The Medusa Plague

Chapter One

Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea Five years later…

Gritting his teeth, Guerrand stretched out bis left arm, straining until he thought his shoulder would pop from the socket. It was no use; the juiciest, orange-red rose hips were still a handspan beyond his reach. He would simply have to plow his way through the thorny wild rosebushes that grew on the banks of the Straits of Schallsea. Resigning himself to ruining his homespun red robe, yet thankful for the protection it offered, he held high his small wooden gathering basket and plunged ahead. His sights were locked on his quarry, highlighted against the bright blue of the nearby straits.

Guerrand stopped abruptly and asked himself, What am I thinking? He shook his head, graying now at the temples because of his Test at the tower, though he was still shy of thirty years. Stealing a glance around, the mage assured himself he was alone on this stretch of heath several rods west of Harrowdown. It was not fear of persecution that made him think twice about casting the simple cantrip that would pluck and carry to him the nutrient-rich fruit from which wild rose petals bloomed. Quite the contrary. The villagers had grown used to-almost complacent about-his magical abilities.

He had grown five years older since the day he and Esme had stopped for the night at the Settle Inn in the small, run-down village of Harrowdown, between Hamlton and Restglen in Southlund, the southernmost province of Solamnia. They had chosen it simply because the inn was nearby at the precise moment their legs would move no farther.

The couple had been wandering northward from the forests near Skullcap without real purpose for more than a fortnight after the building of Bastion was completed, vaguely intending to make their way to mage- friendly Palanthas. Their wanderings had taken them through Abanasinia, a territory decidedly unfriendly toward mages, which was why they were so exhausted. The struggle to keep from getting lynched by barbarian plainsmen or pirates had taken its toll, just as life had taken its toll on his relationship with Esme.

Guerrand chased the unexpected and unpleasant memory of lost love from his thoughts, as always. There were too many happy moments with her to recall. He focused his thoughts on the task at hand. The rose hips that he would use and sell for a soothing tea were steadily filling his basket when Guerrand heard the loud squawk of his familiar.

"Kyeow!" Zagarus's white wings lowered him from the cerulean sky to a dark branch of a spreading cypress tree. There you are, Rand! I have a message for you from Dorigar.

Guerrand looked up from the thorny bushes to the large sea gull. Guerrand had conjured his familiar more than a decade before, in what was perhaps his first successful attempt to wield magic. Zag's head was brown-black in a diagonal from the base of his small skull to his throat. His entire underside was yellow- white. Edged with a sliver of white, his wings and back were once as black as onyx. There was no doubt about it; Zag was getting old. The intense coloration of his leathers was duller than it once was; and his yellow legs shambled more than walked now.

You were no more than three rods away, near enough to speak with me," Guerrand remarked, referring to the mental link that allowed masters and familiars to communicate even over distance. "I'm surprised you left the comfort of your nest at the cottage," he gibed gently. Settling into the late autumn of his life, the gull was less inclined to fly these days.

Zagarus looked at him with one eye closed. I thought I find some food while I was about.

Guerrand snorted. "I should have guessed. What's the message?"

Message? Oh, yes. There's some creature Dorigar calls a waiting for you with a scroll from justarius. She won't it to anyone but you. An odd-looking little thing, if you "it-. Wings like spiderwebs. I don't know how she can "'J!e a head wind with them.

"justarius!" cried Guerrand, extricating himself from the tangle of rosebushes. "Why didn't you say so?" He booked the handle of the basket over his shoulder, hiked up the hem of his robes, and broke into a run.

Watching him flee, Zagarus muttered, I thought I did i*v ч1 Despite clouding vision, the wily old bird spied л fish leaping in the nearby straits and closed on it, Guerrand forgotten.

Instead of following the curving dirt path along the shore, the mage took a shortcut on the balk, the turf left unplowed between the rows of Jeb Sanbreeden's field of maize. The rich green leaves rifled Guerrand's shoulders and fluttered like a wave on the sea breeze of the late-Sirrimont day. Strange, he thought, that after five years he still thought in terms of the Ergothian calendar, instead of the Solamnic one the locals used.

