Free Children of Fire by Drew Karpyshyn

was one of the Order, and his vision allowed him to recognize the oasis for what it truly was. The illusion of fertility amid the lifeless plains was shattered by the eerie emptiness of the garden, a smothering silence broken only by the soft whisper of the ever-running brooks. Absent was the buzz of insects, the chatter of birds, or any other sign of life. For all its beauty the garden was unnatural: an artifice of magic; a perversion of nature and true creation.
    The monk shook his head. These were the thoughts of the Pontiff and his followers. They feared magic in all its forms, feared the destruction it could bring. The Order took individuals who were touched by the Gift or the Sight and taught them to internalize their power, shielding the mortal world from the potentially devastating effects of untamed Chaos.
    In contrast, practitioners of the arcane arts sought to amplify their natural abilities through rituals and talismans. Their spells pierced the Legacy, opening a portal to the Chaos Sea. Wizards and witches served as conduits, channeling the flames of magic through their own bodies to unleash the fires of destruction upon the mortal world with no regard to the consequences. Or so the Order claimed.
    Jerrod’s mentor, Ezra, had taken a different view, however. The rituals of wizards and witches paralleled the meditations and teachings of the Order—two sides of the same coin. Chaos was not something to be feared, and magic was not an unholy abomination to be stamped out of existence. It was a tool, a weapon they could use against their ancient enemy when the Legacy inevitably crumbled.
    Such beliefs were heresy, of course. A betrayal of everything the Order stood for, as was Jerrod’s presence at the manse. This visit was an act of treason against the Pontiff; were he discovered he would be burned at the stake for his sins. Yet he had accepted this risk when he had chosen to follow Ezra, just as he accepted Ezra’s command to recruit a powerful mage like Rexol to their cause.
    They needed the wizard and his arcane knowledge of sorcery and magic. But even though Jerrod understood this as fact, the indoctrinations of the Order were not easily undone. The monk still felt an instinctive revulsion as he reached out and pushed on the iron gates.
    He expected them to swing open at his touch as they had on previous visits. To his surprise they remained closed, though a soft chime could be heard ringing from within the tower. A few minutes later a young and rather portly man he didn’t recognize emerged from the building, his silken robes stained with sweat. Despite his bulk, he carried himself with the light and haughty air of the upper nobility.
    â€œA monk?” the young man exclaimed in a thin, reedy voice, seeing Jerrod’s garb and the unmistakable silver-gray eyes. “What business do you have coming here?”
    â€œMy business is with Rexol.”
    The man’s pink cheeks suddenly grew very pale, but he didn’t reply. He merely stood there on the far side of the gate, his lip twitching in agitation or perhaps fear.
    â€œI must speak with your master,” Jerrod said at last. “Open the gate.”
    â€œThe Pontiff has no authority here!” the young man blurted out, his shrill voice rising to a sharp falsetto. “This is not the Monastery! You have no power over me! Go back to where—”
    â€œKhamin!”
    The strident babbling of the young man was mercifully cut off by the timely arrival of his master. The apprentice’s head snapped around, drawn by the undeniable command in the voice of the wizard he served. Jerrod, of course, had no need to turn his blind gaze to take in the appearance of the man who spoke.
    Even wearing a simple red robe, the wizard cut an imposing figure as he stood in the archway to his tower. He was thin and lean, and stood several inches taller than either Jerrod or the silken-clothed apprentice. His skin was a deep ebony