Chapter Thirty

There was no dawn. The storm howled on, roaring like an enraged giant, and Bahzell sat beside the fire and watched their prisoners.
There were eleven of them: six Carnadosan guardsmen and five dog brothers. One assassin would die soon; all four of his fellows and two of the guardsmen were wounded, and cold hatred urged the Horse Stealer to cut all their throats. But the aftertaste of the Rage was poison on his tongue, copper-bright with too much blood, too much exaltation in its shedding. Even if it hadn’t been, these men had surrendered; if he killed them now, it would be in cold blood—murder, not battle—and Bahzell Bahnakson was no dog brother.
Thirteen bodies lay piled beyond the fire’s warmth, frozen and stiff. The dead wizards’ remaining henchmen had fled into the shrieking blizzard, most without cloaks, some without even boots. Few would survive the storm, and bleak satisfaction filled Bahzell at the thought as he looked at Zarantha.
She lay across the fire from him, closed eyes like bruised wounds in her stark, white face as she slept with her head on Wencit’s thigh. Her captors had been careful not to abuse her physically, for they’d wanted her strong and fit for sacrifice, and she was tough, Zarantha of Jashвn. Yet the horror of what she’d endured—of riding obediently to what she knew was hideous death, a prisoner in her own body—had marked her . . . and the compulsion that had held her so had survived her captors’ deaths.
Wencit’s face had been grim as he bent over her, and Bahzell had knelt behind her, supporting her shoulders against his knee as the wizard’s eyes flamed and the cleansing fire of his wizardry burned deep inside her. Bahzell had felt Zarantha’s terrible shudders as that sorcery warred with the noisome, clinging shroud about her soul, heard her teeth-clenched groan of agony as the compulsion frayed and tore under the power of Wencit’s will, and he’d gathered her in his arms as she sobbed explosively against his mailed chest when the spell broke. He’d smoothed her black hair, murmured to her, held her like a child, and she’d clung to him, burying her face against him.
That had been almost enough to send him raging amidst the prisoners, murder or no, but it hadn’t. He’d only held her, and thought no less of her as she wept, for hradani knew the horror of helplessness in the hands of wizards.
She’d mastered her tears more quickly than he would have believed possible. She’d drawn the discipline of the magi about her and pushed herself back to smile at him, her white cheeks wet.
“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 Jashвn 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 Tomanak’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.’ ”
“Even blood magic?” Brandark challenged in turn.
“Even blood magic, though blood magic is by far the easiest to pervert. Wizardry—any wizardry—is simply the application of energy, and everything has its own energy. You do, Bahzell does, this rock I’m sitting on does. Indeed, if you could but perceive it, the entire universe is composed solely of energy. What you think of as ‘solid matter’ is a blaze of energy, bound up in shape and form and substance.”
Bahzell frowned skeptically, then remembered who was speaking. If anyone living knew what sorcery was, Wencit of Rum was that anyone.
“The problem,” the wizard went on, “is that not all energy is equally accessible. For example, the energy latent in nonliving matter is hard to lay hands on or bend to your will. It’s . . . call it raw energy. It’s unregulated and dangerous, apt to backlash through a wizard if his concentration falters, so he learns specific manipulations, carefully limited ways to use it. But living creatures, espec­ially intelligent ones, act like lenses. Their energy content is no different from any other energy, but it’s channeled and focused. It resonates in time with the wizard’s, which makes it far easier to grasp. There’s power in life, my friends, in blood, and some of the most delicate workings of the art permitted under the Strictures were made possible only by the willing surrender of that focused power into the wizard’s hands.
“But the Strictures require that that surrender be willing, and what you think of as blood magic isn’t. That’s what makes it ‘evil,’ just as a sword used to strike down the helpless is ‘evil.’ Which, unfortunately, doesn’t make it any less potent for anyone willing to seize it by force.”
“I’m thinking I’m not so very fond of anyone who dabbles in power such as that, be it willingly given or no,” Bahzell rumbled.
“Which is why the Strictures’ limitations are so specific,” Wencit replied. “And why the only sentence for violating those limits is death.”
Silence hovered, broken only by the background howl of the wind, for long, still moments. Then Brandark frowned.
“But there’s a third sort of power, isn’t there?” Wencit looked at him, and the Bloody Sword shrugged. “I mean, all the tales refer to you as a ‘wild wizard.’ Doesn’t that mean there’s some sort of energy that only you or wizards like you can tap?”
“No. It only means we tap it in a different way.” Brandark looked as perplexed as Bahzell felt, and Wencit smiled crookedly. “Wild wizardry’s hard come by—someday I may tell you the price it carries—but it uses the same energy. The difference—” the wildfire eyes glittered and danced at them “—is that a wild wizard can use all the energy of any object.”
It was Bahzell’s turn to frown, but then his eyes widened and his ears pricked forward. “You mean—?”
