Renegade Wizards (25 page)

The two other Tythonnias instantly vanished, and both the real one and Par-Salian hobbled over to Ladonna. Her eyes were open and staring up past them to some distant point in the night sky.

“Ladonna, hold on,” Par-Salian said, “please hold on. We’ll find help.”

Her gaze drifted to Sutler, dead and still upright. “Not fair,” Ladonna whispered. “I wanted to be the one who killed him.”

“Don’t you dare die on us,” Tythonnia said. “I haven’t taught you my best illusions.”

Ladonna nodded. “I think … that last one was … nice.”

“Shh, shh,” Par-Salian said. He turned toward the inn and cried, “Help! Help us!”

Nobody appeared and the pool of blood around Ladonna’s body kept growing. Par-Salian fumbled for his chest and pulled out a golden sun medallion that Tythonnia had never seen before. He stared at it then at Ladonna, caught in indecision.

Tythonnia stood and ran for the inn door. It was locked, the windows dark and the shutters on the ground floor closed. She hammered on the door, but nobody answered. She knew what was happening, and it enraged her enough to hammer even harder. They’d angered the Thieves Guild. They were on their own. She caught a glimmer of candlelight inside through the gap between the door and its frame.

“Please,” Tythonnia cried. “She’s dying! Help us, damn you!”

Nobody responded, though the light inside seemed to grow stronger.

The Journeyman watched quietly from the upper story window, assessing the situation. In the history he knew so well, Ladonna would live. Ladonna would go on to greater things. And yet there she was, bleeding from two killing strikes that had likely ruptured her kidneys. She looked to be dying and needed help.

The Journeyman pulled an ampoule from his pouch and walked out the door of his room. The inn was dark, the lights in the tavern extinguished. The innkeeper and his redheaded wife—he had forgotten their names—stood in the darkness. The innkeeper carried a cheap-looking sword, and she clung to him. They both stared at the door, hearing as clearly as he did the desperate hammering outside.

The innkeeper pointed his blade at the Journeyman. “You there, back to your room!” the innkeeper said in a whisper. “This don’t concern you.”

The Journeyman opened his hand and whispered,
“Shirak lingkaran.”
A floating orb of fire appeared in his hand, driving the shadows away and startling the couple.

“Please,” Tythonnia cried from outside. “She’s dying! Help us, damn you!”

With a nudge, the orb drifted toward the frightened innkeeper and his wife. They cowered before it, even though it lacked the strength to harm them. For the purposes of the Journeyman’s bluff, however, they didn’t need to know that.

“Help them,” the Journeyman instructed as he walked down the stairs.

“But the guild will slit our throats,” the innkeeper said. He waved his blade fearfully at the ball of fire.

With another mental nudging, the Journeyman willed the orb to separate and turn into four blazing spheres. They surrounded the innkeeper and his wife, who had started weeping.

“Please don’t,” the innkeeper begged.

“Help them or I swear by all that is holy you will become ash and cinder.”

The innkeeper raised one hand to show he meant no harm and lowered his sword. “All right, all right. Just don’t hurt my Bessie.”

The Journeyman held out his hand and motioned for the innkeeper to take the ampoule resting in his palm. The innkeeper did so reluctantly and practically wrenched his arm stretching over to grab it. He didn’t want to approach any closer than necessary.

“Go outside,” the Journeyman instructed. “Give this to the injured woman. Tell them it’s something the Vagros left you as a gift.”

“What does it do?” the innkeeper asked, suspiciously eyeing the amber-colored liquid inside.

“It’ll save your life. Now do as I tell you, and say nothing of me, do you understand?”

The innkeeper nodded. The Journeyman dissolved the orbs and stepped into the darkness. He didn’t wish to be seen. With a glance to his frightened wife, the innkeeper unlatched the door and opened it. Tythonnia, pleading for his help, pulled him outside.

The Journeyman went to the window and opened the shutter a touch. He glanced at the nervous wife, and mused, I thought only cows were named Bessie.

Tythonnia almost cried out in relief as the door opened. She grabbed the innkeeper’s hand and practically dragged him out.

“She’s bleeding badly.”

The innkeeper appeared rattled; the blood was drained from his face. He glanced back at the inn but followed her to Ladonna.

“Hold on, Ladonna,” she cried.

