“She’s harsh sometimes,” Tythonnia said, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. “If she hadn’t left the order, they would have kicked her out, I’m sure.”
A few others nodded absently. Tythonnia slowly realized she was no longer welcome there either. She stood to leave and offered a nod to Shasee when a voice startled her.
“Leaving already?”
The others stood, their angry expressions gone instantly and replaced with humble glances to Berthal. The gray-robed sorcerer entered the lit circle, holding a braided staff with two dragon heads facing one another. A few practitioners muttered his name almost reverently.
“I’m afraid so,” Tythonnia said. “It’s been a long day.”
“And this would have nothing to do with Ladonna’s outburst?” he asked.
“You heard …?” Tythonnia asked, blushing.
Berthal sat on the ground and motioned for the others to sit. When Tythonnia hesitated, he gently grabbed her hand between his large fingers.
“Sit. Please?” he asked.
Tythonnia hesitated and looked to the others, but nobody was about to disagree with Berthal. Finally, she obeyed.
“We can’t save everyone,” Berthal said. “In fact, you’re not responsible for saving everyone.”
“I know,” Tythonnia said, “but she’s our companion-”
“But is she your friend?”
Tythonnia nodded. “I’d … like to think so.”
Berthal smiled kindly and gently steered the topic away to different matters. As he spoke, a hush fell over the assembly, and they listened with careful consideration to each and every word. Even Tythonnia lost herself in his discussion and felt uplifted for it.
Par-Salian walked among the tents, trying to find Ladonna, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was neither at their campsite nor among the clumps of people seated around the smaller fires, not that Par-Salian expected to find her there. Finally, tired of looking, he went back to check on Tythonnia and found her seated among the sorcerers. Ladonna wasn’t there either, but Kinsley and Berthal were. Berthal was speaking with hypnotic fervor.
Curious, Par-Salian drifted closer to the fire pit until he was well within earshot of the conversation but outside the light. He preferred the anonymity of the darkness; he felt tired of having to watch his every gesture and word for fear of betraying his mission. More so, he was tired of lying to these people. He wished they were rough and crude and evil. By the moons, how he wished they were evil so he could feel less guilty about doing what he was doing. Instead, they had children and they were kind and generous. They were also careful with magic, treating it with a reverence he had thought exclusive to wizards.
But they were wrong, absolutely and flat-out wrong. Wyldling magic was unpredictable and chaotic, a thing so devoid of order that the gods themselves had stopped its practice. The passage of a great artifact called the Graygem changed the foundations of the world itself, all because of wild magic. What-just because Berthal and his ilk thought they could handle it, were they justified in endangering the lives of all those around them? Spells and conventional magic didn’t exist because of the magic of weaker minds, as the Vagros claimed. No … spells and rituals existed to minimize the collateral effects of wielding the craft. Fire had to be tamed to become a weapon and a provider; water had to be controlled and diverted before it could become a life-giver to agriculture. Nature had to be conquered before it became tempered. Such was the truth with magic. Wyldling magic had to be broken like a stallion before anyone could ride it safely.
Par-Salian didn’t want to like these people but he did. And that frustrated him even more. Why couldn’t they see the truth? Why couldn’t they realize the danger they put themselves and their children in? He was so ready to hate them but he couldn’t. He could only ache to save them.
Why couldn’t they be evil?
“Of course we offer the gods their due. But no more than that,” Berthal said. “More than that, and we hobble our will to their whim.”
“What about the passage of the Graygem?” Tythonnia asked. “There was a time when magic was truly destructive, and even now there are those that would use magic to hurt others. Aren’t the rules needed?”
Par-Salian wandered closer. He suddenly feared Tythonnia was revealing too much of her own allegiances. If it bothered Berthal, however, it didn’t show. In fact, he seemed to thrive on debate and questions. He wasn’t interested in blind adoration. He liked his company to think and challenge him.
“The orders had their place,” Berthal said, a statement that surprised Par-Salian and several others by their expressions. “Many of us here believed that once. In fact, we still wrestle with it. But what once brought structure to magic has been used to manipulate the orders themselves, to force them to adhere to the rules governing the practice of the arcane, not a respect for magic itself. It’s the curse of all churches. We’ve bound ourselves to the service of the moons, not to the arcane. It’s blind obedience. And where has that gotten us? How many times have we been used to further the cause of the three gods themselves? Been enemies and not cousins?”
“You keep saying ‘we,’” Mariyah pointed out.
Berthal chuckled and nodded his head deeply. “I do. I do. Hard habit to break, trust me,” he admitted before continuing. “That is why we must return to Wyldling magic. To again learn from it and forge our own path this time. The way must be ours. We are no longer the infants of the moons. We’re no longer savages either. Why are we being punished like we are? Until we take accountability for our own actions, the gods will never respect us. Not truly.”
Despite himself, Par-Salian sat upon one of the rocks and continued listening. It was hard to ignore Berthal. It was harder still not to like the man. Only distantly did he wonder where Ladonna had gone.
Ladonna moved past the tents as quietly as she could. The fires in this part of the camp had died, the people long asleep, but one misstep could awaken the wrong lot. Ladonna had seen Berthal join the group at the fire pit, and she planned to take advantage of the opportunity. She wasn’t sure when she’d get another chance.
Berthal’s tent was ahead, at the edge of camp-close enough to be a part of it yet far enough away for its occupant to remain an outsider among his own people. That was just fine for Ladonna. She walked across the gap between the main encampment and Berthal’s tent, stopping well short of her goal. She had little to fear about being seen, with the spell of invisibility sheltering her from prying eyes. Only her footfalls could betray her, but her ill-spent youth gave her a light step. What she had to worry about were the magical wards protecting Berthal’s home. For that, Ladonna had just the spell prepared. Her fingers flew together and apart, as though stitching the very air.
“Mencelik sihir,” she whispered.
Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Ladonna stood her ground and studied the earth and the grass, the tent and the tent flap. Nothing glowed or glittered. There was nothing that marked any sort of enchantment or mystical ward. It was possible Berthal was so skilled in the arcane crafts he could cast something far beyond her ability to see it, but she doubted it. The more powerful the magic, the easier it was to see. More likely, he was confident in the company he kept, and wasn’t securing his tent every time he walked away. Or perhaps the wards were inside.
Ladonna maintained her focus as she stepped forward, up to the tent. She had to keep concentrating, lest the spell dissipate. She gently moved the tent flap and peered in.
The tent was sparse: a bedroll for sleep and a small table and chair for study. On the table were a quill and inkwell, as well as a stack of books. Ladonna checked the interior; she detected the faint glimmer of magic from one of the books in the pile and nothing else. It glowed softly, the memory of candlelight. She slipped inside and examined her surroundings more closely. Surely there must have been an alarm, something to protect his tent?