Kirah’s eyes held a faraway look. “He promised me when he first left that if ever I needed help, he’d somehow know and come to me,” she said numbly.
“Instead he sent me, rather than risk his position with his master,” Lyim reminded her. “Apparently the seeds for his selfishness had already been planted.”
Lyim saw the firm set to her mouth. “Look, Kirah, I don’t like to say these things, let alone believe them. But don’t you think all the coincidences are a bit odd? My hand? The similarity of the plague’s symptoms to the affliction Guerrand refused to cure in me? Why else would the snakes hiss his name? What but guilt or design could keep him away?”
Kirah bristled. “He probably hasn’t heard of our troubles yet.”
Lyim shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand the powers of a mage if you believe that.”
Kirah shook her head mutely. “I … can’t … believe it. But maybe I don’t know Guerrand anymore.” Overcome, she pressed her face into her hands.
Lyim knelt by her on one knee, his hair falling to gently curl around his face as he lifted her tear-streaked chin with his good hand. “I’ve come to help you, Kirah.”
Kirah tried to break the bond that held his eyes to hers, but the power that gripped her was as old as sorcery and far stronger. She could only manage a nod.
“Together, we can make Guerrand come forward and face what he has done,” Lyim said smoothly. “Together, we can end the suffering.” He reached into his brown shroud and withdrew a flask. “This is the antidote I traveled to Mithas to secure. It prevents those with symptoms of the disease from dying, though it won’t cure the mutations. And it keeps those without symptoms from contracting the illness. Guerrand will surely come forward when he realizes we’ve foiled his plot.”
Still on one knee and holding Kirah’s gaze, Lyim pressed the flask into her small hands. “I have just enough with me for you, Kirah,” he intoned. “You must take it. For me.”
Lyim had forgotten how menacing Wayreth Forest looked. The trees and bushes were all hideously twisted, casting sinister shadows. The distant sounds of wolves and bears didn’t make the forest feel any more inviting, either.
He noticed these things, but he wasn’t frightened by the forest, never had been. Right now he could think only of how his calf muscles were starting to cramp. He’d been waiting behind the underbrush outside the gates of Wayreth for days, ever since he’d teleported here directly upon leaving Kirah. Growing annoyed with waiting, he shifted to relieve the pressure on his legs, never taking his eyes from the elaborate gateway to the stronghold of magic.
Lyim resolved to give Guerrand’s nephew until sunset to make it to the tower; the Council would recess then until the next day. After that he’d place a magical sentinel to watch for the young man’s arrival. If the country boy ever made it, thought Lyim, knowing he could not have missed him already. It would take a non-mage more than a week to reach Wayreth from Northern Ergoth. Still, the discomfort would be worth the wait to Lyim if Bram got into Wayreth and persuaded the Council to send him to Bastion. It was the best change Lyim had for entering the stronghold himself.
The wizard had taken the plague to Thonvil, hoping to draw Guerrand from Bastion. Lyim had reasoned that if he watched Thonvil closely and witnessed Guerrand’s magical arrival, he might find a clue to entering the impenetrable stronghold. But Kirah’s revelation about her nephew’s departure for Wayreth to find Guerrand had given the wizard another idea. A far superior and more expedient idea.
Lyim still tingled when he recalled how his mind had raced to conceive a plan that would take him all the way into the forbidden stronghold and cure his hand. Or kill him trying. But Lyim was no more afraid of that than of the forest behind him.
It was all within Lyim’s grasp, if only the nephew’s quest was successful. The wizard waited and watched with patience borne of hope. A few would-be wizards came and went; half of the latter were dragged away by dwarves, Lyim knew, because they had failed their Test. None of them met Lyim’s mental image of Guerrand’s nephew; most were either younger than Bram would be, or of a different race.
The wizard wasn’t even aware he’d slipped into a shallow slumber of boredom until he was jolted awake for seemingly no good reason. Nothing had touched him; no one else had appeared before the tower. And yet, some sense told him that the air around the tower was somehow different, charged. He was instantly alert.
