“Answer me!” Ladonna cried. “I know you’re in there! Tythonnia!”
Tythonnia pulled a flask from her pouch. A gold liquid filled its belly, its mouth covered with a wood stopper and sealed in wax. She couldn’t believe she was about to leave behind her life of the past ten years. Her mind reeled at the thought of her own betrayal, but she didn’t belong here anymore.
“Ufta!”
Tythonnia cringed at Ladonna’s arcane word, then she heard the gate of the funeral vault swing open. More footsteps sounded as Ladonna raced into the chamber.
“Tythonnia! No, wait!”
Tythonnia bit down on the wood stopper and pulled it free with her teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Tythonnia said. “I have to.”
“You don’t understand! The book-”
It was too late. As Ladonna rounded the sarcophagus, her hands outstretched to grab her, Tythonnia tossed the liquid back, splashing it into her mouth. She didn’t swallow it; it evaporated on her tongue, sending pricks of pain down her throat. Ladonna’s words were lost in the tremor rush of thunder that swelled in her ears.
Like a page of the world turning, everything around Tythonnia slipped out from around her. She was no longer anchored in the world. Instead, she was standing out in the green forests of Qualinesti, at the foot of the ancient and knotted trees. Another page turned, and she stood a dozen yards above the waters of the Schallsea Straits. Before she could fall even an inch, she found herself on the hills near the Garnet Mountains, on the Plains of Solamnia, high in the instantly bitter cold of the Vingaard frost, in Berthal’s tent.
She would have fallen, had a startled Berthal not caught her.
“Back so soon?” He half laughed. Tythonnia was shivering, her body frozen to the marrow by the magic that drove the potion; she couldn’t stop her teeth chattering long enough to speak. She dropped the book, but Berthal ignored it as it thudded to the ground. He lowered her and pulled the cover from his bedroll to wrap her inside it. Afterward he warmed her with soft kisses to her face until she could finally speak.
“I found it. I found my way back.”
Par-Salian was startled awake by the hand covering his mouth. His eyes opened, his instincts telling him to fight. He bucked against the attacker, and she relented easily. It took him a moment to distinguish Ladonna standing there in his chamber, over his bed.
“Ladonna, you shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.
“Hush now,” she said. “Do you still have that medallion the highmage gave you?”
“No,” Par-Salian said. “It’s spent. Why?”
“Tythonnia is in terrible danger.”
Hort wrapped himself in his cloak, trying desperately to stave off the mountain cold that dug deeply into him. The renegade encampment was less than a mile away, and Hort had chosen a perch among the rocks that lay well outside the game trails. He didn’t need hunters finding him before Dumas returned. Hort prayed she would come back soon because he was getting tired of waiting.
“You’re certain,” Par-Salian said, searching through the pile of books stacked on his desk. “A trap?”
“It’s what Arianna told me. She learned it directly from Reginald Diremore. What are you looking for?”
“A spell I have in one of my-ah!” he exclaimed, pulling out a book bound in red leather. He flipped the pages. “It’s a teleportation spell,” he said.
“You don’t know how to cast one of those,” Ladonna said. She hesitated, the smirk receding from her face. “You know how to cast one of those?”
“After everything we’ve been through,” he said, “I believe I can. I’ve managed to grasp more powerful spells recently. But I need a destination.”
“Berthal’s campsite. Where we stayed. Are you sure you can do this?”
“If what you say is true, we have no choice. Not just for Tythonnia’s sake, but for the sake of the children there as well. We should inform the highmage.”
“We mustn’t,” Ladonna said, “or they’ll imprison Tythonnia and drum me out of the Black Robes for divulging this secret. It’ll drive a rift between the orders. You know what will happen.”
“Fine!” Par-Salian said. “But the campsite is likely abandoned by now.”
“But it’s a start, yes?” Ladonna said. “And it’s the only thing we know for certain.”
