easily reach over to them and feel for hidden pockets, but she couldn’t bring herself to make the first move.
It had nothing to do with the betrayal of her companions, she realized as she sat up. It had to do with following what she truly believed. It all came down to one question, one question at the core of everything. Even though she survived the test itself, it was still asking her: Do you follow the dictates of the moons, or do you follow your own path?
And be damned for either answer you give.
Berthal stirred and Tythonnia felt his hand resting on the small of her naked back. She lay back down next to him and nuzzled his ear with her nose.
“What?” he whispered.
“We need to talk,” she whispered back.
The camp was quiet, the fire pit a sea of black sailed by ships of cooling embers. Snowbeard slept where he sat at its stone-lined edge. Tythonnia hurried through the camp, a bundle wrapped in cloth pressed against her chest. She looked here and there in worry, heading straight for her encampment.
When she arrived, Ladonna and Par-Salian, who were pretending to sleep, bolted upright. Their backpacks were ready, and they were fully clothed beneath their cloaks. Tythonnia spilled the bundle at their feet.
“Did you get them?” Ladonna asked, pulling at the cloth.
“Yes!” Tythonnia said. “But we have to-”
Someone shouted an alarm from the main camp.
Ladonna ignored the screams and growing commotion. She opened the bundle and revealed a book wrapped in leather,
“With me,” Tythonnia said. She patted a pack hidden beneath her cloak, the one slung under her shoulder. “I was told to return the books to my order.”
“They belong to me!”
“They belong to the Wizards of High Sorcery. I’m doing what’s best for the whole society,” Tythonnia said. “We each get one … one for each order.”
“Sounds fair,” Par-Salian said.
Ladonna scowled and thought to argue the point further. Instead, she nodded to Par-Salian. People were emerging from their tents, trying to figure out what was happening. Par-Salian pulled out the sun and three moons medallion hidden in his shirt and concentrated. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips moved in silent incantation.
People were pointing at the three of them. Some began to run toward them; others fumbled for their pouches to launch spells to stop them. A couple were drawing upon wilder magic still and pulling energy from the air itself.
Before anyone could act, however, a disk of golden light appeared beneath the three wizards’ feet. Just before the disk rose above their heads, enveloping them, Tythonnia saw Berthal racing, his staff glowing as he was about to release a spell. Ladonna hissed as a ball of fire hurtled toward them.
Then they were gone.
The ground beneath their feet was no longer grass, but cold, gray flagstone. Behind them was a gate of silver and gold, the face of which was as precise and as delicate as butterfly wings. Beyond it was a foreboding forest choked on a thick mist. A tall wall separated them from the forest. Towering above them were two large towers made from black glass and etched with silver and black runes and two smaller towers, all measuring over two hundred feet in height.
“Home,” Ladonna breathed in grateful exultation.
They had arrived at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth.
The flash of fire on the horizon and the shouts that carried across the plains were what finally gave away the camp’s position. The noise persisted, the sounds of agitated horses and men crying orders.
Dumas and Hort reached the camp within an hour. The darkness kept them hidden, and they stayed well beyond any campfire light. With the reins of their Blödegelds in hand, they watched quietly as men raced to pack their carts and their horses and women helped settle the panicked and sleep-deprived children. In a few places, sorcerers used magic to expedite their departure by conjuring invisible servants to carry heavy sacks and crates. The camp would be ready to move within the next hour.
“Renegades?” Hort asked.
“Likely. I don’t see our prey, though.”
“Me either. There’s too many of them. How many casters?”
“A dozen. Maybe more. We need help. Follow them,” Dumas said. “Leave a trail for me to find if they cover their tracks.”
“Where you going?” Hort asked. “We want the three renegades.”
“I’m going back to Palanthas to hire mercenaries,” Dumas said. “And if our renegades aren’t in that camp, then someone down there knows where they are.” With that, she patted Hort on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few days. Don’t lose them.”
He scowled and nodded curtly. He didn’t like that one bit, but after what the three renegades did to Thoma, Hort wasn’t going to question his companion anymore, no matter how strangely she acted. He wanted the renegades to pay. Even if it meant following the camp of mystic refugees down the funnel of the Blood Sea of Istar, he would avenge Thoma’s death.
CHAPTER 15
While it was Highmage Astathan who served as master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, his position was largely ceremonial by choice. He watched over the affairs of the Wizards of High Sorcery, which more than occupied him, and left it to others to run the daily matters of the tower. Ladonna’s mentor, Arianna, possessed the enviable and much coveted role of managing the tower’s library, perhaps the greatest known repository of magic, arcane lore, and artifacts anywhere in the world.
As such, the tower was open to all wizards with sanction to be there, as well as a cadre of assistants and librarians who cared for the monumental library and maintained the tower grounds. It was those assistants who first came to investigate the commotion in the courtyard, but it was Arianna who welcomed them back.
Arianna, a woman in her forties with short-cropped brown hair and rounded features, took Ladonna into her embrace, but the kisses the two women placed on each other’s cheeks seemed cold and distant. Once they might have been mentor and student, but that was no longer the case. They were fast growing into rivals.
To her credit, however, Arianna made sure baths were drawn and chambers afforded the sojourners while Highmage Astathan was roused from sleep. He’d been awaiting their return. Before Arianna parted company with them, however, she pulled Tythonnia aside.
“You should know,” Arianna whispered, “Yasmine of the Delving died. Belize has replaced her as master of your order. He’s at Abrasama Keep but expects a full report when you are finished with Highmage Astathan. I’ll arrange for your communications.”
Tythonnia nodded. She felt too numb, too tired to care. It was inevitable that Belize would head the order; Tythonnia had just hoped she wouldn’t be around to see it. Ladonna and Par-Salian said nothing either. They regarded one another with looks of utter exhaustion. Their shared ordeal would forever bind them regardless of what came next.
Before Tythonnia entered through the wooden door to her chamber, she pulled out one of the books from her worn pack,
