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The Wriaith

The path back to the coven led into the forrest. The urgency and ease of the journey into town vanished. There was a tension between Yendor and Sapphosia. They were angry and uncertain. Yendor felt the night encapsulated his entire stay with the wizards; fraught with unnecessary tribulations due to hangups based on misplaced priorities. They wanted to preserve anonymity at the cost of all else. Understandably really, since the penalty for practicing wizardry was death. Incarnate himself took a particular interest in the elimination of wizards. Many things under Incarnate’s rule were forbidden under penalty of death. Many things were considered treason against the state and carried such a penalty. Knowledge of anatomy, charting the stars, on and on… But actual practice of wizardry really was at the core of all the seemingly nonsensical things. Wearing the wrong clothes made of the wrong material could get you accused of wizardry. Any use of magic, even accidental was forbidden. Actual wizardry wasn’t just dangerous, it was madness. Yet, what was the point of taking such a risk just to preserve arcane rituals and customs that were no longer understood? That contained no intrinsic power? It was like planting the seeds of cooked vegetables; useless.

Yendor knew that Sapphosia was furious with him. He had not just endangered her, but the entire coven. They could probably never go to that town again. Maybe they would have to move. Yendor would probably be expelled. Perhaps Sapphosia would be too. But why then, had she risked the journey? Clearly the stone and the sword belonged together, but what was that to her? Certainly the sword had not had its stone for some time. And there were so many other ways they could have done that. Other than go in the middle of the night. They could have stolen it, they could have hired someone to buy it for them. Yendor figured the merchant would not seek out the authorities but there had been a stir. certainly there had been witnesses to that magical event. To not report such an occurrence was a crime and although most people wanted to avoid sorcerers, their fear of trouble would compel them to report it. If one person reported it and no one else did, all the people who didn’t would be punished. They would probably do it as a group. The merchant could face consequences even though he was the victim.

Yendor operated on instinct. It usually led him in the right direction, but there were always unintended consequences. He wasn’t always around to see how they affected innocent people.

Sapphosia stopped. She had come to a decision. “We can’t go back.” she said. “They’ll track us to the coven.” Yendor had not considered this. “They’ll probably raise that town.” She had been leading the way and when she stopped she had not turned to face Yendor. She did so now. “That was reckless. It was unforgivable.” She shook her head in the darkness.

“I’m sorry.” said Yendor weakly.

“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about myself.” Yendor could see her eyes glitter from an unknown light. “I allowed myself to get caught up in your…. enthusiasm. Many will die from the waves caused by our actions tonight. It cannot possibly be worth it.”

“You say this sword has killed dragon?” asked Yendor. She nodded. “Then it can kill Incarnate.” he said. Her eyes widened, whether at the realization he was right or the realization that he was mad, Yendor would never know. “Disappear into the city.” he told her. “I’ll defend the villiage. I’ll meet you at the library after.” The village was on the path to the sea and the coven lay between the ancient city and the small village where the coven had gotten its supplies from. “I’ll go to the coven to get our things. They should be warned. Maybe they should relocate before the sorcerers come looking for them.”

In the end, it was Sapphosia who warned the coven and held counsel with them. They decided to disband and scatter. They would reunite at some point but even staying in touch could be dangerous if one of them was caught. Sapphosia met Yendor in the library with his things. She was glad now. She could explore her path. She had been tethered too long.

Indeed the village went to the sorcerers as one to make their report. The merchant had disappeared with his diamond and family before the sun came up that day. Yendor watched as the sorcerers scoured the village for clues. The sorcerers concluded their search by surrounding the village with soldiers and Yendor made his appearance. He had been flitting from one spot to the next unnoticed, but emerged now walking down the main street towards the captain of the sorcery, his black cloak rustling quietly behind him, hood up. By now, the rumors of the black rebel had become legend. To them he was like a wraith, a specter from a story come to life. As he walked, Yendor unsheathed his sword. It sang like a struck bell, reverberating into the late afternoon air. They came for him, forgetting the villagers utterly. From every direction they came. He cut them down like wheat. The sword told him where they were before they were there. Like all real magic, the trick was to get out of the way. He was not the swordsman, he was an instrument of the energy that flowed through them both.

Never had the sword been held by such a one. The energy flowed through it. It bonded to Yendor. They were an extension of each other.

When it was done, the villagers fled. Yendor had not saved the town. The villagers would live, but they would never be the same. Neither would the wizards. Neither would the sorcerers. No one would.

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