When Ladonna realized there was nothing of the sort, her dislike of Berthal grew. He was nothing but a fool leading other fools. How he had passed the Test of High Sorcery, much less served as a Red Robe, was beyond her. Disgusted, she crossed to the table and studied the bindings.
The Scarred Path of the Gem, The Ways Lost, and Forgotten Tongues … those were the books Master Reginald Diremore wanted. Well, that and for her to seduce Par-Salian, which she had refused to do. She was a wizard, a scion of the order, a disciple of Nuitari. She served a greater power than the self-interest of sorcerers and the ambitions of men such as Diremore. But then, that was before she knew Par-Salian. He seemed weak at first, for all his compassion and quiet ways, but Ladonna had come to realize he was far better skilled than she, perhaps even more skilled than Reginald. Par-Salian hid it well. He was humble and so comfortable with the magic at his disposal that he saw no reason to prove himself through boasts.
Thus, for Ladonna, her dislike turned into grudging admiration for his prowess. He was also handsome in ways her ego didn’t let her recognize at first, not until those days spent recovering at Rosie’s, not until he made her laugh and his eyes brimmed with the twinkle of youthful mischief she never expected to see in a white wizard. There was a bit of the trickster in him, a scoundrel made respectable by his learning and position, but a scoundrel nostalgic for capers nonetheless. She wondered how far she could coax that element from him.
She wanted to act upon her attraction then corrected herself. It wasn’t attraction; it was pure, physical desire-a need for companionship with someone whom she respected. But how could she seduce him without looking like she was succumbing to Reginald’s orders and bowing to pressure? It grated on her, this dilemma.
Ladonna swallowed a curse. She saw none of the books she needed in the pile. She looked closer at the one that glowed. There was no title embossed on its spine. Carefully, Ladonna cleared away the books atop it and stared at the cover. She was instantly disappointed at the title: Arcanum Unearthed. It was a rudimentary spell book, the magic only cover-deep and meant to protect the tome from wear. She quickly flipped through the book, but saw that it was nothing more than what it appeared.
There was nothing here of importance to the Black Robes and nothing to impress her concerning Berthal. It was almost better to kill him there and then and dispense with their entire charade. She closed the book.
Berthal was in the middle of a sentence when he paused. A small grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced off into the distance, toward his tent. He continued speaking after that, though the smile lingered for a few minutes longer.
Frustrated, Ladonna returned to her own campsite. Par-Salian was seated next to a small fire, drawing figures in the ground with a stick. Ladonna sat down next to him and said nothing. He offered no remarks in return, though Ladonna suspected she knew what was wrong with him. That camp, those renegades … they were nothing like he expected. They were normal, everyday people, misguided perhaps, but people still.
She expected that Par-Salian wanted to save them, to show them that the orders could be a powerful tool for the betterment of all. He wanted to debate and argue with them as people of reason. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t there to be friends. He wasn’t there to debate and rescue them. He was there to bring Berthal to justice and end the renegade threat. He knew that and he had the strength to see it through, of that Ladonna had no doubt. But it was still a bitter wound.
Her hand found Par-Salian’s. He looked at her in surprise, but she stood and pulled him up gently. He was about to speak, but her finger found its way to his mouth. Her lips followed and she kissed him gently.
Par-Salian’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. He finally kissed her back; Ladonna marveled that a man’s lips could be so gentle and soft, and she felt as though she might sink into them. She could taste a hint of cloves on his breath.
Without breaking her gaze from his, Ladonna pulled Par-Salian by the hand. He followed willingly, off into the darkness of the plains and away from the light of the campfire.
The fire pit had turned into a sea of embers, and the sorcerers slowly drifted away. The hour was late, and fatigue seemed to wash over everyone, though nobody really wanted to leave. They wanted to continue talking until dawn overtook the day and rendered conversations ordinary again. When Tythonnia stood to wish them good sleep, and Berthal decided to retire as well, it seemed like a good time to call it a night.
Before Tythonnia could leave, however, Berthal surprised her by gently clasping her hand and asking if he could walk with her. His touch electrified her skin.
“Of course,” Tythonnia responded. Her heart quickened and her cheeks flushed with warmth. For a moment, she was happy that her own uncertainties seemed behind her, and she tried not to probe them too deeply lest they erupt anew.
Berthal spoke quietly with Kinsley a moment before the other man left for his tent. The two magicians then walked through the camp; Berthal seemed to enjoy the silence.
They reached the stream of fresh water and followed its snaking path along the grass. When they were far enough away from the tents, Berthal turned toward her and smiled.
“Out with it,” he said.
“Out with what?” Tythonnia asked.
“The questions you want to ask. The ones you’re afraid might be insulting. The ones I can hear buzzing around in that skull of yours.”
“Oh,” Tythonnia said, almost laughing. “You can hear them? That’s rude of me. I guess I should ask them so the buzzing isn’t as loud.”
“Indeed,” Berthal said.
Tythonnia paused as she thought about the questions. There were so many, and she knew she had to pick and choose the right ones.
“You said the Wizards of High Sorcery only see power, but aren’t you stealing from them? Aren’t you trying to steal some of that power?”
When Berthal didn’t answer, Tythonnia immediately regretted the question. She’d overstepped her bounds with him and betrayed her true purpose here. She was about to apologize, to retract the statement, when he spoke.
“Most people wouldn’t question why,” Berthal said. “They’d just assume it was vengeance, a stroke for a stroke. They’d assume I’m trying to build power to fight the wizards. Many of them would love nothing more than to hurt a wizard, any wizard. They want a war. But the truth is fighting the disciples of High Sorcery on their terms will destroy us. They have the training and the experience to make war a foolish pursuit.”
“Then why are you stealing books and wizards?”
“Ah,” Berthal said. “I never stole anyone. They came here of their own volition. To hear the truth. I am stealing books and artifacts, I’ll admit. But I’m trying to find something to help improve our lot, give us a fighting chance to survive. At least until we’re strong enough to resist the Wizards of High Sorcery. We want to give spellcasters a choice. Follow the three moons, or their personal brand of magic.
“This current dilemma cannot continue,” Berthal continued softly. “We can’t keep crippling and killing our best and brightest with this … this infernal test!”
“And you found something.”
“Maybe,” Berthal said and continued walking. “I think we have, but that means risking more lives to steal it. And therein lies my quandary.”
Tythonnia nodded and stilled her curiosity about what Berthal wanted to steal. She suspected he wouldn’t tell her. There were other questions, however, more questions she felt compelled to ask. None of them involved the moment; all of them involved Berthal the man. She knew that he had left the Wizards of High Sorcery but not the specific reasons why. So she asked that instead.