“Yes, Par-Salian,” the young woman sighed. “The tour will have to wait until after the conference. The other sentinels have ongoing tasks and will not be part of this discussion, but Ezius of the White Robes will be particularly glad to see you, Guerrand.” Dagamier slipped a pale white hand through an arm of each visitor and gave them a warm smile as she led them toward the dining hall.
Apparently a lot of things had changed in the new Bastion.
They walked farther into the mountain, crossed through a magnificently sculpted threshold, and into a large, high-ceilinged room. Justarius and LaDonna sat waiting at a large table. Both remained seated, Justarius because of his crippled leg, LaDonna because it wasn’t in her nature to stand for anyone.
“And who is there but Par-Salian that I should stand for, Guerrand DiThon?” she asked, once again reminding the mage of Thonvil that these powerful wizards read minds like other people read books.
Guerrand bowed his head in respect for her position as Mistress of the Black Robes. “Well met, LaDonna,” he said calmly, taking her gentle rebuke in stride. She had changed not at all since last he had seen her; LaDonna’s black hair was still woven into an intricate braid that coiled about her delicately shaped head.
Guerrand turned a fond smile on his former teacher, Justarius. The archmage’s salt-and-pepper beard had grown overlong and rested on his ever-present white neck ruff, but his red linen robe was as crisp and clean as ever.
Guerrand extended his hand. “It is good to see you looking so well, Justarius.”
The Master of the Red Robes pulled a disbelieving frown, yet his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Not with this mop of hair graying so quickly. I suppose I could alter it magically, as some do, to conceal my years,” he said with a mischievous glance at LaDonna. “Yet why should I bother, when I know the truth of my age?”
“Why bother, indeed,” snapped the raven-haired wizardess, whose looks had always defied her years. “You’d still be ugly as an owlbear.”
“Denbigh, the owlbear who runs my household, would take exception to that,” Justarius chuckled good-naturedly.
Guerrand had never seen the council members jibe each other so readily before. In the past, their differing philosophies had usually put them at odds. But this unexpected sense of camaraderie lifted Guerrand’s mood and made him believe that perhaps the reason for their summons was not as dire as he’d expected.
Such serious reflections were interrupted by the arrived of servants carrying trays of food. Guerrand’s mind turned to his surroundings while he dined on a perfectly prepared pheasant. Unlike in Castle DiThon, no smoky torches lit the dining chamber. Instead, the room was bathed in natural light from a long, solid window that gave a magnificent view of the Khalkist Mountains.
“How do you accomplish that view?” Guerrand asked. “Unless I miss my guess, you walked us into the mountain, not toward another promontory.”
“Magic, of course,” said Justarius. “Have you been away from my tutelage for so long that you’ve forgotten anything is possible with the Art?”
“Of course not,” Guerrand said a trifle defensively.
“Tell me what you see when you look around this room,” Justarius charged him.
Guerrand was puzzled by the question, but his apprenticeship with Justarius had taught him to answer every question the master asked, however odd. So he described the room, its tall window looking out from the mountain, and three natural rock walls.
“That’s interesting,” mused Justarius. “It reminds me of the open-air peristyle in my villa in Palanthas.”
Guerrand remembered the serenity of that lush garden, with the goldfish pond in its center.
“To me this hall appears totally enclosed,” supplied LaDonna, nibbling a chicken bone, “lit only by the soothing yellow light of torches.”
Guerrand glanced at the sunlit bank of windows.
“I see the Hall of Audience in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth,” added Par-Salian, watching Guerrand’s reaction to these revelations.
“In case you haven’t guessed it,” said Dagamier, “this Bastion is magically imbued to appear pleasant and comfortable to everyone who enters it.”
“I understand,” said Bram, nodding thoughtfully. “Someone who likes sunshine and a feeling of openness has a different vision of this room than someone who likes cozy, dark places.”
“Exactly,” pronounced Justarius.
