More than threecenturies after theCataclysm, Krynn stillbearsscarsfromthewrathofangrygods.Inthislandwhere fearprevails,magicis as mysterious andmighty as the legendarydragons. The Defenders ofMagic trilogy is the storyof powerful mages whodaily defend their belovedArt against those who

would corrupt it or see itabolished.

Guerrand—hisresponsibilitiesasBastion’shighdefenderplacehimatodds with an old friendand in conflict with hisfamily, which is afflictedby a mysterious anddeadlyplague.

Bram—nephew ofGuerrandDiThon,he feelsa lord’s responsibility forthe suffering of hisvillagers, and sets off tofind a cure—andhis long-lostmage-uncle.

Lyim—the mage of theRedRobeshastraveledtheworld in search of aremedy for his cursedhand,buthisquesthasled

himtoBastion,aplaceheisforbiddentoenter.

DEFENDERSOFMAGICNightoftheEyeVolumeOne

TheMedusaPlague

VolumeTwo

TheSeventhSentinelVolumeThree

DRAGONLANCE®booksbyMaryKirchoff

Kendermore

Flint,theKing(withDouglasNiles)

Wanderlust(withSteveWinter)

TheBlackWing

THEMEDUSAPLAGUEDefendersofMagic•VolumeTwo

©1994TSR,Inc.

Allcharactersinthisbookarefictitious.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidental.

ThisbookisprotectedunderthecopyrightlawsoftheUnitedStatesofAmerica.Anyreproductionorunauthorizeduseofthematerialor

artworkcontainedhereinisprohibitedwithouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofWizardsoftheCoastLLC.

PublishedbyWizardsoftheCoastLLC.HasbroSA,representedbyHasbroEurope,StockleyPark,UB111AZ.UK.

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AllWizardsoftheCoastcharactersandtheirdistinctivelikenessesarepropertyofWizardsoftheCoastLLC.

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v3.1

ToJohnPorterArnold,whereverhemaybe…

Contents

CoverOtherBooksintheSeriesTitlePageCopyrightDedicationPrologue

ChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThree

ChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteenChapterSixteen

ChapterSeventeenChapterEighteen

AbouttheAuthor

The memory that hadhaunted GuerrandDiThon formonths cametohimintheeeriewayofdreams, and he was bothmain character andwitness to events. TheDream, as he’d come tocall it, was always aspainfully vivid as whenhe’d reenacted thehistorical event during hismagicalTest in theTower

ofHighSorcery.Guerrandwastheblack-

robedwizard,Rannoch.Hewatched himself standingin secret shadow on theDeathWalk that encircledthe beautiful Tower ofHighSorceryatPalanthas.Below him, an angry andavaricious mob hadgathered with the regentof Palanthas outside thetower’s gate, waiting for

the Council of Mages toturn over the key to thiscenter of magicalknowledge.Theseordinarycitizens had come,anticipating their firstglimpse of the magicalwonders inside. None hadforeseen witnessing onemage’s desperate act oflove for theArt,a loveallwizardsshared.As a gesture of his

beneficence,theKingpriesthad promised all users ofmagic sanctuary frompersecution at Wayreth,the last and most remoteof the original five towersof sorcery. But Rannochhad no intention ofretreating to the wilds ofWayreth, no faith in thecharlatan’s oath of safetythere.The Conclave should

neverhavegivenintothezealots’demands.Indoingso, they damned magic,the current of Rannoch’slife. Like blood to thebody. Like water to theearth. What will feed mysoul when the magic isgone?Theanswerwas,simply,

nothing.The Head of the

Conclave, a wizard of the

WhiteRobes,usedasilverkey to close the gates ofthetowerforthelasttime.As Rannoch, Guerrandcould see the eyes of theregent, who would takethe key, linger on thetower greedily. The sightof the Conclave’s mostpowerful mage standingshoulder to shoulder withan agent of their greatestenemy made Rannoch’s

blood boil. The regentreached out his hand,eagerforthekey.Rannoch’s voice rang

clear and cold from atopthe Death Walk andechoed across the tower’scourtyard, to the GreatLibraryitself.“The gates will remain

closedandthehallsemptyuntil the day when themaster of both the past

and the present returnswithpower!”In the body of Rannoch

of the Black Robes,Guerrand raised his armslike the wings of somegreatravenandlethimselfplummet from the walk.The spikes atop the silverandgoldgatesspundizzilytoward him, like talonseager to tear at hischest.…

Esme woke Guerrandwith a kiss to his feveredbrow.“TheDreamagain?”she asked, honey-coloredeyes filled with concern.She brushed his damp,dark bangs to the side. “Icame back from theconstruction site andfoundyoumumbling,withyourarmsspread.”Guerrand’s eyes were

wide with fear until herecognizedthesmallroomhesharedwithEsmeinthetemporary housing builtby the Conclave ofWizards. Guerrandbreathed his relief in ahuge puff of air andpushedhimselfupontohiselbows. “Yes, the Dreamagain.”Esme shook her auburn

head. “I don’t know why

you’ve let just one aspectoftheTestbotheryouso,”she said, sorting throughthe tangle of his clothingon a nearby chair. Shehanded him a rumpledtunic and trousers. “Here,put these on. Justariusintends to finish the lastgranite wall in the RedOrder’s wing today. Heneeds all six of hisrepresentatives to

accomplishthetask.”“We’re starting early,”muttered Guerrand. Withthe heels of his hands, herubbed the seeds ofrestless sleep from hiseyes.“The Council of Threeare anxious to get Bastionin place.” The youngwoman chuckled. “If youaskme, I think there’s anunspoken competition

betweenthemtocompletetheirwingsfirst.”Guerrand nodded

absently. Dipping hishands intoabasinof coldwater,hesplashedhisfaceand reflected on howmuch had changed in theyear since the destructionof Stonecliff’s magicalpillars. Solinari, Lunitari,and Nuitari had made itknown to the Council of

Threethattheyweremostdispleased, furious even.Belize’sactionshadbeenaflagrant violation of thegods’ decree that nomortals attempt to enterthe Lost Citadel. Toappease the gods andprevent future attempts toenter this most sacred ofmagicalplaces,Par-Salian,Justarius, and LaDonnahad agreed that the

ConclaveofWizardswouldconstruct a fortress tostandbetween themortalson Krynn and thestorehouse of all magicalknowledge that was theCitadel. The Councilgathered the members oftheConclaveanddrewupplans for an impenetrablefortress that would serveasthefinallineofdefensebeforetheLostCitadel.

But the death of theMaster of the Red Orderand the promotion ofJustarius to Belize’sposition had left theConclave of Wizards twomembers short. Inappreciation for theircourageous and skillfulefforts at Stonecliff,Justarius had offeredGuerrand and Esmepositions on the Conclave

during the building ofBastion. The two had justpassed their magical testsatWayrethandwereeagerto participate in such ahistoricevent.Guerrand’s gaze

wandered out thewindowof their room to theconstruction site. Bastionwas teemingwithactivity,mages and monstersworking side by side to

create history. Evenmonths of backbreakinglabor had not inured himto the majesty of thepanorama.Bastion was being

constructed in a remotearea of the KharolisMountains, hidden by thelushness of summer trees.When the Conclave hadfirstarrivedatthesite,theonly remarkable thing

about it was the smoothgray rock that pierced thevalleyfloor.Thestonewastaller than Guerrand—taller even than the elvesnow working around it.Clearly it had not alwaysbeen there, because theground was torn andchurnedasifthestonehadjust recently eruptedthroughtheturf.Inscribed upon it in the

languageofmagicwasthismessage: “Whoeveraccepts the power mustbear the responsibility.”The Council of Three hadmade it known that thegodsofmagichad left themissiveasbothinspirationand threat. Some of themagesdebated the preciseinterpretation of thestone’s inscription, but allagreed that further

angering the gods wouldcarrygraveconsequences.Towering behind the

stone and dominating theflat, green valley werethree enormousarchitectural wings,incongruouslydesignedbythe magical orders toreflect their differingtemperaments. Modeledafter the cathedral-likePalace of Palanthas, the

porcelain white wingcomprisedtherightsideofthe structure. Par-Salian’sdesign was all intricatespiresandflyingbuttressesfired with a glaze thatgavethesectionaseamlessappearance, one ornatejointflowingintothenext.White-robed wizards,elves,andhumansdirectedthe efforts on the whitewing.

Guerrand watched asearth elementals,enormouscreaturesofdirtandpreciousstones,calledforth the finest clays fromthe soil. Water imbuedwith the essence ofmagicwasaddedtothepurestofthis clay, then spun atterrific speed until themixture resembled atowering tornado of mud.When the whirlwind

ceased, a wet section ofporcelain wall stood. Fireelementals, tall sheets ofliving flame, then set toworkbakingthewalltoanunearthlyhardness.Summoning andcontrolling such powerfulelementalswas exhaustingwork for thewhitemages,but the grace and beautyof their wing was proofthat the effort was

worthwhile.In contrast, the black

wing seemed an odd,artificial-lookingendeavor.The onyx edifice felt ascold and imposing asLaDonna herself. Moreconcerned with secrecythan practicality, themembers of the blackcouncil had designedseven separate, unadornedrooms that couldn’t be

reached through eachother. Splayed out in asemicircletotheleftofthewhite section, the blackwingresembledthespokesofadouble-rimmedwheel.Onyx from richveins ofchalcedony mined in theKharolis Mountains werecarried night and day bystone golems, who werethemselves made bydwarven masons of the

evil, magic-wieldingTheiwar race. Next, rock-fleshed xorns, whichalwaysremindedGuerrandof six-limbed fish heads,painstakingly polished theonyxtoahighgloss.As Guerrand looked on,stonegolemsweremakingslabs of the lustrous onyxfor the wing’s final room.Working tirelessly underthe enchantment of the

black wizards, themonstrous golems weresilent save for the steadythuddingoftheirfeet.Guerrand shifted his

gazeback to the centerofthesite.Asmileofpridelithis face.Without a doubt,he mused, Bastion’s redwing was the mostdistinctive for its expertcraftsmanship and itssimple but practical

design. The wing juttedback between the whiteand blackwings, a simplerectangle made of redgranite blocks mined bystone giants summonedfrom the Khalkists. Abattalion of these smooth,gray giants, three timesthe height of a human,were under the directionof stalwart Daewardwarves. The behemoths

carried blocks of graniteon their backs or slungbetween two of them ontremendous tree trunksborne on their shoulders.More Daewarstonemasons, usingprecision tools, fashionedburnished red blocks thatwere then put into placeupon magical mortar bythestonegiants.Thewingwas a vision of simple

elegance, remindingGuerrand of Justarius’svillainPalanthas.The massive blocks ofgranite and porcelain andonyxwouldhavestoodontheir own for centuries.But Bastion was anextraordinaryedifice,withan extraordinary purpose.To symbolize thecooperative effort of themagical orders, as well as

make the structureimpervious to time andnature, Bastion’s mortarwas being imbued with aportion of the essence ofevery wizard-in-good-standingonKrynn.Buttheprocess of adding themagical contributions of athousand wizards wastime-consuming. Guerrandhadlostcountofthehourshe alone had spent over

the slurry of mortar,endlessly repeating thephrasesandgesturesoftheincantation. It wasspellcasting that left amage’s body exhausted,but the discipline hadsharpened Guerrand’smind.Accelerated by the

magic of twenty-onewizards, the project hadgone amazingly well,

considering the diversityof temperaments of thoseworking on it and theparticipation of monsters.After six months ofplanningandthreemonthsof construction, thestronghold was only daysaway from completion.SoonallbuttheCouncilofThree would bemagicallydispatchedfromthesite.Par-Salian, LaDonna,

and Justarius would thencombinetheirconsiderablemagical abilities to etchthe final magic onto thebuildingitselfandsendtheshell ofBastion to a placebetween Krynn and theLost Citadel. Only thosethree venerable mageswould know the secret ofBastion’sfinallocation.Guerrand turned hisback on the spectacle

outside and rested againstthe windowsill. “I’ll besorry when Bastion’sfinished,” he said. Thewizard colored slightlywhen he realized howselfish he might sound.“Don’t get me wrong,” hecontinued hastily. “Iunderstandit’scrucialthatwe prevent anyone fromstepping foot inside theLost Citadel. I’m as afraid

as every other mage is ofwhat the gods of magicwoulddo ifwe allowed ittohappenagain.”“You know what wouldhappen,” said Esme. “Allthe mages on Krynn havededicated a portion oftheir ownmagical essenceto Bastion. That energybinds the mortar to theblocks,aswewizardshaveboundourselvestotheArt.

The Council of Threewarned us that if Bastionfails, the energy will beforfeittoLunitari,Solinari,andNuitari.”Guerrand dropped ontothe bed. “We’re a part ofhistory, Esme, of thegreatest cooperativemagical effort in nearlythree hundred fifty years!Thisiswhatthebuildersofthetowersofsorcerymust

havefelt.Isitsowrongofmenottowantittoend?”“I’ve had the samethought,” confessed Esme,coloring. “Being a part ofthis melting pot of skills,this suppression ofarrogance and alignmentin the defense of ourcommon Art …” Esmeshookherhead.“We’llnotsee it again in ourlifetime.”

Guerrand nodded,thinking that the last timethe Conclave had joinedtogether to save theirartifacts—their lives—wasfrom the wrath of theKingpriest. The realizationbrought tomindagain theblackwizardRannoch.“I’ll tell you why theDream bothers me,”Guerrand said, abruptlybreaking the gentle spell

their musings hadwrought. He searchedthrough his clothespressforhisbest redrobe.“I’vebeen trying to figure outwhy the final segment ofmy Test put me in thebody of the black wizardwho cursed the tower inPalanthas. I’m a redwizard,”hesaid,hishandson his hips. “I don’tunderstand what that

means.”“I can’t answer that

either,” said Esme. “I canonly remind you that theTest exists to weed outthose wizards who mightbe harmful to themselves,to the order, or toinnocents.Remember,too,that the Test is meant toteach themage somethingabout himself.” Esmeraisedasilkybrow.“What

didJustariussaywhenyouaskedhimabout thisafteryoupassed?”Guerrand wrinkled hislips in distaste. “He toldme that the Councildesigned all threesegments of my Test withtwo goals in mind. First,they wanted to measurethe limits of my magicalskills.Second,theywantedtodemonstratethatnoone

is allgoodorbadorevenperfectly neutral at alltimes. Justarius inparticular wanted me tosee that each new day,each new situation, bringswithitchoices.“Historically,” Guerrandcontinued, “the blackwizard Rannoch chose tothrow himself from theTowerofHighSorceryandcurse the place, acts

consideredinkeepingwithan evil wizard. I, on theother hand, chose neitherto jump nor curse thetower. That particularlyday,IfollowedthepathofGood and joined themajority of white and redmageswholeftpeacefully.But in the first twosegments of my Test, mysolutions were inclinedtoward Evil and

Neutrality,respectively.”“There you have it!”Esme exclaimed, pullingthe robe he sought fromunder a pile of carelesslydiscardedclothing.Frowninghisdistraction,Guerrand slipped an arminto the sleeve she heldouttohim.“Butintoday’sdream, I threwmyself—asRannoch—from thetower!”

“That merely validatesJustarius’s explanation,”Esme returned. “TodayyouchosethepathofEvil.In tomorrow’s dream, youmightfollowthewhiteandred wizards again. Thepoint is, your choicesbalance out and thusfollowthewaysoftheredorder.”Guerrand still lookeddisturbed, skeptical.

Esme’s brows drewtogether with concern.“You’re beginning tosound obsessed, and thatworriesme.”“You think I likedreadingsleep,forfearI’lldream?” he demandedhotly.She gave him a frankbut compassionate look,onehandonaslenderhip.“I think you worry too

much about events youcan’taffect.Thingsusuallyhappen for a reason,” shesaid, recalling a lineJustarius liked to use,“even if we never learnthatreason.”Guerrand frowned.“Then this is one timewhen I’vegot to learn thereasonforthememory.I’mcertain there’s someadditional lesson I’m

supposed to take from it.WhatifImissit?”“You’ll miss the rest of

your life,” returned Esme,“if you keep agonizingover this.” She strappedherpouchonoverherredrobeandsensibletrousers,preparingtoleave.Nodding in concession,

Guerrand followed theyoung woman out thedoor, to where giants and

golems worked amongmagestomakehistory.

Harrowdown-on-the-

SchallseaFiveyearslater…

Gritting his teeth,Guerrand stretched outhis left arm, straininguntil he thought hisshoulder would pop fromthe socket. It was no use;the juiciest, orange-redrose hips were still ahandspan beyond hisreach. He would simply

have to plow his waythrough the thorny wildrosebushes that grew onthebanks of the Straits ofSchallsea. Resigninghimself to ruining hishomespun red robe, yetthankfulfortheprotectionitoffered,heheldhighhissmall wooden gatheringbasketandplungedahead.His sights were locked onhis quarry, highlighted

against the bright blue ofthenearbystraits.Guerrand stoppedabruptly and askedhimself, What am Ithinking? He shook hishead, graying now at thetemplesbecauseofhisTestat the tower, though hewas still shy of thirtyyears. Stealing a glancearound, the mage assuredhimself he was alone on

this stretch of heathseveral rods west ofHarrowdown. It was notfear of persecution thatmade him think twiceabout casting the simplecantrip that would pluckand carry to him thenutrient-rich fruit fromwhich wild rose petalsbloomed. Quite thecontrary.Thevillagershadgrown used to—almost

complacent about—hismagicalabilities.Hehadgrownfiveyears

oldersincethedayheandEsme had stopped for thenight at the Settle Inn inthe small, run-downvillage of Harrowdown,between Hamlton andRestglen inSouthlund, thesouthernmost province ofSolamnia. They hadchosen it simply because

the innwas nearby at theprecise moment their legswouldmovenofarther.The couple had beenwanderingnorthwardfromthe forests near Skullcapwithout real purpose formorethanafortnightafterthebuildingofBastionwascompleted, vaguelyintending to make theirway to mage-friendlyPalanthas. Their

wanderings had takenthem through Abanasinia,a territory decidedlyunfriendly toward mages,whichwaswhy theyweresoexhausted.Thestruggleto keep from gettinglynched by barbarianplainsmen or pirates hadtaken its toll, just as lifehad taken its toll on hisrelationshipwithEsme.Guerrand chased the

unexpectedandunpleasantmemory of lost love fromhis thoughts, as always.There were too manyhappy moments with herto recall. He focused histhoughts on the task athand. The rose hips thathewoulduseandsellforasoothing teawere steadilyfilling his basket whenGuerrand heard the loudsquawkofhisfamiliar.

“Kyeow!” Zagarus’swhite wings lowered himfromtheceruleanskytoadarkbranchofaspreadingcypresstree.Thereyouare,Rand! I have amessage foryoufromDorigar.Guerrand looked up

from the thorny bushes tothe large sea gull.Guerrandhadconjuredhisfamiliar more than adecadebefore,inwhatwas

perhapshisfirstsuccessfulattempt to wield magic.Zag’s head was brown-black in a diagonal fromthebaseofhis small skullto his throat. His entireunderside was yellow-white.Edgedwitha sliverof white, his wings andbackwereonceasblackasonyx.Therewasnodoubtabout it; Zag was gettingold.Theintensecoloration

of his feathers was dullerthan it once was; and hisyellowlegsshambledmorethanwalkednow.“Youwerenomorethan

three rods away, nearenoughtospeakwithme,”Guerrand remarked,referringtothementallinkthat allowed masters andfamiliars to communicateeven over distance. “I’msurprised you left the

comfortofyournestatthecottage,” he gibed gently.Settling into the lateautumnofhislife,thegullwas less inclined to flythesedays.Zagarus looked at himwith one eye closed. Ithought I might find somefoodwhileIwasabout.Guerrand snorted. “Ishould have guessed.What’sthemessage?”

Message?Oh,yes.There’ssome creature Dorigar callsasylphwaitingforyouwitha scroll from Justarius. Shewon’t give it to anyone butyou. An odd-looking littlething, if you askme.Wingslikespiderwebs.Idon’tknowhow she can handle a headwindwiththem.“Justarius!” cried

Guerrand, extricatinghimself from the tangle of

rosebushes. “Why didn’tyou say so?” He hookedthe handle of the basketoverhisshoulder,hikedupthe hem of his robes, andbrokeintoarun.Watching him flee,

Zagarusmuttered,IthoughtI did say so. Despiteclouding vision, the wilyold bird spied a fishleaping in the nearbystraits and closed on it,

Guerrandforgotten.Instead of following the

curvingdirtpathalongtheshore, the mage took ashortcut on the balk, theturfleftunplowedbetweenthe rows of JebSanbreeden’s field ofmaize. The rich greenleaves rifled Guerrand’sshoulders and flutteredlike a wave on the seabreeze of the late-

Sirrimontday. Strange,hethought, that after fiveyears he still thought interms of the Ergothiancalendar, instead of theSolamnic one the localsused.Five years … Guerrand

could scarcely believe somuch time had passedsince his and Esme’s firstnight in Harrowdown,when Seth, the outgoing

innkeeper, had recognizedtheircallingandofferedtohire the two mages forshort-term work. ThoughGuerrand had found themanabitunsettling,Esmehadthoughttherespitethesmallvillageofferedwoulddo them good while theydeterminedadirection fortheirlives.They settled into a

cottageontheedgeof the

village. Initially fearful ofdisplaying their calling,little by little GuerrandandEsmelettheirskillsbeknown. The people ofHarrowdown immediatelysaw the good that couldcome from magic. Thevillage and its peopleflourished. Months turnedinto two idyllic years forGuerrand.He was not even aware

that Esme had begun tofind their life mundaneuntil news reached themthat Esme’s father, farthernorth in Fangoth, was ill.Guerrand was equallysurprised to hear that shewasreadytoreturntoherfather and face theshadowsofherpast.“You’re hiding out herein Harrowdown,” sheaccused him when he’d

declined the offer to joinher.“Thiswassupposedtobeatransitioninourlives,notourfinaldestination.”“I’m needed here now,”Guerrand rememberedresponding defensively,“but I don’t intend to liveinHarrowdownforever.”“Your family in Ergoth,this dream you have ofyour Test and jumpingfrom the tower as

Rannoch …” She’d shookher head sadly. “You’ll behereuntil you stop lettingyour past haunt you,”she’d pronounced. Then,kissing him tenderly,bittersweetly,she’dwishedhimluckandexitedhislifewiththesameindependentand determined spiritshe’dexhibitedonthedayshe’d entered it, in thehills surrounding

Palanthas. He’d spent thelast three years trying tofilltheemptinessshe’dleftin him by helping thevillagers of Harrowdown.Some days were betterthanothers.The field gave way to

the first of the smallbuildings in Harrowdown,and Guerrand wasremindedagainhowmuchthe village had changed

sincetheirarrival.Timber-framed and of wattle-and-daub construction, thehomes and businesses ofthe small village wereneat, clean, and newlythatched. Guerrandremembered how run-down they’d looked whenhe’d first arrived; manyhad half rotted away,offering littlemore than awindbreakinwinteranda

place for rats and othervermin to find food in thewarmthofsummer.LifeinHarrowdown-on-the-Schallsea had certainlychanged since a wizardhadcometotown.“ ’Scuze me, YourHonor,” said a stoutwoman in a well-patchedapron,rosyjowlsbouncingas she tried to matchGuerrand’s stride. “Just

wanted to tell you themherbs you give me forCowslip done brought themilkdownagain.”“Yes, well, I’m glad,

Agnus. Ifyouoryourcowneed anything else, juststop by the shop.”Guerrand remembered thewoman and her cow’smalady, andheknew thatifheallowedhertoengagehim in conversation for

even amoment, hewouldbe trapped for hours. Themage forced the pace ofhis stride until he left thewomanpantingbefore thehuge, slowly turningwaterwheel that markedthemiller’sshop.Rounding the corner,Guerrand’s glance fellupon two children on thegreen playing a placidgame of mumblety-peg

with dull trowels. Hesmiled andwavedat theirmother who was nearby,shooing chickens from thelettuce and onions in thesmall, burgeoning croftnext to their house; shewaved happily back.Wileryhadcometohimafortnight before, haggardandpale,complainingthather children’s waywardbehavior was more than

shecouldbear.Apinchofmarjoram added to theirdaily milk had apparentlycalmed them considerablyand put color in theirmother’scheeksagain.Guerrand hastened past

the Settle Inn. Seth, thescrawny innkeeper,spotted him through theopendoorandhurriedoutto the steps. “Stuffed thatwhite chicken with wild

onion and boiled him forsoup,”saidSeth.“Myluckturnedaround, justasyousaiditwould!”“I’ll bet it made a

delicious broth, too,”Guerrand said kindlywithoutstopping.Acornerofhismouth turnedup inaslightsmile.Sethwasanodd one, all right.Somewhere he’d come upwith the notion that the

lone, snow-white hen inhis coop glared at himevery time he came tocollect eggs. Stranger still,Seth was certain the henwas angry at him fortaking her eggs. Guerrandknew that he wouldn’tchangetheman’smind,sohe gave Seth the idea tostuff the bird. A chicken’slifewasshortinthebestoftimes.

The mage reached theeastern edge of town atlast.Hiseyesfelluponhisown modest, thatchedhomewithasenseofpridemany would have foundsurprisinghadtheyknownhe was raised in a castle.In fairness, he had tocredit Esme and Dorigarfor its simple beauty. Shehad insisted on thewindow boxes that

adorned every opening,and he had faithfullyreplanted them everyspring since she’d left.He’d long since given uphopeofherreturn.Still,toleave them fallow wouldhave reminded him toopainfully of the void shehadleftinhisheart.The garden of annuals

and perennials was thedomainofDorigarandthe

envy of every woman inHarrowdown. Hardiercrops like parsley andcarrots, protectedby thickpiles of dried oak leaves,wereharvestedeveninthedeadofwinter.Insummer,the garden had atumbledown, overgrownlook that was at onceinviting andoverwhelming. Beesbuzzed around the fist-

sized clumps of crimsonbee balm, then flew backtotheirhive,whereheandDorigarregularlyextractedthefruitoftheirlabor.Chickens scattered, and

oneofGuerrand’stwopigsskitteredfromhispathandintoDorigar’s garden. Themage surveyed thegrounds from the stoop ofhis small home to thesmaller drying shed, but

saw no sign of a waitingsylph. He hastenedthroughtheheavywoodendoor and into the house.Guerrand squinted whilehis eyes adjusted. A smallfire smoldered in thehearth, the smoke risingthrough a hole cut in thethatched roof. A kettle ofwater whistled softly. Hisassistant was nowhere tobeseenonthefirstfloor.

