Renegade Wizards (3 page)

A rare few suffered a physical affliction or injury. It was a reminder that magic has a cost, that it was a burden and privilege to possess an affinity for spellcraft. It weeded out those unworthy of their gifts, and for a time, Tythonnia thought she’d be among them. She’d survived, however, but the cost was something she never expected. She learned things about herself she wasn’t ready to face yet. But neither could she escape that knowledge.

All around Tythonnia, even the greatest among the wizards seemed somehow marred by their tests. Willim the Black walked with an obsidian staff mounted by an ebony orb. Other wizards carried their scars in their eyes, invisible for no one but themselves to feel and know.

If anyone could have emerged unscathed from the test, many young wizards believed it would be Justarius. He was fearless, physically adept, and level-headed. The best of the reds, it was whispered. Only, he didn’t survive intact; far from
it, in fact. Whatever happened to him had left him bedridden, a shadow of himself. Some said he was crippled; others claimed he was disfigured. Tythonnia knew better, but the rumors alone created a crisis of confidence among the many wizards who had yet to take the test.

“If Justarius could almost fail and die,” a young acolyte had confided to Tythonnia, “what hope do I have?”

Tythonnia tried to counsel and console the other students as best she could, but she lacked the conviction to lie, to tell the others that everything would be all right. What happened to Justarius left her wondering: if he had undergone his ordeal before her, would she have possessed the courage to carry through with it? She wasn’t sure anymore.

She pushed such thoughts from her head and distracted herself by studying the people around her. It took a moment before she realized someone was watching her, a black-robed wizard of exceptional beauty. The female Black Robe was striking, from her wide, jet eyes to her long and braided raven hair; silver jewelry girding her fingers, wrists, and neck. Like Tythonnia, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but her gaze was unbridled. Tythonnia immediately looked away, unable to meet and match the fierce stare. She found the white-robed Pecas and studied him instead, even though her thoughts never left the other young wizard.

Servants scuttled about with jugs of water to fill the goblets of those gathered, among them the sour old Pecas. Pecas was hardly alone, but neither did he engage anyone in conversation. Everyone had by then heard of his shame: his own acolyte turned renegade and thief in stealing a handful of valuable tomes. Some wanted Pecas to discuss what happened, in some vain hope for idle gossip, but he merely grunted at whoever spoke to him until they left him alone.

Thirsty, Pecas snapped his fingers to attract the attention
of a servant. As the lean man with sea-blue eyes filled his goblet with water, Pecas studied him with a sudden and intense curiosity. He’d seen the man before … recently in fact. But where?

The man nodded respectfully to Pecas and continued on his rounds. Pecas followed him with his gaze, still unsure where he’d seen him, but his memory wasn’t what it used to be. That soured his mood even more. He grumbled and returned his attentions to the three wizards waiting patiently upon the chairs.

From somewhere nearby, a gong rang, filling the chamber with its booming echo. Tythonnia started at the noise. Amma Batros continued staring straight ahead even though a small smile escaped her lips at Tythonnia’s jolt of surprise. The other wizards obediently fell silent and turned to watch as the accused was brought in.

First to step into the chamber through the great archway was a woman, a renegade hunter. Many eyes flickered over her appreciatively, but Tythonnia found something reptilian in the woman’s gait and bearing. Then she found herself staring at the woman’s chest and upon the intricate bronze tome strapped to it. Tythonnia was about to ask her mentor what that was, but Amma Batros was leaning forward and squinting hard at the unusual tome. She didn’t know either.

The huntress approached, her gaze never deviating from the three chairs. Behind her was the accused, Virgil Morosay, defrocked White Robe. Tythonnia studied him, but he seemed no different than the young students who came to her for guidance or solace. She pitied Virgil and ached for the wound to his face. He seemed tiny under the angry gazes of his former masters, and his eyes remained fixed on the floor. Pecas, in particular, wore a mask of utter venom. His fingers clenched and furled, as though ready to let fly with a spell,
and Tythonnia half thought she might very well witness a murder today.

Bringing up the rear were two more renegade hunters, one a bearish man with a thick beard, the other slender and blond. Quietly, the entourage made their way to the steps of the dais, where they stopped. The woman gracefully dropped to one knee, her head down. The other two hunters forced Virgil down before they knelt respectfully as well. It was only then that Virgil happened to glance at the three people sitting upon the dais. His face blanched, and he swooned under his own fear.

Tythonnia suddenly realized Virgil had no idea who’d be presiding over his fate until that very moment. They had not met thusly in years, the masters of the three orders, dressed in the most crimson of reds, ivory of whites, and obsidian of blacks—these masters of magic and mouthpieces for the wills of the three moons.

Upon the left chair sat the red-robed master, Yasmine of the Delving. Her light skin was milky for her fifty-odd years, and her black hair streaked with copper highlights was pulled back into dozens of tight braids. At her side waited her chief advisor, the wizard Belize, seen by many within Tythonnia’s order as an opportunist.

Upon the right-most chair sat the master of the Black Robes, Reginald Diremore. His skin was glossy and pale. His greasy gray hair, combed straight back, added to his almost rodentlike features, while his eyes were those of a shark searching for its next meal. One eye was the natural green of his birth, the other completely black from pupil to sclera. He studied Virgil intently, as though preparing to mount a siege against his weak points.