Ladonna was barely conscious. Her eyes seemed to roll loosely in their sockets, and she was moaning in pain and delirium. The ground around her was soaked in a pool of her blood, and Par-Salian’s pants were filthy with it. He held Ladonna’s hand and whispered in her ear, trying to keep her with them. The medallion was resting against the outside of his tunic, its purpose forgotten.

The innkeeper didn’t seem to know what to do; almost absently, he shoved the amber-colored ampoule into Tythonnia’s hands.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A gift from the Vagros,” he said. He was already turning to dash back to the inn.

Tythonnia stared at the innkeeper in shock and back at the ampoule. What was she supposed to do with it? Feed it to Ladonna blindly? What if it did more harm than good?

She’s dying! A thought seemed to scream in her head. Do something!

Unable to think properly, Tythonnia snapped off the top of the ampoule.

“What is that?” Par-Salian whispered, his voice rough with grief.

“I don’t know,” Tythonnia said. “Hope?”

Par-Salian didn’t argue. Instead, he helped lift Ladonna’s head while Tythonnia tilted the ampoule into her mouth. The amber liquid seemed to vanish as soon as it touched her lips.

Ladonna’s moans slowly turned into soft breathing. She blinked; her eyes seemed to clear, lose focus, and clear again. Some of the color returned to her face.

“What—what happened?” Ladonna asked, she tried to raise herself up, but was too weak to move.

“You were stabbed,” Par-Salian said.

“I still am,” Ladonna replied. She smiled weakly.

“Gently, roll her to her side,” Par-Salian instructed.

Her back and long hair glistened with blood. The two puncture wounds on her back, however, were partially closed with the beginnings of thick scabs. They bled still but not enough to kill her.

“We must leave,” Ladonna said as they helped her stand. She winced in pain, her every movement straining her wound. “The guild will send more of them after us. We’re not safe here.”

“At the inn?” Par-Salian said, supporting her as best he could. How he managed with his wounded leg, Tythonnia didn’t know. She felt pain in her own shoulder.

“No … Palanthas,” Ladonna responded. She grimaced as she stood wobbily.

“We can’t leave until you get better,” Tythonnia said.

“You should talk,” she replied. “Have you seen yourselves?”

That was enough to set all three of them chuckling.

The Journeyman watched them from the window. The ampoule’s draught wasn’t enough to heal her injuries completely, but time would do the rest. The Journeyman was only glad he’d been prepared for the lack of healers in this time.

The innkeeper and his wife watched in horror as the three wizards made their way to the Wanderer’s Welcome. “They can’t stay here!” the innkeeper begged the Journeyman. “Please!”

The Journeyman nodded. He mounted the stairs. “I’ll be out by the morrow,” he said. “And they will be leaving too. But help them now and remember our agreement. Say nothing of me.”

The innkeeper nodded gratefully.

The boy with unruly, black hair and green eyes waited in the shadows of the alley in the company of his older companion. Unlike Sutler, the boy felt safe with Keanan. The older boy was still young by guild standards but well regarded for his skills.

“Ain’t you gonna kill them?” the boy asked, nodding to the three injured wizards heading into the inn.

“No,” Keanan said. He drew the black cloak around his shoulders and pulled his long, black hair out from beneath it. “They killed twice our numbers with magic—no telling what they got left in their bag of tricks.”

The boy nodded sagely in hopes of impressing his companion.

“Besides,” Keanan said, “I’m not much inclined to avenge Sutler. He had what’s coming to him.”

The boy studied Keanan’s angular face to see if he was being tested for his loyalty. Keanan was grinning down at him, however, a thin eyebrow raised in amusement and a look that playfully defied the boy to contradict him.

“Yeah, he did,” the boy said. “I’m glad he’s dead. But guild law says those three gotta pay for what they did.”

Keanan’s smile widened. “You’re right. They gotta pay, and I know just the people to do it. And they’ll even pay
us
for that privilege.”

The boy threw a quizzical look up at Keanan, but the older fellow was already bounding upward, bouncing between the two walls of the alley until he deftly pulled himself over the lip of the adjoining roof. From above, Keanan whispered, “Stay here. If they leave, follow them and then tell me where they got to.”

The boy nodded. “But what if the guards come?”

“They won’t,” Keanan whispered. “After those screams, nobody’s venturing outside to alert nobody. Now keep watch.”

The boy grinned and beamed inwardly. Keanan had trusted
him with an important task, and he was eager to do right by that trust. He watched the inn, intent on his duty. A small, satisfied part of him enjoyed watching Sutler’s corpse.