The Medusa Plague

Chapter Sixteen

The celebration was brief, considering Kirab's weakened condition. She, of course, wanted to dance in the streets, but a few coltish steps proved the young woman was a long way from doing a jig. At last Kirah agreed to let Bram carry her, frail but with restored limbs, across the road and up the stairway to her room, where she could rest in comfort.

Seated upon the bottom step near the entrance to the bakery, which was still dark, silent, and scentless, Guerrand waited for him to return. The mage scarcely noticed the street around him; he stared at it, without really seeing.

What did it mean, seeing the black moon? Was he disposed toward Evil now? Guerrand didn't feel any different. Maybe that was the point. Perhaps evil people weren't all the same, or even as different on the inside as he'd believed. Hadn't Justarius said that same thing after Guerrand's Test?

Bram slipped down the staircase and joined his uncle. "Kirah's as scrappy as ever," the young man said fondly. 'Tried to talk me into taking her for a walk in the sunlight, but I finally got her settled. She fell asleep before I could get to the door."

Guerrand nodded his head to acknowledge the comment. One by one the limbs of plague-stricken villagers had returned to normal, reassuring them that the plague's spell had been broken. Just yesterday Thonvil had looked and sounded like a ghost town, the deadly stillness that had pervaded broken only by a groaning spring wind. This sunny morning a handful of people walked the streets, stirring up the noises of living, though where any of them were going when no shops were yet open was anyone's guess.

But the greatest sign that fear had passed was that folks would meet each other's eyes again.

"They don't even know you're the one who saved their lives," Bram said when a young girl and her mother, both with head shawls lowered to feel the heat of the sun on their chocolate-brown hair, nodded in greeting.

"It's better that they don't," Guerrand said soberly.

The men fell into a dull silence, watching the village slowly come back to life.

"I should get home-I mean to the castle, to see how everyone there has fared," Bram said after a while. The young nobleman stood reluctantly, turning the gesture into a long, slow stretch. His eyes traveled south, over the buildings of Thonvil, to the distant, dark fortress that rose up between blue sea and green earth like a mountain of cold stone.

Bram didn't look at his uncle as he said, "You should come with me."

Guerrand thought the centuries-old fortress appeared more foreboding and entrapping than the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, which had been designed to look that way. "1… don't think that's a good idea, do you?"

"Perhaps not," Bram agreed soberly.

"Besides," Guerrand said, standing also, "I should be getting back to Bastion."

Bram's head swung around, his eyes wild. "So soon? You arrived just days ago."

"Is that all it's been?" Guerrand shook his head in amazement. "It feels like years since…" He stopped himself short of mentioning Lyim's death. So much had happened in so short a time.

"I know what you mean," Bram agreed, plucking at his filthy clothing. "I've worn this same tunic and trousers for so long they're stiff."

Bram's observation left a thoughtful silence. His expression grew sober. "Strange, but it feels like only hours since I found you." The young man looked away and said softly, "I'm just not willing to say good-bye again yet. Didn't Justarius's note say you could take as much time as you needed?"

"Yes," acknowledged Guerrand, "but my work here is done."

Bram's adam's apple rose and fell slowly. "I was hoping you'd welcome the chance to get to know your nephew again."

Guerrand felt his throat thicken. Meeting his nephew's gaze, the mage wondered what growing up at Castle DiThon had been like for Bram. Probably as frustrating and fatherless, considering Cormac's state of mind, as it had been for Guerrand. From all accounts, life at the castle had gotten steadily worse in the last decade. Rank poverty didn't usually improve things. Bram's mother, Rietta, was… well, Rietta. As for his father,Cormac had always seemed distant from his only son, and now he was crazy, gone even when he was present. Guerrand was reminded again of Wilor's dying words.

Bram could see his uncle weakening. "One afternoon, that's all I ask," he pressed. "One calm afternoon, where I can learn what lifepath took you to Bastion, what interests or irritates you and what doesn't." Bram gave his most persuasive smile. "I know a place where nothing intrudes except the rodents in the thatch overhead."

'Truth to tell," said Guerrand, "I'm not in that great a hurry to return to where there is no grass or sky or trees." He looked sidelong at Bram. "This place you know, is it one where a man can put up his feet and have a decent cup of tea?"

'The best!" Bram was already three steps down the street, forcing Guerrand to hurry to fall in stride with him. Rounding the comer on the far edge of town, they came into sight of a run-down shack.

