The Medusa Plague tdom-2

by Mary Kirchoff

  "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 long.

  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.

  Ox Oedusa plague

  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 front 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.

  Chapter Seventeen

  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."

  'That can wait one day," Bram countered.

  "Can it?" Guerrand's tone suggested he thought otherwise. "Besides," he added, "you have to stay here and keep my mirror safe."

  Bram looked perplexed.

  "I can't teleport between planes," Guerrand explained. "Instead, I'm going to step into this magical mirror and exit through one in the red wing of Bastion. But that means I have to leave the mirror behind. Although only someone who has seen the inside of Bastion could use it to follow me there, it's still too powerful a device to let fall into the wrong hands."

  Bram's nostrils flared in anger. "So I'm to stay here and protect a piece of glass while you're in who- knows-what manner of danger." Guerrand's expression told Bram he wouldn't budge on this issue. "I don't like this one bit," the younger man said, but he bowed his head in resignation.

  "I must go now, Bram," Guerrand said as gently as he could. Turning back to the cottage where Zagarus rested on the roof, he yelled, "Come on, Zag." The familiar spread his wings with a dolorous flap, apparently resigned to never getting any rest, and flew directly into the tiny piece of glass and disappeared.

  Guerrand raised a foot, but turned to Bram. "I'll tbe Cl)ei›usA plague

  send word, either in person or by missive, so don't fear." He touched his nephew's sleeve, then bent his head to the shard. "Be of strong heart, Bram."

  "Have a care!" Bram cried, but his uncle had already disappeared into the impossibly small mirror. All the nobleman could see now was his own fretful expression reflected in the shiny glass. He snatched up the mirror, placed it in a pocket, and strode off to face his own problems at Castle DiThon.

  Guerrand fairly flew through one of the reflective mirrors in the seascape room, trying to look all ways at once. He stopped and shook his head at his behavior. As if whatever danger Weador predicted would be lurking in his seascape where Zagarus was perched at water's edge.

  The first thing Guerrand did was race to his dressing area and remove his red robe, more tarnished than soiled. He wrenched it from his shoulders and flung it to the ground, unable to resist the temptation to grind the thumb-printed thing under his feet as he reached for one of the clean red garments that hung in his clothespress. He shrugged that one on and cinched it tight about the waist. As if to confirm that he had removed Nuitari's mark and was safe, he checked himself in a glass. Before his horrified eyes, the mark reappeared in the same spot on the ne
w garment, and on each of the three others he frantically donned. Devastated, Guerrand gave in to the inevitability of the mark and slid down the wall to the floor to think.

  Did the ever-present black thumbprint mean the danger Weador said awaited him at Bastion was somehow linked to Nuitari? The god had a representative here at Bastion: Dagamier.

  Guerrand's eyes narrowed with suspicion. Ezius was too quiet and befuddled to ever be a threat. But Dagamier… She obviously coveted the position of high defender; the black wizardess had fought against Guerrand's authority from the first moment they'd met. She'd made it easier for Guerrand to take his leave from Bastion by assuming his responsibilities. Had she spent the time arranging his downfall?

  He turned back to his shoulder bag, now lying on the floor, and donned the bracelets and rings that carried his protective spells and were capable of shielding him against both physical blows and magical forces. Checking the scrying schedule, he determined that it was Dagamier's shift in the sphere.

  Guerrand covered the distance to the nave in a matter of heartbeats. He passed through the door and approached the white column that housed the scrying diorama, willing himself to remain calm. Still, he didn't hesitate to briskly call her name across the moat from where he knew the door to be. "Dagamier! It's Guerrand. Open the sphere, please."

  After a brief pause, the door slid open as requested. Dagamier stepped up to stand in the small archway, her cheeks dimpled in a smile that set her green eyes slantwise. Her body looked slim and salamander- smooth in the snug-fitting black silk robe that clung to every curve.

  "You're back." The smile gave way to her usual studied mask of indifference. "I trust things are well again in Thonberg with Bertram?"

  A muscle leaped in Guerrand's jaw. "Bram has things under control again in Thonvil."

  "Fine." Dagamier made to return to the scrying sphere.

  "Form the bridge, Dagamier," Guerrand commanded. "I would have a report of events since I left."

  She frowned at the unusual request. "Can't it wait until Ezius's turn at the sphere? There's too little room, as you must realize-"

  "No."

  Dagamier searched his face and must have seen that he would brook no defiance today. Shrugging, as if Guerrand's authority still meant little to her, Dagamier touched a tapered finger to the button that activated the bridge, calling it forth.

  Guerrand crossed the crystal bridge and joined her in the narrow column. The darkened room, the real heart of Bastion, was austere and functional. Dagamier was already seated again before the faintly glowing diorama of Bastion and its perimeter.

  Guerrand pressed his back to the wall away from Dagamier, to keep from touching the black-robed wiz- ardess. "Please tell me of your activities, both unusual and mundane, since I left."

  Dagamier kept her eyes fixed on the model. "That's an odd request. I took my turns at the sphere, which were doubled, I might add, by your absence. I slept, studied, drilled for defense, and conducted experiments in my apartments. The usual things."

  "Nothing else of interest occurred, either inside or outside Bastion?"

  She gave him a fleeting glance, her lips pursed. "That depends on if you consider conversing with Ezius interesting," she said coolly, returning her glance to the diorama. "However, the demiplane has been as quiet as a tomb since you left."

  The younger woman abruptly leaned away from the subject of her gaze and crossed her arms. "Why don't you just tell me what's got you so edgy?"

  Guerrand watched Dagamier's reaction closely as he said, "Someone I have reason to trust said that great danger awaited me at Bastion."

