Renegade Wizards aot-3

by Lucien Soulban

  “How could I forget?” Kinsley said, chuckling. He left Berthal to enjoy the luxuries of a real bath and a real bed.

  Ladonna’s condition had improved greatly over the past five days. Although still bedridden by the two dagger strokes to her kidneys, she was seated in bed with her back to the wall and the table within easy reach. Rosie’s thick quilt covered her lower body,

  Par-Salian marveled at their good fortune with the innkeeper and the healing draught. There was barely a spotting of blood on her bandages when, normally, an injury of that type would take a month to recover from … if one even survived. He was determined to return their horses when they could do so safely. Right now, per Ladonna’s and Rosie’s orders, neither he nor Tythonnia were venturing far from the barn. Gossip was easy in that part of town, and two strangers wandering in and out of Rosie’s Smithy was sure fodder for chitchat. Still, there was time enough in the late evening to stretch their legs and take in fresh air.

  During the day, they took turns helping Rosie, studying their spells, and keeping Ladonna company. To Par-Salian’s surprise, Ladonna was easier to talk to, as though her injury had stripped her of all the pretensions that accompanied members of the Black Robes. She smiled more often, despite the lingering pain, and laughed more easily. Par-Salian found it difficult reconciling the woman he met in Solanthus the previous month and the different sides of the woman he had discovered: Ladonna the Black Robe, Ladonna the orphan, Ladonna the street waif, Ladonna the fighter.

  “What?” Ladonna said, looking at Par-Salian as he stared at her.

  “Sorry,” Par-Salian said, shaking his head. “I was just thinking about everything you’ve been through. Nothing like that’s ever happened to me.”

  “No hardship? Ever? Nothing bad?”

  “My father was very protective. Oh!” Par-Salian said suddenly. “I did stub my toe once. Father was very upset. We held a vigil.”

  Ladonna laughed, wincing at the pain it caused. “Stop making me laugh, you idiot,” she said, though her expression was far from serious.

  “I’m sorry,” Par-Salian said. He couldn’t stop grinning. “I’ll stop.”

  “Fine,” Ladonna said and abruptly switched topics. “What about the test? You can’t tell me you didn’t face hardship there?”

  “Oh, that. That was hard, yes,” Par-Salian admitted. “I was forced to face my worst ordeal, my … gravest fear.”

  “Can I ask what that was?” Ladonna asked.

  Par-Salian hesitated then nodded gravely. “Yes,” he whispered.

  Ladonna drew closer.

  “I stubbed my toe again,” Par-Salian said.

  Ladonna’s voice rang in a new peal of laughter.

  “Stop laughing,” Par-Salian protested. “It was both feet this time!”

  She laughed harder with yelps of pain, but there were tears rolling down her face. Par-Salian had to admit, he liked making her laugh.

  “Don’t make me come up there!” Rosie shouted from the barn floor. The giggles and laughter died down a little but continued in whispered fits like two small children sharing a secret.

  Rosie smiled and motioned for Tythonnia to set down the wooden crates they were carrying. They weren’t heavy but they were unwieldy for just one person, and Tythonnia’s shoulder still hurt. She healed quickly even though the injury was still enough to limit her mobility. Tythonnia’s muscles hurt from the exertion, but it felt good to be working so hard. She missed the simple life, the heavy days accompanied by hours of the deepest sleep one could imagine. Magic set the mind working constantly, and insomnia was a common curse for all wizards.

  Tythonnia leaned against the pillar, trying not to breathe hard in front of Rosie.

  Rosie, however, seemed pleasantly distracted by the voices upstairs. When she noticed Tythonnia watching her, she said, “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Good enough for any job you have in mind,” Tythonnia said.

  “You’re a sturdy girl. It’s good to have a pair of strong hands helping out again.”

  Tythonnia nodded. “A farmer’s upbringing,” she admitted.

  Rosie sat on a wood crate and patted the one next to her. Tythonnia joined her.