Guerrand knew thatDorigar’s loveofnapswassecond only to his love ofgardening. The mage sethis basket of rose hips onthe plank table andscrambled up the narrow,makeshift ladder to thesleeping loft. The featherticklayuponnewhayjustashe’dleftitthismorning.Frowning, he pressed hisfeet to the outside rails of

the ladder and slippedbacktothedirtfloor.“Where could Dorigarand this sylph be?” hemuttered aloud. Standingstock-still, he cocked hishead toward an openwindowandcouldvaguelyhear his assistant’s prattlecoming from behind thecottage.Guerrandboundedout the door again,blinkingagainstthebright

sunlight as he racedaroundthehouse.He foundDorigar in thesunlit herb garden,chatteringwildlyatamostunusual-lookingcreature.“Youreallyshouldnteatchervilyouknow.Wereshortonit.BesidesImnotquitesurewhatitwilldotoasylph.CouldgrowwartsforallIknow.”Dorigar,beingagnome,was more than a littleunusual-looking himself,

thoughtGuerrand.Hisskinwas as brown as agedwood.Vibrant violet eyes,abulbousnose,andstrongwhiteteethpokedthroughthe mussed and curlinghair that otherwiseobscured his face. Hisclothing sense madeGuerrand’scoarseredrobeseem like the height offashion. His favorite, andcurrent, ensemble

consisted of an orange-and-green pair of trouserswoven with the stripesrunning horizontally andworn with the pocketspulled out, and a soiledyellow tunic under a hot,brownleathervest,heavilystained with vegetabledyes.Tools andnotebooksand other gizmos dangledfrom all manner of strapsand handles attached to

his stocky three-footframe.Guerrand chuckled attheodd little gnome, thenturnedhisattentiontothereasonforhisreturntothecottage. His breathinstantly caught in histhroatatthesylph’sfragilebeauty. She appeared as asmall, extremely slenderand sinuous humanwoman in a diaphanous

gown through whichjutted enormous dragonflywings.Theywerethemostvibrant iridescent purple-green, and veined like adried leaf. Her hairreminded him of vaguelyordered seaweed, wovenwith delicate meadowflowers and variegatedvines.Guerrand stepped

forward. “Thank you,

Dorigar.I’mherenowandcan take the messagemyself.”“Wellitsabouttime,”huffed Dorigar.“Ithoughtshemighteatmyentirecropbeforeyouarrived.”As the annoyed andcolorful gnome stompedpast Guerrand, the magepattedhis assistant on theback good-naturedly.“Don’t forget to take yourmedicine,”headvised.

“AllrightbutIdontseethatitchangesanything,”said Dorigar, blowing outanexasperatedbreaththatfanned his frizzy hair,briefly exposing hisfrowning face.“Ifyouaskmeyoushouldtaketheherbstospeedupyourears.”Dorigar continued tomutter to himself as herounded the corner anddisappearedfromsight.The sylph calmlycontinuedtopluckthesoft

greenchervilleaves,eitherunable or unwilling tounderstand the fast-speakinggnome.Guerrandhad to clear his throatseveral times before theenchanting creaturelooked up, strings ofchervil hanging from hermouth. “You have amessage for me?” heasked.Wings fluttering to lift

her several feet above thegarden, the sylphapproachedGuerrand. Shelooked him over, thenshrugged, as if she foundhim wanting. The sylphreached delicate, marble-pale fingers into herrevealing little robe,extracted a delicateparchment scroll boundwith a pressed dollop ofbeeswax, and held it

towardhim.Guerrand turned thescroll over and recognizedthecrescent-moon-in-a-cupimprint in thewax fromaring Justariuswore. “Howdidyoucomebythis?”Her voice was as liltingand evanescent as thewind. “I am returning afavor to Justarius.” Withthat, she lifted her wings,as fine as spiderwebs, and

slippedawaylikemistintothe thick canopy of treesbeyond the rectangularherbgarden.“Wait!” Guerrand cried,knowingashedidthattheelusive creature wouldwaitfornoone.Helookedagainatthescroll,tappingit thoughtfully as hewentback inside the homeycottage. Now that he hadthe missive in his hands,

Guerrand was morepuzzled than ever. Whatdid Justarius want withhim after so many silentyears?He set the scroll on thetable. Dropping a handfulof the rose hips into amug, the mage coveredthemwithhotwater fromthesimmeringkettleinthehearth.Hesippedthebrewunsteeped, staring at the

scrollpensively.Aren’t you going to open

it?Guerrand’sheadshotup,

and his gaze went to theopen window. He hadn’teven heard Zagarus’sreturn. He set the mugdown and looked into theflames.“Eventually.”You’reafraid.Scowling, Guerrand

snatchedup thescrolland

broke thewax sealwith aflickofhisthumbnail.Thecurled parchment tumbledopen.Guerrandblinked inconfusion when he sawonly an intricate,symmetrical pattern inkedthere. He had beenexpecting words, notmagical symbols. Thesesymbols meant nothing tohim, although they stirredadistantmemory.

The star-shaped mosaicpattern in the summerdining room of VillaRosad … These symbolsreminded Guerrand of theconfigurations of colorfultiles Justarius required allof his apprentices tomemorize throughvisualization to heightentheirawarenessofmagicalpatterns.What does Justarius have

tosay?askedZagarus.“That’sgoingtotakeme

a few minutes to figureout.”Guerrandmoved theclutter of spellbooks,notes, and pots of driedandfermentedcomponentsto the floor. He lit hisbiggest tallow candle, asthick and long as hisforearm,andusedittopinthetopofthecurlingscrollto the coarsely planed

table. Staring at the oddsymbols, he racked hisbrain to recall the key toJustarius’s tile exercise.He’d conjured few spellsmore complicated thancantrips for a long time,and he’d had no need tocreatehisownasJustariushad taught him. He wassimplyoutofpractice.Guerrand’s eyes weredry and red from smoke,

andthecandlehadburnedbyhalfbeforehebegantomakesenseofthemissive.The spiral patternwas farmore complex than it hadappeared at first,consisting of not one buteight intertwined paths.Woven through thespiralswas a series of recurringsymbols,elongatedovoids,that repeated an intricatepattern.

He leaned back in thestool and rubbed his eyeswith the heels of hishands. Outside the openwindow was darkness.Guerrandwrapped a handaround the mug of hislong-forgotten tea; it waswellpastcold.If it’s proving so difficult,

whydon’tyoujustgetridofthe note? The gull wassettled in his nest in the

farcorneroftheroom,hissmalleyesclosed.Guerrand satmotionlessfor several moments.Abruptlyhe jumpedtohisfeet and kicked back hisstool, sending it crashingto the dirt floor. “Perhapsyou’re right, Zag.” Withthat, Guerrand snatchedupthescrollonhiswaytotheopenhearthandtossedthe odd message into the

flames.Zagarus’s beady orbspoppedopeninsurpriseashis master then jumpedback behind the meagerprotectionofthetableandwatched themissive burn.Smoke from the scrollroiled out of the hearthandformedthefaceoftheMaster of the Red Robes,Justarius, in a wavering,gray image. Excited,

Guerrandcamearoundthetable to face the foggyimage.Ah, Guerrand. If you’rehearing this, you were ableto recognize that fire wouldrelease themagical bonds. Imust apologize for puttingyouthroughyetanothertestso long after yourapprenticeship, but I had tobe sure that you alonereceived the details of this

missive.Ialsohadtobesurethat years of life among thesimple folk hadn’t robbedyouofyourwits.Guerrand ground histeeth against thepresumption, particularlysinceitwassoclosetothetruth. “How could you besure that someone elsedidn’t just toss it in thefire?”hedemandedof thesmoke, but the image

didn’t respond to hisquestion.Themagehadtoremind himself thatJustarius wasn’t reallyhere, just his magicallyrecordedmessage.Random placement in a

fire wouldn’t have releasedthe message, Justarius’simage was saying. Thearchmage had obviouslyanticipated his formerapprentice’s question.

Guerrand vowed to keephis mouth shut and listenbeforehemissedanymoreofJustarius’swords.The purpose of thismissiveistoinformyouthattheCouncilofThreerequestsyour presence at Wayrethimmediately. We wish todiscuss with you a mosturgent situation. Use yourmirror to speed travel. Allquestions will be answered

whenyouarrive.Withthat,the smokey visage ofJustarius broke intowavering tendrils andstretched toward the holeinthethatch.Guerrand jumped whenthe door behind himabruptly banged open.Dorigar stomped into thesmallhouse,slammingthedoor closed. “I don’tsuppose you’ve made

anythingtoeat.”“No.” Guerrand noted

vaguely that the gnomehad remembered to takethemagicalconcoctionthewizard prepared eachmorning to slow hisassistant’s speech to anunderstandablerate.Dorigarmarcheduptoa

butcher’s block andretrieved a device frombeneath it. Several

gleaming blades extendedat divergent angles,mounted alongsidemeasuring rods and depthgauges and mesh handguards. With this doodad,Dorigarcommencedslicingleeks intoakettle.Addingcarrotsandotherherbs,hefilled the pot with water.Last,Dorigar used an ironpokertohangthepotfroma ring above the fire,

stoked to furnaceproportions.Guerrand quickly grewannoyed by the gnome’shappy scurrying. Thecottage seemed to grow adegree hotter with eachbeatof thewizard’sheart.He jumped tohis feetandrushed out into the nightto lean against a lindentree.Drawinggulpsofcoolsummer air, Guerrand

listened to the distantlowing of cows, theringing of bells callingmen in from moonlitfields.The familiar soundscalmedhim.What’s bothering you?

asked Zagarus, settlingupon a branch of the treeabovehismaster. Ihaven’tseen you so shaken sinceEsmeleft.Guerrand slid down the

treeintoacrouchanddughis fists into his eyes. “Idon’t know. Maybe I’mjust tired fromconcentratingallafternoonon deciphering Justarius’smessage.”What do you think the

Councilwants?“I’m sure I don’t know

that either.” Guerrandcrossed his arms tightlybefore him. “I do know

that I’m not too keen ongoingbacktoWayreth.”You’llhave tocheckyourhandbook, of course, saidZagarus with exaggeratedstuffiness,but I believe yougave up the right of refusalwhen you vowed loyalty totheRedRobes.Guerrand scowled up athis familiar. “I know that,as well as you knowthere’s no handbook. I

merelysaidIdon’twanttogo,notthatIwouldn’t.”The dull-black featherson Zagarus’s wings liftedin a shrug. So what’s theproblem?Guerrand absentlytouched the scaralonghischeek that had neverhealed completely in fiveyears.Isthatstillbotheringyou?“No!”Guerrandsnapped

a little too quickly. Hewasn’t sure whether Zagmeant the external orinternal scars left by thethird and final segmentofhis Test. A week neverwent by without himwakingupinasweatfromtheDream.Thoughhehadpassed the Test, he feltcertain the Dream meanthe was supposed to takesomething else from the

lesson. But he had noclearer idea of what thatwas now than he’d hadwhen he walked awayfrom the dreamlike towerin Palanthas and Justariushadtoldhimhe’dpassed.Guerrand glided up the

treetohisfeet.“Ihavenointerest in leavingHarrowdown,evenbriefly,to stand around andcomparespellbookswitha

bunch of high-poweredmages. I’m needed here.”Hebegantopace.“Tothevillagers, my work isimportant.Harrowdown isprosperous compared towhat it was when Iarrived. Life as a magemaynotbeexactlywhat Idreamed back in CastleDiThon, but it isn’t bad,either.”This is what you and

Esmefoughtabout,isn’tit?Guerrand’s hand slicedtheair likea scythe. “Youknow I won’t talk aboutthat.”Zagarus was silent forsome time.You don’t evenknow why Justarius hassummoned you. Aren’t youthe leastbitcurious?Maybehejustwantstosayhello.Guerrand chuckledwithout humor. “That’s so

like Justarius.” He sighedhis resignation. “But Iguess we’ll find out thetruth soon enough.”Heading back for thecottage door, heannounced over hisshoulder, “I’m going totakeafewmomentstoeatsome of Dorigar’sdelicious-smelling stew.ThenI’llpackafewthings,and we’ll leave for

Wayreth through themirror.”Do you even have that

piece of glass anymore?asked Zagarus. I haven’tseenitforyears.“I packed it away in a

safe place after theconfrontationwithBelize,”explained Guerrand,referring to the magicallookingglassthearchmageBelizehadgivenGuerrand

before they’d left CastleDiThon. It allowed thebearer to magically travelfar distances via a mirrorworld by mentallypicturing a mirror whereyouwished to reenter thereal world. Guerrand haduseditonlyoncesincetheNight of the Eye uponStonecliff, and that hadbeen to transport Esme,himself,andZagarusaway

from the site of thedestroyed pagan pillars toPalanthas.Isitwisetouseitafterso

long? asked the gull. Imean, you need a familiardestination point, andwe’vebeenawayfromWayrethfora long time. Even there,thingsmustchange.Guerrand waved away

the concern. “Justariushimself recommended we

use it. He must haveremoved any magicalwards on Wayreth thatwould prevent us fromentering.”Guerrand returned some

timelaterfromthecottagewith his old leather packfilled and strung fromshoulder to hip. Diggingaround in the bag, hepulled from it a familiar,hand-sized fragment of

dusty glass and set it onthe dirt path. The magesmiled ruefully up at hisfamiliar and extended hisarmasaperchforthegull.“Justariusawaitsus.”With the heavy old gullonhisarm,Guerrandfeltalong-forgotten sense ofdéjàvuashesteppeduponthe surface of themagicalglass and slipped into theextradimensional mirror

world.

As Guerrand suspected,Justarius had left aglowingtrail inthemirrorworld that bypassed anyprotective wards and ledthem directly to a man-sized looking glass rightinside the Hall of Mages.Theroomhadnotchanged

one jot since Guerrand’sfirst audience here. Itwasa vast, round chambercarvedofobsidian; the farwalls and ceiling werebeyondhissight,obscuredinshadow.Asusual, therewere no torches orcandles, yet the roomwaslit by a pale white light,cold, cheerless, withoutwarmth.Shivering in the

dampness, Guerrandremembered with abittersweet twinge hisfriend and fellowapprentice LyimRhistadt’sfirst bit of advice to him,when they both werewaiting outside in theforetower to be assignedmasters: “It’s a snap.” Hehad been so afraid then.Nowhefeltonlycold.This timeGuerrandwas

not surprised by thesudden appearance of theheavy oaken chair behindhim in the otherwiseempty room. He slippedinto it andwaited, fingersdrumming the intricatelycarvedarmrests, anxiouslyatfirst, thenwithgrowingimpatience.“Be at ease, Guerrand,”

he heard at long last. Hestill could not see a face,

but he recognized theslightquiverofageinPar-Salian’svoice.“We’re delighted youresponded to Justarius’smissive.” The years hadnot dulled LaDonna’ssultryvoice.The members of theCouncil of Three chosethat moment to revealthemselves. The light hadnot increased or crept

farther into the shadows,and yet Guerrand couldnow see the semicircle oftwenty-one seats, all butthreeempty.Hehadsatinone of those seats briefly,during the Conclave todiscuss the building ofBastion.Seated in the verycenter, in a great chair ofcarved stone, was theextremely distinguished,

though frail-looking, headof the Conclave ofWizards. Age had notdulled Par-Salian’spiercing blue eyes; thelong, gray-white hair,beard, and mustache thatnearly matched his whiterobe had not grown aninch.LaDonna, too, lookedas

if not a day had passedsince Guerrand’s first

audience. The Mistress oftheBlackRobeswasseatedtohersuperior’sright.Shewas a striking womanwhose iron-gray hair waswoven into an intricatebraid coiled about herpatricianhead.Herbeautyand age still defieddefinition.“You’re looking well,

Guerrand.”Guerrand’s eyes shifted

at last to the speakerwhose voice, robust withunspokenhumor,heknewso well. Justarius aloneseemed to have aged.There was more salt thanpepper now in themustache and theshoulder-length hair thatwas simply parted downthemiddle.New,tinylinespulledatthecornersofhismouth and the narrows

betweenhisdarkeyes.Hisusualneckruffwasacrispand clean white, incontrast to the red linenrobebelowit.“I am well,” the former

apprenticesaidstiffly.Thethreereveredmages

exchangedsurprisedlooks.Par-Salian brushed a wispof white hair from hiswatery old eyes. “TheCouncil has summoned

you, Guerrand, to offeryou a position of someimportance.”“I’m happy enoughwhereIam.”Justarius’s eyebrowsnarrowed in a familiargestureof irritation.“Iseeyou’ve compounded yourimpertinent tendency tojump to conclusions. Youwould do well to listenandnotwasteourtime.”

Thoughwordswelled inhis throat, Guerrand hadthe wits to press his lipsintoatightline.“Letusnotmincewords,Guerrand,” began Par-Salian. “Bastion’srepresentative from theRed Robes has abruptlyresigned, and we are inneed of an immediatereplacement. The Councilhas raisedyournameasa

possibility to fill thatposition.”Guerrandcouldnotkeep

the shock from registeringon his face. His mouthdroppedopen.Noneofhismusings regarding thenature of the summonshad included Bastion. Hecouldn’t speak,whichwasfortunate, because therewasstillmoretohear.“Since its completion,”

continued Par-Salian,“Bastion has been rundemocratically by threeoccupants,arepresentativefrom each order, but thatdoesn’t seem to haveworked. Somehow eventhe most trivial issuesdegenerate into a two-against-one brawl. Theseconflicts divert themages’attention from their realpurpose in the stronghold:

tobe ever vigilant againstintruders seeking the LostCitadel.”Par-Salian leaned

forward on his chair,elbow propped on theright armrest. “To preventthis from continuing, theCouncilhasvotedtocreatethe position of highdefender.Themodelisthisvery Council. I am thehead of the Council of

Three, as would the highdefender be to theoccupantsofBastion.”Par-Salian paused foreffect. “Justarius hasrecommendedyouforthatposition.”“SoIwouldbeinchargeoftwomageswho’vebeenthere for some time?”Guerrandasked.Par-Salian nodded, butheld up a blue-veined

hand for Guerrand toallow him to finish. “Youmust also know that theworkislonelyandtedious,requiring constantvigilance for somethingthat is likely never tohappen.”Guerrand squinted oneeyesuspiciously.“Whydidthepreviousmageresign?”“Vilar…was unstable,”Justarius said, picking his

words carefully. “Bastionis very isolated,particularly if you don’tget along with its otheroccupants.” The redmagesighed. “He was not thefirst, but the second toresign; Ezius of theWhiteRobes is the only originalrepresentative.Youwillbethe fifth sentinel and thefirst highdefender … should you

accepttheposition.”Overwhelmed,Guerrand

ran a hand through hismopofdarkhair.“I-Ican’tgive you an answer rightnow. I need time to gohomeandthink,and—”“There isn’t time for a

trip,” interruptedLaDonnaa bit peevishly. “Surelyyou can understand theneed to fill this positionimmediately. You have

untilsunrisetodecide.”“Your old room in the

north tower has beenprepared for yourcomfort,” Justarius addedmore kindly. “Of course,Zagarus is welcome. I’lltakeyoutherenow.”Guerrand stood weakly,

holding fast to the armofthe chair. He noddedbriskly to Par-Salian andLaDonna, then walked

from theHall ofMages atJustarius’s side. The redarchmage seemed to belimping more thanGuerrand remembered,favoring the leg that hadbeen twisted by his ownTest. Their footsteps,Justarius’s irregular,echoed against the cold,circular walls. The twomages crossed the smallforetower where once

Guerrandhadwaitedwithother hopeful apprentices,then entered the northtower.Both men knew therewas no need for JustariustoshowGuerrandthewayto the sleeping chambersomefivelevelsabovePar-Salian’sstudy.He’dstayedthere for several daysbefore and after his Test,then during the planning

of Bastion. Guerrandcouldn’tdecideifJustariuswasactingasjailororhostnow.Neitherspokeastheyclimbedthenarrowflightsof stairs to the sixth level.The exercise broughtwarmth to feet that hadgrown cold in theforeboding ceremonialhall.Guerrand automaticallytookasharpleftatthetop

of the stairs, passed thefirst room, and turned themarble knob on thesecond.Squeezingthroughthe door to the triangularroom, he mumbled,“Thankyou,”andmadetoshutthedoorbehindhim.Justarius’sgoodlegshot

out to place his footbetween the door and itsframe. “I know you wellenough to see when

something is troublingyou, Guerrand. Do youcaretotellmewhatitis?”Guerrand looked at his

feet. “I don’t know whatyoumean.”“Youdon’tdocoyatall

well,” Justarius remarked.“That was always Esme’sspecialty.”Guerrand’s head jerked

up at the mention ofEsme’s name, as Justarius

hadobviouslyintended.“She’sdoingwell,bythe

way,” Justarius saidconversationally. “She’sstill living in Fangoth.”Thearchmagemanaged tosteer them into the small,triangularroom.Thinlightfiltered through a tinywindow, more an arrowloop,onthefarwall.“Herfather died several yearsback, and she’s working

toward restoring thelocals’ faith inmagicafterherfather’sreignofterror.Butyouwouldknowaboutthat.”“I-I knew her fatherdied, but not the rest,”confessed Guerrand. “Ihaven’t heard from her inyears.”With pursed lips thatraised his mustache,Justarius acknowledged

the admission. “I meant,you would know aboutraising the morale of avillage with your magic.From what I’ve observed,you’ve accomplished nearmiracles in Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea.”“ ‘From what you’veobserved?’ You meanyou’ve been watchingme?”“I make it a point to

follow the progress of allmy students.” Justarius’seyes alone held thewarmthoftheconfession.Guerrand sank with a

sighintothedeepchairbythe hearth on the curved,outside wall. “I didn’tknow.”Justariusletoutabreath

as he closed the door.“Why do you think Irecommended you for the

positionatBastion?”“Frankly,” chuckled

Guerrand, “I haven’t hadtime to consider yourreasoning. Your missiverevealednothingaboutthenatureofthemeeting.”“Whatmadeyouanswer

thesummons?”Guerrandconsideredthe

questionhonestly.“Mainlycuriosity,” he admitted atlast.“Besides,Iwasn’tsure

I had the option ofignoringasummonsbytheCouncil.”Justarius raised one

brow.“IbelieveItoldyouonce,whenyouwantedtoreturn to Thonvil to helpyour family, that youalwayshaveachoice.”Guerrand acknowledged

the memory with a smallnod.Justarius moved by the

fire and crossed his armsexpectantly. “So now thatyou’ve had your curiositysatisfied, are youinterestedintheposition?”“I … don’t know,”

Guerrand admitted.“There’s just so much toconsider. The people ofHarrowdown depend onme,and—”“They’ll survivewithout

you,” Justarius broke in.

“Everymastermust lethisstudents fly or fall oneday. You’ve given themthe tools to succeed ontheirown.”Guerrand gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Butwill I survive withoutthem?WhatifI’mnomoresuitedtothejobatBastionthan the previous redmage?”“Ihavenotsucceededat

a great many things,”Justarius said soberly.“TheonlythingIhavenotfailed at is trying. Failureis an integral part of thelifecycle.”“But I am a rousingsuccess in Harrowdown,”said Guerrand. “There’s agreat deal of comfort inknowingthat.”Justarius cocked hishead in question. “Is

comfort the achievementthatyouseek?”Guerrand frowned,

discomfited with theintrospection, but unableto deny Justarius hisanswers. “At one time, Ididn’t think so. After thebattle at Stonecliff withBelize,thenthecreationofBastion, I believed I wasdestined to follow in yourfootsteps to becoming an

archmage. But when thatdidn’t happen, I began tosuspect I wasn’t suited tomore than I had inHarrowdown.”“If you feel shorted of

opportunities,” Justariusobserved,“it’sbecauseyouhaven’t sought them out.”Hegaveanironicchuckle.“Justhowmany timesdidyou expect to save theworld, anyway? You’ve

already been given moreopportunities than most.Lifeistedious,lifeisdirty,life is stimulating, life isordinary for all of us.There are good days andbaddays,andtherewillbenolessofeachatBastionifyouaccepttheposition.”Guerrand set his chin

firmly. “But I’ve resignedmyselftomysmallsuccessin Harrowdown. That’s

enoughformenow.”“Now, today, perhaps,but will it be sufficientthree years hence? Orfifteen?” demandedJustarius. He tapped afinger to his chin as heseemed to recallsomething. “This conflictof expectations,exacerbated by fear offailure, was the source ofyour conflict with Esme,

wasn’tit?”Guerrand winced,nodding. It still hurt tothinkof it, letalonespeakof his separation from theyoung woman. She hadnever understood hisconflicting emotions. “Behappywithwhat you are,whatever it is, and you’llbe a success,” she’d say.He understood now thatshe had been right, but it

didn’t erase the conflictfrom his mind. Thatconflict had been thespringboard of theirfriendship, since she, too,had suffered fromconfusedexpectations.Thedifference was, she hadconquered her demonssufficiently to return tohelphertaskmasterfather,whileGuerrand had neverbeen able to return to

Thonvil,evenforavisit.Justarius watched the

interplay of Guerrand’semotions on the youngman’s face. Shaking hishead sadly, the archmageturned to leave. “I havethings I must attend towhile I’m here atWayreth.” He eased hiscrippled leg to the doorandplacedhishandontheknob.“Letmejustsaythis,

Guerrand. If publicadoration or the trappingsof comfort representsuccess to you, then turndown the job. But if youseektheopportunitytouseyour skill for somethingimportant, you’ll jump atthis chance.” Thearchmage squintedthrough one eye at hisformer apprentice. “You’llprobably never get

another.” Justariuswrapped his cloak moretightly about himself andsteppedfromtheroom.Guerrand was staring,

unseeing, at the closeddoor when he becameaware of somethingmoving about on thesmall,thickwindowledge.Turning,hespiedZagarus.He’d not even heard thebird arrive. Zagarus

merely stood staringexpectantlyathismaster.“What? Why are youlooking at me like that?”Guerrand demanded. “Letme guess. You heard ourconversation, and youthinkJustariusisright?”It doesn’t matter what Ithink. I’m just a bird, Zagshot back.Don’t expectmeto solve all your problems.Whatdoyouthink?

Guerrand already knewthe answer to that. BothEsme and Justarius, thetwo people whounquestionably knew himbest, had so easilyrecognizedinhimwhathehad refused to believeuntil now. He had beenhiding out inHarrowdown, at least forthe last fewyears.Hehadalready lost Esme because

of it. Justarius would notrecommend him twice forthe position of highdefender.Hehadtoacceptthe offer, or he wouldalways wonder what hislife might have been.Besides, if he failed, hecould always return toHarrowdown,couldn’the?Guerrand yanked open

the door and stepped outof the room. Justarius

stoodadozenpacesaway,conversing with anotherred-robed mage. Bothlooked up as Guerrandenteredthehallway.“I wouldn’t miss this

opportunity for theworld,Justarius,” Guerrandannounced. “I’m yourman.”

