It couldn’t last, however. Perfection existed for a few moments at most then was gone. Life would move forward again, and things would change. Par-Salian sighed at the thoughts that returned.
“You’re questioning our role here, aren’t you?” Ladonna said gently.
“Yes,” he admitted. He shifted position and lay on his elbow to face her. She turned to face him as well, their whispers intermingling. “Don’t misunderstand-I am still loyal to the Wizards of High Sorcery. But I can’t help but think these renegades may have a point. In some regards,” he amended.
Ladonna nodded and waited for him to continue.
“Have we become too political? Too involved with ourselves to notice the world around us? Despite the Wyldling magic they practice, these people work to benefit each other. They help one another. They guide and nurture. What do we do? We bicker and we jockey for status. We fight over the most mundane things. Who are we benefiting?”
Ladonna smiled and shook her head. It was a sympathetic look she wore, not one of admonishment or disappointment. She pressed closer to Par-Salian until her lips could almost touch his.
“I can see why you’d find their intentions attractive. It’s not my way; we both know that. I think competition breeds stronger wizards and benefits the practice of the arcane as a whole. We sometimes fight too much or work at cross-purposes too often; I’ll admit that. We do pay for it. But Berthal and his followers are naive if they think they won’t suffer the same fate. Idealism is a great motivator, Par-Salian, but eventually idealism becomes the status quo. And the first thing the status quo does is defend its power and philosophies against all threats. The renegades here can afford their idealism because they haven’t been forced to put it into practice.”
“You’re saying they won’t be any better than the wizards? That seems more like a condemnation of our practices, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Ladonna said. “By the time they reach our place in life, we will have moved past the problems they have yet to face. We will have grown … matured. Maybe a more open society of wizards is called for, but why start from the beginning again? Why not steer what we have now towards something better, instead of abandoning it and running into the same exact troubles later?”
Par-Salian studied Ladonna’s eyes intently, his gaze lost in her dark pools.
“Par-Salian, it is the nature of all groups to undergo this trial. Idealism becomes acceptance; acceptance becomes status quo. After that, the people in power will dictate rules and regulations to preserve their standing. They become exclusionary, the hierarchy more rigid. Infighting occurs, and backbiting, yes. But eventually change comes, and when it does, it must be from within.
“These people have served their purpose,” she concluded. “They’ve opened your eyes to what must be done. But they aren’t the answer. You are.”
Par-Salian nodded, taking a moment to digest what she said. The words felt like an epiphany, a cleansing of his soul.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “We’ve done our work. We found their camp. We have to leave.”
“Not just yet,” Ladonna replied. “We have two problems right now. The Black Robes lost valuable books to the renegades, and we need them back. They are a danger to whoever possesses them.”
“Very well,” Par-Salian said. “We’ll try to find them. What else?”
“Tythonnia,” Ladonna said. “I think we’re losing her.”
Berthal stepped into his tent to find Kinsley asleep atop his bedroll. Kinsley, however, was a light sleeper and quickly stirred.
“Rest, rest,” Berthal said, motioning for Kinsley to remain still. “I’m not tired.”
“Mm,” Kinsley responded and yawned. “How was your walk?”
“Good,” Berthal said. He sat in the chair and fell silent in thought.
“What?” Kinsley asked, sitting up.
“We’re going to have to move soon.”
When Kinsley threw him a troubled look, Berthal continued. “Our three new recruits are most certainly spies for the Wizards of High Sorcery. They’re endangering the camp.”
Kinsley straightened, his fatigue gone in an instant. “You’re sure? Lorall and I can handle it, if you want.”
“No,” Berthal said. “I don’t want them killed. They’re still young.”
“Not Par-Salian.”
“He’s naive and that’s perhaps worse. I don’t want them harmed. They aren’t evil people … only misguided.”
“What about Tythonnia? She seems sympathetic.”
“I think she is,” Berthal replied. “We can sway her to our side.”
“Not the other two?”
“No,” Berthal said. “Par-Salian is a born and bred wizard. And Ladonna … well, given that she ransacked my tent earlier I don’t think she has much sympathy for our cause. Casting that spell on the Arcanum Unearthed was a good idea, by the way. But no, we handle this quickly and move elsewhere before Ladonna or Par-Salian can send for reinforcements. But we need to get Tythonnia on our side first.”
“And this has nothing to do with your interest in her?” Kinsley said. “Oh, don’t look at me that way. I know you like her.”
Berthal shrugged. “I suppose I do.”
“Lecherous old goat,” Kinsley said, resting his head again. “She’s young enough to be your daughter.”
“Says the man who has done his share of wooing daughters from their fathers.”
“Lies!” Kinsley said, throwing a finger high into the air. “Spread by my enemies.”
“Spread by your own mouth,” Berthal said.
The two men chuckled at their wit and let the fatigue overtake them.
The docks creaked beneath his feet and swayed with the urging of the shore waters, though that could have been the mead talking. Thrack was built like a stone tablet, from his frame to his dwarf constitution. He could drink the customers of any tavern along the docks under the table, though it took some of the fight out of him.
He staggered back to his keelboat, tugging on his braided beard as though trying to right himself. There was a woman and a large man in his way, looming over him. He lurched to the left, and they stepped in his path again.
Thrack looked up at them, not intimidated by the size of either of them, but he almost tipped over backward trying to see the big one’s face. They wore cloaks, like thieves, though the woman had an odd metal book strapped to her chest. Some people had the strangest notion of what constituted armor. Thrack guffawed.
“You are the shipmaster Thrack Greenstone,” the woman stated.
“Correct. I’m glad we cleared that up.” He tried to move past them again, but the big one stepped in his way.
“You smuggle people in and out of the city,” the woman continued.
“Perhaps. If I did, though, I’d have to charge double for the big one here.”
“I am looking for two women and a man, both injured. Where did you take them?”
“Don’t recall them …” He paused to count. “Three?”
“You will remember,” the woman said, unsheathing her thin, glowing sword. “Or you will die.”
“Will I now? Well, lass, I make my living on the ocean, something no sane dwarf would ever do without getting drunk enough to knock Reorx down with his breath. So death threats don’t work on me. Now if you wanted to threaten me with coins. Well, coins, I find downright frightening. Especially the bronze or steel ones. Very scary.”
The big human looked at the woman and shrugged. She seemed annoyed that she wasn’t going to be killing anyone that night and sheathed her blade before tossing him a small purse, which he barely caught.
“Take us where you took them,” the woman demanded.