The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  There was no question of not complying with that voice, however. I could feel Zag paddling up the slick, porcelain steps next to me and can only imagine how incongruous he must have looked to her, a sea gull with no sea in sight. The silhouetted woman pointedly ignored him.

  We stopped next to her in the doorway, and I squinted, still unable to see her features. “I’m Guerrand DiThon,” I said, knowing as I did how foolish I must have sounded.

  She looked meaningfully at my red robes. “Do you think I open the door for just anyone who happens by?”

  I looked toward the red eyes beyond the fence. “Has anyone just happened by?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And your name is—?”

  “My business.” She waved us through the door impatiently. “Dagamier.” The bright light fell across her face, and at last I could see her. She looked young, perhaps of an age with my little sister Kirah, except around the eyes. Though her skin was unlined, there was a depth of experience, a cynical sadness, even, in orbs the dark blue of an angry, storm-tossed sea.

  Dagamier was—is—a study in contrasts. Skin as white and unblemished as unveined marble, more polished than pale. Straight, shoulder-length hair the same midnight black as the silk robe she always wears. She’s one of those people who looks good, sensuous even, in black, with her sharp, compact angles and a woman’s soft, graceful moves. She’s smart as a whip, with a tongue to match. I am ever on eggshells with her. Frankly, I haven’t figured her out yet, and I’m not sure a lifetime of study would help that. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  “I will show you the nave area that is common to us all and to the red wing,” Dagamier said, leading us into the apse. “Ezius will likely give you a tour of the white wing when he has completed his shift in the scrying sphere. You will have no need to see the black wing.”

  “I have seen it,” I said abruptly, involuntarily. “I’ve seen them all, at least from the outside.”

  She looked over her shoulder, one brow arched skeptically.

  “Didn’t the Council tell you?” I felt compelled to ask. “I was among the twenty-one mages who helped build Bastion before it was moved here from the Prime Material Plane.”

  Honestly, Maladorigar, I don’t know what made me tell her all that. I should have known it would annoy her.

  Dagamier’s firm-lipped silence confirmed that it had.“Then you will not be requiring a tour.” She took a step to leave, and I instinctively reached out a hand to her forearm. I thought I had touched fire.

  “Oh, but I do need one,” I assured her quickly, pulling my hand away. “Nothing inside looks as I remember it. My involvement in the construction ended with the raising of the walls. The interior was completed by the Council of Three after they sent the other eighteen representatives from the site. Even the gargoyles, the fence, the creatures beyond it, the runes that surround it, are all new to me.”

  “The runes were drawn upon Bastion by the Council of Three to send Bastion here. The creatures are hell hounds, other-dimensional flame-belching monstrosities with fangs and claws, brought here by LaDonna as the black order’s contribution to security. They patrol outside the fence.” She continued in her bored voice, as if reading the information from a handbill. “The gargoyles were conjured by Justarius for the red wing; they watch the forecourt for unwanted visitors.”

  Catching the pattern here, I asked, “And the fence was Par-Salian’s doing?”

  She stared at me for long moments in a most disconcerting manner. “No.”

  Dagamier walked through the apse to the soaring central nave. It, too, was new to me, and seemed to serve no other purpose than to connect the three wings that join it at equidistant points from the towering front door. Actually, nine doors lead away from this area: one each to the white and red wings respectively, seven into the black wing, seven separate and distinct rooms that can only be entered from the nave.

  In the center of the room is a wide, round column that stretches from floor to ceiling. A support pillar, I supposed, not recalling it from the construction. The column is ringed by a narrow, fish-filled gurgling stream, like a miniature moat, whose source is a mystery.

  “That column houses the scrying diorama, Par-Salian’s contribution to defense,” Dagamier said pointedly. “Each of us takes a shift inside, watching Bastion and this entire demiplane for signs of intrusion.”