“Precisely.” Wencit nodded. “Most wizards are what we call ‘wand wizards.’ They can’t really touch the ­energy of the universe directly. They require techniques—call them tools—to manipulate it. A wild wizard doesn’t ‘manipulate’ it at all; he simply channels it. In theory, a wild wizard could seize the total energy of every ounce of matter in an entire universe and focus it all upon a single task, a single objective.”
“Gods!” Brandark breathed, staring at Wencit in something very like horror.
“I said ‘in theory,’” Wencit reminded him gently. “In fact, no mortal could channel a fraction of such ener­gy. For that matter, I doubt a god could survive channeling all of it! But even the minute portion of it a wild wizard can touch is far greater than the most powerful wand wizard can wield. It . . . changes him, of course. These—” he gestured at his glowing eyes “—are only the most obvious of those changes; ­others are far deeper and more subtle. Yet it’s that ­ability to draw on an effectively infinite reservoir of power that makes wild wizards so feared by other wizards. No wand wizard can match it, and the younger and stronger a wild wizard, the more of it his body can endure.”
“That being the case,” Bahzell said dryly, gesturing to where Wencit had slain the two black wizards, “I’m thinking it’s not so strange those two weren’t so very happy to be seeing you.”
“I imagine you’re right,” Wencit agreed with a cold, thin smile, then shook himself. “But the nature of the art is of less immediate importance than its consequences,” he said more briskly. “And the consequences are that there are a great many more black wizards than there are of me, and at this moment, quite a few of them are no doubt working to determine exactly where I am. My touch is quite distinctive, I’m afraid. Even if it weren’t, they’d almost have to suspect who was behind what happened to ‘those two,’ as you put it. They won’t be eager to match themselves against me, but they don’t really have to. They’re like spiders, weaving webs of influence in the dark, where no one can see. Even with the aid of the magi, I can’t hope to find all the Baron Dunsahntas they’ve enmeshed, but they’ve swords in plenty to send after me if they can track me. More than that, the presence of dog brothers in their train suggests the cooperation of Sharna, and if his church takes an active hand—”
Wencit shrugged, and Bahzell shivered. Wizard or no, the thought of meeting one of Sharna’s demons was a frightening one.
“So what is it you’re thinking to do?” he asked after a moment.
“I have to keep Zarantha close to guard her and, eventually, get her to safety. For the moment, I’m maintaining a glamour—think of it as a spell of evasion that turns their scrying attempts aside. As long as I hold the ­glamour, I and anyone with me become a blank spot, something they can’t quite ‘see.’ ”
“So you’re safe from detection,” Brandark said.
“No, they just can’t see me,” Wencit corrected, and the Bloody Sword scratched his chin in evident confusion. “They can’t see anything where I am, Brandark. All they have to do is look long and hard enough to find the blank spot in their scrying spells, and they’ll know I’m inside it.”
Bahzell grunted in unhappy understanding. They couldn’t move on in this weather, especially not with Zarantha so weakened and exhausted. They had to wait for the storm to break, and it was only too likely that the dead wizards’ allies knew precisely where to find them this moment. If those allies simply had to spot the blind spot in their vision, tracking it would be almost as easy as tracking a target they could see clearly, and if they knew Wencit was in it, they’d throw everything they had at it the moment they could. But—
“Tell me,” he rumbled slowly, “would they be knowing that you know they can be following after this blank spot?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that being the case, would they be so very surprised if you didn’t hold your glamour?” Wencit crooked an eyebrow, and the Horse Stealer shrugged. “What I’m wondering is whether or not they’d be smelling something if you chose to trust in speed, not stealth, and simply ran for it.”
“I don’t know.” Wencit pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Probably not—not, at least, if I ran in a direction that made sense to them.”
“Ah.” Bahzell nodded in satisfaction, and Brandark shot him a speculative glance.
“I know that tone, Bahzell. You’re up to something.”
“Aye, that I am,” the Horse Stealer admitted. “It’s in my mind that we might be giving them something they can see clear enough and let them chase after that.”
“Like what?” Brandark demanded, and Bahzell looked at the wizard.
“Suppose you were casting another of your illusions, Wencit—not of hradani, this time, but of all of us—and sent it straight off towards Jashвn while the lot of us were actually heading off north under your glamour? By the time they were catching up with the illusion, why, we’d be so far away a single ‘blank spot’ would be a mortal hard thing to be finding in so much space.”
“It wouldn’t work,” Wencit disagreed with a headshake. “Oh, the plan’s good enough, but an illusion requires a focus. I couldn’t project one that complex more than a league or two from me without something to tie it to, and that’s not far enough to do us much good.”
“What sort of focus would you be needing?” Bahzell asked intently.
“Almost anything would do in a pinch, but a living mind is best. An illusion feeds on itself, in a way; if someone at its heart can see it about him, his perception of it ­becomes part of the spell and helps maintain and reinforce it for other observers.”
“Does it now?” Bahzell murmured, and Brandark straightened with a jerk.
“Bahzell—!” he began sharply, but the Horse Stealer silenced him with a raised hand, never taking his own eyes from Wencit.
