“And so I owe you my life again, Bahzell Bahnakson,” she’d said, voice wavering with the aftershock of her tearing sobs. “Oh, Bahzell, Bahzell! What god sent you and Brandark to me, and how can I ever prove worthy of you?”
“Hush, lass,” he’d growled, and patted her roughly, awkward and uncomfortable as a stripling before the glow in her eyes. “You’ve no call to be ‘worthy’ of such as us!”
“Oh, but I do-both of you.” She’d reached out a hand to Brandark, and the Bloody Sword had squeezed it gently. “I lied to you, and tricked you into this, and still you came for me.”
“Huh!” Brandark had snorted. “It was no more than a leisurely jog for longshanks here! Now, I , on the other hand-!”
Zarantha had answered with a gurgle of tearful laughter, but she’d shaken her head until Bahzell cupped her face in one huge hand and turned it back to him.
“Lass, you never lied. Less than the full truth, aye, but were you thinking the two of us stupid enough not to be guessing you’d reason for it?” Her lips had trembled, and he’d touched her hair once more. “Tothas told us what it was, and I’ll not fault your thinking-no, nor your judgment, either.”
“Tothas! ” she’d gasped, her eyes darting suddenly about, wide with fresh, sudden dread as she noted her armsman’s absence. “Is he-?!”
“Tothas is well,” Bahzell had said firmly. “He’d not the strength for a run like this, so we left him safe enough in Dunsahnta to watch over Rekah. It’s half-mad with worry over you he was, but he’d sense enough to know this was best left to us, and he sent his love with us.”
“Rekah is alive?!” Incredulous joy had flickered in her shadowed eyes. “They told me she was dead!”
“Aye, well, as to that, I’ve no doubt they thought she was, but she was alive enough when last we saw her, and I’m thinking we left her in the hands of a healer who’s kept her so.”
“So you did, and so she is,” Wencit had said. Bahzell turned his head, eyebrows raised, and the wild wizard smiled. “I try to keep abreast of things,” he’d explained gruffly, “and Tothas and Rekah are just fine. In fact, the commander of Dunsahnta’s military district arrived there four days ago, and he’s been cleaning out the late baron’s friends ever since.”
Zarantha had closed her eyes and sagged against Bahzell once more. “You answer my prayers yet again,” she’d murmured. “Dear friend, I can never repay you for all you’ve done.”
“No, and there’s no cause you should,” he’d said, letting her rest in his arms. “I told you before, lass; a man looks after his own in this world.”
Bahzell’s mind returned to the present, and he looked back at Zarantha. He hadn’t wanted to relinquish her to Wencit when she dozed off, but however little he knew of sorcery, he’d recognized Wencit’s expression. The wild wizard was worried, and Bahzell had sensed a sort of unseen probing, as if Wencit’s mind delved deep inside Zarantha’s, seeking for wounds yet unhealed. Now he cleared his throat, and the wizard looked up at him.
“I’m thinking you’re not so satisfied about her as you’d like,” the hradani said, and Wencit sighed.
“Not yet. In time, she’ll recover fully, I think, but she’ll need care-and watching-till she heals.”
“Ah?” Bahzell cocked his ears.
“They raped her, Bahzell. Not physically, but inside her mind, and she’s a mage.” Wencit shook his head, face tight with anger. “She knew what they were doing, which made it still worse. She’s . . . open to them. Vulnerable. And if they get the chance to strike her again, it won’t be to control, but to kill.”
“Can you be stopping them?” the Horse Stealer demanded flatly.
“I can, but I’ll have to keep her under my eye to shield her. And all I can really do about the damage is hold it where it is-keep it from growing any worse-until we get her someplace safe and familiar, where I can use past associations to help her rebuild her defenses. That means either a mage academy or Jashân itself, and getting her to either of those places won’t be easy.”
“Why not?” Brandark asked across the fire.
“Carnadosa has more followers in Norfressa than most people dream is possible,” Wencit replied. “They dare not draw attention to themselves, but they’re always with us. The Dark Gods promise their followers a great deal, and the lust for power cuts deep . . . especially in wizards.” He smiled bleakly at the two hradani. “For those who can, the need-the hunger-to wield the art is too terrible to resist. In a sense, it’s our own Rage. It drives us with a power and passion I doubt anyone but a hradani could truly understand.”
Bahzell sat motionless for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He’d never considered it in those terms, yet it made sense, and Wencit nodded back as he saw the understanding on the Horse Stealer’s face.
“Ottovar and Gwynytha understood that when they forged the Strictures,” the wild wizard said. “A wizard must use his powers, for there’s a glory-a splendor-in the art no one can resist. You can kill a wizard, but you can no more forbid him the use of the art than you could forbid the winter, so Ottovar and Gwynytha channeled and confined it, instead. They created a code to prevent the abuse of the art, yet by its very nature that code is eternally in conflict with temptations every wizard faces. The mere fact that it forbids them the unbridled use of their powers would make many resent and hate it, but there’s more to it than that, for the study of sorcery is a perilous one, and the restrictions of the Strictures make it more so.”
“Why?” Brandark asked.
“Because a wizard becomes a nexus of power when he plies his art. What he can accomplish depends directly upon the amount of energy he applies to the task, and he must place himself at the focus of the energies he wields. It requires years of study to develop the technique and strength of will to handle truly powerful concentrations, especially of the types of energy the Strictures allow a wizard to tap. If a wizard’s attention wavers at a critical moment, the power will turn on him in an eyeblink, but blood magic and black sorcery are far easier to manipulate than the wizardry the Strictures allow. A white wizard must stretch to the limits of his ability to command the power for complex, high-level applications; a black wizard requires less strength of will because the nature of the power he uses makes it easer to control. That’s why the dark art is so seductive, and it gives black wizards certain advantages. They deny the Strictures and pervert the art, and most of them are weaker than white wizards in the sense that they seldom fully develop their potential. They can achieve less with a given amount of power because their technique is more, well, lazy . Yet because the energy they tap is more susceptible to control, they can hold their own against inherently more powerful wizards bound by the Strictures-and if a white wizard resorts to expediency to match them, he becomes the very thing he fights, just as a warrior who breaks Tomanāk’s Code reduces himself to the level of a Churnazh or Harnak.”
Bahzell’s eyes narrowed at the fresh evidence that Wencit knew all too much about him, but Brandark leaned towards the wizard, eyes intent. “I’ve always wondered what wizardry truly is. You talk about kinds of energy and power, about ‘blood magic’ and ‘black wizards.’ How does what you do truly differ from what they do?”
“It doesn’t,” Wencit said simply, and smiled as both hradani stiffened. “How does a sword in your hand differ from the same sword in the hand of a Harnak?” he challenged. Brandark frowned, and Wencit snorted. “The art is a tool, my friends; the use to which it’s put determines whether it’s ‘white’ or ‘black.’ ”