The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Bram reddened and drew back in surprise. “I’m sorry, it was just a thought. I didn’t mean to imply—”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Has it been worth it for you?” Bram asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What do you mean?” Bram asked.

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

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

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

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

  The king snapped his thick fingers. “Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

  Bram fidgeted. “Thonvil already has a lord in my father.”

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

  “You’re suggesting I seize my father’s authority,” said Bram.

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

  “I had hoped to spare my father some measure of dignity,” conceded Bram, “though he has done nothing toward that himself.”

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

  Guerrand felt a precognitive shiver run through his body.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Then imagine how Bram’s compassionate rule and your magic could restore this land,” prompted the king.

  Guerrand recalled, too well, a discussion with Cormac on the very subject. He’d tried to convince his brother to conquer his fear of magic and see the good it could do in Thonvil. But, of course, Cormac had flatly refused to consider that magic was anything but evil. Guerrand thought it ironic that, ten years later, he was being given the chance to prove he’d been right.

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

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

  The king’s white eyebrows turned down. “Ah, yes. Bastion.”

  “You know of it?”

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

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

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

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

  “It’s a thumbprint. So what? What does it mean?” demanded Bram.

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

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

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

  “I’ve got to get to Bastion,” Guerrand declared, his voice breathy with anxiety. He fished around in the pouch whose strap still crisscrossed his chest.

  Bram grabbed his arm. “Stop and think, Rand,” he pleaded. “Weador said there was danger for you there. What better reason do you need to stay here in Thonvil?”

  Guerrand stopped rummaging briefly to gape in disbelief at his nephew. “You can’t mean that—you’re no more a coward than I am, Bram. Bastion is my responsibility.”

  Bram rubbed his face. “No, I didn’t mean that. I’m just worried, is all. I haven’t gone through all this to lose you to some threat I don’t even understand.”

  Frowning his preoccupation, Guerrand didn’t hear Bram. His fingertips at last met with the object he sought. “Got it!” he cried, holding the fragment of magical mirror aloft.

  Bram looked at the shard in that accepting way he’d come to view strange things of magic, took a deep breath, and stood up straight. “Well, then, let’s get going.”

  Guerrand lowered the mirror slowly. “You can’t come with me, Bram.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll list some of the countless reasons, in no particular order,” Guerrand said. “Bastion is my responsibility, not yours. You haven’t permission to return there. You’re needed here to begin bringing Thonvil back to life.”