Five years… Guerrand could scarcely believe so much time had passed since his and Esme's first night in Harrowdown, when Seth, the outgoing innkeeper, had recognized their calling and offered to hire the two mages for short-term work. Though Guerrand had found the man a bit unsettling, Esme had thought the respite the small village offered would do them good while they determined a direction for their lives.

They settled into a cottage on the edge of the village. Initially fearful of displaying their calling, little by little Guerrand and Esme let their skills be known. The people of Harrowdown immediately saw the good that could come from magic. The village and its people flourished. Months turned into two idyllic years for Guerrand.

He was not even aware that Esme had begun to find their life mundane until news reached them that Esme's father, farther north in Fangoth, was ill. Guerrand was equally surprised to hear that she was ready to return to her father and face the shadows of her past.

"You're hiding out here in Harrowdown," she accused him when he'd declined the offer to join her. "This was supposed to be a transition in our lives, not our final destination."

"I'm needed here now," Guerrand remembered responding defensively, "but I don't intend to live in Harrowdown forever."

"Your family in Ergoth, this dream you have of your Test and jumping from the tower as Rannoch…" She'd shook her head sadly. "You'll be here until you stop letting your past haunt you," she'd pronounced. Then, kissing him tenderly, bittersweetly, she'd wished him luck and exited his life with the same independent and determined spirit she'd exhibited on the day she'd entered it, in the hills surrounding Palanthas. He'd spent the last three years trying to fill the emptiness she'd left in him by helping the villagers of Harrow- down. Some days were better than others.

The field gave way to the first of the small buildings in Harrowdown, and Guerrand was reminded again how much the village had changed since their arrival. Timber-framed and of wattle-and-daub construction, the homes and businesses of the small village were neat, clean, and newly thatched. Guerrand remembered how run-down they'd looked when he'd first arrived; many had half rotted away, offering little more than a windbreak in winter and a place for rats and other vermin to find food in the warmth of summer. Life in Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea had certainly changed since a wizard had come to town.

" 'Scuze me, Your Honor," said a stout woman in a well-patched apron, rosy jowls bouncing as she tried to match Guerrand's stride. "Just wanted to tell you them herbs you give me for Cowslip done brought the milk down again."

"Yes, well, I'm glad, Agnus. If you or your cow need anything else, just stop by the shop." Guerrand remembered the woman and her cow's malady, and he knew that if he allowed her to engage him in conversation for even a moment, he would be trapped for hours. The mage forced the pace of his stride until he left the woman panting before the huge, slowly turning water- wheel that marked the miller's shop.

Rounding the corner, Guerrand's glance fell upon two children on the green playing a placid game of mumblety-peg with dull trowels. He smiled and waved at their mother who was nearby, shooing chickens from the lettuce and onions in the small, burgeoning croft next to their house; she waved happily back. Wilery had come to him a fortnight before, haggard and pale, complaining that her children's wayward behavior was more than she could bear. A pinch of marjoram added to their daily milk had apparently calmed them considerably and put color in their mother's cheeks again.

Guerrand hastened past the Settle Inn. Seth, the scrawny innkeeper, spotted him through the open door and hurried out to the steps. "Stuffed that white chicken with wild onion and boiled him for soup," said Seth. "My luck turned around, just as you said it would!"

"I'll bet it made a delicious broth, too," Guerrand said kindly without stopping. A corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. Seth was an odd one, all right. Somewhere he'd come up with the notion that the lone, snow-white hen in his coop glared at him every time he came to collect eggs. Stranger still, Seth was certain the hen was angry at him for taking her eggs. Guerrand knew that he wouldn't change the man's mind, so he gave Seth the idea to stuff the bird. A chicken's life was short in the best of times.

The mage reached the eastern edge of town at last. His eyes fell upon his own modest, thatched home with a sense of pride many would have found surprising had they known he was raised in a castle. In fairness, he had to credit Esme and Dorigar for its simple beauty. She had insisted on the window boxes that adorned every opening, and he had faithfully replanted them every spring since she'd left. He'd long since given up hope of her return. Still, to leave them fallow would have reminded him too painfully of the void she had left in his heart.

