should have remained forgotten!”
“Us? Really?” Tythonnia asked in shock. “But how?”
“As renegades,” Astathan said. “I’m asking you to become renegades.”
Par-Salian nodded his thanks to the servant for the glass of honey blossom Qualinesti tea and waited for him to leave the room. The two white-robed wizards sat across the engraved cherrywood table from each other, quietly sipping their warm drinks. Par-Salian occasionally glanced up at Highmage Astathan, feeling awkward. If the high-mage noticed it, he gave no sign one way or the other. He merely sampled from his glass, his eyes heavy with fatigue or thought.
The silence was unbearable. Par-Salian wasn’t sure why he was there. He opened his mouth to speak, but Astathan stopped him.
“Tea tastes better in silence,” Astathan said. He continued drinking. “Contemplate the flavor.”
Par-Salian nodded and continued to drink. He tried focusing on the flavor as instructed, tried enjoying the honey that slid down his throat, warming his chest and calming his nerves with its smooth texture. There was an underlying taste, however, one he couldn’t place. It was difficult to focus. He drank, but his thoughts drifted to everything Highmage Astathan had told them.
Berthal was a great threat to the orders. Not only was he recruiting directly from the ranks of High Sorcery itself, drawing student and teacher alike to his banner, but he was advocating the teaching of wild, primordial arts. Wyldling magic had a destabilizing effect on the world. It transmuted species and was held up to no one’s accounting. Before the orders came along, the wild arts transmitted through the eye of the Graygem were at the heart of the split that created subspecies and offshoots. It was the weapon of choice for terror, and the common folk came to see magic as a thing to be feared, a thing to be struck down. It was a viper that could kill anyone who stumbled across its path, at least until the three moons finally gave magic rhyme and purpose. They created accountability through the three orders that followed the teachings of the moons. They instilled control over the chaos and helped show people that magic was a tool for their benefit.
Berthal threatened all that, however. His sanction of untamed magic could again frighten a world already wary of its power. More so, Par-Salian realized, he could turn people against all practitioners of spellcraft and undo the positive works of mages such as Astathan.
A thought struck Par-Salian, as he put his cup of tea down. He repeated the idea in his mind, trying to study and analyze it, trying to probe it for weakness, for cracks. The idea remained strong, however.
I must help bring Berthal to the Wizards of High Sorcery for justice, he thought. Otherwise, the orders might not survive the scandal, especially since Berthal was once one of us. His flock also consists of former members of the three colors. Any wrongdoing, any evils he commits would fall upon our shoulders. Any distrust Berthal levies would be levied, in turn, against us. We would suffer the most for this because the orders would be seen as weak, as incapable of enforcing their own principles. Indeed, we would appear corrupt, for few cared to distinguish the differences between a wizard of the orders, a sorcerer, and a Wyldling practitioner pursuing power for his own ends.
Par-Salian opened his mouth to speak then realized Highmage Astathan was studying him very intently. He closed his mouth again. The tea lingered with a slightly oily aftertaste on his tongue, and Par-Salian finally recognized it. It was bekial seed from the thorn bushes of Estwilde; it acted to open one’s consciousness without the deleterious effects of most other opiates. A little was enough to put its user in a trance. Too much was toxic. And the fine line between the two was only drawn by master herbologists.
“You realize what is at stake.” Astathan asked. “You see where the roads lead.”
“Yes, indeed, Highmage,” Par-Salian replied. He focused elsewhere and was amazed at where his mind wandered. The road between things-the connections-were clear.
“It’s important you realize the dangers facing you without any prompting from me. It’s not enough to know; you must understand, and to truly understand, you must arrive at certain conclusions yourself. I say this because the two others you travel with may not recognize the full implications of Berthal’s threat.”.
“They’re young,” Par-Salian agreed. “They haven’t healed from the wounds of their trials. It’s too easy to reopen them, play upon them.”
Astathan nodded. “Berthal’s words may hook them far more deeply than they realize. You are the oldest among them. It is your responsibility to lead them, to remind them of their duties, to steep their actions in righteousness, to guide them through their own doubts.”
“And should I fail?” Par-Salian asked, anxious for the course set before him, for roads his mind was already traveling.
“Plan for failure, but do not anticipate it. That is the mark of a leader.” With that, Astathan pushed a small rosewood box to him from across the table. Inside was a gold medallion, depicting a sun with its rays curled around three interlocking moons. “As we discussed, use this only when necessary. It’s crucial.”
Par-Salian nodded, and continued to drink his tea. He allowed the bekial to gently push him further along the journey, though there was one last thing he wanted to know, something that had been troubling him all night.
“Highmage?” Par-Salian asked. “What will happen to Virgil Morosay? I-overheard Master Pecas turn his fate over to the Black Robes.”
Astathan nodded grimly. “We convinced Master Pecas to show more mercy. Virgil will remain in our care for three months and be given the opportunity to repent.”
“If he doesn’t?”
“Then damn Berthal for putting us into this position,” Astathan whispered.
Ladonna waited patiently while Reginald Diremore paced the stage of the empty lecture chamber. The amphitheaterstyle wood benches were empty, the candle niches dark and cold. Reginald threw the occasional glance her way, and despite herself, Ladonna felt ill at ease around him. Most men she could measure by the way they appraised her beauty. Magic was the common currency of her order, and the richest men were the ones most versed in its arts. Ladonna, however, possessed currency of a different sort, and she wasn’t above using it to her advantage. She never offered her body in exchange for considerations; she was too skilled as a spell weaver to be that short-sighted. But she knew how to exploit her looks to her benefit. She knew when she could dominate or manipulate others to her will and how to hold their attention. Her beauty wasn’t a matter of sexuality. It was the valuable currency she alone possessed.
Yet Reginald was immune or, perhaps, indifferent to her charms. With his good green eye, he studied her like a master tactician, no more entranced or in love with her than a general might love one of the many ballistae at his disposal. She was a mere weapon and a tool to the master of the Black Robes, and she was fine with that. The way his black eye seemed to stare right through her bothered her, however.
“Highmage Astathan discussed the situation with you, yes?” Reginald asked.
“He did,” Ladonna replied.
“Good, good,” Reginald replied. He remained silent a moment. “Your mission is threefold, then,” Reginald said. “Help the others find Berthal and his camp of renegades-”
“And capture them?” Ladonna asked, arching one of her delicate eyebrows as she did. She still wasn’t certain why Berthal should be left alive when he posed such a risk.
Reginald stopped pacing and stared directly at Ladonna. It was a warning in no uncertain terms. “Do as Astathan instructs,” Reginald said. “He has earned that right and our respect.”
Ladonna nodded. “Of course. I didn’t mean-”
Reginald waved off her apology with a dismissive gesture and continued pacing. “Besides,” Reginald said. “Astathan won’t be around for much longer. He’s old and he has his eye on another, a successor he wishes to groom personally.”
“Really?” Ladonna said. “Who might that be?”
“Par-Salian,” Reginald replied.
“Par-Salian? That White Robe who is far too pretty to be handsome? He isn’t even on the conclave.”
“After this assignment, you may well see his star rise quickly. That’s why I want you to take the opportunity to foster ties with him. Make him easier for us to manipulate if the time comes.”
Ladonna was never known for her patience or her dull tongue. She often spoke her mind before questioning whether her opinion could cost her. This was once such moment.
