The Medusa Plague

Chapter Eleven

Bram's eyes were shut, as Justarius directed, when tbe floor in Par-Salian's study seemed to slip away beneath his feet. He immediately felt as if he were quickly, steadily shrinking. In his mind's eye he saw his own small body rocketing toward a large white keyhole in the starry blackness of space. His body paused of its own will before the keyhole briefly, and in that instant Bram felt a jarring from behind, as if someone had pushed him. But then some force ahead literally sucked him through the keyhole and into a whiteness beyond so bright that it burned through his closed eyelids. The mental image ceased abruptly when the brightness was extinguished like a candle.

"Well, I'll be a bugbear! Bram, what are you doing here?" asked a voice, familiar as a distant memory.

The young nobleman heard his name through a haze. He could feel himself swaying, yet had no idea which way to lean to stop himself from falling. Strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Dizziness is common after passing from three dimensions to two. You'll adjust faster if you open your eyes."

Bram slowly let his tightly closed lids slip open, and he got his first look at his uncle in nearly a decade. Guerrand had aged considerably since Bram had last seen him on the second-floor hallway of Castle DiThon's keep. In fairness Bram had to admit that Rand had looked older that day than the one previous to it, for if memory served, Guerrand had just buried his beloved brother Quinn that morning.

Still, Bram was not exactly prepared for the difference. Guerrand's cheek held white traces of a small fading scar. His wavy hair was much longer. Loosely bound with a red ribbon, it was past the middle of his back, and graying at the temples. The coarse red robe certainly was different than the casual, ragged tunic and trousers Guerrand had favored at Castle DiThon. The robe gave the mage an air of dignity, or at least greater seriousness.

Guerrand shook him gently, smiling hopefully. "Do I pass inspection?"

"Of course," Bram said hastily. "No one told me what to expect. I'm still a little surprised to actually have found you here"-his gaze traveled around the stark nave-"wherever here is."

The two stood alone in a soaring tower of a room with white, vaulted arches, so bright it looked like the sun itself hung from the ceiling many stories above. The snow-bright whiteness was broken by many lush, tropical-looking plants.

"This is Bastion," said Guerrand, chuckling with tbe CDebusA plague

disbelief and joy at Bram's presence, "and you're not the only one surprised to find you here!" The mage's hands looked soft and white against the red cloth wrapping his hips. "How did you track me down, let alone persuade the Council to send you to Bastion?"

Bram's forehead furrowed. "Didn't Justarius or Par- Salian tell you anything?"

Guerrand shook his head. "They sent a message that someone was arriving," he explained. "But I had no idea who it would be until you appeared in the nave."

A raven-haired woman walked up behind Guerrand. Arms linked behind her back, she peered around the mage at the stranger to the stronghold. "Bram," said Guerrand, stepping to the side, "let me introduce another of Bastion's guardians, Dagamier of the Black Robes." He nodded from her to the new arrival. "Dagamier, my nephew, Bram DiThon."

Bram returned the almost defiant stare of the young woman who looked no older than his Aunt Kirah. Against her onyx robe, the woman's skin was as white as the walls of the room. Her eyes were an unusual shade of dark blue, almost an indigo. Black hair, pulled into one intricate braid from forehead to shoulder blades, had the same bluish sheen as her eyes.

Unsmiling, Dagamier leaned forward at the waist and extended a pale hand. Her silk robe parted ever so slightly, revealing slim, well-muscled legs. Bram could not help but notice how cold and sensuous she looked at the same time. He jerked his eyes back to her face, where a lightless smile pulled up the corners of plum- colored lips.

"We don't get many visitors at Bastion. Or any, even," she remarked ironically. "You must be someone very special"-one dark brow raised-"or very dangerous."

Bram colored. "I'm sure I'm neither," he said awkwardly, unable to keep from fidgeting under her scrutiny. "I carry an important message for my uncle, that's all."