The garden of annuals and perennials was the domain of Dorigar and the envy of every woman in Harrowdown. Hardier crops like parsley and carrots, protected by thick piles of dried oak leaves, were harvested even in the dead of winter. In summer, the garden had a tumbledown, overgrown look that was at once inviting and overwhelming. Bees buzzed around the fist-sized clumps of crimson bee balm, then flew back to their hive, where he and Dorigar regularly extracted the fruit of their labor.

Chickens scattered, and one of Guerrand's two pigs skittered from his path and into Dorigar's garden. The mage surveyed the grounds from the stoop of his small home to the smaller drying shed, but saw no sign of a waiting sylph. He hastened through the heavy wooden door and into the house. Guerrand squinted while his eyes adjusted. A small fire smoldered in the hearth, the smoke rising through a hole cut in the thatched roof. A kettle of water whistled softly. His assistant was nowhere to be seen on the first floor.

Guerrand knew that Dorigar's love of naps was second only to his love of gardening. The mage set his basket of rose hips on the plank table and scrambled up the narrow, makeshift ladder to the sleeping loft. The feather tick lay upon new hay just as he'd left it this morning. Frowning, he pressed his feet to the outside rails of the ladder and slipped back to the dirt floor.

"Where could Dorigar and this sylph be?" he muttered aloud. Standing stock-still, he cocked his head toward an open window and could vaguely hear his assistant's prattle coming from behind the cottage. Guerrand bounded out the door again, blinking against the bright sunlight as he raced around the house.

He found Dorigar in the sunlit herb garden, chattering wildly at a most unusual-looking creature.

"Youre ally shouldn’t eat chervil you know. Were short on it. Besides I’m not quite sure what it will do to a sylph. Could grow warts for all I know."

Dorigar, being a gnome, was more than a little unusual-looking himself, thought Guerrand. His skin was as brown as aged wood. Vibrant violet eyes, a bulbous nose, and strong white teeth poked through the mussed and curling hair that otherwise obscured his face. His clothing sense made Guerrand's coarse red robe seem like the height of fashion. His favorite, and current, ensemble consisted of an orange-and-green pair of trousers woven with the stripes running horizontally and worn with the pockets pulled out, and a soiled yellow tunic under a hot, brown leather vest, heavily stained with vegetable dyes. Tools and notebooks and other gizmos dangled from all manner of straps and handles attached to his stocky three-foot frame.

Guerrand chuckled at the odd little gnome, then turned his attention to the reason for his return to the cottage. His breath instantly caught in his throat at the sylph's fragile beauty. She appeared as a small, extremely slender and sinuous human woman in a diaphanous gown through which jutted enormous dragonfly wings. They were the most vibrant iridescent purple-green, and veined like a dried leaf. Her hair reminded him of vaguely ordered seaweed, woven with delicate meadow flowers and variegated vines.

Guerrand stepped forward. "Thank you, Dorigar. I'm here now and can take the message myself."

"Well its about time," huffed Dorigar. "I thought she- might eat my entire crop before you arrived."

As the annoyed and colorful gnome stomped past Guerrand, the mage patted his assistant on the back good-naturedly. "Don't forget to take your medicine," he advised.

"Allrightbutldontseethatitchangesanything," said Dorigar, blowing out an exasperated breath that fanned his frizzy hair, briefly exposing his frowning face. "Ifyouaskmeyoushouldtaketheherbstospeedupy- ourears." Dorigar continued to mutter to himself as he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

The sylph calmly continued to pluck the soft green chervil leaves, either unable or unwilling to understand the fast-speaking gnome. Guerrand had to clear his throat several times before the enchanting creature looked up, strings of chervil hanging from her mouth. "You have a message for me?" he asked.

Wings fluttering to lift her several feet above the garden, the sylph approached Guerrand. She looked him over, then shrugged, as if she found him wanting. The sylph reached delicate, marble-pale fingers into her revealing little robe, extracted a delicate parchment scroll bound with a pressed dollop of beeswax, and held it toward him.

Guerrand turned the scroll over and recognized the crescent-moon-in-a-cup imprint in the wax from a ring Justarius wore. "How did you come by this?"