  “That explains it,” Rosie said. “You didn’t strike me as the wizardly type.” When she saw Tythonnia’s expression, the slightly pained one, she amended her statement. “Don’t take it that way. Most of the wizards I’ve seen are frail little sticks never blessed with the joy of hard work,” she said. “But you’re like them in one regard, if that helps.”

  “How’s that?” Tythonnia asked.

  Rosie tapped her own temple with her finger. “You live up here too much.”

  “I know,” Tythonnia said and went quiet at all the thoughts raging in her head.

  “You’re doing it again,” Rosie said. Another fit of laughter in the loft, however, seemed to distract Rosie. She laughed, winking at Tythonnia.

  “I’m not the only one,” Tythonnia said.

  “It’s been too long since I heard happy voices,” she admitted.

  “No children?” Tythonnia asked.

  “Not for a lack of trying, but no. The only children we had were the ones we welcomed into our home. Orphans of the Alley, my Lawry called them. Ladonna was one of many, but she was also the most precious of them.”

  “You stopped taking care of children?” Tythonnia asked.

  “The Alley is changing,” Rosie admitted. “The city has closed down many smithies because our smoke is tarnishing the walls of their beautiful Palanthas,” she said with a sneer. “More people are leaving and strangers are moving in. It’s not the home I remember.”

  The two were quiet for a moment, indulging in memories of homes lost and families forgotten. Finally, Rosie patted Tythonnia’s leg. “I have work to do and an errand to ask of you.”

  “Ask,” Tythonnia said.

  “I need you to go to a couple of shops nearby. We need provisions and I have work to finish up here.”

  Tythonnia nodded happily. She was looking forward to sunlight and fresh air, or at least as much as Smiths’ Alley could provide.

  Sunlight dropped into the Alley as slivers of light, making the shadows deeper. The street bustled with life, however, a thin traffic of humanity made thicker by the street’s width. Tythonnia made her way past windows where tough-looking women leaned out and jabbered with their friends, past gangs of kids running through the crowds, past shops that were so shallow in depth they’d barely gouged the stone and wood of the storefront.

  Still, life was rich here, every day a luxuriant tapestry of noises and experiences. It felt alive and far less austere than the indifferent arrogance of the people and stores in the Merchandising District. Tythonnia relished it far more than she thought she would. She preferred the wilderness, she always did, but there was a flavor to the city that she loved as well.

  Tythonnia entered Grimble’s, a small shop filled with grains and all sorts of preserved fruits and nuts. The fresh varieties were rare and only to be found closer to the docks and nearer the city gates. She placed her order on Rosie’s behalf and was told to expect the provisions later that day. Her second stop was Dawler and Sons Butcher, which included a surprisingly large animal pen in the back that jutted outside the Alley. Again, she placed orders for specific cuts of beef and pork as well as cured meats.

  With her errands done, Tythonnia spent a moment admiring the cows and chickens and pigs, all nestled in their stalls. She missed being on the farm and almost asked the butcher if she could help feed the animals.

  As she prepared to leave the stall fence, however …

  … Don’t move.

  A foreign voice entered her thoughts, pushing hers aside. She began looking around when the voice stopped her.

  Don’t move; don’t look around; don’t say a word. I have an arrow trained on you as we speak.

  The voice was definitely male, though one she’d never heard before.

  Move your mouth or wiggle your finger
s, and I unleash my arrow with the second arrow nocked before the first one ever reaches you. Tense your muscles, and I shoot you. Better you dead than me. Understand?

  Yes, Tythonnia thought.

  Good. I can discern lies. You know the spell?

  Yes. She was also familiar with the spell that allowed her stalker to speak into her mind. Fortunately, it did not allow him to read her thoughts, only hear what she chose to share.

  I will ask questions; you will answer them. Lie to me, and I kill you.

  What do you want?

  Are you a renegade?

  Tythonnia faltered. All their work, traveling and eluding those renegade hunters … all of it hinged on her answer to that question. The problem was her response depended on whoever was asking the question. Was it a hunter who had her in his sights, or Berthal’s lieutenant? And if she answered wrongly, she risked their only potential contact with Berthal by admitting she was a Wizard of High Sorcery.

  Well?

  Who are you? Tythonnia asked, trying to stall.