Lyim blinked. When his eyes opened again—it was that quick—a young man stood looking up with surprised awe at the gates of gold and silver. Though magical entrances were more common than not at Wayreth, this one seemed different, as if the young man himself were surprised to be here.
The man in the heavy cloak turned to look at the forest that hid Lyim, giving the wizard a good look at his profile. The resemblance to Guerrand in hair color and facial shape was remarkable.
Lyim smiled. He had only to wait and monitor the towers for significant external radiations of magical energy. He was as good as in Bastion already.
The gates of gold and silver before Bram were so masterfully crafted they looked as thin as cobwebs. The gates adjoined a wall in the shape of an equilateral triangle, with a small guard tower at each point. Odd, unfamiliar symbols were carved upon the surface of the dark stone, symbols that suggested the strength of the earth even to those with no power to read them. There were no battlements on the smooth-topped obsidian walls. Bram presumed the wizards who gathered there had little use for such mundane protection.
Beyond the gated wall, twin towers of polished black obsidian pierced the forest roof. He turned to glance around, but the forest here looked and felt so oddly malevolent that he quickly returned his attention to the structure. The gates were open, so he strode slowly through them, eyes attempting to look everywhere at once. The courtyard was stark and barren, paved with cold gray flagstone. Though he could see no one, he had the vague feeling that he was not alone, as if the yard were teeming with people rushing to and fro. Turning quickly, he thought he saw a face and the upturned collar of a white robe, but then it was gone. He shook his head, knowing the vision was impossible. Other than himself, he could see no one in the flagstone courtyard.
Bram walked toward the only door in a small foretower between the twin columns. At his approach the door abruptly flew back. Though no one appeared, it was obvious he was expected to step inside, and so he did. Smokeless torches provided dim illumination inside the simple, circular room. Three doors led from the room at equidistant points in the circle. Opposite the door an empty row of chairs followed the curve of the wall. Inside his still-new boots, Bram’s feet had begun to throb, so he slipped over to the row of chairs and lowered himself into one. Bram unconsciously tapped his foot while he waited for someone to arrive to direct him.
And waited. Had he overlooked some bell or buzzer new arrivals were expected to ring? Bram squinted in the dark, spotted a simple wooden stand in the shadows to the left of the door, but it held only a thick, much-used book from the look of the binding. He drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Many more anxious moments passed, and Bram began to debate whether he should pick a door and go looking for someone. Perhaps he should just leave.
He had just risen to do so when the door to his left opened abruptly with a noisy creak, and from it emerged a man in a white robe, pushing a broom, his head bent to the task. Actually, Bram only assumed it was a man, since all he could see was the top of the person’s tilted head, hair slicked down and carefully arranged so that each toothmark of the comb was still visible.
“Pardon me, my good man,” Bram tried to say, but his voice was phlegmy from lack of use this day. The words came out sounding like something a chicken might croak.
The man’s head shot up. Spying Bram in the shadows, he whirled his broom about and held its handle like a spear. “Speak the common tongue or be sausage!” he threatened. The man was old, his skin ash-gray, as were the fingers that trembled upon his mock weapon
.
Bram cleared his throat and summoned the words he had been rehearsing since Northern Ergoth. “I have traveled far to speak with the wizard named Par-Salian.”
The man smacked his lips in thinly veiled impatience. “You’ve come too late in the day for Testing, or to declare an alignment. The Council of Three has recessed for the day.” He continued to sweep, pausing expectantly when he came to the floor under Bram’s feet.
The young man stepped from the broom’s path. “I don’t know anything about Testing or alignments,” said Bram. “I need Par-Salian’s help.”
“Come back tomorrow,” the man said, shooing Bram toward the exit with a wave of a blue-veined hand.
“But tomorrow may be too late,” Bram cried. He refused to be put off so easily. “Can’t you make an exception this once?” he pleaded, impulsively touching the man’s arm.