Her voice was as lilting and evanescent as the wind. "I am returning a favor to Justarius." With that, she lifted her wings, as fine as spiderwebs, and slipped away like mist into the thick canopy of trees beyond the rectangular herb garden.

"Wait!" Guerrand cried, knowing as he did that the elusive creature would wait for no one. He looked again at the scroll, tapping it thoughtfully as he went back inside the homey cottage. Now that he had the missive in his hands, Guerrand was more puzzled than ever. What did Justarius want with him after so many silent years?

He set the scroll on the table. Dropping a handful of the rose hips into a mug, the mage covered them with hot water from the simmering kettle in the hearth. He sipped the brew unsteeped, staring at the scroll pensively.

Aren't you going to open it?

Guerrand's head shot up, and his gaze went to the open window. He hadn't even heard Zagarus's return. He set the mug down and looked into the flames. "Eventually."

You're afraid.

Scowling, Guerrand snatched up the scroll and broke the wax seal with a flick of his thumbnail. The curled parchment tumbled open. Guerrand blinked in confusion when he saw only an intricate, symmetrical pattern inked there. He had been expecting words, not magical symbols. These symbols meant nothing to him, although they stirred a distant memory.

The star-shaped mosaic pattern in the summer dining room of Villa Rosad… These symbols reminded Guerrand of the configurations of colorful tiles Justarius required all of his apprentices to memorize through visualization to heighten their awareness of magical patterns.

What does Justarius have to say? asked Zagarus.

"That's going to take me a few minutes to figure out." Guerrand moved the clutter of spellbooks, notes, and pots of dried and fermented components to the floor. He lit his biggest tallow candle, as thick and long as his forearm, and used it to pin the top of the curling scroll to the coarsely planed table. Staring at the odd symbols, he racked his brain to recall the key to Justar- ius's tile exercise. He'd conjured few spells more complicated than cantrips for a long time, and he'd had no need to create his own as Justarius had taught him. He was simply out of practice.

Guerrand's eyes were dry and red from smoke, and the candle had burned by half before he began to make sense of the missive. The spiral pattern was far more complex than it had appeared at first, consisting of not one but eight intertwined paths. Woven through the spirals was a series of recurring symbols, elongated ovoids, that repeated an intricate pattern.

He leaned back in the stool and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Outside the open window was darkness. Guerrand wrapped a hand around the mug of his long-forgotten tea; it was well past cold.

If it's proving so difficult, why don't you just get rid of the note? The gull was settled in his nest in the far corner of the room, his small eyes closed.

Guerrand sat motionless for several moments. Abruptly he jumped to his feet and kicked back his stool, sending it crashing to the dirt floor. "Perhaps you're right, Zag." With that, Guerrand snatched up the scroll on his way to the open hearth and tossed the odd message into the flames.

Zagarus's beady orbs popped open in surprise as his master then jumped back behind the meager protection of the table and watched the missive burn. Smoke from the scroll roiled out of the hearth and formed the face of the Master of the Red Robes, Justarius, in a wavering, gray image. Excited, Guerrand came around the table to face the foggy image.

Ah, Guerrand. If you're hearing this, you were able to recognize that fire would release the magical bonds. I must apologize for putting you through yet another test so long after your apprenticeship, but I had to be sure that you alone received the details of this missive. 1 also had to be sure that years of life among the simple folk hadn't robbed you of your wits.

Guerrand ground his teeth against the presumption, particularly since it was so close to the truth. "How could you be sure that someone else didn't just toss it in the fire?" he demanded of the smoke, but the image didn't respond to his question. The mage had to remind himself that Justarius wasn't really here, just his magically recorded message.

Random placement in a fire wouldn't have released the message, Justarius's image was saying. The archmage had obviously anticipated his former apprentice's question. Guerrand vowed to keep his mouth shut and listen before he missed any more of Justarius's words.

The purpose of this missive is to inform you that the Council of Three requests your presence at Wayreth immediately. We wish to discuss with you a most urgent situation. Use your mirror to speed travel. All questions will be answered when you arrive. With that, the smokey visage of Justarius broke into wavering tendrils and stretched toward the hole in the thatch.

