Renegade Wizards (6 page)

Astathan cleared his throat before continuing. “Now, finally, we are no longer forced to hide. We are taming the use of the feral arts and bringing wild sorcerers to heel, advising them to follow the tenets set down by the orders, or desist. We are bringing responsibility back to the practice of magic, but there has been a setback. You witnessed it at the trial, earlier, in fact.”

“Virgil Morosay?” Ladonna asked. She cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “Ah wait, no … Berthal, his master.”

A shocked Par-Salian hushed her quickly, but Ladonna ignored him with a self-satisfied grin.

“What’s been kept from all wizards, save the conclave and our most masterful practitioners, is that there’s a plague upon us, delivered in two strokes. The first is an epidemic of betrayed principles,” Astathan said. “We are losing initiates and members alike to this renegade Berthal. Students are stealing from masters, and make no mistake, Virgil was not the first. Masters are leading their students astray from the guiding laws of High Sorcery and the safe paths set down by the moons. The longer Berthal is allowed to continue spreading his rhetoric for unregulated magic, the more he undermines the laws of magic and the safety of innocent people.

“The second stroke is equal in peril,” Astathan continued. “Berthal has not only turned his back on our guiding ethos, but he’s done so by embracing the most primordial of magics. He wields the arts that existed at the time of the Graygem, when magic wasn’t a craft, but a force of nature.”

“How is this possible?” Par-Salian asked.

Astathan sighed. “It is to our own detriment sometimes that we diligently preserve knowledge of the past. Berthal stole ancient texts detailing the path of wild magic when he
broke with us. He is now teaching his followers these Wyldling Arts, teaching them to unleash their natural talents without the focusing matrices of reagents or words. A discharge of static becomes a lightning bolt from the heavens, wild in its unpredictability. A gust of wind becomes the storm’s heart, raging indiscriminately.”

“So he can will magic and bend it to his whim?” Ladonna asked. “No spell, no words, no reagents.”

“None. Just chaos for its own sake. And now he teaches others how to blanket the world in a storm of his making.”

“But Wyldling magic has always been around,” Tythonnia argued. “We know people can use passion to stoke their spells. We know others advocate its use.”

“Never like this,” Astathan replied. “Most practitioners of this ilk were unguided and unprincipled. Selfish. But, if we were lucky, their own inexperience would consume them. More to our favor, they kept their secrets to themselves, treating knowledge as a thing to be hoarded. It was like an illness that never spread because everyone shut themselves away with whatever sickness they caught. Berthal, however, is trying to bring discipline to the art. He’s teaching others how to do more without burning the wick of their souls.”

“You want Berthal … eliminated?” Ladonna asked with a grin.

“No, never!” Astathan said. “I would never condone the murder of another. To do so is to break the very ideals I’m trying to protect. You must find Berthal and lead the renegade hunters to him. He must be brought to justice, for betraying his oath as a member of the Red Robes, for fomenting this dissent, and for teaching what 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.

“So that’s why I was handpicked for this assignment?” Ladonna asked, her tone challenging. “To seduce a White Robe?”

Reginald stopped, his surprise and annoyance etched across his face. “Are you good for anything else?” he asked.

For a moment, Ladonna couldn’t speak. Astonishment robbed her of speech, and anger made it difficult to think. Reginald controlled the order, and by serving him well, Ladonna would improve her standing. More important, the
other wizards would treat her more seriously. Beauty and skill were in antithesis to each other, especially in scholarly circles where the mind is prized over physical attributes. This assignment, Ladonna had hoped, would shatter any misconceptions that her ability was a purely physical one.