“There it is!”breathed

the old fisherman,pointing a knobby fingerto the churning water offthe New Coast peninsula.“The Boil above ItzanKlertal.”Lyim Rhistadt lookedover the bowof the smallfishing boat to where aswath of sea appeared toboil in a wide, dark,frothing circle. Dead fishand other sea creatures

bubbledtothetopas if ina stewpot. Since its birthmore than three hundredfiftyyearsbefore,NewSeahad roiled here, like aneternal flame, tomark thespot where the evil cityonceknownasKlertalhadstood. Lyim had neverseen anything like thisangry black water, and itfascinatedhim.“Take me closer,” he

orderedthefishermenhe’dpaid handsomely to ferryhim to this locally fearedtriangleofsea.Lyim’seyesnever left the spot whereangry black water boiledandchurned.“This is near enough,”hissed the sailor’s son, athin lad with a wispymustache and fly-awayhair the color of mousefur.Hiseyesgrewwideas

he sawbloody bits of fishfloat nearer their smallboat. His lips trembled.“We’dbestturnback,Pa.”Lyim’slefthandstopped

the old man as he leanedinto the oars to turn thesmall craft. “I paid you ayear’swagestotakemetotheBoil.”“And that we have

done,” said the oldfisherman, beads of sweat

forming on his upper lip.“Any closer, and we’llsurely be pulled into themaelstrom.”“If it’s a closer look he

wants, I say push him inand let him swim,”grumbled the man’s otherson,asurly,suspiciousladwith thick, veinedforearms. He had stronglyopposed his fatheracceptingthejobfromthe

first, when the strange,secretive man hadapproached them on thedock back in the tinyfishing village ofBalnakyle.Lyim’s coal-dark eyespierced the burly son’s,saying what his lips didnot. I have not searchedfive longyears to let yourpitiful fear stop me now.Thesurlyladdrewbackto

the farthest corner of thedinghy,andstillitwasnotfar enough from theshroudedmanwhohidhisrighthand.“You’ll take me

wherever I say.” Lyimturned his back on allthree of the fishermendismissively, mentallymeasuring the distance totheangrilyboilingwaters.He could easily swim the

distance, and yet it wasthe principle of the thing.He had paid thesefaintheartswell.The boat shifted

abruptly. It was too silentbehind him. Lyimwhirledaround to find father andsons, hands outstretched,closing in on him slowly.They froze in the darkshadowofLyim’sgaze.The mage’s left hand

reached into his darkshroud and withdrew asmall,wrappedcocoon.Hedidn’t hesitate for aheartbeat before lockinghis eyes on the surly sonand mumbling the wordsto thespell thathadcometo mind. There came oneshort,high-pitchedscream,then a hideous slurpingandpoppingsound.Whereonce stood a dark-haired

humanwasnowaflappingmass of tentacles tryingdesperately to support aheavy, soft body withbulging eyes. The squidfellagainst the sideof thedinghy, then slippedoverboardintothesea.“Maginus?” yelped the

father, leaning overboardwith his other son. Bothdesperately searched thesurfaceoftheripplingsea.

When Maginus didn’tanswer, his family drewback from the edge inhorror and looked toLyim’s face. Themage satand calmly crossed hislegs.Lyim derived great

pleasure from watchingthem realize hisprofession. The sailorslooked fearfully from himto the seething water and

back,asiftryingtodecidewhich was moredangerous, a mage or theangry boiling sea. Theydecided to take theirchances with the sea,because both menwordlesslysnatcheduptheoars and paddled thedinghyclosertotheroilingwater.Satisfied at last, Lyimstood carefully once more

and shrugged the simpleshroudheworedownfromhis shoulders, letting itdangle from his forearms.He was naked from thewaist up and oblivious tothe quaking fishermen.The mage closed his eyesand concentrated on therememberedpatternofthespell he sought; its onlycomponent was verbal, soit was more important

thanevertobeprecise.Atlast Lyim opened his eyesand let the shroud slip tothe bottom of the dinghy.He saw the men’s eyesshift from his nakedness,searchingforthesourceofthe odd hissing sound.Both gasped aloud whentheyfounditattheendofLyim’srightarm.Theappendagethatwas

nolongeranarm.

Thelimbwasawrithingthing covered not withflesh, but with scales ofbrown, red, and gold,patternedsymmetricallyinrings and swirls. At theend of the limb, where ahand should have been,thrashed the head of asnake, its eyes inky blackand malevolent. Sightingthe two frightenedfishermen, the hideous

creaturehissedandflickeditstongue.The younger man

backpedaled inundisguised horror. Thefatherhadtograbhisson’sarm to keep him fromfalling overboard andjoiningMaginus.Lyim had never grown

used to the looks ofrevulsion his snake armdrew. He had a difficult

time not recoiling from ithimself. Nearly six yearshad passed since his ownmaster, Belize, hadviciously thrust Lyim’sright arm into a magicalportal at Stonecliff. Whenthen-apprentice Lyim hadbeen allowed towithdrawhis arm from theextradimensional bridge,he found his limb hadbeen replaced by a living

snake.Soon, Lyim reminded

himself, people would nolonger draw back fromhim in horror. Below, inItzan Klertal, he wouldlearn the secret forremoving,onceandforall,the hideous thing his armhadbecome.The thought propelled

the mage on, made himmumble the words that

wouldpolymorphhimintoa sea creature. Thesensation was an odd,painless stretching thatsoundedworsethanitfelt,with all manner of popsandcrackles.Lyimgrewtotower nearly twice theheight of the witless menin the little dinghy. Hegingerly passed his thick,insensitive tongue overhundreds of needle-sharp

teeth. Though he couldfeel nothing through histhick, green-scaled hide,he knew the luxuriousmane of hair of which hewassoproudwasnowlikelimpseaweed.Hisleftarmhadlengthenedas ifmadeofhottaffy;hecouldtouchhis wide, webbed feet, souseful for swimming,withoutevenbending.But no amount of

research had prepared themage for what it wouldfeel like to be a scrag, awater troll. Despite yearsoflivingwithhisrepulsivelimb, Lyim was still vainenough to be glad hecouldn’tseehowgrotesquehemustlooknow.Yetthewater troll was the safestform to adopt to exploretheruinsofItzanKlertalinsearchoftheCoralOracle.

The boat was pitchingdangerously with theadded weight of Lyim’snew,ten-foot-tallform,nottomentionthefishermen’sfrantic scrabbling to getaway from him. Lyimthrew himself overboard,heedlessof thehugewavehe left in his wake. Themenwereasgoodasdeadanyway.The mage-turned-scrag

instinctively reached outhislong,greenarmtowardthe swirling maelstromand drew powerfuldownwardstrokes,kickinghis wide, webbed feet.Lyim wasn’t surprised tosee that even as a scrag,his snake arm remained.Nothing he had tried innearly six years hadremoveditformorethanaday. He had starved

himself, but while hewithered, the limbflourished. He hadchopped off the snake,even doused it in oil andburned it in hisdesperation,willingtolivewithonlyonearm.Butthegrotesque limb alwaysregenerated. Illusionaryspells todisguise it simplymisfired, even when castby the most powerful

mages he could bribe. Hehad journeyed far andwide looking for anyonewho might know how tofix his magically mutatedlimb. Each fruitless tripleft him more bitter andfrustrated. He hopedfervently that this trip tothesunkencitywouldendthatpattern.Strangely, the failure

thathadlefthimthemost

bitterwasthefirst.Oh,theCouncilofThreehadbeenkind enough when he’dagreed to return toWayreth with Justariusafter the fiasco that hadcaused the mutation atStonecliff. They’d takenhim under their wing, soto speak. Par-Salian,LaDonna, and Justariushadgivenhim lodging formore than a month while

they searched their booksand their collectivememoriesforsomewaytobanish the snake from hislimb. Justarius had evenencouragedhimtotakehisTest while they searched.Despitethehandicapofhisright arm duringspellcasting,Lyim’snaturalability had helped him tostruggle successfullythrough the arduous trial

of magic taken by allmages who wished toprogress beyondrudimentaryspells.Hesawit as vindication for allthat he had suffered, andsomehow he connectedthatpositive signwith thebelief that the Council ofThree would find somewaytocurehim.ThatwaswhyLyimhad

been stunned—beyond

stunned—whentheycalledhimintotheHallofMagesto inform him that theyhad been stymied in allefforts to discover a cureforhis hand.Theproblemwas, they said, none ofthem knew what Belizehad done, what spell hadcaused the mutation.Though Justariusspecialized in rearrangingmagical patterns to create

new spells, he needed tosee theoldpattern,whichwasknownonlybyBelize,who had been tried in atribunalandputtodeath.Justarius had concludedthe meeting byencouraging Lyim tooverlookthehandicapandget on with his life;obviously it had hinderedLyimlittleinhisTest.ThenewlyappointedMasterof

the Red Robes had evenpointed to his owncrippled leg and said,“We’veallgivenupthingsforthemagic.”Justarius knew nothingabout Lyim, if he didn’trealize how much themutation had altered hislife. How could anyonecompare a game leg withthe monstrosity that wasLyim’s hand? Night and

day the thing hissed andthrashed, until he couldhearnothingelse,untilhethoughthewouldgomad.Nodding numbly, LyimhadbackedoutoftheHallofMagesandleftWayrethwithout another wordexchanged.Lyim believed they had

spoken honestly, that Par-Salian, LaDonna, andJustarius had tried. What

he could neitherunderstand nor forgivewas that the three mostpowerful mages onAnsalon were unable tofind a solution to hisproblem. It confirmedwhat he had alwayssuspected: You had onlyyourself. For theumpteenthtimeinhislife,Lyim had set off alone toalter the cards the cruel

fates had dealt him. Thatday had been the first ofthe five-and-a-half-yearsearch that led Lyim to acity sunk by theCataclysm.A whispered

conversation in a darkNerakan inn had broughthim here. There had hemet Ardn Amurchin, anevil mage who resided inthecorruptcitydominated

by volcanoes. Amurchinwas a sinister andhideously wizened olddark elfwho told Lyim attheir firstmeeting that heknew of one who had ananswer to every question.At a second meeting,Amurchin divulged thesecret of an oracle whowas trapped in thesubmerged city of ItzanKlertal. Of course, he

revealed this only afterLyimhandedoverthreeofhis best magical scrolls.Eager for any lead thatmight curehim, Lyimhadreadilypaidthemage.He was eager, but nothasty. Lyim had firsttraveledbacktoPalanthas,to the Great Library. Hefound pre-Cataclysmencyclopedic entrieswrittenby thecity leaders

to be unrevealingwhitewash, though he didlearnthatbeforethegods’wrath had reshaped theworld, the city he soughthad been known only asKlertal. The prefix Itzan,meaning ‘submerged’ inold Kharolian, was addedto the name of the ruinsafter the Cataclysm, aswellastoallnearbycitiesthatsufferedasimilarfate.

Lyim’s most fruitfulresearch came fromrecovered journals writtenby traveling clerics andmerchants. By all thoseaccounts,Klertalhadbeenan old, highly developedinlandcity,acynicalplaceof cutthroats and thieves.It had been the primarycity along a busy traderoutebetweenXakTsarothand Tarsis. One account

referred to Klertal as a“blasphemous place,without morals orredemption.” Obscenewealth abutted rankpoverty. As a rule,everyone, including cityofficials,cheatedandlied.Includingthepotentates.Unlike kings, who wereborn to their stations, theleaders of Klertalapparently bought,

bartered, or beheadedtheirwayintotheposition.Each remained ruler aslong as he staved off hisenemies. The lastpotentate, Sullento theProfane, was evidentlyexceptionally good atsquashing rebellions; heheldthepositionfornearlytenyears.Lyim found one entry,writtenbyamerchantwho

had dealt directly withSullento, particularlyinteresting.Althoughtherewas no mention of anofficial oracle in Klertal,the merchant recalledhavinghadtherarehonorof meeting one ofSullento’s concubines.Reported to be thepotentate’s favorite, sheclaimedtobesomethingofa seeress. The merchant

recalled the meetingclearly, primarily becausethewomanhadaccuratelypredicted that a world-shaking cataclysm wasimminent. Of course, noone had believed the direpredictionsofaconcubine.Luckily, themerchant hadtraveled on, thus living totellhistale.Lyimstrokedthechilling

water with his strong,

elongated arm, kickingwith his webbed feet. Helooked for the city aheadinthedim,murky lightofthe sea. Bubbles from hisown many-toothed mouthswirled about his head,obscuring his view. Heturned his head to releasebreaths, and at last got aviewofthecityofKlertal.Even if the citizens ofKlertal had believed the

concubine’s prediction, itwouldn’t have preventedtheir city from becomingtherollingexpanseofkelp-covered rubble Lyim wasnowseeing.Formerstreetswere distinguishable onlyas the clear spaces wheredebris had fallen threecenturies before. Seaweedwaved and bowed inpatchy forests scatteredacross the tumbled city.

Schoolsof fish,undauntedby the area’s sinisterreputation, darted abovethesunkencitylikemadlydashingclouds.Asidefromthem, the ruins wereunnaturally quiet anddark, save for a soft glowthat radiated from aspongy green moss thatcrawled across the surfaceof every crumbled stone.There was no sign of the

source of the churningwater on the surface ofNewSea.Lyim realized now thathe had seen a miniatureversion of the sunken cityin the wizened mage’shomeinNeraka.Amurchinhad built a glass-sidedwater tank in hislaboratory, filled it withexotic fish (for spellcomponents, he said), and

constructed shipwrecksand buildings for them toswim through. Lyim hadthoughtitanoddhobbyatthetime,butforreasonsofhisown,theoldmagehadapparently recreated thesunkencityinhishome.Itwas a minor thing, but itspoke volumes about thesignificance Amurchinplaced on the underwaterruins.

Lyim paused in hisdescent to orient himselfabove the ruins. Therewere very few two-storystructures; most buildingsof any size had long agocrumbled under their ownweightandthedebilitatingeffect of the sea. Whatremained of the city wasobviously very old. Thearchitecture was anancient,classicalstyle,not

unlike that used inPalanthas. Given thejournal entry that citedtumbledown shackssurrounding greatopulence,Lyimrealizedhemustbeseeingtheruinsofthe wealthier homes andofficial city buildings; theshacks would have longago been swept away bythesea.Offinthedistance,Lyim

spotted the brokenremains of an open-endedoval-shaped colonnade. Itledtoalonestructurethatrose above the others,reminding himof the pre-Cataclysm woodcut printof the potentate’s palacehe’d found at the GreatLibrary. Though greatlyreduced by both theearthquakes and the yearsunderwater, the palace

retainedasuggestionofitsformer opulence. Adouble-sided centralstaircase led to a smallbalcony, where potentateshad undoubtedly onceaddressed the citizens ofKlertal. Behind thebalcony, seven narrowarchways still rose threestoriesabovethecourtyardencircled by thecolonnade. Lyim was too

far away to discern more,but he was determined tomakehisway through theendlessdebristoreachthepalace.Where the streets werenot littered with rubble,Lyim spotted manyskeletonsofhumans,elves,and dwarves. The mageassumed them to be theoriginal inhabitants whoran in panic into the

streets as the citysubmerged. But there hadbeen no escape from thecity’s doom. Even largeships would have beendragged below in themassive wake, asevidenced by the manyrotting hulks scatteredincongruously across theemptystreetsandrooftops.Movement caught

Lyim’s eye as he surveyed

the scene. Several blocksfrom where he floated, alarge body of creatureswas swimming slowly,following the path of anold street. He swamtoward the group until hecould see that these, too,were original inhabitantsof the city. But these hadnotbeennotluckyenoughto die in the Cataclysm.Somehowtheyhadgained

a state of unlife, and nowlurched down the avenueas zombies. The bloatedand discolored beingsranged in age from theveryyoungtotheveryold,but all had empty eyesockets, and most hadtwisted or missing limbs,injuriessufferedduringtheCataclysm that causedtheirdeaths.Aroundandabove them

swam a dozen or moresahuagin, herding thezombies toward anunknown destination.Lyimhadneverseentheselegendary fish-menbefore,but had heard tales oftheir rapacious attacks oncoastal towns and theirutter brutality. He alsoknew they had aparalyzing fear of magic,and so he drifted in for a

closerlook.Their backs wereblackish green, shading towhite on their bellies. Adorsal-likefin,blackatthebase and shading outwardto red at the spiny tips,marked each of theirspines.Webbedfingersandtoes made them fastswimmers; mouths filledwith sharp fangs madethemdangerous.That,and

the assortment ofcrossbows, daggers, andspears they carried.Though in the body of ascrag, Lyim drew backinstinctively behind somekelp-coveredrubble.He didn’t see the sharkuntilitwasnearlytoolate.The mage could feelsomething part the waterbehind him. Spinningabout slowly,he spied the

frighteningly sleek andspeedy creature rushingtoward him, jaws spreadwide. The polymorphedmage twisted aside,narrowly avoiding therazorlike teeth in thatgigantic maw. His ownhuge claws raked acrosstheshark’sflankasitspedpast.Nowspewingathickplume of crimson, theshark turned and attacked

again. But even its speedandpowerwerenomatchfor the brutal strength ofthe scrag. As it closedagain,Lyim’sclawsslippedbeneath the creature’sbellyandtoreitopenwithone long slash. Thrashingwildly, the monsterdisappeared in a churningredcloudthatsankslowlytothebuildingsbelow.Unfortunately, the brief

fight had drawn theattention of the sahuaginguards. Immediately theyabandoned their mindlesszombie captives andrushedtoattackthescrag,one of their most hatedenemies. Half a dozenmaneuvered to the left,anotherhalfadozentotheright,withtherestcomingstraighton.Normally, this would

have been a titanicstruggle, given a scrag’sability to regenerate itselfalmost instantly. Thesahuagin, even with theadvantage of numbers,would be hard-pressed toactually kill the sea troll.ButLyimwasnotinfactascrag; he only had theform and strength of thatmonster. Without itsregenerative power, he

would quickly beovercome by smallwounds.But the last thing thesahuagin expected fromthisfoewasmagic.Amongthe few things Lyim knewabout sahuagin was thatthey detested light almostas much as they fearedmagic. Lyim’s claws rakedout. He snatched up ahandful of the faintly

glowingmossthatgrewallover the ruins, then hemuttered a single magicalword. A ball of lighterupted within the frontranks of onrushing fish-men. Itwasa simple lightspell, one of the first thatanyapprenticelearned.Onland, it cast a pale bluelight. Here, where lighthad not shone forhundreds of years, it

seemed as if the sun hadjustrisenintheirmidst.With hideous shrieksand guttural curses, thesahuagin scattered awayfrom the hated brightness—all except the one onwhom Lyim had actuallycast the spell. Unable toescape, blinded, nearlyinsane with rage, itthrashed and writhed likeahookedfish.

Another band ofsahuagin now burst fromthe ruins to Lyim’s rightand approached warily.Theirfoewasobviouslynonormal scrag. Theyappearedtobeconsideringhowbesttoattackwhenabolt of lightning rippedintotheirranksasaballofflame, boiling the wateraroundthem.Fivecharredand stewed sahuagin sank

slowly while the restscatteredtowardcover.Lyim knew that,

underwater, theusualboltoflightningbecameafieryball and would not harmhimifhecastittoformatleast ten paces away fromhimself. He didn’t knowthat behind him, a thirdgrouprushedonunabated,perhaps thinking thatspeed was their only

salvation.BeforeLyimwasevenawarethattheywerewithin striking distance, aheavy net of woven kelpwas drawn tightly aroundhim. Both his snake andlong scrag arms werepinnedtohissides,despitethe scrag’s great strength.He could not break free.Without freedomtomove,Lyimcouldnotcastspells.His struggles increased

until the sharp claws onhis webbed feet shreddedthe lower portion of thenet, but still he remainedtightlywrapped.Hissnakearm’swildhissing eruptedas bubbles. The sahuagin,true to their reputation,watched his plight withcruel amusement whileanxiously fingering theirwickedly barbed spearsandtridents.

Letthehumanpass.Lyim was startled tohear another creature’svoice inside his head. Hewascertainhe’dnothearditwithhisears,andyet itconveyedadirection,as ifit were coming frombehind him. He struggledto paddle himself aroundinside the net. Lyim’ssharpscrageyesfellontheremains of the palace

through the brokencolonnade.Apparentlythesahuagin

heard the voice as well,because they immediatelyreleasedtheirnetlinesandpaddled away from Lyimand into the shadows oftherubble.Come to me, the voice

commanded. This time itclearly came from thepalace. Lyim freedhimself

fromtheslackenednetandpaddled through thebroken sections ofcolumns, swimmingtoward the palace. Rubblefilled thecourtyardwithinthe colonnade, but Lyimfloated above it unaware,eyes and thoughts focusedon his destination. He sethis long flat feetupon therightsideofthecrumblingstaircase, stopping upon

the balcony. Just beyondthe seven archwayswas atowering central doubledoor. He approached itslowly,walking instead ofswimming across theundulating mosaic floor.Lyimwasmildly surprisedwhen the mossy doorsswung open smoothlythough slowlywithonlyalightpush.The room beyond was

round, not unlike therotunda of Lyim’s villa inPalanthas, which heappropriated after Belize’sdeath. In thecenterof thevast roomwasadais,anduponitathrone,itscarvedmarble back to Lyim. Hekicked his scrag legs andswam around the dais.Whathesawupontheseatofmajestymadehimgasp,bubbleshissinginatorrent

through his razor-sharpteeth.Seatedinthethronewasa woman—assuming shehad once been human—pinnedtothemarbleseat-backbyaharpoonthroughher chest. Hundreds ofslender tendrils of livingorange coral wrappedaround the entire throne,as if the stuff had beendripped over the oracle

like candlewax.Herheadwas unfettered, but itwasas pale as death andbloated like the zombies.Her hair looked to bemade of barnacles.AmurchinhaddubbedhertheCoralOracle.“I thank you for your

aid,” Lyim said smoothly,“though I could havemanaged the situationmyself.”

I think not, said thevaporous voice inside hishead. That form severelyhampers your magicalabilities, Lyim Rhistadt.Though she resembled azombie, the oracle’s eyesshifted with a light theundead did not possess assheevaluatedthescrag.Her familiarity startled

him. “How do you knowmy name?” Though she

spoke telepathically tohim,hiswordscameoutinbubbles.Whenthewomandidn’t respond, onlycontinued to stare, Lyimrealized the answerhimself and wasencouraged. A legitimateseer would know who hewas,andmuchmore.“I’vecome,”hesaid,“to

askyou to reveal thecureformymutatedhand.”

I know. The oracleslowly blinked. Hold thelimb in question to mycheek, she instructed. Imustdrawasenseofit.Reluctantly, the mage-

turned-scrag swept hiscolorful snake hand up toone of her belly-whitecheeks.Tohissurprise,thesnake, though usuallydriven into a frenzy byothers, was

uncharacteristically calmand content. Lyimderivedno sensation through thesnake’sflesh,buthehadagood imagination; shemust feel like a bloatedcorpse.Thewoman’s expressionsoftened slightly, as if thecontact were pleasant forher as well. Abruptly sheblinked again. I have theansweryouseek.

Lyimglidedbackwardtoa four-foot remove fromthe oracle and waitedanxiously for her tocontinue,hisbulbousscrageyessearchingherbloatedface.“Tellme,please!”First you must dosomethingforme.Lyim dropped back stillfarther, his fist clenchingat his side. He had donemore “favors” for self-

serving informants anddodderingmages over thelast five years than hecould remember, all inexchange for vague, oftenuseless, snippets ofinformation. “What is ityouaskmetodo?”Ahumanmustremovethe

harpoon from my chest tolift the curse that holds mehere.Lyimpaddledaround to

get a closer look at theencrusted weapon.“This”—Lyim indicatedher predicament with agraceful sweep of hiselongated left arm—“wastheresultofacurse?”My entrapment here was,

yes. My ability as a seercame to me naturally andwas, in fact, partially thecause of the curse. It is along tale—the story of my

entire life—but I will tell itto you simply. I wasPotentate Sullento’s favoriteconcubine,formorethantheusualreasons.“I read about you!”

exclaimedLyim.She continued as if

uninterrupted. From thestartSullentobelievedinandreliedheavilyonmyskillsasaseeresstomanagethecity.However, Iwasnothis first

or only mistress, but hisfifth.Theotherfour,oldandfat shrews, grew more andmorejealousasheturnedallhis attention away fromthem and entirely uponme.For a time I alone satisfiedhis every need. Notmaliciously to deny them, Iwill tell you, but because itwasmydutyandmyhonor.But they, of course, didnot see the diminishment of

their power that way.Together, they whispered inhis ear,whenever theywerenear enough, that I was noprophetess at all. They toldhim I was betraying himwith amage whomademypredictions come true. Theprophetess shrugged awaya span of time andtruthlessness with a blinkof her eerie eyes. It wasonlyamatteroftimebefore

Sullento, who for all hispower was no moreconfident than any man,came to believe their lies,instead of my truthfuldenials.“You tried also to warn

them of an approachingcataclysm,” interjectedLyim.She blinked again as if

nodding. By then, Sullentonolongerbelievedinme.To

punish me and warn allothers that no one wasbeyond his wrath, he badehis court wizard cast thecurse whose first stepimprisoned me thus. In apublic ceremony Sullentohimselfinflictedtheharpoonthat sealed the curse. Yousee, he could not bringhimself to kill me outright,and yet he knew no humanwould dare remove the

harpoon and free me whilehe was ruler, for fear ofretribution. And then thecataclysm struck, as Ipredicted,andtherewerenohumansleftalivetofreeme.“Surely I’mnot the first

tocomeseekinganswers?”The first to seek me, no.

Manyhave arrived over thecenturies, but ItzanKlertal’sunderwater inhabitants areevenmore inhospitable than

the surface dwellers ofKlertal were. Only twosurvived to reachme beforeyou. Onewas a clever littledark-skinned elf namedAmurchin, and the otherwas a denizen of the Abyssin the service of a humanmage master. Neither couldlift the curse. But you can;thecursewillrecognizeyourtruehumanform.Lyim could certainly

appreciate her desire tohave the curse lifted, buthewas reminded again oftheuselessleadsforwhichhe’dpaiddearly.“Givememyanswerfirst,andifitisadequate, I will gladly doasyouask.”Iwillnot,shesaidfirmly,the first true inflection inhervoice.Lyim’s lips pulled backinascowlthatexposedhis

needlelike teeth. “I coulddestroy you with onespell!”Thatwouldbepunishmentfor you and liberation of akind for me, she saidwithoutguile.“What if I refuse?” hedemanded, feeling backedintoacorner.Then I will remain here,and you will still have nohand.