Guerrand jumped when the door behind him abruptly banged open. Dorigar stomped into the small house, slamming the door closed. "I don't suppose you've made anything to eat."

"No." Guerrand noted vaguely that the gnome had remembered to take the magical concoction the wizard prepared each morning to slow his assistant's speech to an understandable rate.

Dorigar marched up to a butcher's block and retrieved a device from beneath it. Several gleaming blades extended at divergent angles, mounted alongside measuring rods and depth gauges and mesh hand guards. With this doodad, Dorigar commenced slicing leeks into a kettle. Adding carrots and other herbs, he filled the pot with water. Last, Dorigar used an iron poker to hang the pot from a ring above the fire, stoked to furnace proportions.

Guerrand quickly grew annoyed by the gnome's happy scurrying. The cottage seemed to grow a degree hotter with each beat of the wizard's heart. He jumped to his feet and rushed out into the night to lean against a linden tree. Drawing gulps of cool summer air, Guerrand listened to the distant lowing of cows, the ringing of bells calling men in from moonlit fields. The familiar sounds calmed him.

What's bothering you? asked Zagarus, settling upon a branch of the tree above his master. I haven't seen you so shaken since Esme left.

Guerrand slid down the tree into a crouch and dug his fists into his eyes. I don't know. Maybe I'm just tired from concentrating all afternoon on deciphering Justarius's message."

What do you think the Council wants?

"I'm sure 1 don't know that either." Guerrand crossed his arms tightly before him. "I do know that I'm not too keen on going back to Wayreth."

You'll have to check your handbook, of course, said Zagarus with exaggerated stuffiness, but I believe you gave up the right of refusal when you vowed loyalty to the Red Robes.

Guerrand scowled up at his familiar. "I know that, as well as you know there's no handbook. I merely said I don't want to go, not that I wouldn't."

The dull-black feathers on Zagarus's wings lifted in a shrug. So what's the problem?

Guerrand absently touched the scar along his cheek that had never healed completely in five years.

Is that still bothering you?

"No!" Guerrand snapped a little too quickly. He wasn't sure whether Zag meant the external or internal scars left by the third and final segment of his Test. A week never went by without him waking up in a sweat from the Dream. Though he had passed the Test, he felt certain the Dream meant he was supposed to take something else from the lesson. But he had no clearer idea of what that was now than he'd had when he walked away from the dreamlike tower in Palanthas and Justarius had told him he'd passed.

Guerrand glided up the tree to his feet. "I have no interest in leaving Harrowdown, even briefly, to stand around and compare spellbooks with a bunch of high- powered mages. I'm needed here." He began to pace. "To the villagers, my work is important. Harrowdown is prosperous compared to what it was when I arrived. Life as a mage may not be exactly what I dreamed back in Castle DiThon, but it isn't bad, either."

This is what you and Esme fought about, isn't it?

Guerrand's hand sliced the air like a scythe. "You know I won't talk about that."

Zagarus was silent for some time. You don't even know why justarius has summoned you. Aren't you the least bit curious? Maybe he just wants to say hello.

Guerrand chuckled without humor. "That's so like Justarius." He sighed his resignation. "But I guess we'll find out the truth soon enough." Heading back for the cottage door, he announced over his shoulder, "I'm going to take a few moments to eat some of Dorigar's delicious-smelling stew. Then I'll pack a few things, and we'll leave for Wayreth through the mirror."

Do you even have that piece of glass anymore? asked Zagarus. I haven't seen it for years.

"I packed it away in a safe place after the confrontation with Belize," explained Guerrand, referring to the magical looking glass the archmage Belize had given Guerrand before they'd left Castle DiThon. It allowed the bearer to magically travel far distances via a mirror world by mentally picturing a mirror where you wished to reenter the real world. Guerrand had used it only once since the Night of the Eye upon Stonecliff, and that had been to transport Esme, himself, and Zagarus away from the site of the destroyed pagan pillars to Palanthas.

Is it wise to use it after so long? asked the gull. I mean, you need a familiar destination point, and we've been away from Wayreth for a long time. Even there, things must change.

