Renegade Wizards (4 page)

Tythonnia, the black-robed woman who had been staring at her, and an older white-robed wizard were asked to wait outside after Virgil’s admission. The black-robed woman was beautiful with alabaster skin and black, braided hair. There was a rough air about her, however, in the way she sat and watched everyone. She was no woman of society nor one concerned with any specific social graces.

The white-robed wizard, however, was another matter. He appeared pleasant, a faint smile on his face and shy, darting blue eyes. His hair was a light brown, as was the pinch of a beard on his chin. Tythonnia estimated him at ten years their senior, putting him somewhere in his mid to upper thirties.

“Par-Salian,” he said, introducing himself to Tythonnia and the other woman.

Tythonnia was glad for his congeniality. He possessed an easy way about him.

The black-robed woman was curt, however. Only after a moment’s prodding did she finally introduce herself as “Ladonna.”.

Par-Salian shrugged to Tythonnia and sat down on one of the gilded benches that lined the hallway outside the meeting chamber. Tythonnia studied the inlaid marble and alabaster geometric patterns on the floor while Ladonna paced a bit and studied the busts of former wizards stuffed into the alcoves.

A servant quietly served them water from a jug while they waited then darted past the double doors, back into the conclave’s chamber. In doing so, he left the great wooden
doors framed in burnished iron open a crack. Voices drifted through, the great wizards still in deliberation. Ladonna, without a shred of shame, drifted to the open door and began listening.

“Psst,” Par-Salian whispered. “What are you doing? Get away from there!”

Ladonna waved him off and continued listening. Par-Salian stared at Tythonnia with a look of apprehension, and the red-robed wizard felt obligated to intervene. She quietly strode over to Ladonna, whose head was near the open crack. She glanced at Tythonnia, but her expression remained inscrutable. Tythonnia was ready to say something, to drag her away from her breach of decorum, but then she heard Master Astathan speak. It was hard to hear his voice and not listen.

Tythonnia found herself approaching closer, and before she realized what she was doing, she’d rested against the wall nearest the door. Astathan’s voice was soothing and almost lyrical. A mischievous smirk played on Ladonna’s face, a delighted look that lit her eyes with fire. Tythonnia couldn’t help herself. She grinned back and continued listening, despite the huffs of frustration coming from Par-Salian.

“Master Pecas?” Astathan was asking. “You were wronged most grievously by Initiate Virgil’s betrayal. What have you to say on the matter?”

Pecas coughed to clear his throat. The chamber hung upon his every word, as did Tythonnia and Ladonna. Even Par-Salian had gone quiet.

“Virgil was my trusted apprentice for many years,” Pecas said plain for all to hear, “and would have made a tolerable addition to our ranks. But his betrayal of me, of our ideals, is a grave sin. If I were not cloaked in the white robes of our order, I’d almost say … unforgivable. Indeed, we must make an example of him. We who wear Solinari’s robes believe there is always the possibility of redemption, of hope within each
soul, but there is also a time when we must make a statement to all those who would follow in his steps,” he said, stamping his cane into the ground. “Therefore, I say, hand him over to the Black Robes for punishment. He deserves no mercy from me.”

The room exploded into argument, and even Ladonna and Tythonnia exchanged glances. They both looked at Par-Salian, but he, too, appeared shocked. Such a thing was unheard of, a White Robe offering judgment of a renegade to the Black Robes. One espoused mercy, the other punishment. One was compassionate, the other ruthless.

Suddenly, the servant who served them water popped his head back through the doorway, surprising Tyhonnia and Ladonna, who edged back. With an apologetic look, he quietly closed the door on the conclave. They could hear no more.

Ladonna sighed, the soft sound echoing throughout the chamber. The members of the Conclave had been dismissed after several hours of deliberation, but Tythonnia, Par-Salian, and Ladonna were asked by their mentors to remain behind. When pressed, all Amma Batros would say to Tythonnia was, “Answer truthfully and don’t be scared. You’ll do well.” With that, she left her student.

Then a servant had come to fetch Par-Salian to a private meeting. The servant told them they would be summoned in turn. That had been two hours earlier.

Tythonnia sat on the rearmost red bench, feeling the muscles slowly knot their way up her back. Ladonna lay on one of the white benches, facing the ceiling and playing with the jewelry on her fingers. The red wizard envied that small streak of rebelliousness in her compatriot. Still, she wished Ladonna were a bit chattier, but the other woman tended to answer questions with silence and an air of scrutiny. Tythonnia gave up any hope of being cordial and, instead, watched
the servants sweep the hall.

Ladonna sighed again, and Tythonnia could bite her lip no more.

“For the love of the three moons!” Tythonnia snapped. “You’re bored. I get it! You’re not alone here, you know.”

The black-robed woman turned her head toward Tythonnia. A single brow levitated high above Ladonna’s eye and a smirk snaked across her lips. “All right,” Ladonna said, never losing her mischievous look. She pivoted and sat up in one supple motion. “How do we amuse ourselves, Red Robe?” she asked as she sauntered over to Tythonnia’s bench.

“Tythonnia.”

“I know.” Ladonna went quiet a moment. “The renegade—”

“Virgil?”