Lyim heaved an inwardsigh and briefly ponderedhis options, which wereslim to none. He wouldnever willingly leavewithout his answer. Heconsoledhimselfforgivinginwiththethoughtthathecouldalwaysobliterateherafterward, if her wordsprovedpointless.Plantinghiswebbedfeet

at the base of the slick,

kelp-covered throne, hewrapped the long greenfingers of his left handaround the smoothharpoon shaft and tugged.It didn’t budge. Surprisedat the difficulty, Lyimtucked the pole under hisarm more firmly andpulled with all his might.The lance shifted.Summoning even morestrength, Lyim was

rewarded for his effortswhen he felt the weaponshudder slightly. Probablya barb breaking off, hethought. And then it slidback, slowly at first butgaining speed. At last hewrenched the harpoonfrom the oracle’s chest.The effort sent Lyimspinning away from thedais. He dropped theharpoon and righted

himself so that his eyeslockedontheoracleinthethrone.The vivid coral thatcrawled across her paleform,pinningher,crackedlike glass and sank to thedais at her feet; thebloatedwoman broke freeof the throne. Whateverdress she had once wornhad disintegrated duringmore than three hundred

years in salt water. Herhideous, blue-white bodyspun away, circling theroom with a slow, jerkymotion.I had forgot what it feltlike to move, she breathedsoftly, examining everynook and cranny of theroom with a child’sdelight. The oraclepaddled slowly, stifflytowardthewide-opendoor

that ledout to the sunkencity,eagertoseewhatwasbeyond.“Wait!” cried Lyim,

swimming after her. “Ifreed you. Now pay mewhatyouoweme!”The oracle paddled

halfway about andregarded him over thehardness of her barnaclelocks. You have beensearchingforacurewithout

knowing the true cause ofyour malady. The answer,andyourarm,stillliewithinthe dimensional bridgewhere it was lost. Seek thebuilderofthebridge.“Belize?” cried Lyim.

“Buthe’sdead!”The dead are not beyond

thereachofthosewhowieldmagic. The oracle’s eyeswere focused over Lyim’sshoulder,attheworldthat

lay beyond this room. NooneknowsthatbetterthanI,whohavewaitedmore thanthreecenturies topunishthespirits of four shrews. Fare-thee-well,LyimRhistadt.Lyim’s dark scrag eyes

watched her vaguely asshe slithered out the doorand disappeared into themurky city. The answerthathadeludedhimforsolong had been under his

nose from the start.Strangely, the realizationleft him with morequestions than he’d hadbefore coming toblasphemousItzanKlertal.

DearMaladorigar,I am writing this without

knowing if I will ever beallowedtosendit.Therulesregarding communicatingwith people outside Bastionareunclear.Perhapsthiswillhelp me sort through mythoughts, at any rate, andthenIwon’tfeelsolonely.ZagarusandIarrivedfivemonths ago, although youwould be able to calculatethatbetterthanI.Timeisanodd thing here. There’s

neither sun nor moons tomarkthepassingdays.Iamestimating time by thegrowth of my hair: oneindex finger joint every twomonths.Withnowheretogo,itmattersverylittleanyway.The Council of Three

teleportedZagandmetothecourtyard, or inner bailey,my bags in hand. It was asdark as ink, for there wereno stars above. I felt dizzy,

and it took several minutesformyeyestoadjust—tothedarkness,Ithoughtfirst.Theimmense building before melooked flat and seemed towaverasifinasummerheatwave. I closedmy eyes andwilled my body to stopswaying, as Justarius hadinstructedme.Iopenedthemagain when I could standstill for at least threeheartbeats.

The sight took me backfive years, to a mountainvalley in the morningshadows of Skullcap. Icouldn’t help thinking ofEsme and the time we hadspent helping to build thismarvel.Istillmissher.Bastion’s outline fit the

pattern in my memory: ashort, flat-faced facadeleading the way to thedisparatedesignsofthethree

wings behind it. The facadeismadeofamosaicoffiredwhite porcelain, red granite,andblackonyxtosymbolizetheworkingharmonyof thethree orders of magic. Icould see that gargoyles—real, live ones—had beenadded to every ledge andarch on all three sections.Topiary trees and oddstatues,carefullydesignedtocast realisticand frightening

shadows in the odd, angledlight, were also new to myeyes.One other new featurethatImustcommentonwasalmost imperceptible in thewan light until I got veryclose to Bastion. The entireedifice is covered, top tobottom and front to back,withrunes,sigils,andmysticetchingsofeveryvariety.I’vesincespentmuchofmyfree

time studying their designand have them nearlyunraveled. The challenge ofit kept me interested andactive when I otherwisemight have begun seriouslymissing my home andfamiliarsights.SeeingBastionagainafter

so long brought to mindsomething unexpected andlong forgotten. Many yearsbefore the building of the

stronghold, while I was anapprentice in Justarius’shouse, Esme had talked meinto watching my firsttheatrical production. I hadnot even heard of suchthings before coming to thebig city of Palanthas.Whatimpressed me most was notthe story, or even theplayers, for I can remembernothing of either, but thebackdrop that had been

created for the stage. Itwasa street scene, with falseshop fronts and homes thatlookedquite real in theoddgreenwhiteglowprovidedbythe bowls of powdered limeand water that served asfootlights.Irealizethisseemsalong

digression, but I tell youbecause if you have everseen such a sight, you willunderstandhow theexterior

of Bastion looks now. Notdark,exactly,butverydimlylitfromthebottomup.Ifeltas if I stood upon a stage,though I knew the buildingbefore me was not false-fronted, nor the darknessbeyond the edges of myvision merely stage wingshiddenbyheavycurtains.I knew, too, that the

frightening sounds aroundmedidnotcomefromactors

inthewings,waitingtoplaythe parts of hounds.Plaintivebayingechoedfrombeyond the lacy wrought-ironfencethatsurroundsthestronghold. I could see redeyesglowingatanunknowndistance, oddly shaped andplaced;onehere,threethere,not like any wolves I hadeverseen.Zagarus was pressed

against my leg, for once

speechless. To our mutualgreat relief, the enormous,archeddoorbeforeusswungopen on creaky hinges,floodingthecourtyardatourfeet with yellow light. Iremember it only because Ihadnotfeltlikesucharubesince I arrived as anapprenticeatJustarius’svillathose many years ago. Mymouth hung agape, I amsure.

“You’re here. Come in. Ihave too much to do to bestanding in the doorway.”The voice was brisk, yetunmistakably female, andhad the hint of an accent Istill have been unable toplace.Her facewas entirelyinshadow.There was no question of

not complying with thatvoice, however. I could feelZag paddling up the slick,

porcelain steps next to meand can only imagine howincongruous he must havelookedtoher,aseagullwithno sea in sight. Thesilhouettedwomanpointedlyignoredhim.Westoppednexttoherin

thedoorway,andIsquinted,still unable to see herfeatures. “I’m GuerrandDiThon,” I said,knowingasIdidhowfoolishImusthave

sounded.She looked meaningfully

at my red robes. “Do youthinkIopenthedoorforjustanyonewhohappensby?”I looked toward the red

eyesbeyond the fence.“Hasanyonejusthappenedby?”“Notyet.”“Andyournameis—?”“Mybusiness.”Shewaved

us through the doorimpatiently. “Dagamier.”

The bright light fell acrossherface,andat last Icouldsee her. She looked young,perhaps of an age with mylittle sister Kirah, exceptaroundtheeyes.Thoughherskin was unlined, there wasa depth of experience, acynical sadness, even, inorbs the dark blue of anangry,storm-tossedsea.Dagamier was—is—a

study in contrasts. Skin as

white and unblemished asunveined marble, morepolished than pale. Straight,shoulder-length hair thesame midnight black as thesilk robe she always wears.She’s one of those peoplewho looks good, sensuouseven, in black, with hersharp,compactanglesandawoman’s soft, gracefulmoves. She’s smart as awhip, with a tongue to

match. I am ever oneggshellswithher.Frankly,Ihaven’t figured her out yet,and I’m not sure a lifetimeof study would help that.But I’m getting ahead ofmyself.“Iwill showyouthenave

area that is common to usall and to the red wing,”Dagamier said, leading usinto the apse. “Ezius willlikelygiveyoua tourof the

white wing when he hascompleted his shift in thescryingsphere.Youwillhaveno need to see the blackwing.”“I have seen it,” I saidabruptly, involuntarily. “I’veseen them all, at least fromtheoutside.”She looked over hershoulder, one brow archedskeptically.“Didn’t the Council tell

you?” I felt compelled toask. “I was among thetwenty-one mages whohelped build Bastion beforeitwasmoved here from thePrimeMaterialPlane.”Honestly, Maladorigar, Idon’t know what made metell her all that. I shouldhaveknown itwouldannoyher.Dagamier’s firm-lippedsilence confirmed that it

had.“Then you will not berequiringatour.”Shetookastep to leave, and Iinstinctively reached out ahand to her forearm. IthoughtIhadtouchedfire.“Oh,butIdoneedone,”I

assured her quickly, pullingmy hand away. “Nothinginside looks as I rememberit. My involvement in theconstruction ended with theraising of the walls. The

interior was completed bythe Council of Three afterthey sent the other eighteenrepresentativesfromthesite.Even the gargoyles, thefence, the creatures beyondit,therunesthatsurroundit,areallnewtome.”“The runes were drawn

uponBastionbytheCouncilof Three to send Bastionhere. The creatures are hellhounds, other-dimensional

flame-belching monstrositieswith fangs and claws,broughtherebyLaDonnaasthe black order’scontribution to security.They patrol outside thefence.”Shecontinuedinherboredvoice,asifreadingtheinformationfromahandbill.“The gargoyles wereconjuredbyJustariusforthered wing; they watch theforecourt for unwanted

visitors.”Catchingthepatternhere,Iasked,“AndthefencewasPar-Salian’sdoing?”She staredatme for longmoments in a mostdisconcertingmanner.“No.”Dagamier walked throughthe apse to the soaringcentral nave. It, too, wasnew to me, and seemed toserve no other purpose thanto connect the three wings

that join it at equidistantpoints from the toweringfront door. Actually, ninedoors lead away from thisarea: one each to thewhiteand red wings respectively,seven into the black wing,seven separate and distinctrooms that can only beenteredfromthenave.In the center of the room

isawide,roundcolumnthatstretches from floor to

ceiling. A support pillar, Isupposed, not recalling itfrom the construction. Thecolumn is ringed by anarrow, fish-filled gurglingstream, like a miniaturemoat, whose source is amystery.“That column houses thescrying diorama, Par-Salian’s contribution todefense,” Dagamier saidpointedly.“Eachofus takes

a shift inside, watchingBastion and this entiredemiplane for signs ofintrusion.”“Ofcourse,”Isaidlamely,wishing I soundedmore likethe new high defender thansome sheepish apprentice.Glancing around, I wasstruck by the whiteness ofthe walls, the natural-lookingbrightnessthatseemsto filter down from the

ceiling,asifit’saglasspanethat faces the sun. Par-Salian’s influence here isobvious, as is Justarius’s.The snowy whiteness isbroken only by man-sizedlush,tropicalplants.Thereislittle evidence of LaDonna’shand here, except, perhaps,intheshadows.Dagamiermust have seen

me looking at the greenery,because she said, “The

plants and fish have alwaysbeentheresponsibilityoftheredrepresentative.They’dallbedeadifitwereuptome.”She looked at Zagarus forthe first time. “Naturally,yourgullanditsmessisalsoyourresponsibility.”Zag’s wing feathers

gathereduplikeabirdinthecold.DoesshethinkIcan’thear her? he griped.Imagine talking about me

likeI’msomewildanimal.“Of course—” I barelymanaged to mutter toDagamier.“We can discuss otherduties, like the scryingsphere, after you’ve settledinyourrooms.”Uh-oh,sangZagarus.Sheobviously doesn’t knowyou’retheboss!“Did they… theCouncil,that is…tellyouaboutmy

position?”Igulped.Dagamier looked up withone dark eye. “The topguardthing?”“High defender,” Icorrected her gently. Thiswas not going well. Since Iwas to be her superior, Idecided to take the bull, sotospeak,bythehorns.“Youdon’t likememuch.Or is ittheideaofme?”“Frankly, I haven’t

thought of either,” she saidwith a dismissive wave ofher hand. “If it makes youfeel any better, though, Idon’t like anyone much.That’swhy I soughtout thisposition.Iprefersolitude.”And the world is better

forit,snortedZag.Iswallowedasmilewitha

cough. “Uh, how long haveyoubeenhere?”“Long enough.” She

pierced me with narrowedeyes. “I hope you won’t beinclined to changeproceduresandroutinesyouknownothingabout.”Doyouwantmetopeck

the harridan? Zag said tome. I think I’ll call herHarry,forshort.I almost laughed despite

my growing irritation, sounexpected and apt wasZag’s evaluation. I can

handle her, I ensured myfamiliarsilently.Actually, Zagarus’s

genuine but ridiculous offerhelped knock the insecurityrightoutofme.Isensedthatif I didn’t demandDagamier’s respect in thatinstant, if only for theposition I hold, I wouldnever get it. I silentlyinvoked a quick protectivemagicandquiteliterallybut

gentlypokedheronceinhermannishlapels.“Look,” I said fiercely, “Ican understand yourirritationat beingpassedupfor promotion, but I won’ttolerate your insolence. I’min chargehere,whetheryoulikeitornot.TheCouncilofThreeobviouslywantsmetobe high defender. I wouldhate to have to report tothem that there is another

position to fill.” I spokewithout heat, but loweredmy eyes briefly to thepattern on the floor.“Dependable black wizardsarehardtofind.”Dagamier pushed herselfaway with surprisingstrength for someone of hersize. She met my eyes fullyfor the first time, and therewas neither anger nordistastethere.Iwouldn’tcall

it respect, but a wearyacceptance. It was morethanIexpected.Theshorttourwentbetterafter that. Dagamierwas atleastcivil,ifnotpleasant.“Did the Council tell youwhere Bastion is, in thescheme of the cosmos, thatis?” she asked while wewalked slowly about thenave.“ ‘Beyond the circles of

the universe,’ I believe theysaid.Theydidn’twanttotellmemorespecificallyforfearthat I might let the secretslip.”“Believe it or not,” shesaid,beginningtosteermeinthedirectionoftheredwing,“Bastion is visible fromKrynn, if only you knowwhere to look.” She musthave seen the disbelief onmyface,becauseshestopped

to lookme. “It’s true. Haveyou ever noticed the darkline on the horizon, whereearth and sea meet sky?That’s the side of Bastion,liketherimofasteelpiece.”I nodded slowly inunderstanding, thinking itsomehowfittingthatIshouldend up here, when I hadspent so much of my youthstaring wistfully at thehorizonfromtheheathnear

CastleDiThon.Contemplating that line, Isaid aloud, “That wouldmeanBastion’splaneistwo-dimensional.”Dagamier lookedimpressed. “You probablynoticed a sense ofdisorientation, of flatness,when you arrived in thecourtyard.”I nodded again. “It wentawaysofastIthoughtitwas

a side effect ofteleportation.”“Most people’s sensesadjust to the change prettyquickly and everythingbeginstolooknormal.”“Does that mean I haveonly two dimensions now?”The thought worriedme forsomereason.Dagamier’s glossy headshookas shepondered.“Letmethinkofawaytoexplain

it.You,me,thisplace”—shegave an inclusive wave ofher arm—“were created inthe three dimensions of thePrime Material Plane, thentransported here. We didn’tloseanyofourdefinitionbycoming to a place that onlyrecognizestwodimensions.”She snapped her fingers

when another thought cameclear.“It’slikevisualacuity.YouandImaybothlookat

a statue that’s fifty feetaway. If my eyesight isbetter, Iwill seemoredetailin the statue than you, butthat doesn’t mean thedetailisn’t there when youlookatit.”Sheheldupbothhands in an expressivelyquestioning gesture. “Doesthatmakesense?”“I think so,” I muttered,tryingtopieceitalltogether.“Does it follow, then, that

anything created here andsent to the Prime Materialwould have only twodimensions?”Dagamiernodded.“Then that’s why theCouncil decided to buildBastiononKrynnandbringit here,” I realized at last.“I’d thought it was only forconvenienceorsecrecy.”“Probably all three.” Shedismissed the subjectwith a

shrug.“Thenave,”shesaid,redirectingmy attention, “isthe only space we share,asidefromtheentryapse.”Dagamier pointed to the

column. “Each of us spendsa third of our time, inrotating shifts, monitoringBastion’s perimeter througha magical replica of theplane.” She blinked. “Atleast, that is how we havedividedthetaskpreviously.”

I was surprised that somuch of my time would bespentstaringatamodel.“Itsounds as fair a system asany,”Iassuredher.Just then, a hidden door-sized panel slid back in thecolumn, and a sparklingfootbridge of glass spreadlike a rainbow across themoat. Out stepped a funnylittlemanwhoremindedmestrongly of the wizened old

chamberlain at CastleDiThon. He wore an ill-fitting white robe edged ingold thread.His long, frizzyhair,thecolorofsunlightonadullday,wasaskew,asifhe’d just stepped out of afierce wind. Seeing me withDagamier, he blinked witheyes that were small blackdots behind very thickspectacles. He crossed thesmall magical bridge and

stoodamongthegreenery.“Nothingtoreporttoday,”he said to my black-robedguide, ignoring me. “Yourhell hounds became excitedwiththenewarrival,andthegargoyles grew edgy, buttheyallseemtohavequietednow.Ishereadyforhisfirstwatch?”themanaskedwitha slight jerk of his headtowardme. “Orwill you betakingthenextone?”

BeforeIcouldsayIwouldbe happy to take myturn,Dagamier steppedacrossthebridgeandpausedunder the slidingpanel.“Hehasn’t even been to hisrooms yet.” The bridgeretracted like a fan anddisappeared. Dagamierwithdrew into the column,and the panel closed behindher,leavingnoseam.I stoodwithEzius, feeling

uncomfortable and vaguelyirritated. No one hadwarned me that they bothhad stunted social skills. Ifhe was as abrasive andresentfulasDagamier,Iwasgoingtohavequiteatimeofmanagingthingshere.“Yes,well,thatwon’tdo,”

Ezius muttered to himself.“Theonlywaytofix that istolethimlookathisrooms.There’s no point in delaying

that. None at all.” Thewhite-robed magemeandered toward the doortohiswing.“Say, uh, Ezius, is it?” Icalledafterhimawkwardly.The man stopped hismumbling and his steps tolook vaguely over hisshoulder.“Yes?Yes,well?”“I-I thought we might atleastintroduceourselves.”“Haven’t we?” He

shrugged. “I guess not. Idon’tknowyourname.”“It’sGuerrand.MyfriendscallmeRand.”“Rand.…Yes,well,that’sanicename, isn’t it? IonceknewamannamedRind,anexcellent cobbler fromBlodehelm. He could resoleapairofbootsintwowinksof an eye, and always usedthe best quality thread andleather. Although there are

those who think that catgutmadefromtwistingthedriedintestines of sheep issuperior.”He blinked atmethrough those thick lenses.“Rindwashisname. Idon’tsupposeyouknowhim?”I lookedathimclosely to

see ifhewas jesting,buthisface was guileless. “No, I’msorryIdon’t.”What plane is he on?

Zagarussnorted.

I breatheda sighof reliefso loud even Ezius wouldhave noticed if he hadn’talreadydepartedthroughanarched, immense whitedoorway to the right of thenave. I’d realized themumblingmagewasn’tbeingintentionally abrasive, hewassimplybefuddled.Reading over hismaster’s shoulder, Zagaruspecked gently at

Guerrand’s hand until hesethisquilldownuponthedesk in the library of theredwing.“Whatisit,Zag?”Make sure you tellMaladorigar that Ezius isn’tjust befuddled, he’s a realstick-in-the-mud.Guerrand didn’t entirelyagree with the gull’sassessment, so he ignoredit and picked up the quill

again. But the birdwasn’treadytobesilentyet.Is it just me, or does

Dagamier remind you ofLaDonna?Guerrandscreweduphis

faceinthoughtashetriedto envision both womenside by side. “I suppose Isee a little resemblance,”heagreedat last,“but I’mnot sure it isn’t justbecause they’re both

womenandbothmages.”Esmewasawomanandamage,Zagaruspointedout,and Dagamier doesn’tremind me the least bit ofher.Guerrand felt himselftense at the mention ofEsme. Would it ever stophurting? And why wasZagarus, who knew howmuch the subject painedhismaster, poking awing

in the wound? Guerrandclosedhiseyestightlyandwilled patience. “What Imeant was, LaDonna andDagamier are both dark-haired women who weartheblackrobes.”I suppose. With that,Zagarus closed his beadyeyes in reluctantconcession, ruffled hiswings into a comfortableposition, and dropped off

to sleep on the desk nexttoGuerrand.The mage gratefullyreturned to the safety ofhis letter to the gnomebackinHarrowdown.

Withtheintroductionsoutof the way, there wasnothing keeping me fromexploringtheredwing.Maladorigar,Ican’tbegin

to describe how comfortableandcarefullyconsidered theredwingis.Thereisasenseof Justarius’s own subtledignity to the magic thatmaintains my apartments—no talking teapotsor crazedbrooms andtheir ridiculouslikehere.The wing’s six rooms aresetinarectangle,allofthemmore warmly inviting thanthe last. Just one is large

enoughtomakeourhouseinHarrowdown look like ashack. I’m sorry, that wasless than thoughtful, sinceyou’restilllivingthere.Anyway,thefirstroomon

the right off the circularnave is a large, practicalstoreroom. All I have to doissetwhateverIwishstoredjustinsidethedoorway,andthe next time I return it’sbeen put in its proper place

upontheshelves.Across the hall from thestoreroom is the daily livingarea, where I cook and eatmy meals. It’s stocked withenough pans and plattersand is of sufficient size tofeed a visiting troop ofnobles and all theirretainers. There’s a hugefireplace that burnsconstantly and is far largerthan I need to prepare the

simplegruelsIamcapableofcooking. I surely miss yourherbalstews.Next to this area is mysleeping chamber. I spendlittle time upon the softfeather tick, yet enough toknow that I far prefer it tomy straw bed inHarrowdown.The sleeping chamberleads directly into a roomthat I suspect was modified

by Justarius formy benefit.OrshouldIsayZagarus’s?Idon’t remember it from theoriginal floor plan. All ofnature that is absent fromBastion is painted here inmurals that cover the floor,walls, and ceiling. Blue seatotheleft,greenfieldstotheright,andinthemiddleisanelaborate pool someone(which is why I suspectJustarius) went to a great

dealoftroubletomakelooklike the seashore nearThonvil. Live heather andpampas grass abound. Realwater abuts the blue seamuralontheleftedge,givingthescenetheinfinitelookofthe horizon line betweenwater and sea. Zagarus inparticular feels quite athomehere.Myfavoriteroom,though,is the laboratory. It’s by far

the biggest, taking up theentire short end of therectangle farthest from thenave.Iwasconcernedaboutbeing unable to collect myown components of thequality you grow inHarrowdown, but I needn’thavebeen.Oh,Ididn’tmeanthat thewayitsounded. It’sjust that the lab camestocked with things I’venever even heard of, all

perfectly catalogued andstored in the highest qualitygreenglass.Idon’tknowifIhave Justarius or mypredecessor to thank. Isuspecttheformer,sincethejars magically refillthemselves. No morepluckingposiesinahotfieldwhile angry bees sting myhead!Or maybe my favorite

room is the library. I have

notseenoneitssizesincemyfather’s at Castle DiThon.But instead of containingonly the occasional tomeabout magic, this one holdsfloor-to-ceiling spellbooks,with softly cushionedbenches on which to readthem.Newbooksappearonthe shelf now and then. Ieven found an entry aboutRannoch, the black wizardfrom my dreams, that I

hadn’t read before.Unfortunately, it addednothing new to myunderstandingofhim.I’ve had the Dream withgreat regularity here,Mal. Ithought it might go away,onceItookchargeofmylifeagain and came to Bastion,but it hasn’t. If anything, itcomes more frequently andfervently to me here. Iconfess,Bastionhasinspired

moments when I couldunderstand Rannoch’ssacrifice. I feel I am a partof something bigger thanmyself, something worthdyingfor.…Still, I can’t shake thethought that there’ssomething else I’m supposedtolearnfromthatpartofmyTest,somelessonI’venotyetbeenabletounderstand.I’vebeen trying to screw up the

courage to ask Dagamier ifthere is something aboutRannoch in her library. Hewas, after all, a wizard ofthe Black Robes, which iswhat continues to disturbme. We don’t enter eachother’s areas withoutinvitation here, and neitherDagamier nor Ezius havebeen forthcoming with one.It is my right as highdefender to demand

entrance,butIdon’twanttolose whatever goodwill Ihaveengenderedbydoingsowithoutgoodreason.The Dream aside, I am

wanting for nothing here,exceptcompanionship. Eziusispleasantenoughwhenhe’slucid.But it seems that he’salways either scurrying off,muttering about someobscure and unintelligiblething, or stopping to lecture

meabout some obscure andboring thing. Sometimes, Iconfess,I’mlonelyenoughtofeigninterest.Dagamierisanotherstory.

While she is no longerinsolent, there is a darknessin her soul that permeateseverything she says anddoes.Conversationswithherfrequently leave me lonelyand depressed. I have nodoubtwhyshechosetowear

theblackrobes.

Guerrand stopped againbriefly to make sureZagarus was no longerreading over his shoulder.He watched the slow riseand fall of the bird’sbreast, heard the slightwhistle-wheeze of Zagarusat sleep. Reassured, hepicked up the quill once

more and dipped it intothepotofblackink.

You may be wonderingwhy I’m so lonely withZagarushere.Icantellyou,Mal, that Zagarus is notdoing well. I don’t know ifit’s old age, or being awayfromtheseaandotherbirds,or both. His color is bad,feathers and eyes dull. He

scarcely talks to meanymore, especially after Ireprimanded him for fishingin the moat around thescryingcolumn.I must also confess to

occasionalrestlessness.AmIone of those people who isneversatisfiedwithwhereheisorwhatheisdoing?