"I sat with Nahamkin through the plague just before 1 left to find you," Bram explained. "I was more than a little surprised this morning to find that the villagers hadn't burned down his cottage."

At first glance, Guerrand thought it wouldn't have hurt the look of the village if the shack were gone. The thatch was old and black all over. The walls were of rocky mud, crumbling in places. And yet, as he got nearer, Guerrand couldn't help but see the comfortable, lived-in and well-loved look about the place. The garden appeared to be struggling against neglect and the season to renew itself.

The cottage reminded him of a run-down version of the one he'd shared with Esme in Harrowdown. There came that familiar tight feeling in his chest, as of the apprehended return of pain that always came with

thoughts of Esme, especially now. He resolved to try to contact her before he returned to Bastion, when his magical strength returned.

"Nahamkin," Guerrand repeated. "Wasn't there a farmer who lived in the surrounds by that name?"

"One and the same," Bram said. "Nahamkin's family more or less abandoned him once the plague struck. I was his only friend, and he mine." He said the words matter-of-factly.

Bram stopped and stooped before the oddly tilting wooden door, as if recalling some pleasant memory, then stepped inside and waved Guerrand in.

Pots and tins and wooden buckets were on every available surface, but no drips fell from the rotted roof today. Hanging from the rafters was a year's supply of butter-colored candles in a variety of shapes and sizes. The place smelled of moss and worms and long-dead ashes.

Bram returned from the well with a pail full of water that he set by the hearth. The young man dropped to his knees with a sigh. "Damnation," he cursed softly. "I didn't even think to grab flint and stone to start a fire." He stood and looked around with a frown on his face, hands on his hips. "There must be something around here I…"

Guerrand knelt next to Bram, nonchalantly lit the logs with a simple cantrip, then dropped into a caned ladder-back chair by the hearth.

Bram regarded his uncle with obvious admiration before moving to Nahamkin's dry sink. Underneath he shifted around crocks until he found the one he sought. Standing again, he shook his head. "I'm embarrassed to admit that I've always thought my herbal skills were pretty useful," he said, sifting two pinches of dried rose hips into Nahamkin's best pewter mugs. "Now they seem pretty inconsequential compared to your magic."

Не gave a self-deprecating snort while he added hot water to the mugs.

Guerrand shifted uncomfortably under Bram's admiring glance. "You'd be surprised to hear, then, that there are mages whose range and knowledge are greater than mine. You met two of them at the Tower of High Sorcery."

Bram sighed wistfully. "What I wouldn't give to cast even oneof your spells."

The room was still dark. As the young nobleman reached for a candle atop an empty, narrow-necked bottle and held it to the new flame in the hearth, he appeared struck with a sudden thought. "Perhaps you could teach me a few spells! That fire one would certainly come in handy."

"Magic is not something to be learned piecemeal," Guerrand said, "like knot tying or scrimshaw carving."

Bram reddened and drew back in surprise. "I'm sorry, it was just a thought. I didn't mean to imply-"

"Unless you're talking simple cantrips," Guerrand said, "true magic demands that you renounce everything you've ever cared about. Are you prepared to do that and devote all your energies to the study of the Art?"

"I don't know." Bram was obviously flustered, but strangely unafraid. "I've always suspected I had a feel for magic. But I had neither books nor a mentor nor hope of either until now."

Holding his mug, Bram strode over to a small window that overlooked a weedy garden patch and stared out. "I don't spend much time pondering impossibilities. That's partly why I've thrown myself into restoring Castle DiThon. I can feel the progress with my hands, see it with my eyes. It's real to me. Still," he muttered again, more to himself than Guerrand. "I just can't shake the feeling that my life, though obviously

not charmed, is somehow… magical."

Guerrand held very still, recalling when he'd had the exact same thought about Bram in the hallway of Castle DiThon on the day he'd left to become a mage himself. He found himself remembering as well Wilor's dying words about Bram's possible heritage.

"You have more than enough ability to achieve whatever is your goal, Bram, be it magic or otherwise," he managed after he had sorted through the briar patch of his thoughts. "But know, too, that every desire comes at a price. Only you can decide if the gain is worth the cost."

"Has it been worth it for you?" Bram asked.

"I thought so." The mage's answer was abrupt, involuntary, and it shocked him. He set his mug down more forcefully than he'd meant on the rotted wood floor.