  “Of course,” I said lamely, wishing I sounded more like the new high defender than some sheepish apprentice. Glancing around, I was struck by the whiteness of the walls, the natural-looking brightness that seems to filter down from the ceiling, as if it’s a glass pane that faces the sun. Par-Salian’s influence here is obvious, as is Justarius’s. The snowy whiteness is broken only by man-sized lush, tropical plants. There is little evidence of LaDonna’s hand here, except, perhaps, in the shadows.

  Dagamier must have seen me looking at the greenery, because she said, “The plants and fish have always been the responsibility of the red representative. They’d all be dead if it were up to me.” She looked at Zagarus for the first time. “Naturally, your gull and its mess is also your responsibility.”

  Zag’s wing feathers gathered up like a bird in the cold. Does she think I can’t hear her? he griped. Imagine talking about me like I’m some wild animal.

  “Of course—” I barely managed to mutter to Dagamier.

  “We can discuss other duties, like the scrying sphere, after you’ve settled in your rooms.”

  Uh-oh, sang Zagarus. She obviously doesn’t know you’re the boss!

  “Did they … the Council, that is … tell you about my position?” I gulped.

  Dagamier looked up with one dark eye. “The top guard thing?”

  “High defender,” I corrected her gently. This was not going well. Since I was to be her superior, I decided to take the bull, so to speak, by the horns. “You don’t like me much. Or is it the idea of me?”

  “Frankly, I haven’t thought of either,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If it makes you feel any better, though, I don’t like anyone much. That’s why I sought out this position. I prefer solitude.”

  And the world is better for it, snorted Zag.

  I swallowed a smile with a cough. “Uh, how long have you been here?”

  “Long enough.” She pierced me with narrowed eyes. “I hope you won’t be inclined to change procedures and routines you know nothing about.”

  Do you want me to peck the harridan? Zag said to me. I think I’ll call her Harry, for short.

  I almost laughed despite my growing irritation, so unexpected and apt was Zag’s evaluation. I can handle her, I ensured my familiar silently.

  Actually, Zagarus’s genuine but ridiculous offer helped knock the insecurity right out of me. I sensed that if I didn’t demand Dagamier’s respect in that instant, if only for the position I hold, I would never get it. I silently invoked a quick protective magic and quite literally but gently poked her once in her mannish lapels.

  “Look,” I said fiercely, “I can understand your irritation at being passed up for promotion, but I won’t tolerate your insolence. I’m in charge here, whether you like it or not. The Council of Three obviously wants me to be high defender. I would hate to have to report to them that there is another position to fill.” I spoke without heat, but lowered my eyes briefly to the pattern on the floor. “Dependable black wizards are hard to find.”

  Dagamier pushed herself away with surprising strength for someone of her size. She met my eyes fully for the first time, and there was neither anger nor distaste there. I wouldn’t call it respect, but a weary acceptance. It was more than I expected.

  The short tour went better after that. Dagamier was at least civil, if not pleasant.

  “Did the Council tell you where Bastion is, in the scheme of the cosmos, that is?” she asked while we walked slowly about the nave.

  “ ‘Beyond the circles of the universe,’ I believe they said. They didn’t want to tell me mor
e specifically for fear that I might let the secret slip.”

  “Believe it or not,” she said, beginning to steer me in the direction of the red wing, “Bastion is visible from Krynn, if only you know where to look.” She must have seen the disbelief on my face, because she stopped to look me. “It’s true. Have you ever noticed the dark line on the horizon, where earth and sea meet sky? That’s the side of Bastion, like the rim of a steel piece.”

  I nodded slowly in understanding, thinking it somehow fitting that I should end up here, when I had spent so much of my youth staring wistfully at the horizon from the heath near Castle DiThon.

  Contemplating that line, I said aloud, “That would mean Bastion’s plane is two-dimensional.”

  Dagamier looked impressed. “You probably noticed a sense of disorientation, of flatness, when you arrived in the courtyard.”

  I nodded again. “It went away so fast I thought it was a side effect of teleportation.”

  “Most people’s senses adjust to the change pretty quickly and everything begins to look normal.”

  “Does that mean I have only two dimensions now?” The thought worried me for some reason.

