“I’ve never heard of them,” Tythonnia admitted.
“Few have. They are books masters read from when there is nothing else left for them to learn.”
“Are they spellbooks?”
“No … something far more powerful. They are books of knowledge, collections of papers and diary pages and treatises, all works dealing with the years before the Cataclysm shattered the world. They are powerful precisely because anyone can read and understand them and put their knowledge to use.”
“So … they’re books on Wyldling magic.”
“No,” Yasmine explained. “More like an accounting of the past. A tally of things missing.”
“Why does Berthal want them?” Tythonnia asked.
“We think he is searching for something,” Yasmine of the Delving said, “though we don’t know what. All we do know is that if he wants it so badly, we cannot allow him to have it. He misbalances the already uneven scales. We must know what he wants … and why he wants it. That way, we can keep that knowledge out of his hands and out of the hands of anyone else who would dare use it for their own gains.”
Tythonnia nodded. “All right, I’ll find your books.” Then, as an afterthought to irk Belize, she added. “I live to serve you, Mistress Yasmine of the Delving.” But Yasmine’s eyes seemed remote again, lost in a maze of her own thoughts. Belize, however, appeared angry, and made no secret of his feelings as he glared at Tythonnia.
“Highmage Astathan?” the servant asked as he collected the tea glasses from the table. “Do you need anything else tonight?”
“It’s morning,” Astathan said, staring out at the curtain of purple overtaking the horizon. “The days move more quickly now, you know. Or maybe it is my advanced age, moving quickly, forcing me to pay for my actions.”
The servant nodded politely and tried to show deference. Something obviously troubled Astathan, a weight that pressed upon his shoulders and made heavy his entire body. “I’ll be turning in soon,” he said with almost a whisper.
“As you wish,” the servant with sea-blue eyes said. He carried the glasses to the large bronze door, and was about to leave when Astathan spoke again.
“Tomorrow I commit three students to hardship … perhaps even death. And they go willingly,” Astathan said. He shook his head. “What a burden that power is, that good men and women will die for you. How terrible a thing, loyalty.”
The chamber was quiet as Astathan ruminated aloud on those things only he saw, those tortured thoughts he alone was privy to. What he endured those past centuries, the servant did not know. But he could imagine … indeed, he’d seen the centuries pass with his own eyes. Only his was the blessing of knowing what tomorrow brought and knowing he could escape it. Still, he had to wonder-why was Astathan sharing his thoughts with him?
“The three renegades haven’t experienced much of the outside world. We haven’t sheltered them, but they’ve been weaned on a diet of study. I wonder if the hardship of the road ahead might not be too much for them. We’ve risen from the muck of the Cataclysm, but I wouldn’t call these enlightened times either. They face many dangers.”
The highmage studied the servant, piercing him with a furious gaze. Those eyes, the servant realized, those eyes could divine most answers. “Watch over them,” Astathan said.
“Highmage?” the servant asked.
“You’re here for them, aren’t you?”
The servant said nothing, his counsel better kept in silence. He was confused, however, uncertain of what Astathan wanted. Or better yet, why.
“I’m tired and perhaps I look forward to my sleep a bit too much,” Astathan said finally. He ran a slender finger along the leather binding of a book on the table. “So do this old elf the courtesy of not refuting what I know is true. I know what you are, Journeyman. I have lived long enough to have seen you before … looking much the same as you do now, perhaps younger now than when I last saw you. One does not lead the Wizards of High Sorcery for so long without learning a dangerous secret or two.”
“I see,” the servant said. Part of him wanted to deny the charges; it was one of the first things taught to him, to deny and conceal. But it was obvious that the Journeyman’s masquerade as a humble academy servant was at an end.
“I’ve had some most interesting … conversations with your predecessors. I’ve also fought one of your kind before, someone who wasn’t there just to observe, though I did not realize that until much later.”
The Journeyman said nothing, choosing instead to remain quiet, to listen, but the comment puzzled him. What did the highmage mean by “his kind”? He knew himself to be the only one traveling as he was, observing and recording history through time. It was feasible that others might have done it before him, or after.
“Or perhaps you are the first,” Astathan mused, studying his expression. “Yes, perhaps you are … no matter. You are here to watch, but can you do more? Will you do more?”
“I can’t alter what’s already happened,” the Journeyman said, hazarding a neutral response.
“So you’ve said before,” Astathan remarked. “But you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a question that already exists … an uncertainty. The uncertainty directs you; that much I know. Therein is your leeway.” Astathan stood and straightened his back with a slight groan. He ambled to the door. “The three renegades travel tomorrow, before the dawn. They’ll stay parallel to the road until they reach Palanthas. After that, it’s anybody’s guess where fate will direct them. In watching over them, perhaps your questions will be answered. Perhaps uncertainty will guide you to act for their benefit.”
With that, Astathan left the room and the Journeyman alone to his troubled thoughts. There was no reason to maintain the charade any more, however, and he set the glasses down. He had to prepare for the upcoming journey.
CHAPTER 4
The encampment was small, the tents poor shields against the crisp mountain air. A lone fire sparked and raged in the grip of the frosty weather, forcing the men and women seated around it to huddle closer and tuck their chins behind their scarves and cloaks. Over the fire rested a large pot of boiling water, tended by a dwarf with a frosted beard that served as his apron.
Kinsley patted a few people on the shoulder for encouragement before heading for one of the tents. He was comfortable despite the cold, though he’d never gotten used to the remedy against the Vingaard Mountain chill. Beneath the layers of his cloak and his wool-lined jacket was a pouch tied by string around his neck. Inside the pouch was a boiled potato, a few hours old and still emanating the heat of the fire. It was a farmer’s trick, but it worked. Regardless, Kinsley looked forward to returning to Palanthas and eating at a real inn. He was tired of hot potato for company and cold potato for his meal.
After scratching at the growth along his jaw, he decided that he was looking forward to a good lather and shave as well. However necessary, the outdoors experience was entirely to his disliking. His round, boyish face, green eyes, and delicate fingers were better suited to seducing the daughters of noblemen and offering charms and enchantments to their wives. Potions to spark a husband’s sexual fervor, trinkets to appear younger or shapely once more, scrolls to improve private fortunes, and the rare curse to punish a cheating lover: Kinsley provided many favors for the spoiled noblewomen of Palanthas, magics often looked down upon by the Wizards of High Sorcery. And therein lay the problem; were it not for the Wizards of High Sorcery and their zealous enforcement of magical law, Kinsley wouldn’t be here in the Vingaard Mountains, freezing his potatoes off.