“You can imagine how much easier this is on sentinels than the environment in our Bastion, Guerrand,” said Dagamier. “Both Ezius and I are still here. The sixth sentinel, a Red Robe named Feldner, replaced you five years ago and has showed no signs of stress. We feel much less isolated here and can actually take short leaves, another of the many reasons the Council kept this Bastion on the Prime Material Plane.”
“Actually,” interrupted Justarius, “that decision had to do with the change in Bastion’s purpose from its first incarnation. Then it was a physical roadblock between the Prime Material Plane and the Lost Citadel. However, we discovered the defenses were susceptible to being overwhelmed by a massive assault or bypassed completely.” Justarius took a long, contemplative sip of his drink. “As Lyim Rhistadt discovered.”
Guerrand noticed that Justarius was ignoring the bounty of food in favor of his usual brewed lemon water. That had always been a sure indication that the head of the red mages was distracted and concerned about something, despite his outwardly calm demeanor.
“Now Bastion functions more as an early-warning system,” said Dagamier, continuing where Justarius had left off. “Defenders monitor magical activity through spells. We are no longer frontline soldiers fighting alone, but more like scouts. When we detect disruptions in the magical cosmos, anywhere on Ansalon or near the Lost Citadel, we alert the Council.”
“I assume, then, that you have experienced the magical disruption Guerrand experienced at Thonvil,” said Bram.
Par-Salian’s expression was grim. “We have all witnessed a sporadic drain in our magical abilities.”
“Even King Weador knew of it in the faerie realm,” Bram said.
“We’ve heard from Weador,” acknowledged the head of the Council. “And Lorac, the Silvanesti elflord. And the ruling thane of the Daewar dwarves in Thorbardin. Even Solostaran of the Qualinesti has expressed his fear that the magical drain will spread to his realm. It was his missive that delayed our meeting today.”
Guerrand looked at Dagamier. “You’ve isolated the cause of the disruption?”
She nodded.
But it was Justarius who answered solemnly, “Lyim Rhistadt.”
“He’s alive?” Guerrand gasped.
“He’s alive and apparently doing very well for himself in the Plains of Dust,” said Justarius.
“That’s where he grew up,” Guerrand muttered. He turned on Par-Salian with an expression of disbelief. “But you said at the conclave where I relinquished my position that if Lyim were alive, he would be dealt with in the manner of all renegade mages! I assumed that he had been killed, either during the destruction of Bastion, or …” Guerrand’s voice trailed off.
“I’ve lost count of the number of assassins the Council has sent after Lyim,” LaDonna assured him. “Three—one from each order—left immediately after Par-Salian spoke those words.”
“And none of them has been able to touch him?” Guerrand asked, incredulous.
“I know it sounds improbable that anyone could avoid a stream of assassins for so long,” said Par-Salian, “but none of this is as straightforward as killing an ordinary renegade mage. Lyim Rhistadt is no ordinary man.”
Par-Salian pushed his plate away. “The first three assassins had nothing on which to base their search. They weren’t even sure Lyim was still alive. One was murdered in a street fight, pursuing a false lead in Neraka. Another had the ill fortune to drown in a shipwreck in New Sea. But the third finally traced Lyim to Qindaras, the largest city in the Plains of Dust.”
“T
hat was the black-robed assassin,” supplied LaDonna proudly. “He reported his findings to the Council and was about to accomplish his mission when Lyim recognized him for what he was.”
“So?”
“So,” she continued, “Lyim gave the Black Robe two messages for us. First, he said that he had renounced his magical abilities and no longer practiced the Art, so we should reconsider the need to slay him as a renegade. Of course, he already knew we could not reconsider. His second message was to have us check the Orders’ records for a pact signed over three hundred years before between Qindaras’s potentate and the wizards who then comprised the Council of Three.”
“Surprised by the turn of events,” Par-Salian said, taking up the story, “we nonetheless did as he suggested. We discovered that Qindaras’s potentate, a powerful wizard, had come into possession of a magical gauntlet through a trade agreement with a dwarven thane in Thorbardin. The dwarves had apparently forgotten that the gauntlet made by their ancestors had the power to draw magical energy into itself.”