“Him,” Ladonna said. “He mentioned Berthal. Wasn’t he a member of
your
order?”

Tythonnia nodded. “Yes … before my time.”

“What happened to him?” Ladonna asked. She smiled, eager for the gossip.

“I—I don’t know,” Tythonnia admitted. “We aren’t taught much about them. The renegades, I mean.”

Ladonna’s expression returned to boredom. “Pity,” she said. She swiveled about on the bench again and lay back down, dropping her head on Tythonnia’s lap.

Tythonnia blushed; Ladonna’s familiarity and little regard for respectable distance caught her tongue-tied.

“Wake me up when something interesting happens,” Ladonna said, closing her eyes.

“All—all right,” Tythonnia said when she really wanted to say, “Get off of me, please.” She looked at the servants to see if any of them were watching with disapproval. Dutiful to the last, however, nobody was paying them any heed. Still, Tythonnia wasn’t sure what to do, especially with her hands. And she couldn’t stop glancing at Ladonna’s face, with
its alabaster skin, pale and blemish free. Her lips were full and her cheeks soft and graceful. Again, she found herself admiring another woman’s beauty, admiring those qualities she felt were lacking in her own features. Somehow, staring at Ladonna’s beauty put her at rest, the exhale after tension-filled days.

Ladonna’s eyes opened suddenly, and Tythonnia quickly looked away.

“Got you,” Ladonna whispered.

“I was—”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Ladonna said, sitting up. “You wouldn’t be the first woman who was attracted to me.”

Tythonnia’s eyes went wide, a million panicked responses perched on her lips. Ladonna smiled at Tythonnia’s terror-filled expression.

“I’m not …” Tythonnia said, unable to say the words. “I’m not like that.”

Ladonna shrugged. “Like what, hmm?”

“Like
that,”
Tythonnia whispered. She looked around, fearful someone was watching them. Again, the servants were lost in their duties.

“It’s all right. Don’t fret,” Ladonna said.

“But I’m not.”

“Well, if you … insist.” Ladonna was already looking elsewhere, following the clop of footsteps heading toward them. The servant who had escorted Par-Salian away had returned.

“My turn yet?” Ladonna asked.

The servant nodded. “Yes, mistress. You are to follow me.”

“Where’s Par-Salian?” Tythonnia asked.

“Preparing, mistress,” the servant said before walking away.

Ladonna shrugged and followed. She spun about once, effortlessly, and offered Tythonnia a quick wink.

Tythonnia cursed herself for blushing so easily, for being
so easily flustered in Ladonna’s presence. She was stronger than that, better than that. Her attractions did not rule her, could not rule her. And yet she could not escape the giddy memory of the last time a woman touched in her that way.

The memory was always the same, the senses capturing specific seconds of random moments before the minutes and days blurred. The bits of clarity lasted forever, however; the brush of Elisa’s fingertips as they held hands, the heat of her breath as she leaned in to whisper a secret.

Tythonnia still shivered, her heart forever trapped in those endless minutes, but they were always broken by the same memory: she was lying next to Elisa in the field of tall stalks and the infinite blue sky above; their lips meeting, the electricity that prickled their skin, the rough hand that pulled her up by the arm, the disgust that filled her mother’s face, the strange sadness that eclipsed her father’s. After that the memories were locked behind a wall of tears; Tythonnia couldn’t stop crying.

“She forced me to,” Elisa protested as her parents dragged her away.

Elisa and she were never friends again.

Gently the servant roused Tythonnia from her dream. She’d fallen asleep on the hard, red bench and lost track of time and place. The chamber was empty and dark, save for the lantern in the hands of the man with eyes like mountain lake water.

“Mistress,” the servant whispered. “It’s time.”

Tythonnia nodded and rose awkwardly. She shook her head, trying to wake up. “The others?” she mumbled.

“Preparing,” the servant said simply. He turned his back while she stood and straightened her garments. When she was ready, he escorted her from the dark chamber, through
the unfamiliar halls of the Three Eyes Academy.

Nobody else met them; nobody was awake at whatever deep hour of night found them skulking about. The only light came from the servant’s lantern and from the basrelief wall sculptures of the great forest of Wayreth that ran either length of the long corridor; the tips of the trees glowed with motes of faerie fire, turning the passageway into a star-cluttered field of pinprick lights. Tythonnia had never seen anything so beautiful and, despite her nervousness, she marveled at the simple artistry of it.

The servant reached a large bronze door that dominated the end of the corridor; floral patterns and glowing magical script of elven make were etched on its surface. The servant rested his fingers against the door; it silently glided open as though mounted on the exhalation of one’s breath. The servant bowed his head and motioned for Tythonnia to step through. He then closed the door behind her.

The chamber was large, two floors in height and the interior the size of a modest tavern. The upper walls were a strange fusion of green rock and red metal, fluid droplets caught in their molten states. The lower half of the walls was a jigsaw of mahogany wood pieces, varnished and fit perfectly together. Spiraled columns of solid stone branched into irregular ribs along the green ceiling, like a tree trunk opening its branches to the canopy. In fact, the entire room was organic in its design. Few hard edges adorned its space, including curved experiment tables of granite that bore the appearances of artists’ palettes.