Morning finally surrendered to the dawn, and the rising sun burned away the mist. They were hours gone from the city gates of Solanthus, though the twin spires of the city, the two great pillars of rock that rose above the walls and curled gently away from one another, were still barely visible in the distance. The path they rode was hammered into the grass and raw earth by the hooves of cattle herds. Solanthus was a trade hub, especially for livestock and grains. Roads, both paved and not, radiated from it like the rays of a broken sun.
Their route was relatively isolated and far from the tolled roads that the guilds of Solanthus maintained. It was rough ground, to be sure, but it offered anonymity as it drove straight north into the fertile Plains of Solamnia.
“And why aren’t we on a paved road?” Ladonna asked, her voice jarred by her horse’s steps. “There’s one a few miles west that leads straight to Castle Di Caela. From there we can take the road to Hartford and follow the river up to Vingaard Keep. You know, we might even be lucky enough to find a wayfarers’ inn or two along the way,” she added, her voice coy and seductive with the promise of luxury.
“That sounds … wonderful,” Par-Salian said.
Already, he was looking forward to hot baths and warm meals. He was falling for the promise of an easier journey. Tythonnia hated to disappoint them, but …
“That wouldn’t be smart,” Tythonnia said. “Castle Di Caela and the road leading to it are controlled by the Knights of Solamnia. They’d question us about Solanthus, about the guild masters and the strength of the guild militia. And if they knew we were wizards, they’d assume we were renegades and turn us over to the Orders of High Sorcery in the hopes of a reward.”
“But we aren’t renegades. The orders would know that,” Par-Salian said.
“No,” Ladonna replied. “Only the masters know about our mission. We’d be freed, eventually-maybe-but they’d consider the mission a failure.” Ladonna shot Par-Salian a venomous look of surprising animosity, and added, “And I don’t have the luxury of failing my order.”
“Well … neither do I,” Par-Salian replied, perplexed by Ladonna’s sudden vitriol.
Ladonna retreated into silence again and continued riding. Tythonnia exchanged a glance with the red-faced Par-Salian, but he was clearly embarrassed. Why, Tythonnia couldn’t say. They rode quietly for the next few hours.
The female servant with pale skin and auburn hair bowed as she swept open the door for the renegade hunter Dumas. The atrium beyond was a marvel of gardening, the flowers bright and colorful, the birdsong relaxing. Pink-flowered apricot trees offered shade to the benches below while tall juniper shrubs marked the shoulders of the path. Vines grew along the red columns and plaster walls, lending the atrium an air of cultured abandonment.
The servant closed the atrium door behind Dumas, leaving her to the seclusion of the large garden. Rather than surrender to the surrounding beauty, however, Dumas stalked the cobblestone footpath, ears pricked to every sound, eyes sharpened to every shadow. The pathway and high shrubs opened into a small, circular court made of polished mirrorstone with a grand elm growing at its center. Beneath the tree stood the red-robed Belize.
“You summoned me,” Dumas stated simply.
“I did,” Belize replied with equal precision. “Did you tell anyone you were coming?”
Dumas shook her head. When serving the Wizards of High Sorcery, it was often prudent to follow every word of their instructions. Magicians were fickle creatures given to precise standards. Carelessness cost lives in their craft-or worse. Timing mattered, words were chosen for meticulous reasons; no interpretation was permitted. Interpretation meant increasing the odds of failure. And wizards could ill afford to fail because in magic, failures could be spectacular.
“Excellent,” Belize replied. “Your reputation is well earned, I see.”
Dumas, however, said nothing. Compliments did not interest her. In fact, they annoyed her. She continued listening, surrendering nothing, not even a smile.
“As I’m sure you well know, the number of renegades and theft of High Sorcery property is on the rise.”
That was not news to Dumas, she who was already involved in apprehending a handful of wayward wizards and stolen artifacts, all successfully, she noted with some satisfaction.
“Unfortunately, three students have gone missing, and we suspect them of trying to join the renegade Berthal.”
“We?” Dumas asked. She looked around to emphasize her curiosity.
“Well, therein lies the problem,” Belize said. “Two of the students are prodigies, the chosen pets of their colors. Par-Salian of the White Robes and Ladonna of the Black. Both of them are-were-very much the pride of their orders. As such, Highmage Astathan and Master Reginald Diremore are too embarrassed to make such a request themselves. This reflects badly upon them, you see.”
“And the third renegade?”
“One of our own. A Red named Tythonnia. Nobody of consequence really, but still embarrassing for us, you understand.”
Dumas wondered if he would ever get to the point.
“I think it most prudent, for the sake of the orders,” Belize said, “if these three renegades were apprehended and eliminated, yes?”
“Eliminated?” Dumas asked, surprised.
“Yes … an embarrassment of this magnitude could prove costly to our society.”
Dumas scowled and studied Belize carefully, trying to divine his motives. The three orders had three customary ways of dealing with renegades. The Whites advocated capturing the targets and trying to redeem them; the Order of the Black Robes used death and sometimes even torture to deal with traitors; while the Reds fell neatly between both extremes. Not only was it strange for a red wizard like Belize to make such an extreme request, but to do so without the open support of Yasmine of the Delving, Reginald Diremore, and Highmage Astathan was highly suspect.
“I will need the sanction of the masters of the orders,” Dumas said.
“I speak for Yasmine of the Delving,” Belize said. “And besides, the masters are too embarrassed by this betrayal to speak openly of it. I do it in their stead.”
“Then let them tell me that,” Dumas replied. “I am discreet with the society’s business, but I am not an assassin to be sent on private errands.” She turned on her heel and stalked away. The conversation was at an end, and there were too many peculiarities about it not to report Belize’s request.
“Pity,” Belize said.
Dumas sensed her mistake immediately. Her hand flew to the pommel of her blade as she started to turn, but it was too late. Belize uttered a single word; it was a thing of power but simple enough to be spoken more quickly than she could react.
“Capik,” Belize whispered. The word seemed to roil and echo. It struck her in the small of her back and unfurled up her spine.
The huntress was shocked. The book strapped to her chest should have stopped part of the spell, diminished its effect. Instead, she fell to the hard ground, her muscles locked and her jaw clamped down. Her body was no longer her own.
Belize smiled down at her as he rolled her onto her back and faced her to the sky.
“This won’t do,” he whispered as he ran his fingers along the bronze tome. “Not at all.”
His finger pressed something on the cover of the book, and Dumas gasped as she heard the lock snap open. He raised his hand, his fingers undulating like a spider suspended. The cover flew open, and the pages flipped rapidly.
“It’s quite the artifact,” Belize said. “I’m quite proud of having contributed to its construction. I’m even more proud that I had the foresight to leave behind a little spell of my own crafting.” He stopped waggling his fingers, and the pages stopped turning. He leaned in closer to study the script. “Ah yes, here we are.”