Oath of Swords

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 cha

“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.’ ”

“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 Rūm 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 cha

“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 cha

“Gods!” Brandark breathed, staring at Wencit in something very like horror.

“I said ‘in theory,’” Wencit reminded him gently. “In fact, no mortal could cha

“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-”