  Dagamier’s glossy head shook as she pondered. “Let me think of a way to explain it. You, me, this place”—she gave an inclusive wave of her arm—“were created in the three dimensions of the Prime Material Plane, then transported here. We didn’t lose any of our definition by coming to a place that only recognizes two dimensions.”

  She snapped her fingers when another thought came clear. “It’s like visual acuity. You and I may both look at a statue that’s fifty feet away. If my eyesight is better, I will see more detail in the statue than you, but that doesn’t mean the detailisn’t there when you look at it.” She held up both hands in an expressively questioning gesture. “Does that make sense?”

  “I think so,” I muttered, trying to piece it all together. “Does it follow, then, that anything created here and sent to the Prime Material would have only two dimensions?”

  Dagamier nodded.

  “Then that’s why the Council decided to build Bastion on Krynn and bring it here,” I realized at last. “I’d thought it was only for convenience or secrecy.”

  “Probably all three.” She dismissed the subject with a shrug. “The nave,” she said, redirecting my attention, “is the only space we share, aside from the entry apse.”

  Dagamier pointed to the column. “Each of us spends a third of our time, in rotating shifts, monitoring Bastion’s perimeter through a magical replica of the plane.” She blinked. “At least, that is how we have divided the task previously.”

  I was surprised that so much of my time would be spent staring at a model. “It sounds as fair a system as any,” I assured her.

  Just then, a hidden door-sized panel slid back in the column, and a sparkling footbridge of glass spread like a rainbow across the moat. Out stepped a funny little man who reminded me strongly of the wizened old chamberlain at Castle DiThon. He wore an ill-fitting white robe edged in gold thread. His long, frizzy hair, the color of sunlight on a dull day, was askew, as if he’d just stepped out of a fierce wind. Seeing me with Dagamier, he blinked with eyes that were small black dots behind very thick spectacles. He crossed the small magical bridge and stood among the greenery.

  “Nothing to report today,” he said to my black-robed guide, ignoring me. “Your hell hounds became excited with the new arrival, and the gargoyles grew edgy, but they all seem to have quieted now. Is he ready for his first watch?” the man asked with a slight jerk of his head toward me. “Or will you be taking the next one?”

  Before I could say I would be happy to take my turn,Dagamier stepped across the bridge and paused under the sliding panel. “He hasn’t even been to his rooms yet.” The bridge retracted like a fan and disappeared. Dagamier withdrew into the column, and the panel closed behind her, leaving no seam.

  I stood with Ezius, feeling uncomfortable and vaguely irritated. No one had warned me that they both had stunted social skills. If he was as abrasive and resentful as Dagamier, I was going to have quite a time of managing things here.

  “Yes, well, that won’t do,” Ezius muttered to himself. “The only way to fix that is to let him look at his rooms. There’s no point in delaying that. None at all.” The white-robed mage meandered toward the door to his wing.

  “Say, uh, Ezius, is it?” I called after him awkwardly.

  The man stopped his mumbling and his steps to look vaguely over his shoulder. “Yes? Yes, well?”

  “I-I thought we might at least introduce ourselves.”

  “Haven’t we?” He shrugged. “I guess not. I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Guerrand. My friends call me Rand.”

  “Rand. … Yes, well, that’s a nice name, isn’t it? I once knew a man named Rind, an excellent cobbler from Blodehelm. He could resole a pair of boots in two winks of an eye, and always used the best quality thread and leather. Although there are those who think that catgut made from twisting the dried intestines of sheep is superior.” He blinked at me through those thick lenses. “Rind was his name. I don’t suppose you know him?”

  I looked at him closely to see if he was jesting, but his face was guileless. “No, I’m sorry I don’t.”

  What plane is he on? Zagarus snorted.

  I breathed a sigh of relief so loud even Ezius would have noticed if he hadn’t already departed through an arched, immense white doorway to the right of the nave. I’d realized the mumbling mage wasn’t being intentionally abrasive, he was simply befuddled.