Guerrand waved away the concern. "Justarius himself recommended we use it. He must have removed any magical wards on Wayreth that would prevent us from entering."

Guerrand returned some time later from the cottage with his old leather pack filled and strung from shoulder to hip. Digging around in the bag, he pulled from it a familiar, hand-sized fragment of dusty glass and set it on the dirt path. The mage smiled ruefully up at his familiar and extended his arm as a perch for the gull. "Justarius awaits us."

With the heavy old gull on his arm, Guerrand felt a long-forgotten sense of deja vu as he stepped upon the surface of the magical glass and slipped into the extradimensional mirror world.

As Guerrand suspected, Justarius had left a glowing trail in the mirror world that bypassed any protective wards and led them directly to a man-sized looking glass right inside the Hall of Mages. The room had not changed one jot since Guerrand's first audience here. It was a vast, round chamber carved of obsidian; the far walls and ceiling were beyond his sight, obscured in shadow. As usual, there were no torches or candles, yet the room was lit by a pale white light, cold, cheerless, without warmth.

Shivering in the dampness, Guerrand remembered with a bittersweet twinge his friend and fellow apprentice Lyim Rhistadt's first bit of advice to him, when tbe plague

they both were waiting outside in the foretower to be assigned masters: "It's a snap." He had been so afraid then. Now he felt only cold.

This time Guerrand was not surprised by the sudden appearance of the heavy oaken chair behind him in the otherwise empty room. He slipped into it and waited, fingers drumming the intricately carved armrests, anxiously at first, then with growing impatience.

"Be at ease, Guerrand," he heard at long last. He still could not see a face, but he recognized the slight quiver of age in Par-Salian's voice.

"We're delighted you responded to Justarius's missive." The years had not dulled LaDonna's sultry voice.

The members of the Council of Three chose that moment to reveal themselves. The light had not increased or crept farther into the shadows, and yet Guerrand could now see the semicircle of twenty-one seats, all but three empty. He had sat in one of those seats briefly, during the Conclave to discuss the building of Bastion.

Seated in the very center, in a great chair of carved stone, was the extremely distinguished, though frail- looking, head of the Conclave of Wizards. Age had not dulled Par-Salian's piercing blue eyes; the long, gray- white hair, beard, and mustache that nearly matched his white robe had not grown an inch.

LaDonna, too, looked as if not a day had passed since Guerrand's first audience. The Mistress of the Black Robes was seated to her superior's right. She was a striking woman whose iron-gray hair was woven into an intricate braid coiled about her patrician head. Her beauty and age still defied definition.

"You're looking well, Guerrand."

Guerrand's eyes shifted at last to the speaker whose voice, robust with unspoken humor, he knew so well.

Justarius alone seemed to have aged. There was more salt than pepper now in the mustache and the shoulder-length hair that was simply parted down the middle. New, tiny lines pulled at the corners of his mouth and the narrows between his dark eyes. His usual neck ruff was a crisp and clean white, in contrast to the red linen robe below it.

"I am well," the former apprentice said stiffly.

The three revered mages exchanged surprised looks. Par-Salian brushed a wisp of white hair from his watery old eyes. "The Council has summoned you, Guerrand, to offer you a position of some importance."

"I'm happy enough where I am."

Justarius's eyebrows narrowed in a familiar gesture of irritation. "I see you've compounded your impertinent tendency to jump to conclusions. You would do well to listen and not waste our time."

Though words welled in his throat, Guerrand had the wits to press his lips into a tight line.

"Let us not mince words, Guerrand," began Par-Salian. "Bastion's representative from the Red Robes has abruptly resigned, and we are in need of an immediate replacement. The Council has raised your name as a possibility to fill that position."

Guerrand could not keep the shock from registering on his face. His mouth dropped open. None of his musings regarding the nature of the summons had included Bastion. He couldn't speak, which was fortunate, because there was still more to hear.

"Since its completion," continued Par-Salian, "Bastion has been run democratically by three occupants, a representative from each order, but that doesn't seem to have worked. Somehow even the most trivial issues degenerate into a two-against-one brawl. These conflicts divert the mages' attention from their real purpose in the stronghold: to be ever vigilant against intruders seeking the Lost Citadel."

