Again, the arcane runes marked specific branches until finally one winding route of pebbles and dirt up the slope remained. By that point, the mountain chill frosted their breath.
On the second night, in the early morning, Par-Salian roused Ladonna. She groaned lightly, the rocks and hard-packed dirt a poor mattress. Par-Salian gently touched her lips with his finger and pointed to the slope above them. They were well short of the mountain’s cliffs, but somewhere beyond a patch of green grass and the tree line farther up she could hear the faint echo of voices. It sounded like the high-pitched laughter of children. The tree line lay an hour away, the echoes of laughter floating in and out like the ghost of sound.
Ladonna nodded and prepared for the next leg of the journey. At least it didn’t appear as though they were too late.
The air crackled with anticipation, and the children sensed the excitement of their elders. Snowbeard and his entourage of helpers prepared a hearty meal that morning. Everyone ate porridge and finished the bread in danger of molding. That gave the adults the strength to ready themselves for the monumental task ahead. And the meal gave the children a much-needed boost to their spirits. They spent their morning running about and playing or watching Berthal, Tythonnia, Mariyah, and a handful of others construct a giant ritual circle.
None of the children could understand why the adults were going to deprive them the pleasure of watching the sorcerers cast the spell. The adults said it would be too dangerous, and many planned on steering clear of the ritual in case anything went wrong. That was Berthal’s order on the matter.
Tythonnia felt giddy, her stomach filled with butterflies; there was no place for food, though Mariyah finally shoved a piece of rye bread in her face and told her, “Berthal’s orders: eat something.”
She accepted the bread and wolfed it down. Perhaps she was hungrier than she realized. Mariyah smiled at Tythonnia and unfurled a piece of cloth, revealing a small loaf of bread. The two women worked side by side and pinched at the bread laid out between them, sometimes exchanging glances and chuckling.
Any reservations that Tythonnia had in coming there were gone. It felt good to be needed, to be critical to a process, to be appreciated.
Tythonnia felt she was doing something to help the world. She was happy preparing the ritual that would change all their tomorrows. She could hardly wait. They were less than an hour away.
“What’re they doing?” the man asked. He was a brutish fellow with a grizzled face, thick forehead, and a sheared head. Faded tattoos covered his arms, each a mark of the conflicts where he’d served. His chainmail shirt jangled lightly.
“A ritual circle,” Hort said addressing his concern to Dumas more than in answer to the mercenary’s question. He rose slightly to get a better look over the rock at the sorcerers transcribing the circle, but he could no more distinguish the specific runes and marks than he could the renegades involved.
“Ritual?” the mercenary said nervously.
Without regard, Dumas nodded him back, down the rocks where twenty of his men waited with the horses. “Go back to your men and prepare to attack.”
“But that circle-” he said.
“That’s our concern, Migress,” Dumas said. “You just worry about cutting down anyone who gets in your way.”
Migress nodded, uncertain but more afraid of Dumas than of any danger lurking down below. A sorcerer was bad enough, but Dumas could wield both magic and a sword, both with frightening proficiency. That made her doubly dangerous in anyone’s book. He headed back to his men.
“Do we have enough men?” Hort asked.
“Maybe,” Dumas said. “We’ll attack them during the ritual, when they’re distracted.”
“Dangerous,” Hort said. “We don’t know what ritual that is. Could threaten us all.”
“If that’s the case, then letting them complete it would be even worse,” Dumas said. “They seem almost ready. We should be ready as well.” She paused, searching the ranks of the renegades. “You’re sure only one of the three wizards is down there?” she asked.
“Certain,” Hort said. “Maybe they’re hiding. Or due along shortly.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dumas replied. She nodded toward the small ant of a figure below them. “That’s Tythonnia,” she said. “She’s the one who delivered the killing stroke on Thoma. It’s only right that she die first.”
The Journeyman watched quietly. He knew vaguely what came next and had moved away from the excitement. He’d watched matters unfold and avoided Tythonnia lest she recognize him. He was invisible, thanks to a bit of magic and he was both unseen and far from everything, far enough to survive what happened next … he hoped.
The renegades were ready, everything in its place. Mothers and fathers escorted their children and the animals away from the ritual circle. They stayed no closer than five hundred feet away, under the supervision of Snowbeard, who wielded a double-edged axe of polished brilliance, and Lorall with his longbow.
Berthal offered last-minute instructions to the sorcerers remaining behind to help, thirty all told. Some could barely cast a handful of minor, inoffensive spells, while others such as Tythonnia and Berthal had passed (or were capable of taking) the Test of High Sorcery. A select few versed well enough in Wyldling magic to use it with any proficiency also waited in the wings.
Five would conduct the ritual; another ten, led by Shasee, would then enter the gate and secure the keep on the other side. The remaining fifteen sorcerers would remain between the camp and the ritual to protect the camp if necessary.
Kinsley, Mariyah, and Tythonnia stood at the four cardinal points of the ritual, Tythonnia and Mariyah across from each other on the north-south axis, and Kinsley and a sorcerer named Hundor along the east-west axis. Hundor was a quiet man, a product of the White Robes who eventually found himself at odds with his own order. The Journeyman suspected a growing thirst for power drove Hundor, not that it would soon matter.
They were about to begin. Berthal stepped into the center of the circle and raised his arms for the ritual’s opening stroke. It was everything the Journeyman had been preparing for, waiting for-the moment was upon them.
He needed to see what happened that forced the orders to rewrite history and wipe out almost all mention of the event.
Tythonnia smiled as Berthal took his place at the center of the circle with his staff in one hand and the book in the other. He smiled back, his eyes practically glittering with anticipation. It was the kind of day the future would never forget. Shortly, the fortunes of spellcasters everywhere would change; nobody would be deprived of choice ever again. Nobody would be forced through the tortures of the test for the right to learn magic.
Berthal opened the book and stared deeply into its pages, as though each word were a keyhole. Tythonnia chanced a last glance at Shasee and the men and women waiting outside the circle. Then she looked at those forming the circle. Already Kinsley and Hundor had their eyes closed; Mariyah smiled at her. Both women closed their eyes as they focused to channel the magic through to Berthal.
He began speaking, his words reverberating deeply as though it were the song sung by ancient trees.
The language of the mystic unfurled through him, each word like a fat droplet of rain, pregnant with power. The magic flowed out of her like warm blood, comfortable and soothing.
Berthal suddenly caught his breath, and Tythonnia’s eyes flew open. More people gasped, the sorcerers outside the circle taking a step back. The book no longer rested in Berthal’s hands, but levitated before him. The pages flipped open, past lines of black and red scrawl. Some pages stopped turning long enough for a specific word to flash and vanish from the text.