“You mean sleep with him?” Tythonnia said.
“Are we asking something you haven’t done already?” Ladonna asked.
Tythonnia looked away. “No,” she admitted. “But still, to sleep with him in order to betray him …?”
“We all sell something of ourselves for magic,” Ladonna replied, her voice growing cold again, professional. “It’s what makes us wizards. It’s why we were chosen.”
“I know it seems like a terrible thing we’re asking,” Par-Salian said. “But it’s the only way. Can you do it?”
“Yes,” Tythonnia whispered, “but I don’t have to like it.”
“I-”
“Shut up, Par-Salian,” Tythonnia said. “Stop trying to make yourself feel less guilty than you should.” She turned on to her side, her back to them. “Just be ready to use that medallion tomorrow night. We won’t be safe here anymore after that.”
The day was spent quietly, as though a hush had fallen across the camp. Kinsley and a few others were at the town of Dart, a few hours away, to buy provisions for the renegades. Others went about their business, trying to stay occupied with mending, caring for the children, cooking, washing, and hunting. But a pressure lingered in the air, a heaviness that weighed upon every thought and body.
Tythonnia hunted with Lorall, though they’d thinned their pickings. The scarcity of the hunt forced Tythonnia to mull over her plans for the evening and to regret every step of her betrayal. So she forced herself to hunt harder, run faster, push herself to her limits_anything not to think too hard, to reconsider her actions. She felt angry at the wizards for putting her through the mission, at the test for inflicting her with such a burden, at her companions for their part in the sordid play, and at Berthal for turning her questions into aching doubt.
No matter what Tythonnia did, however, she could not forestall the passage of the day. With a pair of hares to show for their hard work, Tythonnia and the quiet Lorall returned to the camp and gutted their kills as the sun began to dip. The children would have first pick at the food, and there was a rumor that one of the sorcerers could create a small feast for the others to share. It would be enough to stave off the growing hunger.
And these are the people the Wizards of High Sorcery fear as a threat, Tythonnia thought bitterly.
Instead of sitting around with her companions or the other sorcerers, Tythonnia headed for Berthal’s tent with her rations. He seemed taken aback to see her until Tythonnia stepped inside his tent, twisted the cord latch, and fell into his arms with a smothering kiss. Then he seemed pleasantly surprised. They never got around to eating dinner.
Tythonnia rested in Berthal’s arms and was comforted by the soft rumble of his snoring. She would have fallen asleep to it if her thoughts didn’t haunt her so. No matter what she did that night, she was bound to betray someone for whom she cared. She didn’t know what to do anymore. Her world had spun out of control.
You have strangers living inside you. Yassa’s words came back to her. And yet they know you better than you know yourself. For they have made a home of your heart. Let them guide you.
Tythonnia rested on her elbows and watched Berthal breathe. His chest rose and fell in the dim light, his body dark with hair. She glanced at his gray robes, lying there in a pile, waiting for her to search them. She could easily reach over to them and feel for hidden pockets, but she couldn’t bring herself to make the first move.
Stop fighting who you are and face the real turmoil that haunts you.
It had nothing to do with the betrayal of her companions, she realized as she sat up. It had to do with following what she truly believed. It all came down to one question, one question at the core of everything. Even though she survived the test itself, it was still asking her: Do you follow the dictates of the moons, or do you follow your own path?
And be damned for either answer you give.
Berthal stirred and Tythonnia felt his hand resting on the small of her naked back. She lay back down next to him and nuzzled his ear with her nose.
“What?” he whispered.
“We need to talk,” she whispered back.
The camp was quiet, the fire pit a sea of black sailed by ships of cooling embers. Snowbeard slept where he sat at its stone-lined edge. Tythonnia hurried through the camp, a bundle wrapped in cloth pressed against her chest. She looked here and there in worry, heading straight for her encampment.
When she arrived, Ladonna and Par-Salian, who were pretending to sleep, bolted upright. Their backpacks were ready, and they were fully clothed beneath their cloaks. Tythonnia spilled the bundle at their feet.
“Did you get them?” Ladonna asked, pulling at the cloth.
“Yes!” Tythonnia said. “But we have to-”
Someone shouted an alarm from the main camp.
Ladonna ignored the screams and growing commotion. She opened the bundle and revealed a book wrapped in leather, The Scarred Path of the Gem. “Where are the other two?” she demanded.
“With me,” Tythonnia said. She patted a pack hidden beneath her cloak, the one slung under her shoulder. “I was told to return the books to my order.”
“They belong to me!”
“They belong to the Wizards of High Sorcery. I’m doing what’s best for the whole society,” Tythonnia said. “We each get one … one for each order.”
“Sounds fair,” Par-Salian said.
Ladonna scowled and thought to argue the point further. Instead, she nodded to Par-Salian. People were emerging from their tents, trying to figure out what was happening. Par-Salian pulled out the sun and three moons medallion hidden in his shirt and concentrated. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips moved in silent incantation.
People were pointing at the three of them. Some began to run toward them; others fumbled for their pouches to launch spells to stop them. A couple were drawing upon wilder magic still and pulling energy from the air itself.
Before anyone could act, however, a disk of golden light appeared beneath the three wizards’ feet. Just before the disk rose above their heads, enveloping them, Tythonnia saw Berthal racing, his staff glowing as he was about to release a spell. Ladonna hissed as a ball of fire hurtled toward them.
Then they were gone.
The ground beneath their feet was no longer grass, but cold, gray flagstone. Behind them was a gate of silver and gold, the face of which was as precise and as delicate as butterfly wings. Beyond it was a foreboding forest choked on a thick mist. A tall wall separated them from the forest. Towering above them were two large towers made from black glass and etched with silver and black runes and two smaller towers, all measuring over two hundred feet in height.
“Home,” Ladonna breathed in grateful exultation.
They had arrived at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth.
The flash of fire on the horizon and the shouts that carried across the plains were what finally gave away the camp’s position. The noise persisted, the sounds of agitated horses and men crying orders.
Dumas and Hort reached the camp within an hour. The darkness kept them hidden, and they stayed well beyond any campfire light. With the reins of their Blödegelds in hand, they watched quietly as men raced to pack their carts and their horses and women helped settle the panicked and sleep-deprived children. In a few places, sorcerers used magic to expedite their departure by conjuring invisible servants to carry heavy sacks and crates. The camp would be ready to move within the next hour.
“Renegades?” Hort asked.
“Likely. I don’t see our prey, though.”
“Me either. There’s too many of them. How many casters?”
“A dozen. Maybe more. We need help. Follow them,” Dumas said. “Leave a trail for me to find if they cover their tracks.”
“Where you going?” Hort asked. “We want the three renegades.”