"Thank you for this afternoon, Bram," Guerrand said briskly. "It's meant more to me than you can know. But now it's time for me to pay my respects to your aunt and return to Bastion."

Expecting Bram to protest, Guerrand avoided his nephew's gaze and jumped up from the chair by the fire. Strangely, he found his feet would not settle beneath him. His head reeled. He looked questioningly at Bram; his nephew's head was slumped upon his chest. Guerrand could only fall back into the unyielding chair as darkness descended in a wave.

Guerrand knew before he opened his eyes that something was wrong. A chill breeze, damp and green, blew across his face, very likely the cause of his awakening. But he couldn't recall where he'd been so that he could determine what was so different now. Wherever he was, he was certain he'd not been lying down before. He heard no conversation or other movement to indicate anyone's presence, and yet the air fairly tingled with expectation, with waiting.

Guerrand cracked his eyes enough to see, but not enough to alert anyone nearby of his wakefulness. Something small and warm began prying his eyelids open painfully. "Hey!" he cried, slapping reflexively at whatever it was. His eyes burned madly, and he blinked away a rush of tears.

"He's awake, all right?" Guerrand heard Bram say. "For pity's sake, just leave him alone before you blind him."

Guerrand sat up and dug his fists into his eyes until the watering stopped and he could nearly see again. Two short beings with big blue eyes in pale little faces stood staring back. Their rich brown hair was feather- fine and supported jaunty hats of wool, one grass- green, the other flawless white. Pouches and tools dangled from their shoulders and waist belts.

"Who are you?" Guerrand asked. The two creatures merely blinked their eyes at him like silent, watchful owls. "Well?" he fairly howled.

"These are the tuatha I told you about meeting before," explained Bram, dropping to his knees by his uncle. "Not these two in particular. They're very like the faeries of wives' tales, secretly performing household functions for food, but don't make the mistake of calling them brownies."

"I've heard of them," Guerrand interrupted, propping himself up on his elbows. 'They must have put a sleep spell on us."

Bram nodded. "I guess they wanted to get us into Nahamkin's garden," he suggested. "Though what they want with us here is a puzzle. Still, they're benevolent little creatures. They're probably the only reason I'm speaking to you now. I never would have made it to Wayreth in time to find you without their help."

"I've heard the tales about the tuatha dundarael, of course," said Guerrand as he walked around both tuatha, peering closely at the small, soft-featured beings. "But I've never met any before." The creatures looked back at him impassively. "They vaguely resemble a sylph I once met."

"Probably another kind of faerie-folk," Bram concluded. "I'm surprised a speaker wasn't sent. I got the idea they always traveled in threes." He peered expectantly into the taller weeds at the edge of the garden. "Maybe these two just want a mug of milk or a bit of bread for some past debt," he muttered, though his tone indicated he doubted the thought himself.

Suddenly the air began to sparkle around them. Frolicking hues of gold and red and green danced just above the brown, withered remains of last year's garden. Everywhere the sparkling touched, the plants became slightly greener and stood a little straighten The effect was startling yet beautiful.

While the humans and tuatha watched, the twinkling, colorful lights slowly gathered into the recognizable form of a third tuatha. The two mute tuatha dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.

Bram recognized the newly arrived child-sized being, wearing a slate-blue mantle and wool cap. 'Thistledown!" he exclaimed, then cocked his head, his expression clouding with concern. "Your face looks pale and drawn. Are you unwell?"

"All will be explained to you," the blue-mantled tuatha said. "Bow before King Weador."

Guerrand and Bram exchanged surprised looks. Some force, like a great hand, pressed down on their shoulders, dropping them hard to their knees.

A rain of light fell on the garden then, illuminating everything with rainbow hues, running off Bram's and Guerrand's backs in multicolored waterfalls. The light puddled on flat surfaces, only to evaporate away in an instant. Then, in a most unmagical fashion, the weeds parted and between them strode a sight that was incongruously majestic in the tangled garden patch.

The tuatha, who from his obvious wealth and regal stature must be King Weador, approached them in slow, njeasured steps, as if ceremonial music played that only he could hear. Supporting himself with a walking stick, he stopped between two fragrant rosemary topiary plants. The noble tuatha's eyes sank shut as he inhaled languorously, then opened slowly so that he could consider the two humans who were considering him.