Sunlight streamed into the tent through the partially opened flap. It seemed too raw for daylight, as though unfiltered by the sky. It was a mountain sun, brutal and harsh. Tythonnia sat up from the bedroll and wrapped the blankets around herself more tightly. The cold did not come from within her anymore; it was the chill of their surroundings. She stood with the blankets draped around her shoulders and slipped into her boots. It wasn’t the season to go barefoot.
The camp rested along the wide forest ledge of the slope, where trees and a swath of green soil clung to the mountain’s waist. There were small fires to keep people warm, but the children scampered about like mountain goats in their new playground. The dwarf Snowbeard traveled from hearth to hearth with a cooking pot that bounced precariously close to the ground. He served warm soup to those hungry and never seemed to mind the weight.
Tythonnia saw Berthal speaking to a small crowd of sorcerers, among them Mariyah, Shasee, and Kinsley. Mariyah saw her and waved at her with a genuine smile. That distracted Berthal long enough to motion Tythonnia over.
“There she is,” he said, “our other hero. Were it not for Mariyah and Tythonnia, we wouldn’t be so blessed.”
Mariyah blushed at the compliment, which wasn’t too difficult given the cold that made her paler than normal. The others nodded to Tythonnia. Berthal continued speaking.
“The ritual will take a few days to prepare. I’ll lead it, but I need you four to learn your parts,” he said, looking at Kinsley, Mariyah, and another man Tythonnia knew only by sight. “Once open, Shasee and the others will cross over and secure our foothold.”
Cross over? Foothold? What’s happening? Tythonnia wondered. She was unsure of what secrets rested inside the book, but for the moment, she remained quiet.
“How long can you keep the door open?” Shasee asked.
“A few hours,” Berthal responded. “Anything permanent requires much more preparation and a secure location to plant the gate.”
“Gate?” Tythonnia blurted.
“I’m sorry, my love,” Berthal said as he squeezed her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you. The book you brought us is a gateway to a bottle realm, a stronghold.”
It was Mariyah who jumped in with the explanation. “Highmage Gadrella built it for the Black Robes, in case they ever needed a place to hide,” she said excitedly.
“It’s a place the wizards would never find,” Berthal said with a broad smile. “Gadrella hid it so well even the Black Robes won’t find it without the book and the key. There we can recruit and practice and live until we’re strong enough to resist the orders. They wouldn’t even know where to start scrying for us. You found us our sanctuary,” he said.
Following the excitement of the morning’s gathering, everyone went about the preparations. For some, that meant learning their spells, while for others, it meant honing their control over the Wyldling magic or simply helping around the camp to keep food on the plates and the children out from underfoot.
Berthal wanted to spend more time with Tythonnia, but there wasn’t time to spare. In distraction, he almost walked away when Tythonnia grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the tent.
“I don’t think we have time for this,” he said with a playful smile.
Tythonnia tried to return his grin but couldn’t. His expression changed as well.
“What is it?” he asked.
It was far from an opportune time, but she didn’t want to lie to him either.
“When I left the wizards behind,” Tythonnia began, “I vowed that I’d stop living a lie. No matter how comfortable.”
Berth
al took her hand and urged her to sit next to him on the bedroll. His eyes never left hers; his concern never wavered. He was committed to her; she knew that. That’s what made her decision so difficult.
“Am I a part of that lie?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re a wonderful man, and-I–I care for you, but not the way you want me to. I can’t-I don’t love you.”
Berthal was quiet, a mixture of love and sorrow in his eyes.
“Gods, Berthal, you’re a good man. And kind. And generous. You’re the best thing I’ll take away from all this.”
“But it’s not enough,” he said softly.
“No, it isn’t,” she said.
“Then I’m happy for you,” he replied and swept her into his embrace.
Tythonnia hugged him back fiercely and simply held him until the tears had been washed from both their eyes.