“The Orders had to be concerned by the existence of such a powerful artifact that seemed in opposition to the Art,” observed Guerrand. “But the potentate was a wizard and so subject to the rules of the Orders. Why didn’t they just demand that he relinquish the article?”
“I’m sure they tried that,” said Justarius, “but consider the time. This was just before the Cataclysm, when magic was feared and hated. One wizard and his gauntlet probably paled in comparison to the Council’s struggle with the Kingpriest. Besides which, simple possession of such a powerful item made the potentate immune against almost anything the Orders could summon against him. Distracted by the Kingpriest and confounded by the gauntlet, the Council of Three struck an agreement with Potentate Aniirin I: the Council would not interfere in the internal affairs of Qindaras or its citizens if the potentate vowed never to use the gauntlet’s powers beyond Qindaras. Since then, two more potentates have come and gone, but the agreement has never been broken.”
Bram tapped his chin. “Lyim is no ordinary man. Somehow, he discovered the one place on Krynn where the Council could not attack him without breaking a centuries-old pact.”
“So you just let him go?” Guerrand asked.
“Of course not,” said Parsalian with a frown. “We instructed the assassin to watch Lyim closely and wait for him to step foot from the city. But in five years he never has. The assassin said Lyim never performed a magical spell, and had, in fact, spoken out publicly against magic. Nevertheless, though we never moved against Lyim, that assassin mysteriously disappeared, as have the countless others we’ve sent in an effort to maintain observation.”
Bram shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re leading up to here. What is Lyim doing in this city if he’s not practicing magic? And how does he relate to this magical gauntlet of the potentates?”
“According to our spies, Lyim raised himself up to a position of political power,” explained Par-Salian. “He caught the potentate’s attention during a suspiciously convenient attack on the ruler, who then made Lyim his legatee as a reward. Not very long after, the potentate himself was slain under very suspicious circumstances, and Lyim ascended the throne.”
Guerrand whistled sharply. “None of the previous potentate’s retainers questioned these events?”
LaDonna shrugged. “His first order of business was to have all loyal followers of Aniirin III slain. Concubines, servants, wizards, viziers, astrologers, even bakers and artists were dispensed with in one fell swoop.”
“And still he had done nothing to break the pact,” said Bram, beginning to understand the dilemma.
“Nevertheless, we might have found a way to get around that agreement, but for one thing.” Par-Salian wiped his lips with a white linen napkin, then pushed himself back from the table to pace. “Lyim now wears the gauntlet that draws magic. Assassins from the Orders of Magic are powerless to use their magic against him. What’s worse, it appears he has somehow recruited to his cause the mundane assassin we sent, who is now going about Ansalon killing mages.”
“As potentate, Lyim is the most powerful man in the Plains of Dust,” said Guerrand. “What else does he want?”
“He seeks to destroy magic,” pronounced Par-Salian without preamble. “And with that gauntlet, he may have the power to do it. We realized just how far Lyim’s influence had reached when Dagamier contacted us.”
Dagamier took a sip of frothy green wine. “Lyim’s gauntlet is drawing enough energy from the magical fabric that Bastion—even the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth—is going to become difficult to defend,” she explained. “If he breaks the pact and moves his crusade beyond Qindaras, he could attack the towers directly.”
“A case could be made that Lyim has already broken the pact,” suggested Guerrand. “Why hasn’t the Council of Three pooled its skills to overpower Lyim and seize or destroy his gauntlet?”
“Of course we’ve considered that,” Par-Salian said patiently.
“But wouldn’t your magic only feed Lyim’s gauntlet?” asked Bram.
“Exactly,” exclaimed the Head of the Conclave. “But this, too, is more complicated than it initially sounds. Lyim has developed a devoted following among his citizens. His power over them can be likened only to that of the last Kingpriest of Istar. Our dilemma is not dissimilar to that of the Council that made the pact with the first potentate of Qindaras. The majority of Ansalon’s citizens still distrust magic. It wouldn’t help that image if magic’s ruling council openly slew Qindaras’s beloved savior, a man who has attracted his following based on a pledge to destroy magic.