The tuatha king's hair was white as new snow and hung down his back to within a hand span of the ground. His face didn't look old or wrinkled exactly, though it was etched with straight, parallel, deep brown crevices. The effect reminded Guerrand of a lady's perfectly folded, oiled parchment fan.

Weador's clothing looked far richer than the serviceable wool garments of his servants. His mantle, draping him to the thighs, was made of carefully stitched mouse pelts, decorated with the subtle under- feathers of a pheasant, and was held closed with a shiny gold brooch. Fine-spun spider-silk garments dyed in the muted tones of the earth completed his stately appearance.

Every one of Weador's ten fingers, short, thick, and fringed with downy white hairs, carried a ring of a natural substance: several of carved, creamy scrimshaw, ivory, stone, and wood. In his right hand was the scepter he had used as a walking stick. Its tip was a bleached-white turtle skull. The eye sockets had been replaced with pure, shining gold.

Guerrand noticed all these things and was properly impressed. Yet the feature that caught his attention and held it was the king's frosty blue eyes. King Weador's eyes were the saddest Guerrand had ever seen.

"Rise." In that one word, the king's voice was like the sound of fog rolling over the Strait of Ergoth, like wind through willow leaves, like raindrops on a thatch roof, like all of the sounds defined by words. "I apologize for my methods, but the sleep spell seemed the gentlest way to keep you here when you seemed determined to leave.

"I must also apologize for my delay," King Weador continued, lowering himself upon a throne that grew before their eyes from a small toadstool. "I have not traveled with a destination in mind recently and did not properly gauge the time needed in human terms."

All manner of responses came to mind at once, but none came to Guerrand's lips.

"I will waste no more time," continued King Weador, "since there will be little left for us here unless we three reach some manner of understanding. I feel compelled to seek it before commanding an exodus."

"With all due respect," Guerrand began, "why should we listen to you after the way we've been treated? Honorable wizards who seek the cooperation of strangers don't usually get it by casting spells upon those strangers."

The king bowed his head with good grace. "Forgive me, but I could not risk your leaving before we spoke. The presence of my people-and yours-in Northern Ergoth depends upon it."

Guerrand was intrigued, as Weador had intended. "Go on," he said softly.

Weador's blue eyes blinked. "Though most of you are unaware of our existence," he began, "humans and tuatha have a symbiotic relationship. That is, when the humans thrive, we tuatha thrive, and vice versa. We secretly clean your houses, tend your gardens and fields, turn your mills, and perform myriad other daily tasks that make humans happy and fruitful. In turn, we flourish, both from the increased production and the positive energy stimulated by all aspects of a thriving economy.

"We have been in Ergoth since the beginning of time, since the construction of the magical pillars at Stone- cliff. We survived the Cataclysm here, when Ergoth was divided into two islands, and the subsequent droughts, floods, and famines. But never, in all that time, has the decay here been as severe as it is now. This plague has affected even the tuatha, as young Bram noticed in our Thistledown's face."

"But the plague is over," Bram exclaimed. "Guerrand made the moon two-dimensional so-"

"I am aware of what occurred," the king cut in gently. "But you are shortsighted if you think curing the cause of the plague will instantly erase all of its aftereffects."

"What do you mean?" Bram asked.

"Most of the animals have been slaughtered," the king explained. "Crops have yet to be planted, nor are they likely to be, since tuatha scouts report that many of the grain stores were destroyed by Thonvil's hay- ward in the hysteria over the source of the plague. With the seed stores gone, how will the already low food supply be replenished?"

"I have some seeds at Castle DiThon," said Bram. "If they aren't enough, I'll buy or beg what I can from villages that weren't affected by the plague."

The king's snow-white head shook imperceptibly. "I hope that will be enough, for we tuatha can only augment what exists. If little or nothing exists to embellish, then we are forced to move on to survive."

"And if you move on," prompted Guerrand, catching the king's direction at last, "then Thonvil, in its already fragile state, will very likely perish."

The king snapped his thick fingers. "Exactly."

"So what are you telling us to do?" asked Bram.

"Humans are not subject to my rulership," the king reminded him placidly. "I'm merely suggesting options. If you care about the survival of the village or the presence of the tuatha, then you must work immediately to restore the lands."

"You know, of course," began Bram, "that I've been trying to do just that for many years. The tuatha have been helping me."