Par-Salian leaned forward on his chair, elbow propped on the right armrest. "To prevent this from continuing, the Council has voted to create the position of high defender. The model is this very Council. 1 am the head of the Council of Three, as would the high defender be to the occupants of Bastion."

Par-Salian paused for effect. "Justarius has recommended you for that position."

"So I would be in charge of two mages who've been there for some time?" Guerrand asked.

Par-Salian nodded, but held up a blue-veined hand for Guerrand to allow him to finish. "You must also know that the work is lonely and tedious, requiring constant vigilance for something that is likely never to happen."

Guerrand squinted one eye suspiciously. "Why did the previous mage resign?"

"Vilar… was unstable," Justarius said, picking his words carefully. "Bastion is very isolated, particularly if you don't get along with its other occupants." The red mage sighed. "He was not the first, but the second to resign; Ezius of the White Robes is the only original representative. You will be the fifth sentinel and the first high defender… should you accept the position."

Overwhelmed, Guerrand ran a hand through his mop of dark hair. "1–1 can't give you an answer right now. 1 need time to go home and think, and-"

"There isn't time for a trip," interrupted LaDonna a bit peevishly. "Surely you can understand the need to fill this position immediately. You have until sunrise to decide."

"Your old room in the north tower has been prepared for your comfort," Justarius added more kindly. "Of course, Zagarus is welcome. I'll take you there now."

Guerrand stood weakly, holding fast to the arm of the chair. He nodded briskly to Par-Salian and LaDonna, then walked from the Hall of Mages at Justarius's side. The red archmage seemed to be limping more than Guerrand remembered, favoring the leg that had been twisted by his own Test. Their footsteps, Justarius's irregular, echoed against the cold, circular walls. The two mages crossed the small foretower where once Guerrand had waited with other hopeful apprentices, then entered the north tower.

Both men knew there was no need for Justarius to show Guerrand the way to the sleeping chamber some five levels above Par-Salian's study. He'd stayed there for several days before and after his Test, then during the planning of Bastion. Guerrand couldn't decide if Justarius was acting as jailor or host now. Neither spoke as they climbed the narrow flights of stairs to the sixth level. The exercise brought warmth to feet that had grown cold in the foreboding ceremonial hall.

Guerrand automatically took a sharp left at the top of the stairs, passed the first room, and turned the marble knob on the second. Squeezing through the door to the triangular room, he mumbled, "Thank you," and made to shut the door behind him.

Justarius's good leg shot out to place his foot between the door and its frame. "I know you well enough to see when something is troubling you, Guerrand. Do you care to tell me what it is?"

Guerrand looked at his feet. "I don't know what you mean."

"You don't do coy at all well," Justarius remarked. "That was always Esme's specialty."

Guerrand's head jerked up at the mention of Esme's name, as Justarius had obviously intended.

"She's doing well, by the way," Justarius said conversationally. "She's still living in Fangoth." The archmage managed to steer them into the small, triangular

room. Thin light filtered through a tiny window, more an arrow loop, on the far wall. "Her father died several years back, and she's working toward restoring the locals' faith in magic after her father's reign of terror. But you would know about that."

"I–I knew her father died, but not the rest," confessed Guerrand. "I haven't heard from her in years."

With pursed lips that raised his mustache, Justarius acknowledged the admission. "I meant, you would know about raising the morale of a village with your magic. From what I've observed, you've accomplished near miracles in Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea."

" 'From what you've observed?' You mean you've been watching me?"

"I make it a point to follow the progress of all my students." Justarius's eyes alone held the warmth of the confession.

Guerrand sank with a sigh into the deep chair by the hearth on the curved, outside wall. "I didn't know."

Justarius let out a breath as he closed the door. "Why do you think I recommended you for the position at Bastion?"

"Frankly," chuckled Guerrand, "I haven't had time to consider your reasoning. Your missive revealed nothing about the nature of the meeting."

"What made you answer the summons?"

Guerrand considered the question honestly. "Mainly curiosity," he admitted at last. "Besides, I wasn't sure I had the option of ignoring a summons by the Council."