  Reading over his master’s shoulder, Zagarus pecked gently at Guerrand’s hand until he set his quill down upon the desk in the library of the red wing.

  “What is it, Zag?”

  Make sure you tell Maladorigar that Ezius isn’t just befuddled, he’s a real stick-in-the-mud.

  Guerrand didn’t entirely agree with the gull’s assessment, so he ignored it and picked up the quill again. But the bird wasn’t ready to be silent yet.

  Is it just me, or does Dagamier remind you of LaDonna?

  Guerrand screwed up his face in thought as he tried to envision both women side by side. “I suppose I see a little resemblance,” he agreed at last, “but I’m not sure it isn’t just because they’re both women and both mages.”

  Esme was a woman and a mage, Zagarus pointed out, and Dagamier doesn’t remind me the least bit of her.

  Guerrand felt himself tense at the mention of Esme. Would it ever stop hurting? And why was Zagarus, who knew how much the subject pained his master, poking a wing in the wound? Guerrand closed his eyes tightly and willed patience. “What I meant was, LaDonna and Dagamier are both dark-haired women who wear the black robes.”

  I suppose. With that, Zagarus closed his beady eyes in reluctant concession, ruffled his wings into a comfortable position, and dropped off to sleep on the desk next to Guerrand.

  The mage gratefully returned to the safety of his letter to the gnome back in Harrowdown.

  With the introductions out of the way, there was nothing keeping me from exploring the red wing.

  Maladorigar, I can’t begin to describe how comfortable and carefully considered the red wing is. There is a sense of Justarius’s own subtle dignity to the magic that maintains my apartments—no talking teapots or crazed brooms andtheir ridiculous like here.

  The wing’s six rooms are set in a rectangle, all of them more warmly inviting than the last. Just one is large enough to make our house in Harrowdown look like a shack. I’m sorry, that was less than thoughtful, since you’re still living there.

  Anyway, the first room on the right off the circular nave is a large, practical storeroom. All I have to do is set whatever I wish stored just inside the doorway, and the next time I return it’s been put in its proper place upon the shelves.

  Across the hall from the storeroom is the daily living area, where I cook and eat my meals. It’s stocked with enough pans and platters and is of sufficient s
ize to feed a visiting troop of nobles and all their retainers. There’s a huge fireplace that burns constantly and is far larger than I need to prepare the simple gruels I am capable of cooking. I surely miss your herbal stews.

  Next to this area is my sleeping chamber. I spend little time upon the soft feather tick, yet enough to know that I far prefer it to my straw bed in Harrowdown.

  The sleeping chamber leads directly into a room that I suspect was modified by Justarius for my benefit. Or should I say Zagarus’s? I don’t remember it from the original floor plan. All of nature that is absent from Bastion is painted here in murals that cover the floor, walls, and ceiling. Blue sea to the left, green fields to the right, and in the middle is an elaborate pool someone (which is why I suspect Justarius) went to a great deal of trouble to make look like the seashore near Thonvil. Live heather and pampas grass abound. Real water abuts the blue sea mural on the left edge, giving the scene the infinite look of the horizon line between water and sea. Zagarus in particular feels quite at home here.

  My favorite room, though, is the laboratory. It’s by far the biggest, taking up the entire short end of the rectangle farthest from the nave. I was concerned about being unable to collect my own components of the quality you grow in Harrowdown, but I needn’t have been. Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that the lab came stocked with things I’ve never even heard of, all perfectly catalogued and stored in the highest quality green glass. I don’t know if I have Justarius or my predecessor to thank. I suspect the former, since the jars magically refill themselves. No more plucking posies in a hot field while angry bees sting my head!

  Or maybe my favorite room is the library. I have not seen one its size since my father’s at Castle DiThon. But instead of containing only the occasional tome about magic, this one holds floor-to-ceiling spellbooks, with softly cushioned benches on which to read them. New books appear on the shelf now and then. I even found an entry about Rannoch, the black wizard from my dreams, that I hadn’t read before. Unfortunately, it added nothing new to my understanding of him.