They arrived in a small flash of light that pushed wind and grass away from them. Everything returned to normal a moment later, leaving Ladonna and Par-Salian standing in a clearing of flattened grass where the camp had once stood. Strung over their shoulders were travel packs; they wore their broken-in trousers, tunics, and cloaks from their last expedition. Ladonna, however, had clothed herself in more bejeweled rings, a thin tiara, and stone-studded choker.
Immediately, the two wizards examined their surroundings for any sign of a direction that the camp might have taken. After a half hour’s search, however, Par-Salian kicked a stone and threw his hands in the air.
“I can’t tell where they’ve gone. Can you?” he said. “Damn it. The only person who could have tracked the camp’s movement is with them right now.”
“They likely covered their tracks. Berthal’s smart,” Ladonna said. “If we’re lucky, they used magic to hide their physical trail.”
“Perhaps,” Par-Salian said. “We don’t have much choice.”
Par-Salian thrust his fingers together then apart. “Mencelik sihir,” he called.
Ladonna was familiar with the spell, the ability to perceive magic or its lingering effects. Par-Salian’s skill with the arcane meant he was better suited for the task. She also knew Berthal would have anticipated all the ways he could be tracked, including scrying and other magics, and he would know in advance all the ways to counter them. There was a reason the Wizards of High Sorcery had to use the three of them to find him.
Par-Salian’s grim expression suddenly changed, however. He spied something and began running for a birch tree.
“This way,” he cried.
The tree was young and pried of its bark by bored children. Had the camp remained any longer, they might well have cut it down for firewood. It had survived, and Par-Salian was examining something on its smooth trunk.
“What is it?” Ladonna asked.
“It’s … an arcane mark. It’s showing us the direction they left in!” he said excitedly. “There, back to the Vingaard Mountains.”
“That doesn’t make sense!” Ladonna said. “Why take all this effort to conceal themselves and then leave such an obvious marker?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for stragglers? Or maybe … someone was following them and marked the route. The highmage said they were sending scouts here. Perhaps one of them-”
“No … they searched and said they found nothing, the idiots.”
“They should have used-”
“Par-Salian, my love, it doesn’t matter. It’s a trap … to ambush whoever we sent after the renegades.”
“This is far too obvious,” Par-Salian said. “But we don’t have much of a choice, do we? Tythonnia is in trouble, and unless you have any other ideas …” he said, trailing off.
Ladonna looked around, trying to figure out their next step. But Par-Salian was right. They had few options left and time was of the essence. “Let’s summon the horses,” she said. “Look for obvious landmarks, places we might find more marks, though if they’ve gone into the mountains, I suspect they’ll follow the path of least resistance with all those carts.”
“Are you all right?”
Tythonnia wiped away an errant tear with the heel of her palm, and nodded at Mariyah with what she was sure was probably a pitiful smile. Mariyah returned the smile enthusiastically, however, and walked alongside Tythonnia as she made her way through the camp.
“Quick to rise, slow to melt,” Tythonnia said.
“What was that?” Mariyah asked, brushing away a lock of black hair.
“My father said it’s how I smile. You also have it … quick to rise, slow to melt.”
Mariyah beamed even more widely, and Tythonnia couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping.
“There you go,” Mariyah said. “You’re much prettier when you smile. You’re certain you don’t want to talk about it?”
Tythonnia considered it before deciding. “Not right now but … would you … like to take a walk? I’d like the company.”
Mariyah nodded enthusiastically and Tythonnia was surprised at how uplifted she felt being around the other woman, somehow nervous and comfortable at the same time.
CHAPTER 16
The Stagger of Echoes
The journey was two days long, the sunlit hours spent riding up the foothills of the Vingaards and the short nights spent studying the spells lost and catching a couple hours sleep.