Justarius raised one brow. "I believe I told you once, when you wanted to return to Thonvil to help your family, that you always have a choice."

Guerrand acknowledged the memory with a small nod.

Justarius moved by the fire and crossed his arms expectantly. "So now that you've had your curiosity

satisfied, are you interested in the position?"

"I… don't know," Guerrand admitted. 'There's just so much to consider. The people of Harrowdown depend on me, and-"

"They'll survive without you," Justarius broke in. "Every master must let his students fly or fall one day. You've given them the tools to succeed on their own."

Guerrand gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "But will I survive without them? What if I'm no more suited to the job at Bastion than the previous red mage?"

"I have not succeeded at a great many things," Justarius said soberly 'The only thing I have not failed at is trying. Failure is an integral part of the life cycle."

"But I am a rousing success in Harrowdown," said Guerrand. "There's a great deal of comfort in knowing that."

Justarius cocked his head in question. "Is comfort the achievement that you seek?"

Guerrand frowned, discomfited with the introspection, but unable to deny Justarius his answers. "At one time, I didn't think so. After the battle at Stonecliff with Belize, then the creation of Bastion, I believed I was destined to follow in your footsteps to becoming an arch- mage. But when that didn't happen, I began to suspect I wasn't suited to more than I had in Harrowdown."

"If you feel shorted of opportunities," Justarius observed, "it's because you haven't sought them out." He gave an ironic chuckle. "Just how many times did you expect to save the world, anyway? You've already been given more opportunities than most. Life is tedious, life is dirty, life is stimulating, life is ordinary for all of us. There are good days and bad days, and there will be no less of each at Bastion if you accept the position."

Guerrand set his chin firmly. "But I've resigned myself to my small success in Harrowdown. That's enough for me now."

"Now, today, perhaps, but will it be sufficient three years hence? Or fifteen?" demanded Justarius. He tapped a finger to his chin as he seemed to recall something. "This conflict of expectations, exacerbated by fear of failure, was the source of your conflict with Esme, wasn't it?"

Guerrand winced, nodding. It still hurt to think of it, let alone speak of his separation from the young woman. She had never understood his conflicting emotions. "Be happy with what you are, whatever it is, and you'll be a success," she'd say. He understood now that she had been right, but it didn't erase the conflict from his mind. That conflict had been the springboard of their friendship, since she, too, had suffered from confused expectations. The difference was, she had conquered her demons sufficiently to return to help her taskmaster father, while Guerrand had never been able to return to Thonvil, even for a visit.

Justarius watched the interplay of Guerrand's emotions on the young man's face. Shaking his head sadly, the archmage turned to leave. "I have things 1 must attend to while I'm here at Wayreth." He eased his crippled leg to the door and placed his hand on the knob. "Let me just say this, Guerrand. If public adoration or the trappings of comfort represent success to you, then turn down the job. But if you seek the opportunity to use your skill for something important, you'll jump at this chance." The archmage squinted through one eye at his former apprentice. "You'll probably never get another." Justarius wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself and stepped from the room.

Guerrand was staring, unseeing, at the closed door when he became aware of something moving about on the small, thick window ledge. Turning, he spied Zagarus. He'd not even heard the bird arrive. Zagarus merely stood staring expectantly at his master.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" Guerrand demanded. "Let me guess. You heard our conversation, and you think Justarius is right?"

It doesn't matter what I think. I'm just a bird, Zag shot back. Don't expect me to solve all your problems. What do you think?

Guerrand already knew the answer to that. Both Esme and Justarius, the two people who unquestionably knew him best, had so easily recognized in him what he had refused to believe until now. He had been hiding out in Harrowdown, at least for the last few years. He had already lost Esme because of it. Justarius would not recommend him twice for the position of high defender. He had to accept the offer, or he would always wonder what his life might have been. Besides, if he failed, he could always return to Harrowdown, couldn't he?

Guerrand yanked open the door and stepped out of the room. Justarius stood a dozen paces away, conversing with another red-robed mage. Both looked up as Guerrand entered the hallway.

"I wouldn't miss this opportunity for the world, Justarius," Guerrand announced. "I'm your man."