  Answer me! My arm is growing tired, and my arrow might slip!

  Tythonnia closed her eyes and prayed the odds played out in her favor.

  No, she admitted.

  Say what you are. Say it!

  It was hard not to run, but run where? The speaker was hidden somewhere, and if she ran, was she running toward him, or away?

  I am a Wizard of High Sorcery, she thought and felt the world slip out from beneath her. After all their work, she felt ashamed to betray their identities so easily. She half expecpted to die any second, the arrow lodged in her brain before she could regret a single thing. To her greater regret, nothing happened. It felt like forever, that moment of silence.

  Are you there? Tythonnia thought, hazarding a question. She could still feel the pressure in her mind.

  Here still, the voice replied. Why is there an execution order on the three of you?

  What? Tythonnia thought. With who? The Thieves Guild?

  No … with us. We’re the renegade hunters you eluded at the tower. Why have the masters of the orders sanctioned your execution?

  Tythonnia was too stunned to answer. Her mind grasped at the greasy thoughts, but they squirmed free. Her face contorted in confusion, and she quickly shut her mouth when she remembered the warning not to cast spells.

  That’s impossible, Tythonnia thought. It’s the masters who sent us to find and spy on Berthal… with the highmage’s blessing!

  They told you this directly?

  Yes! Tythonnia said. It was growing hard not to vocalize her rampaging thoughts. They told you to murder us?

  Yes… no. Not directly. Not me. What do you-

  We need to speak … face-to-face.

  The barkeep maneuvered in the narrow corridor behind the plank of wood. The stools were in the street and had to be moved when a horse came by, and the drinks were all served from barrels stacked behind the bar.

  Kinsley sat upon one of the stools. He nursed a weak pint and watched the barkeep go about his business. The man was thin and unsympathetic looking, but at that point Kinsley was too tired to care. He hated the neighborhood. He was sick of it with its scrunched-up buildings and scrunched-up people with their sour faces and sour attitudes.

  “I’m looking for someone,” he said to the barkeep.

  The man grunted in response and served a man with sea-blue eyes seated two stools down. The barkeep wasn’t interested.

  “Look,” Kinsley said, pointing at the mug in front of him. “How many mugs of this armpit sweat you call a drink do I have to buy from you to get information?”

  The barkeep considered it carefully. He held up all the fingers on both hands.

  “Nine?” Kinsley repeated. “I won’t survive one.”

  The barkeep looked at the bare stub of his missing pinky and wiggled that too.

  “Fine, how about I just pay you for ten, and you tell me what I want to know?”

  The barkeep shrugged.

  Kinsley sighed. “Shrug yes? Or shrug no?”

  The man shrugged again.

  “Here!” Kinsley said and dropped a couple of pieces of steel on the bar. “I’d like to buy a letter from you. Perhaps a whole word if you’re feeling generous.”

  The barkeep walked over to Kinsley and cleaned his spot on the bar with a rag. The coins vanished and the barkeep leaned against the wood, waiting for Kinsley’s question.

  “I’m looking for strangers,” Kinsley said.

  “He’s a stranger,” the barkeep said, nodding toward the blue-eyed man.

  Kinsley offered a patient smile that said he was anything but. “Three strangers, two women and a man. My age.” He began describing what he could of the trio, from the bejeweled, black-haired woman’s beauty to the man’s refined features. Of the blonde woman, there was little to share, other than hair color. Otherwise she was common enough.

  The barkeep thought about it a moment before finally answering. “Haven’t seen them together,” he said. “Alone … seen the man and maybe your blonde woman.”

  “When?”

  The man shrugged. “But I seen them both coming from that way and leaving that way,” he said, nodding to the north.

  Kinsley offered the man a flat smile; the meager morsel was the most information he’d gotten in the past few days, and it was still close to a frustrating nothing. He was about to leave when he spied the man next to him again. The blue-eyed patron’s fingers had stopped moving, a whisper still on his lips. The barkeep had missed it, his back was to the customer, but Kinsley recognized the workings of magic. Suddenly, a stack of steel coins sitting next to one of the barrels lifted into the air and shot over the bar, into the man’s hand. They barely made a sound.