Guerrand’sheadshotup

from the page at thedistant sound of wildbaying. He set the quilldown, cocked his head,andlistened.Zagarus’s eyes popped

open. Sounds like the hellhounds,heobserved.The mage nodded. “But

how can they be so closethat we can hear them?Unless …” Guerrand lettheword trailashismind

finished the horrifyingthought. “Stay here,” hecommanded as he jumpedto his feet. The chair flewback and crashed to thefloor of the library.Guerrandwas through thedoorway and down thelong hallway to the naveinamatterofheartbeats.Ezius stood by the

column, his pale faceetchedwith concern. “I’ve

never heard the houndsfrom inside Bastion,” heremarkedsoberly.Just then the panel in

the central columnopened. Dagamier pokedher dark head outanxiously. “The hellhounds and gargoylesappear to be poised for afight.”“How is that possible?”

demanded Ezius. “Control

of the hounds is yourresponsibility, Dagamier!”He looked at Guerrand.“Can’t you maintain theenchantment on yourgargoyles?”Ezius’s accusationsbrought a scowl toDagamier’s white face.“Not all of Bastion’smagical defenses areentirelypredictable,Ezius.Gargoyles, if you haven’t

heard, are chaotic evilcreatures. I think it’sremarkablethatthishasn’thappened before in fiveyears.”“I still say the Councilshould have anticipatedsuchproblems.”“They did,” cut inGuerrand. “That’s whywe’re here. If Bastionfunctioned automatically,there’d be no need for

guardians.” Guerrand wasalready running for theapse and Bastion’sentrance when he said,“Ezius, man the sphere.I’mgoingouttoseewhat’shappening.”Dashing after him,

DagamiercaughtGuerrandby the arm and spun himaround. “You can’t gochargingout there.Maybeyou trust the gargoyles to

attack only intruders, butthe hell hounds will killanything they can sinktheirteethinto.”Dagamier had pulled

him into one of the blackwing’s seven doorwaysbefore hewas even awareof moving. “Let’s use theobservation tower abovethe blackwing,” she said,tappingthewallinsidethedoor.Adoorwayslidopen,

revealing a long, narrowflightofstairs.Another door flew open

andtheyemergedintothewindless, dark air abovethecourtyardonanarrowwalkway hidden by thefacade. The sounds ofsnarling,shriekinganimalscutthembothtothecore.The mages clapped handsovertheirearstohushthesound, but it did little

good.Thenoiseseemedtoslicethroughthefleshandbonesoftheirhandslikeasharp pick on its way totheirbrains.Apprehension madeDagamier’s voice soundlikeawhisper, thoughsheshouted above the din,“Thegargoylesaregone.”Guerrand did a swiftscanofthenearbypointedgables of the white wing.

He searched the smooth,flat ledges of the red andblack wings. The hideous,winged creatures whoposedasdownspouts on astronghold that never sawrainwereindeedgone.“There!” yelledDagamier, pointing.Guerrand followed herfinger and the sounds tothe left, to an area indarkest shadow beyond

the fence. Bursts of flameand red-hot eyes revealedthe presence, if not theoutlines, of the hellhounds. Squinting in theperpetual dimness,Guerrand could make outbentbarsinthatsectionoffence, and through themconstant but undefinedmovement. Occasionallythe area was lit up by aflash of fire from a hell

hound,butthisdidlittletoilluminatethesituation.By the time Guerrand

realized that Dagamierwas casting a spell, shewasalreadydone.Itwasasimple light spell,suspended over the battle.All six of the gargoylesappeared to be battlingfour to six hell hounds.The entire scenewas sucha chaotic swirl of limbs,

dirt, and fire that it washard to tell which side, ifeither, was winning. Thestony gray hide of thegargoyles was largelyimpervious to the fangsand claws of the hellhounds, and if a gargoyledidgetintoserioustroubleits enormous wings couldeasily carry it out ofdanger. But the dark redhell hounds were vicious

fighters who would gangtogethertooverwhelmonefoeatatime,ordisappearinto the shadows if hardpressed.At the corner of his

sight, Guerrand sawDagamier’s eyes sink shut.“Whatareyouplanningtodo?”heasked.Herhandsbegan to rise

inaswirlingmotion.“Slaythem before they

completely destroy thefence. We’ll replace themwithanewbatch.”“That would solve theimmediate problem, aswould putting them tosleep,” agreed Guerrand,“butitwouldalsoleaveuswith no inner guardiansfor some time. I have abetter idea,” he said.“Followmylead.”“Do I have a choice?”

askedDagamier, but therewas no malice in herhusky voice. “We’d betterhurrybeforethelightspellgoesout.”Guerrand dashed to theopposite side of theoverlook. Below in thecourtyard were many ofthe strangely sculptedtopiaryplantshehadseenon his arrival. Whenviewed directly, the plant

shapes wereunidentifiable. But in theoddly angled light ofBastion, they cast verydistinct, disturbingshadows against theedifice. While none ofthese shadows wasrecognizable, all of themhad an eery familiarity,like shapes rememberedfromnightmares.Guerrand spread his

arms and extended themforward in a sweepingmotion. As he did so, theshadowsmovedawayfromthe trees and lumberedforward.Theirmotionwasgraceful and fluid, andthey advanced steadilytowardthegashedfence.Dagamier was unsure

what Guerrand had inmind, but she did as hehadorderedandanimated

the shadows from theother side of the mainentrance. Shortly, severaldozen shadows wereflowingtowardthefight.As the first shadows

slippedintothemelee,thegargoyles and hell houndspaused momentarily,unsure what washappening. Then one ofthe hell hounds unleasheda blast of fiery breath at

theshapes,but itcrackledharmlessly through thedarkness. Guerrand wasready on the roof andimmediately loosed asleeping spell at theattacking hell hound,which crumpledsoundlessly to theground.Startled by the apparentdemise of one of theirown, two other houndstore into the shadows and

fell prey to Guerrand’sspell. Both lay motionlessontheground.The remaining hellhounds and gargoylesslowly backed away fromtheadvancingshadows.Inthebriefrespite,Guerrandand Dagamier quicklyreestablished their charmspells that usuallycontrolled the guardianbeasts.

The gargoyles returnedtotheirperches,chitteringsoftly, their sightsanchored on the shadowsin the courtyard. Thehounds whimpered brieflybehindthe fence, then fellsilent,redeyeswatching.Guerrand lowered arms

that felt as heavy as if abag of coins hung fromeach.Dagamier’s head tilted

to regard him. “Whatmade you think of usingtheshadows?”Guerrandshrugged.“My

brother and sister and Iusedtoplayagamewhenwe were kids. Back whenthegardenwasmore thanweeds, we’d wait untildark and then tell eachother stories about whatall the shadow-shapesreally were. Rosemary

shrubsbecamechild-eatingogres under moonlight,and the like. Then we’ddare each other to gofartherandfartherintothegarden. I tell you it wasfrightening, even thoughwe knew they were onlyshrubs.” He shrugged.“Everythinglooksdifferentindarkness.“It’shardtopredicthow

long itwill take gargoyles

and hell hounds to catchon,” continued Guerrand.“They’re really morebrawn thanbrain. Still, aslong as they think theshadows will intervene,neither side is likely tocross the darkness of thecourtyard.”Tired to his bones, the

mage took several stepstowardthestaircase.“Thisepisodehastaughtmetwo

things, though,” heconfessed. “We must beeven more vigilant aboutmaintaining theenchantments over suchcreatures—take nothingfor granted. And, startingtomorrow,whileoneofusremains in the scryingsphere at all times, theothers will begin practicedrills for battle readiness.We’ll have no more

scrambling for thedoorway like scaredrabbits.”Dagamier held the dooropenforGuerrand.Onherface was an unmistakablelook of respect. It was alook the high defender ofBastionhadlongwaitedtosee.

Standing in the

underground laboratorythat had once beenBelize’s,Lyimcontinuedtoponder the oracle’smessage. She’d said thatLyim’s former master hadthe answer to curing thesnakemutation.Itwasnota new thought. It wasn’tidle curiosity that hadprompted Belize to thrusthis apprentice’s arm intothe portal that night on

Stonecliff. The archmagehad known full well theconsequences of theaction.Healoneknew theexact cause of themutation, so it was onlylogical Belize could havefathomed a cure, if hewerealive.The oracle told Lyim to

look beyond the grave forhisanswer,toseekitfromBelize’s spirit. However,

what she was suggestingwas not usually in therealmofawizard’spower.Still, Lyimhad never paidmuch heed to thedistinctions betweenschoolsofmagic. Ifeveramage had broken thebounds, it was Belize.Lyim had once seen themaster conjure a denizenof theAbyss—wasBelize’sspirit really so different

fromthat?The spellbooks and

other texts not used atStonecliff by the formerMaster of the Red Robesstill lined the shelves inthe undergroundlaboratory.TheCouncil ofThree had reviewed themafter Belize’s execution,having burned those he’dused, but found nothingelse related to Belize’s

attempt to reach the LostCitadel. They had thenturned their attention toremoving the ghastlyremains of Belize’s gatingexperiments.Lyim rolled up the left

sleeveof his red robe andbeganpullingbooksdownto the table. He held oneopen with his scaly rightelbow and thumbedthrough the parchment

pages with his left hand,looking for references toconjuringthedead.The snake bobbed backandforthforashorttime,eyeing the paraphernaliaon the table. Then itsuddenly lunged at acandlestick, knocking overthe metal stand and theburning taper. Lyimsnatched up the candlebefore it could scorch any

of thepotentiallyvaluablepapers spread before him.In the meantime, thesnake’s thrashing alsoknocked an empty glassbeaker to the stone floorand scattered severalquills. Lyim yanked thecursed arm back and heldit well away from thedisruption while hestruggled one-handed toput everything back in its

place.Itwas tough, even after

nearly six years, using hislefthandfortasks.Hestillcouldn’twrite legiblywithit, so he avoided writingwheneverpossible,oruseda minor cantrip to makenotes. Eating was a one-handed embarrassment—foodsimplyrefusedtostayon his fork. He hadresorted to drinking most

of his meals, since hecould hold a mug wellenough.The real shame of it

was,he rarely indulged inhis favorite mug-holdingevent: partaking of ale atthe many inns ofPalanthas.Hisface,thoughthin and drawn, was stillperfectly handsome.Women continued tofollowhimwiththeireyes

and their bodies. Untilthey saw the snake. Theirhorrified stares as theydrew back convinced himthat even solitude wasbetter than their disgust,orworsestill,theirpity.Books, scrolls,

parchments, it took Lyimdays to sort through allthatBelizehadacquiredorwritten.Helitathirdthickbeeswax candle in the

windowless laboratory,lettinghistiredeyeslingeron the soothing yellowflame.Was he grasping atstrawsbytryingtoconjuresome flicker of Belize’sessence? Was he justprolonging the momentwhen he would have toadmittohimselfthattherewasnocure forhishand?He had long ago decidedthatthatdaywouldbehis

last.Lyim looked away fromthe candle, eyes burningfrom the sweet-smellingsmoke. Wearily he pulleddownoneofthelastbookson the shelf, a smallish,homemade thing, boundtogether with a brittleleather lace. It lookedmore like a collection ofvegetable recipes than aspellbook of any import.

The words had worn offthe cheap leather cover,but an intriguing, tooledillustration remained. Thepicture was crude, unlikethefinelyrendereddesignsBelizehaddone.Itshoweda skull inside two nestedtriangles, a symbol Lyimhad never encounteredelsewhere in any ofBelize’swritings.The book crackled with

ageasLyimopenedit.Thepages inside wereapparently much olderthan the cover. The firstpage repeated the doubletriangle symbol, but alsobore the book’s title:Achnaskin’s Guide toSummoningtheDead.Excitement sparked to

lifeinLyim’schest.Hisleftfingertips lingered uponthe title while he willed

himself to remain calmand focused. Only whenhis pulse had slowed didheallowhimselftoturntothenextpage.Ataglancethe page had noillustrations and lookedblack with crowded butcarefully inked text,topped by a largerheading.

Tips before

spellcasting

When speaking withthe dead, thespellcaster would bewise to remember thefollowingunchangeablefacts:

1.Thedeadrespondbesttosimplequestions,sophrase yoursaccordingly.

2. The dead tire andbore easily. Althoughthey would seem tohavenothingbut time,their attention spansare extremely limited.Donotwastetimewithpointlessquestions.

3. The dead conjuredfrom the Abyss (thoseof an evil dispositionbefore their

dissolution) areusually in greattorment and may bedifficult tocomprehend.4. Understandably, thedisposition of mostdeceasedcreatureshasbeen soured by death.Many are extremelybadtempered.

Lyimshrugged, thinking

the advice only commonsense. Still, he took it toheart before eagerlyturning the page oncemore. There began theanticipated entrycontainingtheincantation,under the large heading:The Spell to Summon theDead. He began readingwith an intensity he’d notfeltinmanyyears.Butbeforelong,beadsof

perspiration joined thestreaksthatalreadyfloweddown Lyim’s temples,pooling in the shortwhiskersabovehislips.Hereadand reread theentry,pushing back theanxiousness that made itdifficulttoconcentrateandreally digest the words.The spell’s magicalpatterns were in anunusually complicated

order. Lyim could find noshortcut to memorizingthem, no distinguishingmarks or pauses to aid inhis usual rotememorization. Hours ordays could have passedwhile he studied thepatterns. Five thickcandles and a dusty stubfound in a drawer hadburned away before Lyimbegan to feel he

understood and hadmemorizedthespell.Lyimlookedupabruptly

from the fragile book. Ahorrifying thought beganto blossom behind hiseyes.Whatif,afterallthisstudy, he hadn’t thecomponents to carry outthespell?Hewouldforgetthe pattern if he had tostop for even an hour tolocate some obscure

ingredient.Lyim had inheritedsurprisinglyfewofBelize’scomponents.He’dreturnedtoVillaNovaafterhisTestto find the laboratory afrightful pile of brokenbeakers, hopelessly mixedand moistened powders,and dried-up pickledcomponents, none of itsalvageable.Hehadsweptitalloutside thevilla into

amagical fire that had litthe sky above Palanthaslikefireworksfortwodaysandnights.Lyim spun about andcarried Achnaskin’s smallbook to the shelvescontainingthecomponentshe’dpurchasedfromstreetvendors near the GreatLibrary. Most magesinsisted upon drying andstoring their own things,

but Lyim had never hadthe time for suchtediousness. Propping thebook open with a heavymarble mortar bowl, hetraced a finger down theshort list. The first threewere easy enough; everymage had lye, sulfur, andgoat’shoofonhis shelves.The fourth item wastrickier. He didn’tremember ever having

used mace. Lyim’s eyesquicklysurveyedtheshelf,but he couldn’t find thespice. He reread the spelllistandnoticedalittlestarinked next to the word“mace.”Hefoundasimilarmarkat thebottomof thepageandread:

A double dose ofnutmeg may besubstituted for this

item.

A sigh of relief escapedLyim’s lips, and he lickedaway the sweat there. Hehad a whole jar full ofdark,spicynutmeg.Lyim turned the pageandcontinued reading theinstructions.

Mix the componentsthoroughly. Place

mixture in twoflaming braziers setnear the body andburnuntilsmoke—

The body? Theinstructionssofarhadsaidnothing about having abody.TheCouncilofThreeand the gods alone knewwhat had happened toBelize’s corpse. Lyim wasstymied. He reread the

passage, and again hefound a small star, thistime inked next to theword “body.” His eyesjumped to the bottom ofthepage.

In the event that thebody is not available,due to immolation,devouring,disintegration, or anyother factor, a small

bitof skin,hair,nail,or bone can besubstituted. Theduration of the spellwillbehalved.

Lyim scowled. Wherewashegoingtogetapieceof a dead man? Lyimblinked, recalling the onedoor in the villa that hehad never opened.Snatching up a hand

broom and small pan, helifted the hem of his redrobes and sprinted up thestaircase two steps at atime. The mage emergedin the large rotundathrough an archway thatappeared to be a floor-length mirror. Lyimpounded across the inlaidmarbleflooranddownthelong hallway that led tothe kitchens … and

Belize’ssleepingchamber.Lyimpausedoutsidethe

door before placing hishand on the faceteddiamond knob. He hadkept theroomhe’dhadasan apprentice uponreturning from Wayreththose many years ago.He’d had no need for, orcuriosity about, thearchmage’s sleepingchamber. He’d actually

tried hard to forget Belizehad ever lived here,blaminghisformermentorfor the mutation whoseremoval had become hisobsession. Lyim stayed atthe villa only because itwas practical andconvenient.Was the door trapped?

Lyimdoubted it, since thearchmage had frequentlymentioned he preferred

markinghispossessionssothat he could track downthieves. Still, Lyim wouldnot take foolish chancesthis close to a solution. Asimple divining spellassured himhewould notbeharmedbyopening thedoor.Thedoorcreakedloudly

from disuse when Lyimpushed itopen.Hepeeredcautiously around it,

feeling foolish as he did.Who was he expecting tofind, Belize himself? Themage stepped in boldlyandlookedaround.The room was small,even smaller than Lyim’sown. A layer of dust asthick as his little fingercovered everything: thegranite floor, the narrowspartan bed, the nightstand. Lyim’s heart sank.

He’dbeenhopingtosweepthe room for any trace ofBelize. But howwould hebe able to separate a lockof hair or petrifiedfingernailfromthedust?Then his eyes fell uponit.Thesmallcorkedjaronthenightstand.Itwashalffilled with red-tipped nailclippings. He snatched itup and hugged it to hischest, relieved laughter

bubbling from his throat.Belizewasn’tvain;hemusthave had some magicalpurpose for saving hisgarishly painted nailclippings. If Lyim hadn’thated thearchmageso,hemight have blessed thesoul he was about toconjure.Lyim took the nails tothe laboratory andcontinued reading where

he’d left off. Hungergnawed, and he felt hisenergy flagging.Hewouldhavetocastthespellsoon.

Speak the words ofthe spell. Next, placeyour preparedmixture in twoflaming braziers setnear the body andburn until smokeforms.

Lyim reached under thecentraltableandwithdrewthe requisite braziers,placing them on the tableneartheopenjarofnails.

Inhale smoke deeply.Exhale by callingforth the full nameand suspected realmofcontainmentforthesoul in question. If asuccessful conjuration

is attained, the casterisadvisedtorecalltherecommendations forspeaking with thedead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,”muttered Lyimimpatiently.His left hand,on the bowl of mixedcomponents, was shaking.Using his teeth, the mageremoved the cork from a

seldom-used bottle ofsnowberrywineandtookalongpull,waiting for it toburn a trail to the pit ofhisemptystomach.After carefully speakingthe words that wouldactivate the spell, Lyimtook up the bowl againand divided it evenlybetween the two smallflames. The flames roaredup from both braziers,

singeing Lyim’s eyebrowson theway to the ceiling.Slowlytheflamesflickeredback down and in theirwakeleftbeautifulplumesof purple smoke. Lyimexhaled harshly, thenthrust his head into thesmoke and sucked in theacridfumesuntilhislungscouldholdnomore.“I call from the Abyss

the essence of Belize of

Palanthas!”Lyimcriedinarush.Thesmokethatblewfrom his mouth now wasas black as the air in thatfetid realm of the dead.While Lyim watched, thesmoke began forming intothe familiar profile of thearchmage Belize. Theimage,whichwaveredlikethe smoke from which itwas made, lacked detail,butthestubble-ringedpate

and goateed chin wereunmistakable.A tide of conflictingemotionssweptoverLyim:relief, fear, reverence,hatred.Buthatredwasthestrongest.“Belize.”The apparition lookedup at the sound of itsname. There was neitherrecognition nor confusioninBelize’sexpression,onlyanexpectantstare.

“Youbastard.”Lyimwastempted to go on, butremembered that becauseof substitutions he wouldget only half the spell’susual brief duration. “Tellmewhat youdid to causemyhandtobechangedtoa snake.” Lyim viciouslyshoved the overlong cuffof his right sleeve backandheldthehissingsnakeuptotheapparition.

As if looking beyondLyim’s mutation, Belizeseemed not to see thelimb. “Your arm was thefirst living thing to enterthe dimensional portal tothe Lost Citadel in untoldyears.” Belize’s unearthlyvoice reminded Lyim ofthe wavering, ghoulishtimbrehe’dusedasachildtofrightenhisfriends.“Yes?So?”

“Waiting within theunused bridge werestarving extradimensionalcreatures. One wasfeasting on your fleshwhen your arm waswithdrawn from theportal.” The apparition’sfacecontortedasifitwerein pain. Its head spunabout, and it appeared tobiteatsomethingbehinditthatonlyitcouldsee.

“The extradimensionalsnakelike creature wasforcedtomeldwithyoutosurvivethetransplantationto the Prime MaterialPlane.”Itmade a certain sense.“How do I remove thecreature?”Lyimasked.“Recreatetheeventsandreversetheprocess.”“But that’s impossible!”Lyimheardhimselfcryfor

the second time in recentdays. “Thanks to you, noone can create a portal totheLostCitadel!”Suddenly the image ofBelize began to break up.“Don’tgoyet!”Lyimdidn’tknow if the spell wasexpiring, or Belize wasangered by his verbalattack. Frustrated, hecontinued to ignore theadvice about dealing with

thedead. “I conjuredyou,and I demand that youstay!I’mnotfinishedwithyouyet!”But the fires in the

braziers choked outsimultaneously as ifdoused with water, andthe smoke became purpleandfeaturelessagain.Lyim collapsed onto a

small wooden stool andrubbed his face wearily

with one hand. He hadn’tbeen this exhausted sincethe conclusionofhisTest.Thenhe’dfeltgood,proud.Nowhejustfeltempty.Things had changed inthe world of magic sinceBelize’s departure for theAbyss. Big things. Onethinginparticular,ashe’dstarted to tell Belize’sapparition. No one wouldever again be able to

create a portal directly totheLostCitadel.JustafterLyim had passed his Testand returned to Palanthashe had heard throughmagical circles that theConclave of Wizards, in arare moment ofcooperation, had begun tobuild a stronghold toprotecttheentrancetothestorehouseofgodlymagic.Those same sources

mentioned that thelocation of the redoubt,calledBastion,wouldbeasecret place beyond thecirclesof theuniverseandguarded by arepresentative of each oftheorders.FiveyearsagoLyimhad

given the story littlemorethan passing attention,consumed as he was withfindingacureforhisarm.

Now he wished he’dlistened more closely tothe gossip. Wherever itwas, Bastion stoodbetweenLyimandtheLostCitadel,betweenLyimandhisarm.Suddenly Lyim saw aglimmer of light flickerthrough the crack inwhathe’d thought was his lastdoor of hope. Could herecreate the portal to the

citadel at Bastion? It onlymade sense that, ifcreating the portal wasstillpossibleatall,Bastionwastheonlyplacetodoit.Hope spread like magicalfireinhisheart.EachtimeLyimhadfoundhimselfata dead end, a secret andunexpected door seemedtoopenforhim.Butwherewas thedoorto Bastion? Beyond the

circles of theuniverse … that could bealmost anywhere! TheAbyss alone had sixhundred sixty-six levels.Lyim considered it safe torule out the realm of thedead, considering that theCouncil would not havesent their creation to suchanevilplace.Still, Lyim was

undaunted. All he had to

do was find the way toBastion,andthenbribethejailor with the keys. Themagicalworldwasasmallone. Tapping his chin inthought, he wondered if,perhaps,heevenknewoneof the representativesstationedthere.

He’d been told the

manor house he soughtwas at the end of thenarrow lane, behind a talland obscuring copse oftrees. The mage trudgedthe muddy track betweencropped hedges of brightgreen dogwood. The lightbut steady rain continued,piercingthefogthatclunglike cotton batting toeverything it touched,including the mage’s

mood.Cinchingthehoodofhis

cloak closed beneath hischin, Lyim hoped thismiserable trek wouldprove worth the effort.Lightning flashedoverhead,andhehastenedhis steps. The pathabruptly opened uparound a curve in theroad, giving view of alarge beige stone-and-

timber manor, windowsand shake roof overgrownwith curling tendrils ofivy.Lyimstoodintherainfor a few long moments,staringupatthemanor;hewasnotlookingforwardtoagain witnessing the pityhe’d seen in her honey-coloredeyes thatnightonStonecliff. But there wasno way around it, if hewastogetwhathe’dcome

all this way to retrieve.Notevenaprettygirlandher pity would keep himfromreachingthegoalofahalfdecade.Lyim rolled down the

last fold of his right cuffandsecuredbeneathitthefingerless leather glovehe’d had specially madefor this trip. The magecame to the gate-room, athree-quarteredcylinderfit

against a corner of themanor. Standing under asmall overhang, Lyimpoundedfirstwithhisfist,thenbangedthelion-facedwrought-iron knockerrepeatedly against thethickwoodendoor.Beforelong, he could sensesomeone regarding himthrough a small peephole.Lyim stood up straight,deliberately looking away

fromthedoortopresentacasualprofile.The door creaked openon unoiled hinges. Lyimspun about with a warmsmile of greeting on hisface, expecting a servanttoanswer.Hisliptrembledslightly at the sight of thewoman herself. Lovelierthan he remembered,statuesque and still slim,Esme’sfacehadtakenona

depthofwisdomwithage.The soft, round cheekswere now attractivelyhollowed and burnishedwith a healthy red glow.Shiny tendrils of curlygolden-brown hair ringedher face and draped hershoulders like a thickcloak. Lyim preferred itloose to the tight bun heremembered her wearingat the nape of her neck.

