Upon the center chair, however, sat the most frightening of them all, the Highmage Astathan of Qualinost. If humans grew old, then elves grew ancient. Despite his short stature, there was something grand about him, something that made him appear larger than the others. Perhaps it was his reputation; he was the father of modern magics and savior of the Wizards of High Sorcery. He breathed life into the study of the arcane crafts, turning it from an art of dead tongues and dusty principles to a new frontier of exploration and renewed vigor. Astathan was certainly the oldest among the high mages, old enough to have witnessed the Cataclysm, when a mountain dropped from the sky. He was not unlike a great, old tree, his long fingers and limbs like knotted branches, his billowing white hair pulled forward and spread across his ivory-cloaked chest. The gold of his almond-shaped eyes glittered and never dulled.
Unlike Yasmine or Reginald, however, Astathan looked upon the scared Virgil with a look of the utmost pity. He didn’t see the boy’s failings, Tythonnia realized; he saw his own.
From Astathan’s side stepped another white-robed wizard, a human herald with tanned skin and a thin, black mustache.
“Rise,” the herald said.
The hunters did as instructed and the two men prodded Virgil to his feet.
“You are faced with crimes against the Wizards of High Sorcery,” the herald continued, “including theft of your master’s property, betrayal of the wizards’ conventions, and the practice of illicit and wild magics. You are further charged with abetting the enemies of High Sorcery. Have you anything to say to these charges?”
Virgil looked around, bewildered that he had been asked to speak on his own behalf. Tythonnia watched him, her breath caught in her mouth, waiting for him to beg for forgiveness, for leniency. She prayed it was the folly of youth that guided him.
The former initiate, however, suddenly straightened and proudly thrust out his chest. Tythonnia could see no apology forthcoming in his bearing, and she regretted the words she knew were coming, regretted them because she knew he would not.
“You lied to us,” Virgil said, staring directly at the three masters.
The room erupted into shouts and cries of anger. Several wizards rose to their feet in condemnation of the upstart, but it was the female renegade hunter who reacted the quickest. She backhanded Virgil, sending him to the floor. The room fell silent save for the rustle of fabric as more rose to their feet to see what was happening.
“Sit! Sit down!” the herald cried. His voice thundered across the hall and carried the hint of magic to its strength.
Everyone complied, sitting back down as the two hunters lifted a staggered Virgil to his feet.
“Huntress Dumas,” Astathan said in a clear and steady voice. “We appreciate your service to High Sorcery, but you will refrain from striking the boy.”
Dumas blushed and bowed her head quickly. “Forgive me,” she said.
“The boy has a right to speak,” Astathan said, addressing everyone. “Otherwise, we serve justice in ignorance, and I cannot abide ignorance. Now, boy, when have we lied to you? And how does that justify your betrayal?”
Tythonnia suddenly felt a warm hand over hers. Amma Batros was touching her lightly and staring at her in concern. Amma’s gaze was questioning, and it took Tythonnia a moment to realize she was shaking. Tythonnia nodded that she was fine and willed herself to calm down, for the adrenaline to seep away.
Although Virgil spoke through his tears, his voice was too large for the chamber, strong in its dedication to be heard and matured, somehow. His posture changed as well, suddenly more in command of himself than she believed someone so young could muster. “You betrayed us,” he reiterated, and it was then that Tythonnia realized the words had a rehearsed quality to them. She glanced at Amma Batros and found her mentor studying the captive in turn.
“You decide who learns magic, and you cripple us in teaching it,” Virgil continued. “Your faith serves the bureaucracy of the three moons. You have become a religion of your own making, a failed experiment!”
Astathan’s eyes narrowed and he exchanged glances with the other two masters. They sensed something amiss. The black-robed Reginald Diremore nodded and casually strode up from his seat. He grabbed Virgil by the front of his jerkin and pulled him to within inches of his face.
“Youngling,” Reginald said, “I would have your words in your
“It’s a glamour of some sort,” Amma whispered to Tythonnia.
Tythonnia was about to ask what she meant when Reginald hissed out a spell. His words were like an oily snake, and his fingers contorted and knotted into hand gestures. The hairs on Tythonnia’s neck prickled, and a flash of light ebbed on the tips of Reginald’s fingers. Virgil was somehow weaker for the spell. He stumbled back and was pushed forward again by the blond-haired hunter. He looked around, his mouth agape and his expression dumbfounded. The certainty was gone from his posture, his shoulders weighted by fear and his head darting. A mere youth once more, scared with the courage brutally ripped from him. He didn’t act like the same person speaking a moment earlier.
“Let’s see you speak rhetoric now, mouthpiece,” Reginald said. With a triumphant smirk, he returned to his chair and sat back down.
“We give you the opportunity to speak your mind, boy,” Astathan said as he shook his head, “and instead you allow another to speak through you. Since you have nothing of your own to say in your defense, answer me this: Who do you serve? Who just acted through you?”
Virgil appeared panicked. He was adrift and forced to speak with his own timid voice. “Berthal,” he said finally, almost shrinking at the admission. “I serve the one true master, Berthal. And I’d gladly ask him to speak for me again!”
Tythonnia, the black-robed woman who had been staring at her, and an older white-robed wizard were asked to wait outside after Virgil’s admission. The black-robed woman was beautiful with alabaster skin and black, braided hair. There was a rough air about her, however, in the way she sat and watched everyone. She was no woman of society nor one concerned with any specific social graces.
The white-robed wizard, however, was another matter. He appeared pleasant, a faint smile on his face and shy, darting blue eyes. His hair was a light brown, as was the pinch of a beard on his chin. Tythonnia estimated him at ten years their senior, putting him somewhere in his mid to upper thirties.
“Par-Salian,” he said, introducing himself to Tythonnia and the other woman.
Tythonnia was glad for his congeniality. He possessed an easy way about him.
The black-robed woman was curt, however. Only after a moment’s prodding did she finally introduce herself as “Ladonna.”.
Par-Salian shrugged to Tythonnia and sat down on one of the gilded benches that lined the hallway outside the meeting chamber. Tythonnia studied the inlaid marble and alabaster geometric patterns on the floor while Ladonna paced a bit and studied the busts of former wizards stuffed into the alcoves.
A servant quietly served them water from a jug while they waited then darted past the double doors, back into the conclave’s chamber. In doing so, he left the great wooden doors framed in burnished iron open a crack. Voices drifted through, the great wizards still in deliberation. Ladonna, without a shred of shame, drifted to the open door and began listening.
“Psst,” Par-Salian whispered. “What are you doing? Get away from there!”
Ladonna waved him off and continued listening. Par-Salian stared at Tythonnia with a look of apprehension, and the red-robed wizard felt obligated to intervene. She quietly strode over to Ladonna, whose head was near the open crack. She glanced at Tythonnia, but her expression remained inscrutable. Tythonnia was ready to say something, to drag her away from her breach of decorum, but then she heard Master Astathan speak. It was hard to hear his voice and not listen.
Tythonnia found herself approaching closer, and before she realized what she was doing, she’d rested against the wall nearest the door. Astathan’s voice was soothing and almost lyrical. A mischievous smirk played on Ladonna’s face, a delighted look that lit her eyes with fire. Tythonnia couldn’t help herself. She grinned back and continued listening, despite the huffs of frustration coming from Par-Salian.
“Master Pecas?” Astathan was asking. “You were wronged most grievously by Initiate Virgil’s betrayal. What have you to say on the matter?”
