In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Read Free Page A

supernatural test that defines a True Mage—the Warrior’s Test was very informal.  There were false clerics, amateur thieves, clumsy assassins, and unskilled Warriors that did their best to scratch out a living in Tenebrae.  There were, however, no false mages—you either were a True Mage or you weren’t, and your eyes gave you away.
    Except in Xaro’s case —but it had taken him many years to create a spell that would disguise his nature.  In the end, it wasn’t even his own skill and magic that allowed him to recreate his brown eyes.  No.  It was a prayer to his God, Kuth-Cergor, that gave him the knowledge of how to do it.  It was one of his final lessons while he studied in the lost Tower of Dariez, where the ancient True Clerics were said to have amassed their knowledge and wisdom.  All it had cost him was a life of servitude—a small price to pay.  He considered it an honor to serve a true deity in a world awash in false worship, and looked forward to ushering in a new Kingdom as the Right-Hand of Kuth-Cergor.
    So when he heard Bertr am speak of the “test,” he bit his tongue.  “The Warrior’s Test, eh?  You think a slash to the back of the knees of one ogre qualifies you to be a Warrior?  Your arrogance is truly unbridled.”  He spat on the ground.  Xaro just waited, patient.  The ogre was still screaming.
    “Still, you have some talent.  Decent with a sword.  Strong enough in hand-to-hand, I’ve seen that in your training against the other fighters.  But you haven’t yet shown me enough on horseback, and I’ve not seen you throw a spear worth a crap.  To be a Warrior, I need to see more than a brute with a sword.  You must show skill with multiple weapons, multiple tactics.  You’re not ready.”
    Xaro was growing tired of this training, day after day.  He had spent two years in the fighting pits, and had defeated every combatant that had been thrown against him, including the ogre, who was still howling in pain and cursing Xaro while he listened to his Master-at-Arms.  Both sounds tested his patience.  “Very well.  You say I am arrogant—I do not deny it.  But I am also your best fighter—you cannot deny that.  So let me issue this challenge.  You say I lack skill on horseback and skill with a spear—fine.  Give me one spear and my choice of horse, and I will fight your griffin from the saddle with one spear only.  We shall fight in the main pit, though your griffin can fly wherever he likes, of course.  But you will see what I can do on horseback, and it gives you another chance to rid the world of a future ‘mercenary’, as you see it.  If I defeat your creature, you will allow me to take this “Warrior’s Test,” whatever it may hold.  I am ready and you know it.  If I lose, then we shall have nothing further to discuss, of course.  Do you accept my challenge… Master? ” he added.
    Bertram was seething.  All fighters came to his pits to train, full of vinegar and drunk on their own immortality.  He was used to arrogance; that was nothing new.  What bothered him was that Xaro was right.  Nobody could match his skill.  He won everything.  Excelled at everything.  After arriving two years ago, it took him less than a month to begin swordplay against the best students…using his off-hand.  Bertram knew every warrior was not destined to be a noble Knight; he didn’t expect morality from men training in the art of war.  But what he did expect—what he demanded—was respect.  Respect for the Guild.  For the position.  For Bertram’s knowledge and title.  And he received that respect from all, sometimes from the start, sometimes after a humbling.  Xaro had never been humbled, though.  And he respected no one but himself, near as Bertram could tell.  Oh, he tolerated his fellow trainees.  They worshipped him like a God it seemed, the way he held court in the barracks and the drinking halls.  Always the center of attention.  Yet day