“Suppose you were using me for this focus of yours. I’m thinking I could be leading them a merry chase while you and Brandark saw Zarantha home.”
“No!” Brandark ignored the look Bahzell gave him and shook his head fiercely. “You’re not sneaking off without me, Bahzell!”
“Oh, hush, now! Where’s the point in risking more than one when there’s no need at all, at all, to be doing it?”
“If you’re bound and determined to be the hero in some stupid ballad, then I’ll be damned if I let you hog all the glory for yourself!” Brandark shot back in something much more like his normal tone. “And what sort of bard would miss the chance to write the ballad from the inside, anyway?”
Bahzell started to reply, but Wencit cut him off.
“It’s a generous offer, Bahzell, but I don’t think you realize what you’d be letting yourself in for. You’ve trouble enough without borrowing mine, and not just from dog brothers.”
“Do I, now?” The Horse Stealer cocked his ears at the wizard. “And just what else might it be that’s following after me?”
“I can’t say for certain.” Wencit paused, and he seemed to select his words with care when he continued. “You’re in a . . . pivotal position just now. I realize you haven’t decided to accept an, ah, offer you were recently made, but certain other powers know it was offered. They’re determined that you won’t accept it, and I expect them to take rather drastic steps to insure you don’t.”
“D’you know,” Bahzell said almost meditatively, “I’m thinking you’re knowing entirely too much about me for my peace of mind, Wencit of Rum.”
“I’m a wizard. Wizards are supposed to know too much for other people’s peace of mind.”
“Are they, indeed? D’you suppose that might be one reason they’re after being so popular with other folk?”
“No doubt. But that doesn’t change facts, and the facts are that even without me or Zarantha along, you’re ­going to draw entirely too many enemies after you, wherever you go. There’s no point adding my troubles to yours.”
“I’ll grant you that, but that’s not to be saying there’s reason to be adding my troubles to yours, either. If they’re after knowing we’re together, then all we’ll do by staying so is to bring both our enemies down on all of us,” Bahzell argued. “I’ve given my word to see Zarantha safe home, and I’ll not be doing that if they’re pulling us all down and taking her back again. No, Wencit,” he shook his head. “Best to give them a target they can be seeing while you get her back to her father, and I’m thinking they’ll find me a mite hard to catch—aye, or to be doing aught with if they do run me down!”
“You,” Wencit said testily, “have a skull of solid rock!”
“It’s been said before, and no doubt with reason, but that’s not to say I’m wrong, is it now?” The Horse Stealer held the wizard’s glowing eyes steadily, and it was Wencit who looked away with an angry jerk of his head.
“Right or wrong, you’re not sneaking off without me,” Brandark repeated. Bahzell glared at him, and the Bloody Sword glared right back. “If Wencit is going to rely on stealth to avoid enemies, then he won’t need anyone to watch his back in a fight, and you will.”
“Brandark, I’m not wishful to see you dead,” Bahzell replied quietly, “and from all Wencit’s saying, this is my trouble, not yours.”
“I’ve had a little hand in getting you into it,” Brandark shot back. “Remember the cave? If I hadn’t been with you, you still might not even know what’s going on, in which case these bastards wouldn’t be chasing you. ­Besides, you need looking after. If I let you wander off without my guidance to keep you out of trouble, I’d never sleep soundly again.”
Bahzell opened his mouth, then shut it with a sigh as he recognized the fundamental hradani stubbornness in Brandark’s expression. The Bloody Sword snorted with an edge of triumph, then looked back at Wencit.
“And as for you,” he said, “it’s time you stopped thinking of reasons we shouldn’t do it and started considering how to do it most effectively.” Wencit blinked at the asperity of his tone, and Brandark snorted again. “For one thing, how long will you need to get enough of a start to make it impossible for them to find you?”
“I can’t make it ‘impossible,’” Wencit said mildly ­after a short pause. “All I can do is make it difficult.” Brandark frowned, and the wizard smiled briefly. “I take your meaning, though. Give me two or three days of clear travel, and I can make the target area so wide it would take a special miracle for them to spot me.”
“All right, then.” Brandark gave a satisfied nod. “Cast your illusion using us as the focus, but set it to vanish or dissipate or whatever the Phrobus it does after three days. When it does, they’ll realize we’ve split up, but they can’t be certain exactly when or where we did it. They’ll have to divide their efforts to look for both of us—and when they do, they’ll probably split back into factions. The ones who want you and Zarantha will pull out to hunt for you and leave us alone, and the ones who want Bahzell and me will go on chasing us and leave you alone.”
He gazed at his companions with an air of triumph, and Bahzell and Wencit blinked at one another as they realized he was right. The best they could hope for was to divide their enemies’ attention, and Brandark’s suggestion was clearly their best chance to do just that. ­Silence lingered about the campfire, broken only by the background howl of the storm, and then Wencit sighed.
“All right. I don’t like it, but I’ll do it.”