"That might have been enough," conceded the tuatha king, "if not for this plague. However, time is critical now. The village will survive only if someone provides direction and leadership that has long been lacking here."

Bram fidgeted. "Thonvil already has a lord in my father."

"Yes, I know." The pause that followed spoke volumes about the king's opinion of Cormac DiThon. "A little more than two of your decades ago, I predicted this decline and took what steps I could to stave it off. We increased intervention in your fields and homes," the king continued. "I daresay our efforts made the difference, in the last decade, between eating and not for many of your villagers. I know it did for us tuatha."

"You're suggesting I seize my father's authority," said Bram.

Guerrand had no love for Cormac. There was no doubt his brother should have relinquished his authority to Bram years ago. "Haven't you all but done that anyway?" he asked his nephew.

"I had hoped to spare my father some measure of dignity," conceded Bram, "though he has done nothing

toward that himself."

"We," said the king, speaking royally, "have taken other, more severe, measures to prevent Thonvil from perishing." His intense blue eyes held Guerrand's meaningfully before settling upon Bram. "But they have yet to yield fruit. I am not without hope; however, I don't think Thonvil can wait."

Guerrand felt a precognitive shiver run through his body.

"Let us assume, for the sake of argument," said Bram, "that I'm willing to oust my lord and father. Just how am I supposed to lead the people to salvation?"

"You are a human of high intellect and moral character," the king remarked, "not unlike the previous lord, Rejik DiThon. He was a strong and virtuous leader."

"I was very young when my grandfather died," reflected Bram. "I'm afraid I remember precious little about him, and certainly not enough to emulate his behavior."

"But your uncle does." Though his words were directed at Bram, the king's frosty eyes held Guerrand's. "Can you envision what your father could have accomplished during his reign if he'd had an able mage at his side?"

The question strummed a sharp memory chord, and Guerrand nodded vaguely. Even his small magics had brought new life to the small village of Harrowdown- on-the-Schallsea.

"Then imagine how Bram's compassionate rule and your magic could restore this land," prompted the long.

Guerrand recalled, too well, a discussion with Cormac on the very subject. He'd tried to convince his brother to conquer his fear of magic and see the good it could do in Thonvil. But, of course, Cormac had flatly refused to consider that magic was anything but evil.

Ox Oedusa plague

Guerrand thought it ironic that, ten years later, he was being given the chance to prove he'd been right.

King Weador watched the play of emotions across the mage's face. "You will have a wise advisor and powerful magical ally in your uncle," the king said confidently to Bram.

Guerrand came back from his thoughts and held his palms up. "Slow down, there. I already have a job."

The king's white eyebrows turned down. "Ah, yes. Bastion."

"You know of it?"

"That question indicates an inadequate understanding of tuatha dundarael," King Weador observed. "Remember, we made it possible for Bram to reach Wayreth in a matter of moments, instead of a fortnight. There is almost no corner of the cosmos our faerie roads do not reach. In fact, there is very little in the magical world of which I am not at least peripherally aware."

Weador's intense blue eyes abruptly penetrated Guerrand's in a most disconcerting way The king said nothing at first. Instead, he reached out a stubby, be- ringed hand to the front of Guerrand's robe and brushed away the sooty black smudges there. All but one magically disappeared under the king's fingers. Expression grave, Weador gave that side of the robe a tug so that Guerrand could better see the mark.

Perplexed into silence, Guerrand squinted down his chin to regard the dark smudge that so interested King Weador. On closer inspection, the soot appeared to have a pattern, like the whorls and lines of a thumbprint. A black thumbprint.

Guerrand's head jerked up, and his eyes met Weador's knowing gaze. He gasped as the memory of who had last touched the front of his robe sprang to mind: Nuitari.

"It's a thumbprint. So what? What does it mean?" demanded Bram.

"I have sensed you were in grave danger from the moment we met," King Weador admitted to Guerrand, ignoring Bram's question. "But that feeling intensified when we spoke of Bastion." The king's eyes commanded Guerrand's in a manner the mage couldn't resist. "Beware there, Guerrand DiThon."

That said, the king of the tuatha pushed himself up from his toadstool throne. "Our business is concluded." Before their eyes, the white-haired tuatha king and his silent minions faded from view like a bittersweet dream upon waking.

And, like a dream, Guerrand could not call Weador back for questions.