  The man walked away as quickly as he could, practically toppling the bar stool in the process. Kinsley smiled and followed the man for a block before finally stopping him.

  “I saw what you did,” Kinsley said.

  “Please, sir,” the lean, blue-eyed man said. “I didn’t mean no harm by it. Just a little steel to eat.”

  “Then stop wasting it on drink,” Kinsley said. “But that spell you cast … how much more do you know?”

  The man looked around nervously. “Enough to get me in trouble with the wizards,” he said, turning to walk away.

  Kinsley stopped him again, more gently. “We should talk. Unless you like living like a rat?”

  They met in the shadow of an alley off the main street, between two buildings and the blackened Old City Wall. Tythonnia recognized him instantly, the blond-haired hunter who had brought Virgil before the conclave. His features were gentle, but his fierce, black eyes were a startling contrast to the rest of his face. He carried a powerful and etched longbow, and they spoke in whispers, each relating their part of the story, from Solanthus, to the attack of the dolls at the ruined village, to the High Clerist’s Tower, through to that moment.

  Tythonnia was relieved to hear Thoma harbored doubts about the instructions to execute them. He was struggling to believe that his companion Dumas was either lying to them or somehow enchanted. He did admit, however, she’d been acting strangely.

  They both agreed Thoma needed to speak with the other two.

  They’d just arrived at that consensus when Thoma’s eyes widened. Tythonnia barely had time to react before Thoma grabbed her shoulder and threw them both to the ground. The air above them crackled and sizzled as a wall of heat pushed past them. A ball of fire exploded against the Old City Wall behind them, and flames peppered the adjoining roofs.

  Dumas stood there, between them and the Alley, her face contorted in livid anger. It was the murderous look of a woman scorned. Thoma scrambled to his feet, caught in the hesitation of whether to draw his blade or not.

  “Dumas-” he managed.

  “You dare?” she screamed. Before Thoma could respond, Dumas’s hands flew into a pattern, her lips moving to unlock a spell.

  “Run!” Thoma managed.

  Tytho
nnia got to her feet just as electricity flowed from the tome’s chains into Dumas’s arms. The spell, whatever it was, ruptured the ground between the two hunters, and the force of it slammed into Thoma. He flew backward and struck the city wall. He landed in a heap and struggled to rise.

  Instinct took over and Tythonnia grabbed his arm to lift him, but Thoma shoved her away, toward the narrow defile between the buildings and the battlement.

  “Run,” he cried again. With a shout of fury, his hands flew into a quick pattern. “Halilintar!”

  A jagged blade of lightning coursed from his hands directly towards Dumas. Tythonnia rounded the corner, but in her peripheral vision, she could have sworn the lightning bolt struck the tome on Dumas’s chest before simply vanishing. A moment later, she could hear Thoma shouting, “Dumas, what are you-”

  Something cut his voice to a strangled halt.

  Tythonnia ran even harder, turning down one alley and across another. Finally she hit Smiths’ Alley, in time to meet with a surge of locals. Two buildings were on fire, and the denizens of the Alley were reacting quickly by forming water chains. It was enough to clog the streets and, Tythonnia hoped, hide her escape.

  By the time Tythonnia reached Rosie’s shop, the older woman was outside, watching the commotion.

  “What’s going on?” Rosie asked.

  Tythonnia grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back into the barn. Par-Salian was coming down the stairs while Ladonna was out of bed and looking down at them from the loft.

  “Hunters,” Tythonnia said. “Dumas’s gone mad. She killed her companion to get to us.”

  Par-Salian’s face turned ashen. “Dumas is here?”

  “We leave now!” Tythonnia said. She rushed into the stall and began shoving whatever she could grab into her pack.

  Rosie ran up the stairs to help Ladonna while Par-Salian was at Tythonnia’s side.

  “The horses?” he asked.

  “Street’s too crowded,” Tythonnia said. “We go on foot.”

  “Dumas?” he asked again, shoving his personal effects into his bag. “You’re certain?”