Upon the center chair, however, sat the most frightening of them all, the Highmage Astathan of Qualinost. If humans grew old, then elves grew ancient. Despite his short stature, there was something grand about him, something that
made him appear larger than the others. Perhaps it was his reputation; he was the father of modern magics and savior of the Wizards of High Sorcery. He breathed life into the study of the arcane crafts, turning it from an art of dead tongues and dusty principles to a new frontier of exploration and renewed vigor. Astathan was certainly the oldest among the high mages, old enough to have witnessed the Cataclysm, when a mountain dropped from the sky. He was not unlike a great, old tree, his long fingers and limbs like knotted branches, his billowing white hair pulled forward and spread across his ivory-cloaked chest. The gold of his almond-shaped eyes glittered and never dulled.

Unlike Yasmine or Reginald, however, Astathan looked upon the scared Virgil with a look of the utmost pity. He didn’t see the boy’s failings, Tythonnia realized; he saw his own.

From Astathan’s side stepped another white-robed wizard, a human herald with tanned skin and a thin, black mustache.

“Rise,” the herald said.

The hunters did as instructed and the two men prodded Virgil to his feet.

“You are faced with crimes against the Wizards of High Sorcery,” the herald continued, “including theft of your master’s property, betrayal of the wizards’ conventions, and the practice of illicit and wild magics. You are further charged with abetting the enemies of High Sorcery. Have you anything to say to these charges?”

Virgil looked around, bewildered that he had been asked to speak on his own behalf. Tythonnia watched him, her breath caught in her mouth, waiting for him to beg for forgiveness, for leniency. She prayed it was the folly of youth that guided him.

The former initiate, however, suddenly straightened and proudly thrust out his chest. Tythonnia could see no apology forthcoming in his bearing, and she regretted the words
she knew were coming, regretted them because she knew he would not.

“You lied to us,” Virgil said, staring directly at the three masters.

The room erupted into shouts and cries of anger. Several wizards rose to their feet in condemnation of the upstart, but it was the female renegade hunter who reacted the quickest. She backhanded Virgil, sending him to the floor. The room fell silent save for the rustle of fabric as more rose to their feet to see what was happening.

“Sit! Sit down!” the herald cried. His voice thundered across the hall and carried the hint of magic to its strength.

Everyone complied, sitting back down as the two hunters lifted a staggered Virgil to his feet.

“Huntress Dumas,” Astathan said in a clear and steady voice. “We appreciate your service to High Sorcery, but you will refrain from striking the boy.”

Dumas blushed and bowed her head quickly. “Forgive me,” she said.

“The boy has a right to speak,” Astathan said, addressing everyone. “Otherwise, we serve justice in ignorance, and I cannot abide ignorance. Now, boy, when have we lied to you? And how does that justify your betrayal?”

Tythonnia suddenly felt a warm hand over hers. Amma Batros was touching her lightly and staring at her in concern. Amma’s gaze was questioning, and it took Tythonnia a moment to realize she was shaking. Tythonnia nodded that she was fine and willed herself to calm down, for the adrenaline to seep away.

Although Virgil spoke through his tears, his voice was too large for the chamber, strong in its dedication to be heard and matured, somehow. His posture changed as well, suddenly more in command of himself than she believed someone so young could muster. “You betrayed us,” he reiterated, and it was then that Tythonnia realized the words had a rehearsed
quality to them. She glanced at Amma Batros and found her mentor studying the captive in turn.

“You decide who learns magic, and you cripple us in teaching it,” Virgil continued. “Your faith serves the bureaucracy of the three moons. You have become a religion of your own making, a failed experiment!”

Astathan’s eyes narrowed and he exchanged glances with the other two masters. They sensed something amiss. The black-robed Reginald Diremore nodded and casually strode up from his seat. He grabbed Virgil by the front of his jerkin and pulled him to within inches of his face.

“Youngling,” Reginald said, “I would have your words in your
own
tongue!”

“It’s a glamour of some sort,” Amma whispered to Tythonnia.

Tythonnia was about to ask what she meant when Reginald hissed out a spell. His words were like an oily snake, and his fingers contorted and knotted into hand gestures. The hairs on Tythonnia’s neck prickled, and a flash of light ebbed on the tips of Reginald’s fingers. Virgil was somehow weaker for the spell. He stumbled back and was pushed forward again by the blond-haired hunter. He looked around, his mouth agape and his expression dumbfounded. The certainty was gone from his posture, his shoulders weighted by fear and his head darting. A mere youth once more, scared with the courage brutally ripped from him. He didn’t act like the same person speaking a moment earlier.

“Let’s see you speak rhetoric now, mouthpiece,” Reginald said. With a triumphant smirk, he returned to his chair and sat back down.

“We give you the opportunity to speak your mind, boy,” Astathan said as he shook his head, “and instead you allow another to speak through you. Since you have nothing of your own to say in your defense, answer me this: Who do you serve? Who just acted through you?”

Virgil appeared panicked. He was adrift and forced to speak with his own timid voice. “Berthal,” he said finally, almost shrinking at the admission. “I serve the one true master, Berthal. And I’d gladly ask him to speak for me again!”