Blue light crackled around the bent figure, gathered near his shoulder, and arced to Bram’s hand. The young man yelped and yanked back his smoking fingers, as surprised as if a bucket of cold water had been splashed in his face. He had just suffered from what he was sure was a small demonstration of the mage’s ability. If he wished to get any information here, he would have to use his wits.
A vision of the tuatha coin sprang to mind, and he fished about in the folds of his waistband to retrieve it. “I’m afraid I’ve started out on the wrong foot here,” he began again in his most conciliatory tones. “I don’t know if it matters, or warrants an exception to the rules, but I was given a faerie coin and instructed to hand it to Par-Salian by way of intro—”
“A faerie coin?” the man repeated over a hunched shoulder. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He let the broom handle drop to the slate floor with a loud, ringing sound, while he stepped over to the book on the stand near the front door. Squinting in the dim light, the man flipped back the heavy cover, sending dust flying, and began leafing through pages. He came to one in particular and traced an ash-colored finger down a column of words. Abruptly he tapped the page and mumbled, “Ayup. Faerie coins are right here under, ‘Reasons to disturb Par-Salian, Head of the Conclave, Master of the White Robes.’ ”
The man slammed the heavy book shut. When he looked at Bram again, the smile on his face made it obvious his attitude toward the young nobleman had changed. “The name’s Delestrius, and I’m the warden on duty. Come along, then,” he said, stepping over the broom on his way to the door through which Bram had seen him enter the foretower. Delighted with his new treatment, Bram hopped over the broom handle and followed the hastily retreating man through the door.
The old man in the white robe scurried like a mouse up a staircase immediately inside the door, allowing Bram not a glance about him as he hurried along behind. It was even darker here than in the foretower. There were no torches, no candles, no magical lights of any kind on the stairs, or even the landings that he presumed led to rooms he couldn’t see. There were no decorations of any kind, neither tapestries nor carpets to warm the steps.
Delestrius departed the stairway on the second landing and entered a narrow hallway. A window at the far end allowed in a sliver of light, but not enough to illuminate anything near Bram and his guide. They walked, the man surefooted, Bram tentatively, in the hallway that felt as if it curved. Bram bumped into Delestrius, who had stopped before a doorway. The nobleman didn’t feel the burning sensation he had the last time he touched the mage. Delestrius knocked at the unmarked door.
“Enter, Delestrius,” said a voice as strong and clear as if its owner were not speaking through a thick, wooden door. It swung open without Bram’s guide touching it. Bram followed Delestrius into a room that was nicely lit by a low-burning fire in the hearth against the left wall. The light radiated in warm yellow rays, striking shelves of books bound in white leather, silver runes glinting upon their spines. The golden light led Bram’s eyes to a white-haired man seated behind an elaborate desk, one leg lifted casually to rest upon its cluttered surface.
“You know I would not for the world disturb you after hours, Master,” Bram’s guide said with an obsequiousness the young man wouldn’t have thought him capable of, “if it were not of the utmost—”
“You know I trust your judgment, Delestrius,” interrupted the white-haired mage. Setting down a feathered quill, he raised kindly, tired blue eyes to Bram.
It took many long seconds before Bram realized the look was a question. “I was given a faerie coin and instructed to place it only in the hands of Par-Salian,” he blurted.
“A faerie coin?” repeated the old man with interest.
“Are you Par-Salian?”
Delestrius gasped and slapped the back of Bram’s head. “I was told I would suffer death if I gave the coin to anyone else,” Bram explained defensively, rubbing his skull.
The white-haired man behind the desk said, “Your reticence is understandable, under such circumstances. I should have introduced myself.” He stood, walked around the desk, and extended a hand that winked with the facets of many precious gems. “Par-Salian, Head of the Conclave, Master of the White Robes, Keeper of the Key, and so on, and so on,” he said with a self-deprecating formality.
The young man’s work-reddened hand shook the mage’s soft, warm one. “Bram DiThon,” he said simply.
Par-Salian’s eyes lit noticeably with interest at the surname, but before he could form a question, both men heard Bram’s guide muttering, “Shouldn’t have to introduce the greatest mage alive.”