Her gown, a rosywhisperof a thing, draped andclung to her bestadvantage.“LyimRhistadt.”“Hello, Esme.” Lyim

took note that her smileheld genuine warmth. Hegave a courtly bow fromthe waist. “You look asexquisiteasever.”“And you are ever the

charmer,”shesaid,clearly

pleased despite hercynicism.“It makes my words no

less true,” he saidsmoothly, calling uponskillsdustywithdisuse.Esme colored ever so

slightly. “What brings youtoFangoth?”“You, of course,” he

said, his eyes sparklingdirectly intohers.Heheldhis left hand out from

under the stoop to catchthe drops of rain thatpelted his back. “May Icomein?”“I’m sorry,” she

mumbled, coloring abecoming shade of red.“Of course, please comein.” Esme swept wide theheavy door and wavedLyimintothegate-room.“Idon’tknowwhat’sthe

matterwithme,”shesaid,

leading him over thepolished slate floor in thesmall, circular room. “I’vehad so few visitors sincemyfatherdied.”They entered a long

hallway, dark and drapedwiththicktapestries.Esmeturned left, into a small,cozy sitting room. Threelarge, arched windows,adornedwithheavymauvechintz, let in the rainy

afternoon’s meager light.The room was overfilled,for Lyim’s taste, withflowery throwpillowsanddark, heavy furniture, andtables covered with lacedoilies and odd bric-a-brac. It was a veryfeminine place, and Esmeslidintoitlikeahandintoawell-wornglove.The young womanlowered herself gracefully

into an enveloping chairby the unlit hearth. “Thisroom was always keptclosedwhenmyfatherwasalive,”sheexplained.“Thefurniturewashere,thoughbadlywater-damagedfromsome long-ago flood. Thefirst thing I did when Ireturned here to tendMelar during his illnesswas to clean the place upandredecorate tomyown

taste.It’smyhavenwithinthe manor house. Most ofmy time is spent here—when I’m not in thelaboratory.”Lyim spied a black-

framedsilhouetteofamanwithEsme’spatriciannoseandchin,butdistinguishedfrom her by a curlingmustache. “Was yourfather ill very long?” heasked, settling into the

second heavily paddedchair. Lyim crossed hislegsandarrangedthefoldsof his red robe about hisknees.“No.” Water dripped

loudly and steadily fromthewindowsillsoutside.In the awkward silence

thatfollowed,Lyimspiedaspellbook, open and lyingfacedown, on the parquettable between the two

armchairs. “I heard youpassed your Test at thetower,”hesaid.“From the same person

who told you I’d comeback to Fangoth?” shequizzed.“Yes,asamatterof fact

I believe it was Justariuswho told me both,” Lyimsaidmildly.“Justarius?” Esme

looked surprised and a

little disappointed at themention of the Master oftheRedRobes.“Whoelse?”Lyimasked

archly.Esme stood and rubbed

herarmsas ifchilled.“Noone, of course,” she said,fidgeting as she placedsome tinder in the coldhearth. “I lead the quietlife of a mage in studyhere.Justariusisaboutthe

only other wizard withwhomIevercommunicate,and then only rarely.”Esme stood and brushedoffherhands,preparingtolightthewood.Lyim watched her

profile as he artlesslyasked, “What aboutGuerrand?”Theyoungwomanwent

stiff.“Whatabouthim?”Lyim shrugged his

shoulders. “I thought youtwowere—”“We were,” she cut inabruptly, “but we aren’tanymore.” The fire leapedto life beneath Esme’sfingers. She whirledaround, amber eyesflashing, her composuretotally fled. “Why don’tyou cut short this littlefishing expedition and tellmewhyyou’rereallyhere,

Lyim?”“Esme!” Lyim feignedshock,leftpalmpressedtohis breastbone. “I merelycame to see an old friend—”Herlaughtercuthimoff.“You traveledhundredsofleaguesfromPalanthas—”“It’snotthatfar.”“Just to see me andcheck on my social lifeafter—what’s itbeen, five,

six years?” Esme chuckledagain. “Lyim, Lyim,” sheintoned, “you might havebeen able to foolGuerrand, but I alwayssaw through your slickact.” She shook a taperedfinger at him. “Mind you,I’m not overly angry, butneitheramIstupid.”“No one would ever

mistake you for that.”Lyim matched her firm

expression,buthewasthefirst to lookaway, smilingsheepishly. “I’m no lesssincereaboutseeinganoldfriend,justbecauseIhadadualpurposetothisvisit,”he said with exaggeratedcontritioninhistone.Esmehadthegoodgrace

to acknowledge thepossibility with a politenod. She leaned againstthebackofachair, facing

him, her arms crossedexpectantly.Lyim blurted, “Iunderstand that you wereamong the mages whodesigned and builtBastion.”“That was quite sometime ago,” she repliedcautiously, leaningforward. “How did youhear about it? I thoughtthe identities of the

designing members weresupposed to be keptsecret.”“What can I say? Themagical rumor mill inPalanthasisalivingthing.Besides,” he said,shrugging, “it wouldn’thavebeenadifficultthingto figure out. In additionto the Council of Three,who were the othereighteen members of the

Conclave at the time ofconstruction?”Esme pursed her full

lips. “Why the curiosityabout a place none mayenter?”Lyim decided to speak

boldly. “Iwant to becomeourorder’sguardianthere.Frankly, Esme, my lifehasn’t turned out as I’dplanned. I haven’t beenable to cure

my…deformity.”Hedrewhis leather-gloved handback when her eyesinevitablystrayedtoit.“I’d welcome theisolation,”Lyimwentoninan enthusiastic rush.“There, only two otherpeoplewouldbesubjectedtoseeingmyhand.”“I’m sorry, Lyim,” shesaidsoftly.He tore his gaze from

thepityhe’dexpected,andnowfound, inhereyes. “Idon’t want yoursympathy,” he saidsharply.“Iwantyourhelp.YouknowwhatBastion islike. You were amongthose who designed andbuilt it. Tellmewhat youknow,” he rushed on,leaningtowardher,“anditwillgivemeanadvantageover other candidates the

next time the positionbecomesavailable.”Lyim reached out with

hishandforoneofEsme’s,then noticed the thick,silverbraceletintheshapeof a snake encircling herright bicep. Heremembered well theelectrical shock theprotective armbanddelivered. Lyim’s handcurledintoadesperatefist.

“Please, Esme. I’ve neverwanted anything so muchinmylife.”The young woman

visibly paled. “Don’t youknow?”For once, Lyim didn’t

havetopretendignorance.“Knowwhat?”“ThatGuerrandtookthe

position less than a yearago,” she supplied. “Andunless something has

happenedtohim—”“GuerrandDiThonistheRed Robes’ guardian?”gulped Lyim,uncharacteristicallysurprised.Esme nodded, her browfurrowed. “I can’t believethatyouspoketoJustariusrecently and he didn’tmentionit.”“Wedidn’treallydiscussBastion or Guerrand,”

muttered Lyim. Thatwasn’t surprising, sincehehadn’t spoken to theMasteroftheRedRobesinyears.“I’msorry tobe theonetodashyourhopes,”Esmesaid. “Frankly, I don’tthink I could have helpedyou very much anyway.Though I participated inthe exterior design andconstruction of the

stronghold, all but theCouncil of Three weredispatched from the sitebefore the interior wascomplete and it was sentto the plane where itwouldblockpassagetotheLostCitadel.”“What plane is that?”

Lyimasked.Esme pondered the

question. “ ‘Betweenearthand sky’ was all Justarius

wouldeversayaboutit.”“Bastion sounds like a

wondrous place,” sighedLyim. “One I’m destinednevertosee.”Esmesmileddistantlyin

fond memory. “It is awondrous place, made ofthemost pure and perfectredgraniteminedfromtheKharolis Mountains.” Shestrode to a recessed shelfandtookfromatriangular

pedestal a palm-sized redand creamy pink-veinedball from among the bric-a-brac there. “I pocketedthisfromamongthescrapsatthesiteasasouvenir.Alocal sculptor fashioned itto look like a miniatureLunitari.”Lyim laid his hand to

the cold, polished stone.“It’sflawless,”hebreathedin wonder. Abruptly, he

set it back down andstood. “I’m sorry,Esme. Itappears I’vedisturbedyoufornothing.”“Oh, I wouldn’t saythat,” Esme saidgenerously. “I’d forgottenhow … entertaining youcouldbe,Lyim.Pleasestaylong enough for me toofferyousomerepast.”Lyim hesitated,swallowing a pleased

smile.“Itwasalongtrip.”Sheheadedforthedoorand placed her hand onthe knob. “Just giveme afew minutes to preparesomething.” Lyim noddedhis consent, a smile stillpullinguphislipsasEsmeslippedfromtheroom.The door clicked shut,and the mage nearlyswoonedwithdelightoverhis good fortune. He

would get everything he’dcome forand amealwiththe beautiful woman he’dalwaysdesired.Hehadtomovequickly,though. Lyim beganmuttering an incantation.Wisps of dark materialemerged from the airaround him, which heplucked and gathered intoa ball. As long as hechanted, the wisps

appeared, until he hadcollected a lump ofsufficient size. His refrainthen changed, becomingless rhythmic. The ball ofmaterialhoveredintheairas Lyim’s hand wovearound it, shaping itwithout touching it.Wispsseparated from the ball tocurl around Esme’s moonglobe, then dart back totheir starting places. The

orb pulsated as if alive asitshiftedandformeditself.And then it was done.The red globe of granitedropped into Lyim’s hand,pleasantly small butweighty.Hecompared thetwo; the match wasperfect. Lyim placed hiscreation in the triangularholder on the shelf andconcealed the originalamong the thick folds of

his robe. The facsimilewouldnotlastforever,butit would certainly endurelong enough to get Lyimaway from Fangoth withthe real globe of granitethatwouldhelphimlocateBastion, and that was allhe wanted. For now,anyway.

Guerrand rubbed hiseyes,whichwereredfromstaring,andglancedatthetime glass on the smalltablebehindhim:onlyhalfthe sand had sifted fromthe top to the bottombeaker.Themageletoutasmall sigh. He had half ashift to serve yet in thescrying sphere. Why wasthe timepassingsoslowlytoday?

The muscles inGuerrand’s shoulderswereknotted into thick cords.His stomach growledunrelentingly. The highdefender’s templesthrobbedfromthestrainofconcentrating on themodel of Bastion and itsperimeter.Usually a patient man,

Guerrand could hardlywait until Dagamier came

to replace him in thesphere. He knew exactlywhat he would do then:pour an entire flask ofrestorative rosemary oilinto the warmed wadingpoolintheseascaperoom.While the hot watercovered him to the waist,cool air would fan hischest soothingly. Then hewould open a bottle ofgreen Ergothian wine, his

ownbrewaptlynamedforboth its color and flavor.Nibbling sweet biscuits,Guerrandwoulddrinkjustenough wine to ease thestressfromhisback.Imagining it erased onefurrow from Guerrand’sbrow.Heblinked;hissightwavered briefly beforesettling again upon themodel on the tablebeneathhim. It reallywas

a marvel, this magicallyimbued diorama ofBastion. It resembled anarchitect’s rendering of acity. Guerrand had seensuch a diagram back inThonvil, a rotting anddusty wood-and-stonemodel made by CastleDiThon’s originalarchitect.The similarity ended

there, however. Bastion’s

diorama was aglow withmineralsandmagic.Inthemiddle of a curved tablecoveredbyclearglass, thestronghold’s three wingswere represented in themodel by resonatingcrystal that continuouslyhummedsoftly.Thewingswere surrounded by thecourtyard,whose topiariesandstatueswerecarvedofemerald.Beyondthesmall

fence that enclosed themodel’s courtyard was aring of crystalline sulfurattuned to the areapatrolled by the hellhounds. Encircling thesulfurwasawidebandofquicksilver, a literalrepresentation of the vastmercurymoatthatwasthefinal border of thisdemiplaneof shadow.Theoutermost edges of the

dioramawere shrouded inever-roilinggraymiststhatrepresented the EtherealPlane, which abuttedBastion’sdemiplane.Though the defenderwhowatched the dioramawasunabletoseeintotheEthereal, any disturbancesin this demiplane ofshadow would beevidencedonthemodelinthe scrying room. Trouble

in the courtyard wouldmaketheemeraldtopiarieswink light and dark;disturbances among thehell hounds wouldilluminate the yellowsulfur. Guerrand,Dagamier, and Eziuswatched in neverendingrotationforsuchanevent.Though time in theusual sense had nomeaning at Bastion, a

defender’s turn in thescryingspherewaskepttoa short periodpredetermined by a sand-filled glass. The defendersat on a hard, woodenchair, intentionallyuncomfortable todiscourage dozing in thecolumn’s silence.Theonlysource of light was thediorama itself, whichnaturally drew the

occupant’sattentionintheotherwisedarksphere.As a rule, Guerrandlookedslightlybeyondthemodel, letting his gazetake in the whole image,rather than study onespecificareaatatime.Theadvantage was that anychange in the replicawould immediately catchhis attention. Thetechniquealsolentitselfto

vacantstaring.A faint, popping splashsounded in the smallcolumn.Guerrandwatchedthe model intently. Heheardsplashingagain,anda flicker ofmotion caughtthe mage’s eye. Guerrandspottedthedisturbanceonthe farthest edge of theouter ring of mercury. Abubble formed out of theshiny liquid, growing

slowly until it popped.Then a series of bubblesappeared and burst inrapid succession. Eachtime the rings left by thebubble receded rapidlyinto the Ethereal.Something was tryingunsuccessfullytoenterthequicksilver.In the year Guerrand

had stood watch nointruder had entered

Bastion’s demiplane. Hecould scarcely credit thebubbling mercury, but heswallowed his disbeliefand set about his duty ashigh defender. Guerranddrewacrystal lens fromacupboard beneath themodel tableandpeeredatthe bubbles. The solepurposeofthelenswastoreveal glitches in themagical diorama. The

bubbling mercury wasclearly seen through thelens.There could be noquestionnow—someoneorsomethingwas trespassingupon the demiplane’sboundary. The intrusioncould be caused byanything, from a realattackagainstBastiontoawayward xorn that hadlost its direction in the

interstices between theplanes.Following the

established but never-usedroutine for such anoccurrence, Guerrandconsulted a schematic ofthe planes that borderedBastion’sdemiplane.Intheether that abutted themercurymoat, a powerfulmagicalcreatureknownasa ki-rin watched for

intruders. The Council ofThree had employed theki-rin for this purposebecause of the creature’slawful nature and abilityto read the mind of anyliving thing throughtelepathy.Guerrand unstoppered abeakerofclearalcoholandpoured the liquid into avery shallow bowl carvedintothelowerrightcorner

of the model table. Thebitter smell of the volatileliquid filled the room. Asthe surface ripples diedaway, an image of the ki-rinappeared.Vaguely horselike inappearance thoughbulkier, the ki-rin’sforeheadwasadornedwitha unicorn’s horn.Luminous golden scalescovered its torso, though

its tail and mane werehair. The ki-rin had eyestheoddestshadeofviolet.Despite its disturbingappearance, the ki-rinradiated an aura ofbeneficence.A human wanders theEthereal,announcedtheki-rin, its melodious voiceechoing inside Guerrand’shead.“A human,” Guerrand

repeated. “What does thispersonlooklike?”The Ethereal is vast, andevenIcannotseeeverywhereat once. However, I haveread the creature’s mind.The ki-rin paused, headtilted. This human seeksBastion and you, GuerrandDiThon.Guerrand started. Whobut Maladorigar and theCouncil of Three knew he

was here? The gnomecouldn’t possibly havefoundhiswaytotheouteredges of Bastion. Only amage could have madethat journey. CouldJustarius have told Esmeofhisposition?My instructions are to

slay intruders, said the ki-rin.“Wait,” Guerrand

commanded. “Continue

monitoring the person’smovements,” he told theki-rin. “Prevent theintruder from penetratingthe demiplane, but donothing else without mydirection.”Guerrand spun awayfrom the diorama andsearched the shelves thatsurrounded the sphere’sdoor. They containedcomponents for spells, as

well as other magicaldevices that allowedpassage through each ofthe uninhabitableprotective spheres aroundBastion. Guerrand soughtthe oil that would permithim to travel throughmercury and observe theintruderatasafedistance.He spotted theappropriate label on acobalt-bluebottle.Pouring

the oil into his palm, hespreaditoverhisskinandclothinglikelotion.Hefelthis consciousness separatefrom his physical body,like the yoke from thewhite of an egg.He couldthinkandseeasusual,buthe felt weightless.Guerrand looked down athis arms and hands andsawboth his body and itsdark reflection. His

physicalselfwouldremainin the scrying sphere,while his consciousshadowwould explore thelightlessringofmercury.Guerrand rested dark,flat palms upon thelefthand portion of thediorama’s mercury borderand intoned the magicalwords, “Illethessius umbraintentradolum.”Guerrand slipped like

fog into a sea of warm,dark quicksilver. Itenvelopedhim,rolledoverhis shadow form in thick,heavy waves. He was asbuoyant as a bubble,thoughwithoutitsdelicatenature.Asshadow,hesawin the darkness of themercury as people see inlight. He stretched hisdark, shadow-flat armsand swam toward the

distant grayness of theEtherealPlane.Guerrandwasstoppedat

the farthest edge of themercury moat by thedefenses of the demiplaneandcouldnotsee into theEthereal.Ki-rin, he called

telepathically, bobbing intheseaofmercury.Yes, high defender, the

guardian creature

responded.Open a window to your

plane so that I can seewhoseeksme.As instructed, a curtain

ofgrayslowlyparted.Standing in themists of

the Ethereal Plane was ared-robed mage Guerrandknew well. “LyimRhistadt,”hehissed.

Lyim heard his oldfriend’svoice,andhespunaround to face thewallofblack mercury. His snakearm hissed at the suddenmovement. Lyimunconsciously cursed thevilecreature.Squinting into thedarknessofthequicksilverhe said, “Rand, is thatyou? I’ve been sendingmessage after magical

message toyou,but Iwasbeginning to think I’dneverdrawyournotice.”“Youdrewit,”Guerrandsaid grimly. “You musthave stepped briefly fromthe Ethereal into themercury, because you setoff the alarms in Bastion.Whatareyoudoinghere?”“Looking for you, ofcourse,” said Lyim, tryingto sound jocular. “You

might at least say hello,after my extraordinaryeffortstofindyou.”When Guerrand said

nothing, Lyim frowned.“Can’t you make yourselfvisible? I feel foolishtalkingtoablacksea.”Consisting now only of

shadow, Guerrand couldnot rise above themercury. So instead heformed the mercury to

himself and pressedupwardslightlyagainstthesurface, forming a slight,three-dimensional imageofhis faceon the smooth,silverystream.“Howdidyoudetermine

the location of Bastion’splane?” Guerranddemanded. “It’s a well-guardedsecret.”“I had a piece of the

exact red granite used for

its walls and a visualmemoryofyoutohomeinon. That spell broughtmeas far as this border, butI’vebeenunabletogetanycloser.”“Bastion’s defenses are

far too powerful,” saidGuerrand proudly. “A ki-rin was moments fromslayingyouasitwas.”Hismercury-delineated eyessquinted suspiciously.

“Where did you find thegranite?”“Come on, Rand,” Lyimsaid evasively, “you knowI’maresourcefulguy.”“I also know you’re notone to go through all thistroublejusttochatwithanold friend,” Guerrand saidevenly.Despite his annoyedtone, Guerrand’s silveryface showed conflicting

emotions. Lyim believedhe also saw a measure ofwarmth.“Youknowmetoowell,Rand, so I’ll not mincewords,”saidLyim.“Ineeda favor that only you cangrant me. I’ve learnedthrough painstakingresearch that in order torestore my hand I mustrecreate the portal to theLost Citadel Belize

constructed on Stonecliff.Bastion is the only placeleftwhere that’spossible.”Lyim paused for effect.“Bring me into Bastion,Rand, and we can worktogether to restore myhand.”“I can’t do that,”

Guerrandrespondedsoftly,but without hesitation. “Ican’t let anyone intoBastion.”

“Don’t answer soquickly,” said Lyim. “Justthinkaboutit.”“I’m sorry, Lyim,” said

Guerrand, “but there’snothing to think about. Itook an oath to preventanyone from enteringBastion.”“Idon’taskthislightly,”

growledLyim.“Believemewhen I say that I’veliterally been to the ends

of Krynn trying to getmyhandback.”“And I don’t refuse you

lightly,” said Guerrand.“Noonewouldliketohelpyou more. But you of allpeople understandwhat itis tobeamage, topledgeyour life to magic andmagic alone. Istrengthened that pledgewhenItookthepositionofhigh defender. To violate

thatvow,hereatthefinalstronghold before the LostCitadel, would betray allmagic and all mages—everythingthatIstandfor.Ican’tdoit,evenforyou,Lyim.”Lyim regarded the

profile in the gray-blackwall with anuncontrollable sneer. “Youwere my last remaininghope,Rand.”

“Have you petitionedtheCouncilforentrance?”“Those three help noone but themselves,”snapped Lyim. “Yourmaster promised to find acure for my hand.” Heheld up his mutated rightlimb; the snake sputteredandhissedabovehishead.“You can see the result ofhis promise at the end ofmy arm. Justarius knew

there was only one curefor my hand. If he hadbeen willing to let merecreate the portal to theLost Citadel, he wouldhavesuggestedithimself.”“Perhapsthey’llmakeanexception to their rule,considering your heroismat Stonecliff,” Guerrandsuggested. “I’d be willingto petition them on yourbehalf.”

Lyim could see the pityin Guerrand’s silvery face,couldhearitinhistone.Itangered him more thanGuerrand’s refusal to lethim into the stronghold.“A supreme sacrifice, I’msure, from themanwhoselifeandfamilyIsaved.”Lyim exploded in

helpless, caustic laughter.“Itoccurs tome thatonceagainIplaythefoolinthis

friendship. I thought youwere the one person whowouldn’t let me down, ifonly out of a guilty senseof debt.” Lyim’s hystericallaughter hiccuped to anangry sob. “Seems yourambition is greater thanyourguiltthesedays.”“This isn’t about such

transitory things,”Guerrand said coldly. “Myposition has taught me

that Bastion’s purpose isfar more important thanone man’s guilt—oranother’s hand. It’s aboutthe survival of magic, oflife.Iwon’tmakeachoicethatputsthatinjeopardy.”“Everything is a

questionofchoice.”“Petition the Council,”

Guerrand urged morestrongly.ButLyim scarcelyheard

him. Once again, herealized that he was theonlyonehecouldrelyon.“I’ll help you any otherwayIcan,Lyim.”Lyim vaguely heardGuerrand’s voice throughthe fog of his bitterness.“There is no other way,”he responded, low andthreatening.“Then I’m truly sorry.”Guerrand’s rubbery profile

disappeared from thesurface of the mercurywall.“Notassorryasyouwillbe.” In a vessel-burstingfury, Lyim dispatchedhimself from the EtherealPlanewithamagicalwaveof his left arm. GuerrandDiThon might be safelybackintheconfinesofhispreciousBastion,butLyimRhistadt was far from

throughwithhim.

Bram DiThon picked

his way carefullybetween the potholesand ice patches on theroad to Thonvil, wishingthesolesofhisbootswerenot four years thin. Theusual freeze-and-thawcycle was in full swing,dawn ice turning toafternoonmud.SometimesBram wondered if springwould ever truly come toErgoth’s moors. The dark-

haired young noblemandrew his winter cloak,heavy as a sack of coins,closerasheheadedforoldNahamkin’s cottage forsomepromisedseeds.Bram had been hoping

the eighteenth day ofMishamont, his twenty-first birthday, would findhim with new boots. Hewas not terribly surprisedwhen they didn’t appear.

HismotherRiettawas toobusy struggling tomaintain the image of thelady of the manor. Hisfather—well, Cormac wassomeone Bram didn’t liketo think about. Besides,not receiving a presentfrom his family was asmall price to pay for thefreedomofneglect.Infact,Cormac’sneglectofallofhisresponsibilities

had given Bram’s lifepurpose. It was hisambition—his obsession,even—to restore CastleThonviltotheproductivityand prosperity of hisgrandfather’s time.Due tolack of coin, Bram’smotherhadbeenforcedtoabandonheraspirationforhimtobecomeaKnightofSolamnia, so he had beenfree, at sixteen, to

inconspicuously assumethe day-to-day duties of acastle’ssteward.Unsurprisingly,

Cormac’s overtaxedtenants had long ago fled.It had taken Bram almostfiveyearsofworkingalonefrom dawn to dusk toresuscitateCastleDiThon’sdemesne and get thefamily’s personal landsproducingfoodagain.That

had been no small feat,considering he hadn’thorseoroxtoplowwith.Bram had not yet hadtimetoattendtothecastleitself, which looked run-down enough to beabandoned. Besides,crumbling stonewalls justweren’t as interesting tohimas theperennials thatwouldbepoppingupsoon:lady’s mantle, foxglove.

He’d already seen hopefullavender poking throughthe last crusts of snow.Bramsuppliedmanyofthevillagerswith dried herbs,but thewinterhadbeenabad one for minorinfluenzas, and he wasrunning low on the morecommon medicinals.Fortunately,theendoftheseason of sicknesscoincided with the

beginning of the herbseason.Bram’seyeswereonthe

small village ahead whenhe caught movement inthe grass to his right.Startled, he looked over,thenletoutaslowsigh.Asnake. He’d seen at leasttwo handfuls of themalready in the gardens.Theirexodusfromthecoldearthseemedtohavecome

a little early this year.Hewatched the long, blackcreature with the goldendiamond pattern on itshead slither swiftlythrough the still-brownroadside grasses. What’syourhurry?Bramthought.The snake fell stock-stillbriefly, then sprang on anunsuspecting mole andgobbled it down in onegulp. The nobleman’s

shiver had nothing to dowiththecold.Bram hastened toward

the village,which boastedno gates or other symbolsto mark its entrance. Itwas too small, toounassuming, too poor. Noneighboring lord in hisright mind would care tostorm Thonvil now. Thesedays the village was nomorethananunimpressive

collection of dilapidatedhouses and small shopsgrouped together out ofapathy and convenience.Anyone of youth orambitionhadrunofftothecapitalcityofGwynnedinthe last five years, whenthe economy had turnedsour alongside the lord’sfortunes.Theexodushadincluded

membersofCormac’s own

family. Most recent toleave was Bram’s sisterHonora, who had marriedbeneath her station to theseneschalofasmallestatein Coastlund. The familyhadneitherseennorheardfromhersince,whichwasno burden for Bram, whofound he had just enoughtolerance for haughtinesstodealwiththeirmother.The first to leave, of

course, had been UncleRand. Bram frequentlypondered the shadowymemory of the man.Cormac had forbiddenanyone to even speakGuerrand’s name inCastleDiThon for more than ahalf decade. Was he stillalive? Not even Kirahknew, or at least his auntwouldn’tsay.The notion that the

spindly little blonde washis aunt always madeBram laugh. She was twoyearsyoungerthanhe.Butthen, the branches of hisfamilytreewereastangledas the limbsofahagberrybush and just assusceptible to winddamage.Andwhatawindhad blown through theDiThonfamilysevenyearsbefore, when Guerrand

haddefiedCormacandleftto pursue the study ofmagic.Bram came to the long,

half-timbered buildingwhosegroundfloorhousedthe baker’s shop on theright half and the onlyremaining carpenter inThonvilonthe left side.Anarrow flight of woodensteps hugged the areabetween the baker’s front

door and the right wall,andledtotheroomletbyhisAuntKirah.Shehadbeenthesecond

member of the DiThonfamily to leave forGwynned. Bolted, in fact,when Rietta had tried tomarryherofftoatoothlessold man thirty years hersenior. To everyone’ssurprise, Kirah hadslouched back into town

but seven months later, adifferent person, and notthe better for it. While itwas true she had alreadychangedfromthecarefree,outspoken scamp she’dbeen before Rand’sleaving,thiswasdifferent.Worse somehow. She wasskittish and withdrawn,like a reclusive oldwoman, though barelypossessed of nineteen

years. Something awfulmust have happened toher,butsherefusedtotalkaboutit.Bram had no notion of

how Kirah paid for theroom she let from thebaker, or why she’dreturned toavillage she’dalways professed to hate.She had explained to himonce that it was not thevillage but the castle she

hated. Rietta would neverhave welcomed her backatthecastleanyway.Nevertheless, Bramstopped by to see herwhenever he came to thevillage. He took the stairstwoatatimeandknockedon his aunt’s door. Whenno answer came, hepushed the door backgingerly, calling, “Kirah?It’sme,Bram.”

He stepped full into thespartanroomandsawthatthe rope bed was made,feather tick fluffed intoplace, but he was alone.Some objects on thewooden table under thesmall, street-side windowcaughthiseye.Aquillandinkpotwerenexttoanotewith his name neatlylettered on the front. Hepicked up the parchment

and caught his bottom lipbetween his teeth; behindthe note was a pair ofboots quite obviously toolarge for his diminutiveaunt.