Dagamier finished her evaluation of him by turning on a heel. "I hope you bring welcome news," she said, disappearing into one of seven dark-colored doors that led from the central room.

"Dagamier is… unusual," Guerrand said diplomatically, watching her departure. He snapped his gaze away. "Let me show you around Bastion, nephew." The fifth sentinel gestured broadly with his hand to include the structure. "There's not much common area to see, but my apartments are quite spacious. We can speak privately there of what brought you, when you feel a little more oriented to the dimensional change."

Bram followed his uncle around the nave, while Guerrand recounted the history, general layout, and defensive purpose of the stronghold.

"But who would invade Bastion," asked Bram, "if no one can get here without the Council's help?"

"Nonmages would find it impossible," agreed Guerrand. "But there are wizards who would try anything to reach the Lost Citadel. There was one, not too long ago, who-" Guerrand seemed to stop this line of thought with great effort.

"Ezius is at his turn in the scrying sphere. He's a bit reclusive, but I'll make a point of introducing you later."

Guerrand directed them into his wing and down a long, wide hall, featureless except for the handful of doors that fed into it. Like a proud parent, Guerrand launched into showing Bram every cranny and compartment in the red wing.

"You seem very content here," Bram observed afterward, when they settled into the kitchen area.

"It can get a little lonely," Guerrand conceded, "but this place is a mage's dream come true." Guerrand waved Bram to a softly padded chair. "Wine?" he asked.

Nodding, Bram slipped his head through the strap of the scroll case that crossed his chest and set it by the door.

Guerrand debated over a row of prone bottles on a wrought-iron rack. Deciding on one, he gripped its narrow neck and deftly uncorked it with a flick of his thumb. A frenzy of small bubbles broke the air in a wide range of green hues and floated lazily in the draftless room.

"My own vintage," explained Guerrand. "I call it Green Ergothian." He poured two goblets of emerald green wine, drizzling amber honey into both before handing one to his nephew.

Bram accepted the glass, savoring the rich brilliance of the color. Guerrand raised his glass in a toast, moving it in small circles to make a pattern in the air with the odd green bubbles.

"Tell me why you've come," invited the mage, settling himself across from Bram.

The young nobleman reluctantly set his glass down and moved to the hearth. He warmed his hands while he contemplated how to unfold the tale of Thonvil's plague. Feeling the press of time, Bram decided on the direct approach. "Some sort of strange illness has recently struck Thonvil and is spreading rapidly." Bram watched his uncle's reaction closely and was relieved to see that Guerrand looked genuinely shocked and concerned.

"Isn't the village physicker able to help them?"

Bram shook his head. "Everyone who has contracted the sickness has suffered a hideous death. Herus and I have done what we could, which has been very little, to ease their suffering."

Guerrand's face twisted, and he gripped the arms of his chair. "What about Kirah? Your family?"

"Mother and Father were not sick when I left, nor was Kirah," said Bram, "but I fear for them every second I'm away." He looked intently at his uncle. "I-the village needs your help. Rand."

Guerrand raised his hands helplessly. "I'm no physicker. What makes you think 1 can help?"

"Because there's evidence that the sickness has a magical cause. I believe only magic-your magic-can cure it."

Looking skeptical, Guerrand swallowed a mouthful of wine. "You think because a particularly virulent strain of influenza withstands your bugbane or meadowsweet that it must be magical in nature?" He looked at Bram intently. "Tell me more about this illness."

Bram rubbed his face wearily, took another deep breath, then recalled to his uncle the stages he'd witnessed old Nahamkin go through before his hideous death on the third day as a snake-limbed, black-eyed creature of stone.

Bram took a deep breath before he plunged ahead.

Before the victim dies, the snakes hiss your name, Uncle. It is no rumor, for I have heard them myself."