“No,” Par-Salian said, shaking his white head, “Lyim’s downfall must be brought about more covertly.”
“That’s where you and Bram come in,” Justarius said bluntly. “The Council believes that you, Guerrand, are the only person who might distract Lyim sufficiently to defeat him.”
“We were friends once, long ago,” agreed Guerrand, “but Lyim hates me now.”
“Hatred is as much a distraction as love,” observed LaDonna. “So far, our assassins have engendered only ambivalence or have been recruited to Lyim’s side, which is something we know would never happen to you.”
“I can’t imagine a circumstance that would cause me to see things as Lyim does now,” Guerrand muttered, more to himself.
“So you want my uncle to go to Qindaras and kill his old friend,” said Bram.
“That’s one option,” explained Justarius, “and probably the best one. If Lyim can’t be killed, stealing his gauntlet would prevent him from absorbing any more magical energy. We suspect that removing the gauntlet by itself from the palace could destroy either the palace, the gauntlet, or both.”
“Good luck separating the two,” Guerrand said wryly. “If I can’t get near enough to kill him, I’m at a loss to see how I’d get the gauntlet.”
Bram leaned forward. “And I’m pressed to see where I fit into this scheme.”
“May I explain that?” Dagamier asked the Council. Par-Salian nodded.
“It’s because of your new magical ability,” she said quickly. “When a mage casts a spell, the words and motions and components of that casting serve to draw and focus ambient magical energy into a specific effect. Lyim’s gauntlet absorbs magical energy. The spell failures that we’ve experienced are caused by a lack of ambient energy. It’s as if we’re lowering a good, waterproof bucket down the well; but if there’s no water at the bottom, the bucket comes back empty.
“As I’m sure you know,” Par-Salian interjected, “a tuatha’s magic is not powered from the same source. In effect, tuatha have their own well, shielded from use by humans and elves and protected against the kind of poaching the gauntlet is doing. King Weador believes the gauntlet draws only magic derived from the moons.”
Bram nodded his head slowly in understanding. “Tuatha magic stems from the earth and Chislev, not the moons.”
“If that’s so,” puzzl
ed Guerrand, “why don’t you ask King Weador to lead an army of tuatha against Lyim?”
“I think I can answer that one,” Bram said softly. “It isn’t in the nature of tuatha to so drastically alter what is. They—we only embellish what exists. Remember, Rand, when Weador explained that tuatha thrive on positive energy and good deeds. Weador’s subjects would quite literally die if forced to attack Lyim’s city.”
All three members of the Council were nodding their heads in agreement. “We suspect that Bram’s half-human side would spare him that fate,” said Par-Salian.
“But you don’t know that,” charged Guerrand. “You want Bram to risk his life casting spells where I cannot, so that he can save a type of magic he doesn’t even use.”
Par-Salian cleared his throat awkwardly. “The death of magic would affect everyone in the world in ways we cannot now imagine, Guerrand,” he reminded the mage gently. “Magic plays an integral role in maintaining the balance between good and evil.”
Bram turned to his uncle, surprised by his objections. “Why is it so different for you to risk your life in Qindaras than for me to risk mine?”
Guerrand had readied himself for this task before he’d even known what it was. He had pledged his life to the Art. Besides, he had waited since his Test at the Tower of High Sorcery to discover the meaning of the Dream. But his nephew was different.
“Your skills are new to you, Bram,” Guerrand said, concern creasing his brow. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Bram looked unperturbed. “Were you ready when you took on the archmage Belize at Stonecliff and kept him from entering the Lost Citadel?”
“I know Lyim well, Bram,” Guerrand said. “He nearly killed me more than once and has survived tribulations that would have felled a dozen lesser men.”
Bram stood firm. “No one said this task would be easy. But it seems that, together, we’re the last, best hope.”
Guerrand saw the determination in his nephew’s eyes and felt reassured. He squeezed Bram’s shoulder encouragingly. “Together we can defeat Lyim,” Guerrand vowed, “just as we beat the odds and resurrected Thonvil.”
The Seventh Sentinel Page 16