Par-Salian smoothed his snowy moustache with two fingers, hiding a slight smirk. “That will be all, Delestrius. Thank you.”
Frowning, the man bobbed his head and backed through the door, leaving Bram and Par-Salian in the silence of the crackling fire.
Bram waited, red-faced, while the white-haired mage slowly shuffled to a chair by the hearth. He motioned Bram to join him. Par-Salian held out his soft, wrinkled palm, leaving no question as to what he wished. Bram rubbed the carved surface of the wafer-thin magical coin one last time, then placed it in the man’s waiting hand. Par-Salian had just enough time to validate Bram’s claim before the coin disappeared like snow into water.
“I’m always sorry to see them vanish so quickly,” the wizard said wistfully. “I receive them with the half-decade infrequency of the three moons’ eclipsing. The tuatha dundarael rarely give them away.”
Par-Salian’s ice-blue eyes pierced Bram for some moments. “I sense no magical training in you. What would cause the tuatha to favor you with their coin?” he asked bluntly.
Bram shrugged. “They said I had ‘high moral standards.’ ” He repeated Thistledown’s exact words without hubris, mindful of the tuatha’s admonishment about pride.
“That’s interesting,” remarked the wizard. He continued to study Bram’s face. “I sense in you a great deal of natural talent for the Art. Is that why you’ve come here, to find a master with whom to apprentice?”
Bram shook his head to the question for the second time that day. “No, sir. I’ve come because some sort of plague, for lack of a better word, has struck my village in Northern Ergoth. I am neither doctor nor mage, but I suspect the cause may be magical in nature.”
“So you’re looking for a mage to find a cure,” finished Par-Salian. “I appreciate your dilemma, young man, but Wayreth is the seat of magical learning, not a wizard market.”
Bram frowned. “I wasn’t looking for just any mage,” he said. “I haven’t the money to pay one anyway. I was hoping to find my uncle, whom I understand came here seeking a master nearly a decade ago.”
Par-Salian’s expression darkened with disapproval. “Neither are we an alumni association.”
“I understand that,” Bram said quickly, “but if I told you my uncle’s name, maybe you’d recognize it and would know if he is even still alive. I’ll leave at once, without further question, if the name is unfamiliar,” he promised.
Par-Salian waved a distracted hand, signaling Bram to proceed.
“My
uncle is Guerrand DiThon.”
The wizard leaned back and tapped his whiskered chin. “Yes, I recognize the name,” he said at length. “I also begin to understand why the faerie folk might have given you a coin.”
“You know of him?” Bram exclaimed. “Then can you tell me where he is now?”
Par-Salian winced slightly. “That is a bit more complicated.” He stood and walked toward the door, the hem of his white robe whispering across the stone floor. “Please wait here, while I confer with a colleague.”
Bram quickly grew restless with waiting, and he began looking around the room. The bookshelves he’d spotted from the door were to his left. The white leather spines looked butter-yellow in the glow of the fire. Something about the silver-etched lettering drew his finger to trace the unreadable words. He could almost feel the magic radiating from the tomes, but when he tried to lift one, he couldn’t move it from the shelf, as if it were affixed there.
He spied a plate of cookies on Par-Salian’s desk and was reminded how long it had been since he’d eaten his last rubbery carrot. He lifted one from the plate. It was light as a feather between his fingers, and smelled of almond. The cookie crumbled in his mouth, tasting of butter and sugar of a quality not used in Thonvil in some time.
The door swung open abruptly, and in stepped Par-Salian. Behind him was a younger-looking, robust man in a red robe topped off by a white neck ruff. The second mage dragged his left leg in a manner that suggested it was crippled. Both regarded the young man spewing cookie crumbs with amusement.
“I’m sorry,” mumbled Bram over the mouthful of half-chewed biscuit. “I was just so hungry.…”
“Never mind,” said Par-Salian. “If I had my manners about me I would have realized you hadn’t eaten for some time and offered you refreshment.”
The Medusa Plague Page 16