Guerrand paled, and he shook his head in mute disbelief. The glass he was holding shook so violently that green wine splashed over his hand. Cursing, he instinctively jerked his hand back, dropping the glass. It crashed to the marble tabletop and shattered. The mage picked up the shards and mopped up the spilled wine with a rag. "You think I'm responsible for this sickness."

"1 never believed the uncle I knew could have caused it," Bram said slowly, still watching Guerrand closely.

But I think there can be no doubt that magic-that you-are somehow involved."

Guerrand nodded vaguely, his eyes focused on some tbe CDe usa Plague

distant memory. "I knew a man once whose hand changed into a snake, but the other symptoms are not familiar. His hand was altered after being thrust through a dimensional portal, not by some contagious disease. No other limbs mutated, and he didn't die from the change."

Bram took up the glass he'd left by the chair and threw back the contents, waiting for the bum. "You'll return with me, then, to stop this pestilence?"

Lost in his own thoughts, Guerrand jumped. "It's just not that simple, Bram," he said, shaking his head sadly. "After all that you went through to find me, you must have some understanding now of my responsibilities at Bastion. I can't just come and go as I please."

"Not even for one day?" pressed Bram. "Surely your comrades could handle things here for one day," he suggested reasonably.

"Dagamier, Ezius, and I are not equals," Guerrand explained. "When I agreed to become Bastion's fifth sentinel, the Council of Three appointed me high defender. That makes me responsible for everything that happens here. It's inadvisable, if not impossible, for me to leave under any circumstances. I gave up my freedom to do so when I agreed to take this position. Abandoning my post, even briefly, could mean destruction on a scale you can't even imagine. Bastion is imbued with the magical essence of every mage on Krynn. If it fails, every one of them is diminished by it. I can't take that responsibility lightly."

Despite his words, Guerrand was obviously struggling to find some concession. He gripped Bram's hand. "I promise you, Bram, I'll use all my skills to discover what I can about this sickness. It's the best I can do."

Bram sighed heavily. He didn't like quarrels as a rule, didn't have the energy to spend on them. Still, he couldn't help saying, "I just thought that the Uncle Rand I remembered would want to know about his family and would have at least tried to return to help. But I can see he's moved beyond that now."

Bram pushed himself up by the knees. "You'll excuse my rudeness, then, but I've already wasted too much time pursuing this avenue. I'll be out of your way if you'll signal Justarius or Par-Salian and tell them I won't be needing a full day here. Do you think they'd know a way to send me back to Thonvil that's faster than walking?" Bram's last sentence was lost within a yawn, and Guerrand made him repeat it.

Looking sad and frustrated, the mage stuttered toward saying something reassuring, then gave up. "You look exhausted, Bram," he observed abruptly. "How long has it been since you've slept?"

Bram shrugged, beyond caring. "It's hard to say. My sense of time is totally twisted. Since before I left home. At any rate, it doesn't matter."

"You'll need your wits about you more than ever when you return. I insist that you stay long enough to close your eyes," said the mage, cannily adding, "I could use the time to check into a few things that may help you against this disease."

Bram only looked more resolute.

"1 can arrange to have you sent directly to Thonvil," the mage offered, sweetening the pot, though his arms were crossed firmly, "but I refuse to do it until you've rested, at least briefly."

Bram shook his head, which suddenly felt heavy as stone. "I've got to get back," he mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open. He distantly wondered if he wasn't under some spell, so suddenly did the sleepiness descend. Bram hadn't the strength to resist.

Guerrand wasted no time taking his nephew's arm and leading him, droopy-eyed, through the archway to tbe CDedusa plague

the sleeping chamber. His foot caught the strap of a scroll case Bram had set on the floor near the door when Guerrand had begun to pour the wine. Curious, Guerrand started to lift the case when Bram's eyes sparked briefly to life.

"I almost forgot," he said groggily. "The scroll in the case is for you. From Justarius."

Nodding, Guerrand toed the case to the side and helped Bram to the feather tick. The young man was asleep before his head hit Guerrand's goose-down pillow.