back was polished wood, its handle carved with geometric designs. It was a small indulgence of vanity that Tythonnia could do without.
The Vagros studied the mirror with disinterest, the face of a haggler. “How do we know you don’t hunt us?” the Vagros asked, not addressing her directly. “Maybe you want to hurt her.”
“I … was a student. Of Desmora. She introduced me to Mother Benecia of the Gratos Clan. Mother Benecia honored me with a reading.”
The Vagros studied Tythonnia under renewed scrutiny. “Desmora, we know, and we trade with the Gratos. But Mother Benecia-”
“Passed away years ago, I know. I was very young when I met her, and she was very old. I never forgot her.”
The Vagros pocketed the mirror and motioned for Tythonnia to enter the circle of wagons. He and the others flanked her as they escorted her to a box-top wagon with spiraled fluting and stars and crescent moons carved through the wood. The windows were shuttered closed, but candlelight flickered through the carvings. The lead Vagros knocked on the door at the rear and entered when summoned. He vanished inside.
Although still under their scrutiny, Tythonnia tried not to fidget. The cabin door opened again, and the Vagros hopped down. With a sweep of his head, he motioned for her to enter. Tythonnia nodded and suddenly doubted the wisdom of her actions. It was one thing to seek Vagros counsel when she was young and didn’t know better, but the Vagros dabbled with prohibited magics. The reasons the renegade hunters and the Wizards of High Sorcery hadn’t hunted them down entirely were twofold. The first was that Vagros rarely produced anything beyond folk charms-remedies, fortune-telling, and any number of other “charlatan arts”-at least publicly. The second reason was that the Vagros stood behind their wisemen and wisewomen, and any attempt to bring a matriarch or patriarch of the clan to High Sorcery judgment was met with outright and savage warfare. More than one renegade hunter had reputedly vanished at the hands of the Vagros and more than one Vagros clan had been massacred in a horrible misjudgment. The Vagros may not have believed it, but most wizards truly regretted those incidents.
But they still couldn’t condone the clans’ use of magic and the rare threat of Wyldling arts.
Yet here Tythonnia found herself, ready to seek their counsel. She couldn’t explain why she felt more and more comfortable remembering the old ways.
What if I’m caught? she wondered.
Then say you were acting the part of the renegade, she answered almost immediately.
That little bit of justification was enough for Tythonnia to gird her courage, mount the steps of the wagon, and enter the candlelit cabin. The door closed behind her.
Par-Salian sopped the hard bit of bread in the barley soup and savored the warmth of his food as it slid down his throat. It was an average meal but long overdue, he thought. There was something bothering him, however-the owner Tarmann. Par-Salian prided himself on being able to divine people’s emotions and moods, and the owner was a strange one.
As Par-Salian was finishing his bowl, Tarmann became more and more agitated. When the owner thought nobody was looking, his gaze darted to the tent flap, as though anxious for someone’s arrival. But did that have anything to do with Par-Salian? The White Robe wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t afford to take anything for granted. He reached for his purse and saw the look of panic that flittered across Tarmann’s face.
Tarmann practically ran for his table.
“Finished, are you?” Tarmann said as he approached. “You’re not thinking of leaving without trying our sweet cakes?”
“I couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” Par-Salian said. He began fishing through his purse for the right steel, but Tarmann shoved the purse away with a laugh.
“It’s on me and the missus,” Tarmann said. “Just you wait. A finer bit of sweet I’ll warrant you’ve never tasted.” With that, he grabbed the plates from Par-Salian’s table and quickly bustled off with a final glance back.
Par-Salian knew for certain now that Tarmann was trying to delay him. The reason was a mystery, and that was enough cause for worry, especially with Tarmann staring at him, as though nailing him to the seat with his very gaze. He had to escape without provoking a confrontation.
Par-Salian slowly reached for one of his pouches and removed a pinch of wool. The table covered his movements, and Tarmann took no notice as he gestured beneath the table and whispered the words to evoke the necessary spell.
Par-Salian immediately dumped coins on the table for his meal and headed out the tent flap. Tarmann had yet to react. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to for a few more seconds. Par-Salian quickly darted into the crowd of people waiting for the gate to be cleared and caught a glimpse of a panicked Tarmann shoving past the tent flap and looking around. He cursed his luck when he remembered he left his Qwermish steed behind.
“There he is!” a voice shouted.
Several people looked about, startled, but Par-Salian recognized the redheaded server pointing a finger at him. Accompanying the server was a bear of a man with a bushy beard. He was larger than Tarmann and dressed in black with a hood pulled over his head.
Par-Salian blanched; he recognized the renegade hunter, as well as the intent in his black-eyed expression. The renegade hunter was after him, though why, he didn’t know. The hunter pushed the boy out of the way then hesitated. There were too many people between him and his quarry.
Par-Salian jammed his fingers into one of his many pouches with practiced familiarity and pulled at the reagents as the spell words flew to his lips. Somewhere in his mind, a page inscribed with the ink of thought burned with a flash. The script vanished and the spell made itself felt through Par-Salian’s fingertips.
Before the renegade hunter could react, Par-Salian whispered,