Bram,The boots, ofcourse, are for you.Don’t insult myresourcefulness byprotesting the

expense. Besides, wecan’t have the locallord’s son walkingabout like a beggar,can we? What willpeople say?But then,you know howconcernedI’vealwaysbeen about that sortofthing.…Sorry to havemissed you, but I feltthe need for a walk

and the peace itprovides.Haveamostmerry day, dearnephew.

—K—

Bram shook his head,touched and sad at thesame time at the thoughtof her solitary walk. Thevillage rumor mill had itthat Kirah went daily, nomatter the weather, to a

cove along the coast towaitforaloverwhowouldnever return. Frankly,Bram suspected his aunthad never had a lover,could not see when orwhere she’d had theopportunity, except,perhaps, during the timeshe’d spent in Gwynned.Sowhat if she sat lookingout to sea, seekingsolitude?

Bramslippedonthenewboots, and his eyes sankshut languorously. The fitwas perfect, the solesdouble-thick.Henolongerdreaded treading on thehalf-frozendirtroad.Bram spied the quill.

Taking it up, he dipped itin the ink pot andscratched a brief, Thankyou, —B— at the bottomof Kirah’s own note. He

rolled his old, soft bootsinto a floppy log, tuckingthem under his arm as hepulled Kirah’s door shutbehindhim.Bramcheckedthe position of the sun inthegrayishsky.Nahamkinwould be wonderingwherehewas.A freckle-faced youngwoman was leaving thebakery with a coarse loafof bread stuffed in her

flour-sack apron whenBrambounded back downthe stairs. Blushing, shebobbed the courtesy duethelord’ssonandhasteneddown the street, pastRoxtin the carpenter’sshop. Bram found himselfreflecting that, althoughhe was very friendly, hehadfewfriends.Perhapsitwasn’t possible for thevillagers to be more than

distantly polite withanyonenamedDiThon,hedecided.Bram had one true

friend, a funny old man,Nahamkin.Afarmerallhislife, the man rose beforethesunandsetbeforeitaswell. Too old to make alivingatfarminganymore,Nahamkin was a cotternow, a tenant of a villagecottage that held just

enough land for him tosustain himself on thesmall plantings. His sonsstruggled on with thelarger potato, barleymalt,and maize fields thatsurrounded the village aspart of the DiThon estate.Nahamkin puttered withtheflowersandvegetablesthat had not beenprofitable enough for himtobotherwithasafarmer.

Roundingacorneratthefar edge of town, Bramcame into sight of thehovel in which Nahamkinhappily lived. During thegrowing season thecottage’s seediness wasobscured by tall, wildgardens and floweringtrees. Unfortunately therewas nothing to cover itnow. The thatch wasrotted to black all over.

The walls were not thewattleanddauboftherestof the village, but old,rocky mud, crumbling inplaces. And yet there wasa sweet and comfortablelook about the place, forthe sun seemed to shinemore strongly here,bringing the yellow-greenof spring to the chaos ofNahamkin’s gardensearlier than to the rest of

Thonvil.Bram knocked at the

oddly tilting door. Hecould hear the old manshuffling behind it. Thedoor flew open, revealingthe stoop-backed,wrinkle-faced codger Bram hadgrown so fond of.Nahamkin waved himinside with a work-weatheredhand.“Come in, come in,”

Nahamkin said in hishardy,toothlesslisp.Bramdippedhisheadto

keep from smacking it onthelowdoorframe,havingdone it toomany times tohis own discomfort andthe oldman’s amusement.Pots and tins andwoodenpails were scatteredeverywhere, catching thedripsofmeltingsnowthatpounded a steady,

irregular rhythm with thesoundofacracklingfire.Itwas an oddly welcomingclamor. Or perhaps itwasNahamkin’s wide,toothless smile that madeBram feel welcome. Theold farmer had taken thenobleman under his wingwhen Bram was veryyoung and sharedeverything he knew aboutsowingtheearth.

Nahamkin wiped suetfrom his wrinkled handsontohisstiff,much-stainedleather jerkin.“You’re justin time to help with thecandle makin’,” heannounced, then returnedtothedrysinktoslicebeeftallow into a dull, green-stainedcopperpot.Evidence of the cotter’sworkhungfromthebeamsoverhead. Butter-colored

candles-in-the-makingdangled from a branch inpairs by cotton wickssoakedinalimewaterandvinegarsolution.“Take the thinner onesand give them anothercoating in that pot overthere.” Nahamkin bobbedhis head toward a tall tinbythefire.“Thatone’sgotthealumandsaltpeterthatmakes’emburnlongerand

cleaner. Dip them in thepot of cold well water tospeed up the coolingbetweenlayers.”Bramdidashewastoldandwithdrewthe thinnestpair of candles from thebranch. “How do youknow so much aboutmakingcandles?”heaskedmoreforconversationthancuriosity.“Mywife, rest her soul,

used to make and peddlethem,” said Nahamkin,moving his pot of suetscraps to the fire. “I’mafraid mine don’t comeclose to the perfection ofhers, but I’ve got to see,haven’t I?” WatchingBram, Nahamkin shook aknobby-knuckled digit athim. “Here, now, you’llhavetorollthoseonsomeparchment,orthey’llbeas

crooked as my oldfingers.”Chuckling,Bramquicklycomplied. They workedquietly, companionably,Bram dipping, rolling,cooling the candles,Nahamkin inspecting hiswork and cutting newwicks. It took thirty tofortydipstomakeacandleofsufficientsize.At last the old man

rocked back on his heelsand regarded the day’sworkwithasatisfiedsigh.“That ought to hold meuntil this time next year,provided I live that long.”Nahamkinmadeareverentgestureforluck.“I don’t know why youneed so many candles,”jibed Bram, wiping waxyresidue from his hands.“You’re always on the

straw, eyelids drawn,beforedarknessfalls.”“Those of us who risewith the chickens need tosee, too,” Nahamkin shotback. He smirked as headded, “But you wouldn’tknow about early rising,beingalord’sson.”Bram threw his headback and laughed. “Weboth know how muchgoodthat’sdoneme.”

The old man noddedkindly, fondly watchinghisyoung friendputawaythe candle-makingsupplies. No one knewbetterthanNahamkinthatBram’slifewasnottypicalof a lord’s only son. Thetwo had talked of it oftenenough. The old mansecretly thoughtBramwasthe lord of CastleDiThon,for all practical purposes,

considering the work healone did there. No onehad to look very close tosee that the responsibleyoung man was nothinglikehisparentsand sister.Over the years, Bram’scomments had drawnCormacasanoddlydistantfather at his closestmoments, and Rietta as amother who’d beendomineering until life had

forcedhertoconsideronlyherself.Bramwasstillchucklingasheputaway the lastofthe wicks. He held up anew boot for Nahamkin’sinspection.“Yes,thelord’sson is so prosperous thathis poor, crazy, pennilessaunthadtobuyhimbootsfor his birthday!” Bramfrowned suddenly, sorryhe’ddog-earedtheday.

Nahamkin’s gnarledhand came up to patBram’s head. “Ah, yes.That’s why I asked youhere today. Twenty-one,isn’t it?” He steered theyoung man toward thedoor,pushingBram’sheaddown to avoid the lowarchway. “And here youare, spending yourbirthday dipping candleswithanoldman.”

“I-I enjoyed it, really,Nahamkin,” Bram assuredhim. “It was better thanplowingafieldwithoutanox. I don’t have muchopportunity to do thingslikethis.”“Notsinceyoutookoveryour father’s duties,anyway.” Nahamkincouldn’thidehisscorn.As usual whenevercriticism of Cormac came

up, Bram was tornbetween defending hisfather and acknowledgingthe truth. “He does thebesthecan,”thenoblemansaid.“Well,” said Nahamkin,anxious to change asubjecthehadn’tmeanttobring up, “just wait untilyou can plant these seedsI’vebeensavingforyou.”The old man took

Bram’s arm and guidedhimoutsideandaroundtothe back of the cottage,beating back a paththrough the brambles thatleaned against thestructure.Helookeddownat a long, rectangular boxbuilt against the house,nestled in the last snowand frozen leaves. “I’vebeenwantingtoshowyoumy newest invention for

getting a jump on theweather.”Following his gaze,Bram looked down, thenquicklyawayasahotglintof reflected sunlightcaught him square in theeyes. “What is that?” hehowled.Nahamkin knelt stifflyon one knee and liftedfrom the top of the box alarge, expensive pane of

good-quality glass. “I callitahotbox,”heexplained,setting the pane carefullytotheside.Bram dared another

glance.Theboxwas filledto its last inch with claypots, and in each weretender little sproutsreaching for the sunlight.Herecognizedfuzzy,hand-hightomatoplants,amongmany others. Bram was

stunned. The earliest he’dever seen annuals breakseed and germinate wasduring the last days ofChislmont, and then onlyafter an unusually warmwinter.“GottheideaattheRedGoose Inn last month. Iwas sitting by the onewindow,andtheafternoonsun came pouring in. If itwas hot enough to cook

me through glass, Ireasoned it could cause aseed to sprout. Picked theglass up from JessupLidiger’s wife, after theweaver ran off for thecity,”explainedNahamkin.He cupped a willowytomato seedling in histough palm, sending up acloudoffresh,acidicscent.“I’llhavetomatoesripeonthe vine by Argon, mark

mywords.”Bram ran a hand

lovingly around the box’sframe. “I’ve got to makeoneoftheseatthecastle,”he breathed. “Do yourealize I could growherbsyear round with this hotboxofyours?”Nahamkin half nodded.

“Maybenotyearround.I’llwager Aelmont andRannmontarea touch too

cold and dark to generateenough heat even throughthe glass, but you couldcertainly extend yourgrowing season.” He heldupahandexpectantly,andBrampulled the farmer tohisfeet,oldkneespoppingandcracking.“Youcandrawup someplans if you like while Isort throughmy seeds foryour birthday present.”

Nahamkin leaned heavilyontheyoungman’sarmasthey headed back throughthe brambles to thecottage’s front door. Bramlooped an arm over hisfriend’s sloping shoulders.“A man’s twenty-firstbirthday used to meansomething, a coming ofage.”Bramstoppedbeforethedoor and looked over his

shoulderatthedilapidatedvillage. “Nowadays peopleare more concerned withsurvivingthanmarkingthepassageoftime.”“That’s so,” Nahamkin

grudginglyagreed.The sound of dripping

snow water inside thecottagehadslowedwithalate afternoon drop intemperature. The roomhadgrowndark,exceptfor

the faintly glowing fire.The old man slit the loopthat connected two newcandlesandheldonewickto the smoldering coals.Shuffling over to an oldchest, he rummagedaround in it andextracteda seldom-used quill andinkpot,aswellasaslipofcurling,goldenparchment.“The size of your boxshould be determined by

the glass you have,” hesaid, placing the items,includingthelitcandle,onalapdeskbeforeBram.The nobleman nodded.“Iknowwherepieceshavebeen salvaged from someof the castle’s moreneglected wings.” Hewasted no time dippingthe quill to scratch anillustration of the supportbarsandspacers.

Nahamkin lit anothercandle and, for lack of abetterholder,put it inthetop of an empty, narrow-necked bottle. He set thelight on a cabinet that hekeptfarthestfromthefire,thenpulledthehandleofalong, narrow drawer.Inside were neatlycatalogued parchmentpackages containing seedssaved from last year’s

crops. He flipped throughthem, withdrawing somewell-marked favorites todivide and share with hisyoungfriend.Theyworkedin happy, companionablesilence, Bram sketching,Nahamkinsorting.The oldmanwas aboutto suggest Bram stay forsome of yesterday’s soupandbread,whenbothmenheardfranticfootstepsand

labored breathing on thepath outside. A knockcame, quick anddemanding.“Bram DiThon, are you

still in there?” a voicerasped through the draftydoor. “I saw you walkingthroughthetownearlier.”Surprised, the young

nobleman flew to his feetand opened the door.YoungWiltonSivesten,the

miller’s son, stoodwheezinginthedoorway.“Thank my lucky starsyou’re still here,” he said,stillstrugglingtocatchhisbreath. “Ma sent me tofindyou,whatwithHerusattending a death inLusid.”Bram recognized thename of the coroner, acavalier by training whodoubled as the village

physicker.“Isyourmotherill?”heasked.Wilton shook his sweat-drenched head. “It’s myfather. Yesterday he hadthe fever real bad, andtodayhe’sevenworse.”“It’s probably just themild influenza that’s beengoing around,” Bramsuggestedinakindertone.“Icangiveyousomeherbs—”

“That’s what Mathought, until today.” Theboy’s slight frameshuddered. “Today hestarted scratching andthrashing, and wholepatchesofskinarecomingoff.” Wilton trembledagain. “You just gottacomeandseeforyourself.”Bramwasshakenbythe

boy’s news. He’d neverheard of the influenza

causing someone to loseskin.Maybe it was a newstrain. “I’mno physicker,”he thought, surprised tohear himself saying italoud. “I don’t even haveanyherbswithme.”“You’re the best we gotwithHerusgone,”theboysaid,pullingdesperatelyatBram’s hand. “My ma’sabout to lose her mind.You gotta come, or she’ll

wallopmeandsayIneverbotheredtofindyou.”“Whatwillyouneedforfever, Bram?” Nahamkinasked, his face creasedwithconcern.“If it’s just a fever …”the nobleman mumbled,hismind a jumble. “Uh, Idon’t know. Elderflower,ormaybesomeyarrow.”Nahamkin snapped hisfingers and shuffled off to

thedrysink.Heofferedupa cork-stoppered crock toBram. “Dried yarrow Ihave.” Helping Bram intohis cloak, the old farmerclapped his young friendontheshoulder.Smilinghisthanks,Bram

raced out the door in thetowofthemiller’sanxiousson.Heshookofftheboy’sdesperate hand after theybothstumbledoverunseen

rocks and roots in thedusky path. The air feltcold enough to snow, andyetnonefell.Theyarrivedat the mill before manymomentshadpassed.“This way,” Wilton

panted, snatching atBram’s arm again to leadhim toward a small dooronthefarsideofthemill.Thenoblemanhadbeentothe mill many times,

broughthisowngrainherefor grinding. Thestorehouses, the strongscent of the donkeys whopowered the massivewheel, the creaking andgrinding were all familiarto Bram, but he’d nevereven wondered where thefamilylived.He paused in thedoorway of their quarters,feelinguneasy.Alreadyhe

could smell wood smokeand heat … and sicknessbeyond fever. Why didpeoplealwayssealthesickinto dark, swelteringboxes, as if fetidair couldcure them? Steelinghimself, Bram steppedinside.“Leave the door open,”he instructed Wiltonbriskly, “and stop stokingthe fire for a while.” The

boy’s eyes widened insurprise, but he kicked ablock into place to propopen the door. A man’shuskyvoicehowled in thenext room; the two youngmen exchanged alarmedglances. Wilton boundedaround Bram and wavedhim through the smallfront room and into thesmalleronebehindit.Bram could not keep

fromgaspingwhenhesawthemiller. Hoark Sivestenlayonanarrowcot,nakedsave for a thin sheetdrapedoverhisgroin.Theskin of one leg and twoarms was as raw-red asflayed flesh; his torsowasstill lily white. A largeman, he’d obviouslyenjoyed the bread madefrom the mill he ground,but his limbs looked

swollen beyond theirnormal size. Hoark wasfeverishly thrashing andscraping the one leg thatwas not that hideousvermilion against thebedclothes, his headlollingfromsidetosideashemutteredandmoaned.“Tell me everything

that’s happened,” Bramsaid, reaching out to feelthe man’s forehead. The

miller was thrashing sofuriously that it wasimpossible to hold a handtohim.“Itstartedwiththefeveryesterday,” said Hoark’swife, Sedrette, wringingwork-reddened handsagainst her apron. Thestout woman’s flour-flecked apple cheekswerestreaked with tears. “Ithought he got better. He

was even talking thismorning. Then he startedrubbing his legs and armsso fast and steady, like acricket, that I was afraidhe might start a fire withthebedding.Werippedhisclothes off after he shedthefirstlegofskin.”Bram looked up inwonderment at the oddphrase.“Sayagain?”For an answer the

woman reached down totheflooronhersideofthecot and held up acollapsed, crystal-coloredmembrane as thin as asoap bubble. Her eyesdared Bram to believe. Itlooked for all the worldlike the abandoned snakeskins Bram had found infields and meadows sincehisyouth.“Hoark rubbed and

rubbed until this came offhis leg,” Sedretteexplainedhoarsely.Bram looked quickly

away from the sheaf offlesh and to the man onthecot.“Maybeweshouldtie him down so he can’truboffanymoreskin.”“Wetriedthat,”Sedrette

said. “He’s sick, but itseems only to have madehim stronger. No one

could hold him still longenough to fasten himdown.”Still and all, Bram

whispered for Wilton tofetch some twine.Nexthetold the woman to putsomewaterontoboil,andtobringakettleofitandacup. Both scurried off,obviously relieved tohavesomething useful to doelsewhere. Bram stood

aloneinthesickroomwithHoark Sivesten. Withinmoments the walls begantocloseonhim,thesoundof the man’s franticscraping and moaning allBram could hear. Wherewerethosepeoplewiththerope and the water? Howlong could it take to findtwineinamill,anyway?Bramlookedattheman

on the cot. Hoark’s

thrashinghadremovednotonly the sheet, but it hadloosened the skin of hisotherlegaswell.Brambithis lip until it hurt as hewatched a jagged split inthemiller’s skin race, likecrackingice,fromgrointoankle.Thefleshbeneathitrusheduplikeredsausagereleased from a too-tightcasing. The top layers ofskin peeled back with the

dry,cracklingsoundofoldleaves. Finally, the manstopped thrashing and laypanting in a twisted messof bedding and sweat anddeadskin.Justassuddenlyhis breathing slowed. Theyoung nobleman had tolook closely to see theshallowriseandfallofthemiller’ssoddenchest.Bram jumped when theman’s son dashed,

breathless, through thedoorway, trailing a lengthof coarse twine. “He’s sostill,” Wilton observedalmost distantly. “Is hedead?”Bram shook his head.

“No,butIdon’tthinkwe’llbe needing the ropeanymore.”“I got that water,” the

miller’swifeannouncedasshescrapedheramplehips

through the narrowdoorway.SedretteSivestengaped slack-jawed, all thestumps of her front teethexposedwhenshesawthather husband was quiet.“Whatdidyoudotohim?”Itwasnotanaccusation.Bram shrugged

helplessly. “I guess he gotrid of all the skin heneeded to.” He looked tothe pot and cup she held.

“Itprobablywouldn’thurtto have him still drinksome yarrow tea, whatwithallthewaterhe’slostsweating.”Themiller’swifehanded

the steaming pot and cupto Bram. “What is this,somekindofskin-sheddinginfluenza?” she asked,moving quickly toreposition the filthy sheetthat had slipped from her

husband’s torso. “IsHoarkgoingtobeallrightnow?”“I … don’t know theanswertoeitherquestion,”Bram admitted. “It’s likeno influenza I’ve everheard of, but I think he’sthrough the worst of it,whatever it is.” Hepinched three fingersfulofNahamkin’s dried yarrowbloomanddroppedit intothemug,fillingitonlyhalf

full with warm water. Itwould be difficult enoughto get the reclining,insensate man to drinkwithoutburninghischest.Bramgavedirectionsfortheteatothemiller’swife.“Gethimtodrinkasmuchof it as you can, Sedrette.Itshouldhelpstaveoffthereturnofafever.Keephimwarm, but don’t try toroasthimagain.”

She nodded eagerly,relief evident on herchubbyfaceasshewalkedBramoutof the sickroom.At the doorway that ledoutside, she pumpedBram’s hand furiously,thanking him. “You cometo the mill any time, dayor night, Bram DiThon,andwe’llwork your grainwithout taking multure—notaring,orevenasingle

bushel—forpayment.”Bram felt decidedly

uncomfortable with thegratitudeandthegenerousoffer, but before he couldpointoutthathehaddonelittlemore thanmake tea,Sedrette Sivestenscampered on lighter feetbackintothesickroom.Bram’s first lungful of

fresh, cold night airblistered itswaydownhis

throat, making him coughuntil he was certain he’dexpelled every particle ofstagnantairinhaledinthesickroom. It was late, bysight of the risen moon,how late Bram couldn’ttell. Snowflakes, dry aspotash, swirled about inthe wan moonlight. Bramwas weary to the bone,and he headed straighthome.Passingthroughthe

edgeof town,wheregatesshouldhavebeenbutwerenot,herecalledthereasonforhis trip toThonvil thisday, his birthday still.With a start he had amemoryofseedpacketsonthedrysinkinNahamkin’scottage. Bram sighed. Ithad not been the best ofbirthdays.Atleast,hethought,the

endofthemiller’sdayhad

takenaturnforthebetter.

ThefollowingmorningBram received his

second summons to helpsomeone with the skin-sheddingsickness.He had been searchingforpanesofclearglassandplaned wood to constructone of Nahamkin’s hotboxes.Theplankswerenoproblem;he foundall thathe needed by dismantlingseveralofthestanchionsinthe castle’s nearly emptystable.

He was, however,having more difficultywith the glass than he’danticipated. The windowsin the abandoned solarwere a complicated bit oftracery work, withornamental ribs and barsbreaking up the glass intosections that were toosmall for his purposes.Some of the decorativesections were missing

entirely, which was atleast half the reason thefamily no longer used thesolarasalivingroom.Theother reason, of course,was that the family nolonger gathered anywherefor conversation or quietmomentsbythefire.Bram crept silentlydown the second-floorhallway, past the door tothestudywherehis father

spent most of his time inanirrationalstuporcausedby years of drunkenness.Bram was headed for thegallery, which sportedwindows that faced theafternoon sun across theStrait of Ergoth. Theexpensive glass had beenaddedtothelong,narrow,third-storybalcony severalgenerations before, in thetime of Bram’s great-

grandfather, when thefamily had been able toafford more than carrotsfor the table and thevillage had supportedcraftsmenofquality.Gildee the cook (one of

the few servants whoremained, primarilybecause she had nowhereelsetogo),foundBramonthe staircase to the thirdfloor. “Someone from the

village came running foryou, Master Bram.” Thematronly woman’s solemntone and distressedexpression told him thedisease had struck asecond time. Her wordsstopped his heart. “It’sNahamkin. He’s got thefever.”Bram blinked at her indisbelief for just onemoment, then sprang

down the steps two at atime, stopping neither forherbs nor cloak. He wasracing across the wornfloorofthefoyerwhenhismother’s voice stoppedhim.“Whereareyougoingin

such a hurry, Bram?”Rietta’s words were light,but her tone was high,clipped as she strode intothe circular foyer. The

ragged hem of her cheapbrocatelledress,moregraynow than lavender fromrepeatedwashingswithlyesoap,whisperedacrossthestonefloor.In hermidforties, Rietta

hadagedwiththegraceofthe nobly born. Her skinwas still remarkablywrinkle-free, though hershape was thinner thanever, thanks to a scarcity

of high-quality food, andthe worry over it. Asalways,sheworeherdark,thinhairinatightchignoncoveredbyastrongveiloflace netting, and a longgorgetaroundherneck.Bram’s mother settled

lightfingersonhisarm.“Mother,” he breathed

turningaway,“I-I’vegottogotothevillage.”Hiseyeswere on the door that led

out. Unconsciously hebegan to pull away fromher.“I have need of you

here,” she said stiffly, tooquickly.Hewhirledaround.“For

what? Retrieving wintersquash from the rootcellar?”Rietta’s green, feline

eyes narrowed, and herthin lips pouted at the

sarcasm. “I just don’t seewhyyouhavetogotothevillageagain.”“It’s Nahamkin,

Mother,” Bram said withforcedpatience,feelingtheweight of time passing inthestrainedmusclesofhisneck.“He’sill.”“That old farmer?” she

scoffed. “Aren’t therefamily members who cantend to him? What about

Herus?”“Perhaps they could,”conceded Bram, “butNahamkin has asked forme. I’vegot to try tohelphim.”Hehadnotoleranceforherhaughtyattitudeatthis moment, which waswhy he couldn’t helpadding slyly, “Just bethankful that the villagersno longer expect the ladyof themanor to tendtheir

ills,asindayspast.”Oblivious to his

derision, Rietta bit herbottom lip until it waswhite,herbrowsfurrowedwith concern. “Is it thatdreadful fever the millerhad? I’ve heardHerus hasreturned and is treatinghimstill.”“I don’t know,” Bram

said,lyingoutrighttogivehis mother hope as much

as to gain his freedom. “Iwon’t know until I seeNahamkin.”He tuggedhisarm back gently, then putonehandunceremoniouslyagainst the small of herback to propel her along.“I’ve got to go now,Mother.Imaynotbebackfor several days.”Uncharacteristically,Riettaresistedonlybrieflybeforebowing her head and

retreating down thehallway that led to thekitchens.Bramboltedthroughthe

door andbegan the three-rod sprint to Nahamkin’stumbledowncottage.

Bram crouched in thecold and drafty loft, nextto the cot that held the

friendheknewmustsurelybedying.The fever had passed

twonightsbefore,becauseof, or despite, Bram’sherbal tea. It seemed tocomfort Nahamkin, andthatwasreasonenoughforBram to climb the ricketyladder to the loft fourtimes an hour, round theclock, to bring moreheated water from the

hearth.The young nobleman

had tried to remainoptimistic, to pretendeven,thatNahamkinhadasimple fever. Superstition—or perhaps premonition—had made him changethe herbal mixture he’dgiven the miller to onedesignedtoencourageandnot break fever. ButBram’s hope had faded

when the old farmer’ssweats and chills ceasedabruptly andunexplainably on theeveningofthefirstday,asHoark Sivesten’s had. Itwasabadsign.Bram understood how

baditwaswhen,laterthatsame night, the villagebellschimed,signalingthemiller’sdeath.Knowing what was

ahead, Bram had sent forNahamkin’s family thenext morning. Delayed byfarmchores,orsohesaid,the son had arrived alonemuch later. Bram peeredbrieflyovertheedgeofthelofttoseeNahamkin’ssonstanding in the doorway,obviously reluctant toenterthecottage.Hiseyeshad darted everywhereandnowhere,asifhewere

afraid of what he’d see iftheysettled.Bram had neither thetime nor the patience toleave the loft to coaxNahamkin’sown fleshandblood to see him one lasttime. The old man washalfway through the skin-shedding stage of thedisease, and Bram had tocallonallhisstrengthjustto keep his friend on the

cot. When the first skinsplitonhis leg,Nahamkinhad brayed, and Bramheard the door slam shutbelow.The nobleman paused

foramoment,eyesclosed,and reflected that bloodwasn’t any thicker infamilies where it wasn’tblue. If Nahamkin knewhis son had run away, hedidn’t mention it. Bram

suspected that, inside,Nahamkin had known attheonsetof the fever thathis son wouldn’t stand byhim, since he’d sent forBram.Following thepatternof

the illness, Nahamkinwasquiet, lucid even, on theeveningof the seconddayafter the skin shedding.Bram brought stew up tothe loft, thoughneither of

themdidmuchmore thanpush the potatoes aroundintheirbowls.Theytalkedabout flowers, and slugs,and summer heat,anything but what washappeningnow.For the second nightBram stayed by the oldman’s side. Nahamkindozed fitfully, but sleepcamenowhere near Bram.Hespentmostofthenight

withhisfeetdanglingfromthe edge of the loft,swinging them back andforth in a hypnotic,numbing rhythm; theywere the only part of thenoblemantofallasleep.Bram saw the sun risenow through the rottedthatchandclosedhiseyestightlytothelight,asifhecouldstoptheday.“You’re still here, lad.”