  "So naturally you thought of me." She returned her gaze to the model, betraying neither concern nor offense.

  He watched her expression. "I'm thinking of invoking my right as high defender to search both yours and Ezius's apartments, Dagamier."

  To Guerrand's great surprise, the black wizard gave her trademark shrug. "Go ahead and check my apartments if you must. That is your right. While you're in the white wing," she continued, nonplused, "please remind Ezius to arrive on time for his next shift. Maybe it was the change in schedule while you were gone that threw him off, but he forgot to show up for a few of his turns here."

  "Did he?" asked Guerrand. 'That's unusual. Ezius is usually very punctual and reliable."

  Dagamier looked unconcerned. "He came immediately when I reminded him. If you ask me, he forgot because he's become preoccupied with the body of that wizard friend of yours who 'dropped by' just before vou left with your nephew."

  "Ezius told me he was going to arrange for proper disposal of the body," said Guerrand, frowning. "I thought he would have done so by now."

  Dagamier could only look at Guerrand.

  The high defender's mouth drew into a pinched, worried line. "Have you noticed anything else odd about Ezius since I've been gone?"

  The black wizard returned her gaze to the model. "He's kept to his apartments when he wasn't scrying." She chuckled suddenly. "There is one thing, though it's more funny than odd. You remember how long it took you to keep him from calling you Rind, after that cobbler he once knew?" Guerrand nodded. "Well, Ezius may have got your name straight now, but he's taken to mixing mine up. He keeps calling me Esme," Dagamier tbe

  said, her eyes still on the sphere. "I've never even known anyone by that name."

  Guerrand's blood froze in his veins. He slowly lifted his head to stare at her pale, chiseled profile before whispering hoarsely, "Are you sure about that name?"

  "Yes," she said. "It was unusual enough to remember." Dagamier shifted her eyes to look at him quizzically.

  Without speaking, Guerrand whirled on his heel in the small chamber, meant only for one. The door raised, the bridge formed across the small moat, and he walked across it, oblivious to the plant fronds in his path. His heels pounded across the cold marble floor on his way to the white wing.

  The door to the wing was closed, as usual. Guerrand grasped the heavy brass ring that hung from the griffon's-head knocker and slammed it against the door. When no response came, Guerrand tried again, waiting with increasing impatience.

  "Ezius!" he howled to the roof, legs spread, arms and fists stiff at his sides. "I demand that you open this door at once!"

  The white door remained closed.

  Guerrand didn't hesitate to call forth the spell given only to the high defender. He placed his right hand against the door. With his fingers arranged very precisely, he muttered, "Lenithis kor." The air around his hand flared bright yellow, and the door shuddered beneath an ear-numbing boom.

  But still it did not open.

  No legitimate power in Bastion could have prevented the spell from giving the high defender access to any area in the stronghold. Undaunted, Guerrand prepared to break down the door to the white wing.

  The white-robed mage's head shot up. Loud banging at the far end of the wide-open wing briefly broke his concentration. Recognizing Rand's voice, he willed himself not to panic. So, the high defender had returned… What did it matter? The mage had prepared for this possibility and put up protections to prevent, or at the very least significantly slow, anyone who tried to enter the white wing. It would take some time for Guerrand to break through the door, and there were still additional safёguaгds beyond it.

  The thought considerably calmed the mage. He stood next to a white marble table that held the corpse of Lyim Rhistadt. The table was part of a small work space in the section designated as the wing's laboratory. Though there were no walls to delineate rooms here, the purpose and boundaries of each area were clear, designated by function: bookshelves plainly marked off the library, thick carpets lent warmth to the small living space, tables and countertops in neat rows filled the work area.

  Since bringing the body into the wing, the mage had maintained a spell that also prevented scrying or other magical methods of direct observation. Because of the spell, even the high defender was virtually powerless to know what was happening inside the white
wing. Whether Guerrand was merely seeking a report upon his return to Bastion, or was already suspicious of Ezius's behavior, it mattered little. The mage in the white robe had worked too long and hard toward the goal that was moments from being realized to be turned back now.

  To further protect himself against interruption, the stooped, pale-haired mage quickly prepared to cast two more spells in a sequence that would cause the second to protect the duration of the first. Withdrawing a small crystal bead from a deep pocket in his robe, he tbe CDedusA pUguc

  muttered the arcane word, "Pilif." The globe of invulnerability appeared as a faintly shimmering sphere around the mage and the entire marble lab table before him. He set the crystal bead on the table by the corpse.

  The second spell would prevent anyone from dispelling the magic of the globe. For it, the white-robed mage removed another gem from his robe, a large diamond. Placing it gingerly in a marble mortar, he drove I the pestle into it like a hammer again and again, until he had shattered the precious stone. He ground the diamond into coarse dust and sprinkled both himself and the red mage's body with the glittering shards. Though there was no visible effect to indicate the spell's discharge, the mage instinctively felt that he had successfully made them immune to most spells. For a short time, anyway.

  The mage prided himself on his good planning. But he was also dependent upon a measure of luck for having gotten this far. It had been the greatest good fortune that the high defender's nephew had taken him away, giving the mage time to prepare his spells before anyone questioned his activities with the red-robed corpse.

  Dead? Hah! The mage in the white robe pressed two fingers to the death-cool left wrist of the body that lay beneath him upon the cold marble slab. A reedy pulse, slowed to a tenth its normal rate, was barely detectible against the warm index and third digits of his right hand. What a delicious sensation was feeling a pulse through fingers, thought the mage, though it had taken some time to readjust to having a right hand at all.