Luckily, it wasn’t hard for Ladonna or Par-Salian to find the renegades’ route. They found a few hidden arcane runes planted on obvious landmarks, such as an alabaster column broken by age, the last corner of some ancient building, or a mountain hemlock tree growing askew. They were also rewarded with some visible signs of passage, such as horse droppings, a spent campfire, or flattened grass. Upon reaching the steeper slopes of the Vingaards, the trail became more a matter of deduction. The carts limited the mobility of the renegades, meaning some paths were likely taken.
Again, the arcane runes marked specific branches until finally one winding route of pebbles and dirt up the slope remained. By that point, the mountain chill frosted their breath.
On the second night, in the early morning, Par-Salian roused Ladonna. She groaned lightly, the rocks and hard-packed dirt a poor mattress. Par-Salian gently touched her lips with his finger and pointed to the slope above them. They were well short of the mountain’s cliffs, but somewhere beyond a patch of green grass and the tree line farther up she could hear the faint echo of voices. It sounded like the high-pitched laughter of children. The tree line lay an hour away, the echoes of laughter floating in and out like the ghost of sound.
Ladonna nodded and prepared for the next leg of the journey. At least it didn’t appear as though they were too late.
The air crackled with anticipation, and the children sensed the excitement of their elders. Snowbeard and his entourage of helpers prepared a hearty meal that morning. Everyone ate porridge and finished the bread in danger of molding. That gave the adults the strength to ready themselves for the monumental task ahead. And the meal gave the children a much-needed boost to their spirits. They spent their morning running about and playing or watching Berthal, Tythonnia, Mariyah, and a handful of others construct a giant ritual circle.
None of the children could understand why the adults were going to deprive them the pleasure of watching the sorcerers cast the spell. The adults said it would be too dangerous, and many planned on steering clear of the ritual in case anything went wrong. That was Berthal’s order on the matter.
Tythonnia felt giddy, her stomach filled with butterflies; there was no place for food, though Mariyah finally shoved a piece of rye bread in her face and told her, “Berthal’s orders: eat something.”
She accepted the bread and wolfed it down. Perhaps she was hungrier than she realized. Mariyah smiled at Tythonnia and unfurled a piece of cloth, revealing a small loaf of bread. The two women worked side by side and pinched at the bread laid out between them, sometimes exchanging glances and chuckling.
Any reservations that Tythonnia had in coming there were g
one. It felt good to be needed, to be critical to a process, to be appreciated.
Tythonnia felt she was doing something to help the world. She was happy preparing the ritual that would change all their tomorrows. She could hardly wait. They were less than an hour away.
“What’re they doing?” the man asked. He was a brutish fellow with a grizzled face, thick forehead, and a sheared head. Faded tattoos covered his arms, each a mark of the conflicts where he’d served. His chainmail shirt jangled lightly.
“A ritual circle,” Hort said addressing his concern to Dumas more than in answer to the mercenary’s question. He rose slightly to get a better look over the rock at the sorcerers transcribing the circle, but he could no more distinguish the specific runes and marks than he could the renegades involved.
“Ritual?” the mercenary said nervously.
Without regard, Dumas nodded him back, down the rocks where twenty of his men waited with the horses. “Go back to your men and prepare to attack.”
“But that circle-” he said.
“That’s our concern, Migress,” Dumas said. “You just worry about cutting down anyone who gets in your way.”
Migress nodded, uncertain but more afraid of Dumas than of any danger lurking down below. A sorcerer was bad enough, but Dumas could wield both magic and a sword, both with frightening proficiency. That made her doubly dangerous in anyone’s book. He headed back to his men.
“Do we have enough men?” Hort asked.
“Maybe,” Dumas said. “We’ll attack them during the ritual, when they’re distracted.”
“Dangerous,” Hort said. “We don’t know what ritual that is. Could threaten us all.”
“If that’s the case, then letting them complete it would be even worse,” Dumas said. “They seem almost ready. We should be ready as well.” She paused, searching the ranks of the renegades. “You’re sure only one of the three wizards is down there?” she asked.
“Certain,” Hort said. “Maybe they’re hiding. Or due along shortly.”
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