Nahamkin turned to Bramwith the slowness ofseasonsrevolving.Hiseyesheldanoddclearness.“Of course I am.” Bram

smiled encouragingly andsqueezed Nahamkin’sleatheryhand.Nahamkin laid aweary,

raw-red arm to hisforehead.“I’mso thirsty, Iswear I could drink anentire bucket ofwater. Be

a good lad and bring mesome,”theoldmansaid.“Must be from thefever,” Bram remarked ashe slipped down theladder.He took awoodenbucketoutsidetothewell,blinkinginthebright,coldsunshine. Should he tellNahamkin that HoarkSivesten had died of thedisease?Wasitmorecruelto tell him or not? Bram

slappedhisfacewithfrigidwater to chase away thetumultinhishead.Hehadnoanswersashecarried the filled bucketback into the dimness ofthe cottage. The youngnoblemannearlygaggedatthe foul stenchof sicknessthat his nose had grownused to before the briefbreath of fresh air. Hiseyes watered, and when

they adjusted enough tosee, his gaze came firstupon the tallow candlesthey had made just daysbefore. Four days ofwitnessing unexplainablesicknesshadnearly erasedthememory.Bram jumped when a

knockrangoutagainstthewoodendoor.Heopeneditslowly, half-expectingNahamkin’s son to have

sheepishly returned. Theface was Herus’s, eyessunken, face gray. Bramwondered fleetingly if helooked as bad as thephysicker.“I’ve … finished with

my other patients,” Herusannounced wearily. “Twomore have died. I’m sorryto have left Nahamkin toyou.Ishe—?”“No.”Bramlookedupat

the loft over his shoulderand held a finger to hislips.Heleft thedooropenand crossed the smallroom for the stairs, thebucketofwatersloshingathis side. Taking the opendoor as invitation, thephysickersteppedinside.“Bram!” Nahamkincalledplaintively fromtheloft. “Where is thatwater,son?”

“Coming!” Bramsnatched up a mug,Nahamkin’s best pewterone,andputafootonthefirstrung.The physicker’s handgrasped Bram’s calf,stopping him on theladder. “He has a greatthirst?”Bram nodded. Thephysicker’s expressionworriedhimmore.

“Kill him,” Heruswhispered. “It’ll bemercifulcomparedtowhatI have witnessed with theothers.”Bramwassoshockedby

thepronouncementthathenearlydropped thebucketof water. “What have youseen? Tell me what youknowaboutthissickness.”“It is always the same,”

sighed Herus. “First they

have the fever, the nextday they shed skin, thenonthethirdday—”Herus was interrupted

by Nahamkin howlingagain for water. Jumpingas if burned, Bramreadjusted the bucket inhishandandtookanotheranxiousstepuptheladder.“You can’t help him,”

Herus said softly behindhim. “The sickness is

caused by magic morepowerful thananyofyourherbs.”Brampausedbutdidnot

turn around, his hearthammering. “How do youknowthat?”The physicker visibly

paled. “Just take myadvice, young man,” hesaid. “Kill him before heslakes his thirst and thereal pain starts, or hewill

die a hideous death atsunset.”Fury at Herus’scallousness drove awayBram’s exhaustion. “Getout,”thenoblemanhissed.“I’d sooner kill you, youfraud.” Bram gave ahumorless laugh beforecontinuing up the ladder,slopping water. “And tothink Iwasworried aboutnot being a real

physicker.” Herusmuttered something a bitprofane before stompingout the door. Bram dimlyheardit,butdidn’tcare.Nahamkin saw Bram’shead cresting the floor ofthe loft. “I thought you’dnever come with thatwater,” he panted. “Whowasatthedoor?”Bram was thankfulNahamkin showedno sign

of having heard Herus’swords. “Just someoneasking me to give aid attheir house,” he said. Thelie came out easilyenough, though the handthat poured water into amugshook.Nahamkin gulpedgreedily, water sprayingfrom his mouth in hishaste. “You should go tothem,Bram.You’vestayed

withmelongenough.”Bram’s dark head shookas he refilled the heavymug. “There is no one Icareaboutasmuchasyou,Nahamkin,” he saidhonestly, his voicebreaking. “I’ll stay withyou until you’re wellagain.”ThewordsstuckinhisthroatpastNahamkin’sseventhmugofwater.Bram sat stiffly while

the old farmer tried toquench his thirst. Everymuscle was tensed withdread.Thepewtermugfellfrom Nahamkin’s agedhandsmidwaythroughhisninth drink. It fell to thefloor with a dull ting thatsounded like a bell ofdoom in Bram’s head. Hefingered one of a handfulof small flour sacks he’dfetched to mop up the

water Nahamkin hadspilled while he drank.Bram twisted the sack sotightly the flesh of hispalmsbegantoburn.Nahamkin’s bodyabruptly shuddered, andhis arm began to twitch.The raw flesh of hisforearm undulated withhideous,unnaturalspasms.Nahamkin groaned, asmall, dry sound in the

back of his throat thatabruptlychangedtoafull-fledged shriek. Both menwatched in horror as thethrashing arm began tobendandtwistinwaysnohuman arm was evermeant to. Bram struggledtograbthelimbandpinitto the bedding, but hiseffort netted him a punchin the nose that left himdazed and bloody. As his

eyesrefocused,hesawthearm, thrashing left andright like a whip beingplayed across the ground.The first and secondfingersclosedtogetherandfused into one mass offlesh, then the third andfourth did the same. Thethumb folded back onitself, becoming shorterandthicker.Bramcoveredhismouth

as the armbegan splittingopen between the newlyformed digits. No soonerdid the flesh split apartthan it resealed itself,forming three distinctappendagesallthewayupNahamkin’s forearmtohiselbow. Like three eyelessworms, the limbs writhedacross Nahamkin’s pallet.Quickly the color andtexturechangedfrompale,

fleshy white to green-brown scales with apattern of red and yellowstripes. Two bulgesappeared near the end ofeach appendage andpopped open, revealingpure black orbs. Threefully formed snakeswrithedfromthestumpofNahamkin’s arm, theirforked tongues flicking inand out as they scanned

their new world withunblinkingeyes.Wiping his bloody nose

onhis sleeve,Bramstaredin transfixedhorror at thecreatures that Nahamkin’sarm had become. He wasrelieved to see thatNahamkin wasunconscious. But the oldman’s eyes slowly openedunder Bram’s scrutiny.Dazed,Nahamkinsearched

forthecauseofthepaininhisarm.Whenhe saw thesnakes resting in a coilthere,Nahamkin’sscreamsshook the rotted thatchabove their heads. Thesnakes jumped from theirslumber and rose up tohiss into the frightenedman’sface.Bramdid theonly thingthat came to mind.Ignoring his own horror,

he snatcheduponeof thesacks near Nahamkin’spallet and slid it over thetransformed limb, thencinched it tightly abovetheelbow.“I’mdying,”theoldmansaidhoarsely.“I should have warnedyou!” moaned Bram.“Herus told me, but Ialreadysuspected—”Nahamkin touched his

goodhand toBram’s face.“It wouldn’t havemattered. It’s probablybest I didn’t have time toponderittoomuch.”“Ishouldhavebeenabletohelpyouinsomeway!”“Youhave.”“Nahamkin,” Bramwhispered,sosoftlyitwaslikeareluctantconfession.Hecouldnotmeettheoldman’s eyes. “Do youwant

me to … I mean, I couldspareyou—”“No.”Bram’s eyes shot awayfrom the tangledbedclothes.“How could I faceChislevinthegrandforestZhan,” Nahamkin asked,his eyes strangely serene,“knowing that I hadn’tpatience or strengthenough to abide by her

will?”“Who’s Chislev?” Bram

asked.Nahamkin closed his

eyes to gather strengthagainst the forces thatwere fighting within him.“Mygoddess. Iknowmostpeopledon’tbelieveintheold gods any longer, but Ihave tilled the soil andplantedseedsinherhonorfor nearly four score

years.”“WhyhaveIneverheardofher?”Nahamkin’s rheumyeyes took on a farawaylook. “I suspect you havenot heard her namebecause she has beencalledoneof the old godssince the Cataclysm. Mostpeople think sheabandoned her followersthen, but I have only to

look at the beauty of theland to know better. Youhave seen her with everypassingseasonandjustnotknown it,” he said. “It issaid that her fear bringsthe fall, her despair thewinter, her hope thespring, and her joy thesummer. Every blade ofgrass,everycreatureinthefield, turns toward her astowardthesun.”

He smiled at somedistant vision. “They sayshe appears to herfollowers as a beautifulwoman whose hair glowslike golden sunlight, andherclothesaremade fromlivingplants. Iwillseeformyselfsoonenough.”“How can you revere

something that wouldallow this sickness tohappen to you?” Bram

asked.“It is Chislev’s plan forme.”HegaveBramalookofmasculine pity. “I havelong suspected yourspiritual side has beenneglected, Bram.” It wassaidkindlyenough.“Lifeisa series of tests. Death issimply the final one. Thedifficulty of each is ameasure of a person’sfaith. Chislev must have

great faith in me to havehanded me my mostdifficult test now. I willnot fail by avoiding it,Bram.” He bit his lipagainst the pain. “I canendure this. You’ll find,my friend, that there aretimes when you simplyhave no alternative but tohavefaith.”Nahamkin’s facecontorted as his left leg

began the transformation.Hedidn’tscreamthistime,but tears rolled down hiswrinkledcheeksandacrosshisclenchedjaw.Thelimbthrashed wildly beforesettling into a calmundulation. Using hishorror and the last of hisstrength as tools, Bramslipped the second clothbag over the limb, hopingto calm the three snakes

that sprouted from theknee.When Nahamkinrecovered his breath, hesaid, “I would be happierif I could go with you atmy side, but I willunderstandifyouleave.”“Of course I’ll stay,”Bramsaidfirmly.He stayed to put floursacks over the last twolimbstoturnintowrithing

snakes.He stayed throughthe long, cruel afternoon,the stillness broken onlyby the muffled hissing ofthesnakesandNahamkin’spain-racked gasps. It wasincreasingly difficult, thenimpossible, for Nahamkintospeakthroughthepain.Bram couldn’t even holdthedyingman’shand.The light through therotted thatch faded

quickly. As darkness grewin the hut, Nahamkinbegan whimpering andmumbling softly. Bramleaned in close to hear.“I’m dying, Bram, and Icanfeelit.It’sspreading,Ican feel it moving up mylegs.It’sdeath.”Bram pulled back thethin cover fromNahamkin’s legs. Insteadofflesh,hesawgraystone.

The snakes still movedlistlessly, but as thegrayness crept along thelimbs, the snakes’movements slowed andfinally stopped. BramtouchedNahamkin’sleg;itwas stone, hard and cold.Looking up, he saw thatthe change had advancedallthewayupNahamkin’storso tohis neck and jaw.Numb, Bram watched

without flinching as hisfriend’s eyes slowlyclouded over and turnedblackascoals.“Closeyourlids, Nahamkin,” he saidgently. The old mancomplied, for he could nolonger see. Withinmoments,asKrynn’s threemoons rose and the lasttraces of sunlight slippedaway, his face, too,transformed to ashen gray

stone.Bram scarcely breathed.The snakes were deathlystillbeneath theirbags, soBram risked removing theflour sacks.The snakes onNahamkin’s arms poppeduplikewhips,snappingatBram. He stumbled backand nearly fell from theloft. “Guerrrannnd,” theyhissed. Inunison, they felllike limp ropeback to the

cot,turnedgray,andweresilent.Heart hammering, Bramknew there could be nodoubtnow that the illnesswasmagical.

The light in therefectorywasdim,comingfrom two listing, bad-smelling candles. The

castle had not seenbeeswax, or even good-qualitytallow,inatleastayear. It was just as well,because the room lookedless shabby when so littleof it was visible beyondthe long table. Rietta hadmoved the last of thecastle’s finely craftedfurniture from the largeformal dining hall to thiscommunal eating area

because this room wassmaller and more easilyheated.Also, itwas closerto the kitchen, importantnow that they had onlyone downstairs servant,Gildeethecook.Therewerenotapestriesheretopreventdrafts,andno point in moving therottedandfadedonesfromthe formal hall. The barelimestone blocks radiated

cold, even on the hottestsummerday.“Icouldn’thelpnoticingyouhavenewboots,dear,”Bram’smotherwassaying.“Hmmm?” He turnedunseeingeyes tohis right,whereRiettawasseatedattheheadof the table.Herblackhairwaspulledbackin a severe knot, and hergown was an old, dun-colored,high-neckedaffair

with grease at theembroideredcuffs.“Your boots,” she

prompted, delicatelyspooning up her carrotsoup.“They’renew.Wheredidyougetthem?”“Kirahgave them tome

for my birthday six daysago,”hesuppliedabsently.“I wonder where the

little lunatic got the coinfor that,” muttered Rietta.

“Very likely she stolethem.”“Idoubt it.”Bramknew

better than to do muchmoretodefendhisaunttohis mother; both of themalways came awaybelieving what theywould.“Anyway,” Rietta

continued in her loud,authoritative voice, “Ihope you’re not

considering going back tothe village again to helpanyofthosepeople.”“You mean yoursubjects?” Bram askedwithabiteinhistone.Heshrugged. “I hadn’tthoughtthatfar,butI’llgoif summoned again.”Fiddling his spoon in histhin orangy soup, he gavea self-deprecating snort.“Not that I’ll be able to

helpanyofthem.”Gildee set a pot ofmashedwinterparsnipsonthe table between Bramand Rietta, then backedaway. “There’s been twomore cases in the villagesinceoldNahamkinpassedon,”shebreathed,herfearevident.“Who are—were they?”Bramaskedquickly.“That will be all,

Gildee,” Rietta snapped.The nervous cookcontinuedbackingthroughthe door to the kitchen.Rietta turned dark eyesupon her son. “TheDiThons have not sunk solow that we are nowconversing with theservants at the table,Bram.” Rietta gave adismissive twitch of herlips. “You forget, there’s a

perfectly competentphysickerinthevillage—”“Competent?” howled

Bram. “Herus’s solution istokillthevictims.”“I hear he’s ordered

people to kill every snakethey can find,” Riettaremarked. “Still, peoplesay it hasn’t reduced theunusual number of themthisspring.”Bram’s expression was

still troubled. “He’saddressing the symptomsof the disease, not thecauseofit.”Rietta leaned back in

astonishment. “And what,may I ask, is wrong withthat?”Bramcouldonlygapeat

herindisbelief.Rietta’snoseliftedinthe

air. “I don’t care to speakfurther of such hideous

thingsatthedinnertable.”Bram laughed. “Whichof us won’t be at thedinner table tomorrow?”Heshruggedcarelesslyandfellagainstthebackofhischair. “It’s impossible topredict.”Rietta gasped, a handpressed toher lips.“We’reall fine at Castle DiThon.The disease doesn’t existhere.”

“Yet.”She looked at her sonwith annoyance. “You’vebeenmoodyanddistractedsince you returned fromthatcotter’s.”Bram flushed, his gazefastened tohis soupbowl.Since Nahamkin’s deaththe night before, he hadthoughtofnothingbutthesnakeswhohadhissedhisUncleGuerrand’sname.

“Whyhaveyoutakensomuchoftheburdenofthisillnessonyourself,Bram?”his mother pressed. “Youaren’t responsible for thecause or cure of thisaffliction.”“I’mnotsosureofthat.”

Still, Bram held in thesecret. “I remember a daywhen a lord’s primaryresponsibility was thewelfareofhissubjects.”

“Is that what this isabout?” she demanded.“YouthinkIshouldexposemyself to illness just tohelp some peasants?Well,I won’t do it! Mark mywords,” Rietta continued,“this plague is heavenlyretribution against thevillagersfortheirlazyanddissolute ways. It can beno accident that it hasn’tstruckhereyet.”

Bram’stemperexploded.“You’ve practically sealedoffthecastle,that’swhy!”Rietta’s thin shoulders

lifted dismissively. “Welead virtuous, worthwhilelives.”Bram laughed without

humor. “Do you reallybelieve we DiThons areanything but blue-bloodedpeasants?” He waved hishandsatthesqualorinthe

refectory. Bram couldn’thelp reflecting that, inmany ways, Nahamkin’sdrafty hovel was moreappealing.Atleastithadasurplusofstraightcandles.Riettafrowneddarklyat

herson.“Ididn’traiseyouto speak tome this way,”she said. “You are not soold, nor have we sunk sofar, thatI’llallowitnow.”Her tone, meant more to

inspireguiltthanfear,hadbeen rehearsed toperfection on Bram hisentirelifetime.“The causeof this curseisobvious.”Both Bram and Riettaturned in surprise to lookat Cormac, alone inshadow at the far end ofthe long table. The tallman’s head was slumpedonto his barrel-shaped

chestasusual.Eveninthedark Bram could see hisfather’s red-veined noseand that his clothing waswaytoosmallforhisobesetrunk. At least his wordsweren’t slurred, whichsuggested Cormac hadgone easier on thewatered-down bottle heusuallynursed.“Who said anythingaboutacurse?”demanded

Rietta. “You haven’t leftthe castle walls in fouryears,Cormac.Whatcouldyou possibly know aboutthis illness—or anything,forthatmatter?”Bram had long since

stopped wincing when hismother sliced into hisfather like this. When hewasyoung,hisparentshadalwaysbickered.Bramhadaccepted early on that

there was no love lostbetweenthem,hadseenitas the way of things. Butall the bluster had beenknocked out of Cormac.Rietta’s spiteful remarks,or even Bram’s ownthoughtful comments,usuallywentunnoticed.“Did you have

somethingtoadd,Father?”Bramproddedgently.Cormac’s glazed

expression suggested hehadn’t heard thewords asmuch as their cadence.“We have not seen thelikes of such upheavalsince there was magic inthis house. There is vilesorceryatworkhere,therecanbenodoubt.”Bramfroze.HadCormac

heardarumoraboutwhatthe snakes hissed beforedeath?

Rietta threw herselfback in her chair. “Italways comes back tomagicwithyou,doesn’tit,Cormac?”“Thatwas thestartof itall,”rumbledCormac.“Sevenyears,andyou’restill blaming him for yourmistakes,” she sighed,rollinghereyes.“Everyoneknows there was no lovelostbetweenGuerrandand

me,but—”“Don’t speak thattraitor’s name!” spatCormac. “We were doingfine before he brought hissorceryintoourlives.”“Fine?” Rietta shrieked.“You’d already spent usinto poverty. Frankly, thiswhole situation is yourfault, Cormac,” she said.“Bram would be safelyaway in Solamnia if you

hadn’t squandered themoney we needed tosquire him to a trueknight.”“Don’t you understand,

woman?” roared Cormac.“Therewouldbenoplagueupon our heads if mybrother hadn’t broughtmagicintothisvillage,thishouse. We would not beliving in poverty if thatbastard had done his

familial duty as he’dpromised. Instead he lostustheBerwickmoneyandStonecliff in one fellswoop.” Cormac’s hammyfist slammed the table.“Markmywords,whensomany people die ofmysterious causes, there’svilemagicinvolved.”“Father is right.”Bram’s

voice was barely above awhisper. “I’ve seen for

myself that magic hascaused this illness. And Ifear Uncle Guerrand issomehow responsible.” Herecounted the lastmoments of Nahamkin’slife, concluding with thesnakes hissing Guerrand’sname.“But why?” she asked.

“Why would Guerrand dosomething so cruel to usafterallthistime?”

“I don’t know,” Bramconfessed.“ButI intendtofindout.”“I’ll tell you why,”

snarled Cormac. “BecauseGuerrandisacontemptibleblack-hearted wizard, likeall his kindred. That’sreasonenough.”Rietta’s head was

shakingslowlyindisbelief.“Surely Guerrand is deadafter all these years,” she

breathed. But she hadalready seen in her son’seyes the interest herhusband’s words hadstirred. Growing alarmed,she took up Bram’s handand squeezed it. “Youknow I am not theopponent of magic yourfather is, but you can’tpossibly be takingCormac’s ravings seriouslynow,Bram.Hehasn’t said

anythingworthlisteningtoinyears.”“Father only confirmedwhat I already knew,”Bram said. “I’ve realizedsince Nahamkin’s deaththatIwouldhavetoleavetofindGuerrand.IfIcan’tpersuade him to use hismagictostopthissickness,we’llalldie.”“You think he’ll do itjust because you ask him

to?” Rietta scoffed. “Youdon’t remember Guerrandas Ido,Bram.Hewasnoteven willing to marry forthesakeofthefamily!Andif he’s not to blame forspreading this sickness, Iassure you he won’t riskgetting the plague to saveanyofus.”“Nevertheless,” said

Bram, standing, “I feel alord’s responsibility, even

if you and father don’t. Itmay have escaped yournotice, but I have beenworking too hard for fiveyears to restore CastleDiThon’s productivity tosit by and do nothingwhile people suffer. Iwouldn’t care to lookbeyondDiThon’swallsoneday and find we’re allalone.”“Sometimes I think that

would not be such a badthing,” his mother museddistantly. She knew shehad lost the argument.“Whenwillyouleave?”“Soon. I need to talk to

Kirahfirst.ShemighthavesomeideawhereGuerrandwent.”“You know, of course,

thatonceyouleave,you’llnot be welcome at CastleDiThonagain,”hismother

said softly. “I cannot riskexposing everyone here toplague for some folly ofyours.”Bram saw themanipulation for what itwas. Rietta had done thesame thing to Kirahwhenshe refused to marry. Itwasnotatypicalmother’sconcern that drove her tothese ultimatums. Riettasimply abhorred anyone

disruptingthefabricofherlife, however threadbarethe weave, whatever thecost in others’ lives. Likethe briefest fluttering ofwings, the last glowingcoal of tolerant affectionforherwinkedtoblack inhisbreast.“Do what you must,”Bram said coldly. Hebowed his head formallyand backed toward the

door. He looked first toCormac in the shadows.“Good-bye, Father.” Helockedhisdeterminedgazeon Rietta. “Good-bye,Mother. I wish you longlife in this self-imposedprison.” With that, heslippedfromtherefectory.“Bram!” his mother

cried,andherhandflewtohermouth. “Ididn’tmean—”Shesprangtoherfeet,

but instead of followingher son, Rietta descendedupon her husband at thefar end of the table, fistsflying. “Damn you,Cormac, for putting thenotion in his head! Youknew he would feelobligated to do whateverhe could to help thosemiserablepeasants!”Bram couldn’t hear his

mother’s ranting turn to

sobs, or see the small,triumphant smile thatpulledathisfather’slips.

Bram sat shivering

within the circle ofbroken boulders knownbefore their destruction asStonecliff, drying hisstockinged feet at thesmallfirehe’dmanagedatlength to start. Bram hadneverbeensocold,norsofarfromhomebefore.He had packed wiselyenough for the trip toWayreth, he thought,bringing flint, tinder,

knife,atightlyrolledwoolblanket, enough food forthree days, and an extrapairoftrousersandjerkin.But he hadn’t anticipatedthe cold, driving rain thathaddoggedhimalldayashewalkedonfeetblisteredby new boots. Nearlyeverythinginthepackwassoaked through, butespecially the wintercloak, white jerkin, and

brown trousers he wore.Fortunately, the healingherbs he’d brought insmall glass vials remaineddry.The young noblemanpulledoutaknifethatwasneither very sharp norstrong, meant more forcutting the tender flesh ofvegetables than people.Still, it sliced easilyenough through the

wrinkled flesh of anautumn apple. Hemunchedthesweetfruitinweary distraction,wondering what the nextdaywouldbring.Withany luckhewould

be aboard a ship headedfor distantWayreth. Kirahhad told him Guerrandhadgone there first inhisquest to become a mage.Though many years had

since passed, Bramreasoned that even ifGuerrand were no longerat the place where magesregularly gathered, thewizardstherewouldknowwherehewas.Bram’striptoThonvilto

speak again with Kirahhad made him only moredetermined than ever tofind his uncle. Two morepeople had succumbed to

the mysterious disease,their snake limbsheard tomagically sigh Guerrand’sname. There could be nodoubt the wizard wassomehow involved withthe pestilence. The life ofeveryvillagerdependedonBram’s finding Guerrand.Hefeltthefullweightofalord’s responsibility forthem. More selfishly, he’dworked long and hard to

bring a spark of life backtoCastleDiThon’slands.Ifthe plague wasn’t stoppedsoon, there would be novillagelefttorevive.At first light, he would

thread his way down thecliff,crosstheRiverDurristo Hillfort, and offerhimself up as a shiphandinexchangeforpassageonthefirstshipheadedsouth.The nobleman wouldn’t

takenoforananswer.Bram snapped some

twigs and tossed them onthe fire. He stared,unblinking,intotheflamesuntil his eyes teared sothat his darkenedsurroundingswavered andblurred as if he werelooking through the steamof a boiling pot. Throughthe corner of his eyes, hethoughthesawmovement

behind a boulder at thelimit of the firelight’srange. Bram blinked, thendug his fists into his eyestoclearthem.Whenhelookedagain,a

cloud of light snowflakeswhirledupandcaughtthefirelight like a thousandtiny prisms. The flurryslowly settled, revealingthree beings, as short asyoung children. Each had

enormous blue eyes thatglowed like the hottestflame. Three heads offeather-fine hair the colorofwaxedwalnut furniturewere covered withcolorful, jaunty hats ofwool. All manner ofpouches hung from theirshoulders,aswellaswaistbelts with loopholes fortoolsandcarvingknives.“I’ve heard of you,”

breathed Bram. “You’rebrownies, aren’t you? Iwasn’t sure if you reallyexisted.”All three creatures

crossed their small armsstiffly. “If I’m notmistaken,thatnameisalsoused todescribe chocolatecake,” said the onewearing a slate-blue capand mantle. “It makes ussound like a bit of fluff,

not at all serious orworthwhile. We’d as soonyou called us ‘milk’ or‘fruit,’ if you insist uponnaming us afterfoodstuffs.”Bram put up his handsdefensively.“Tellmewhatyou call yourselves, and Iwill never use that otherwordagain.”“We call ourselvestuatha dundarael.” The

creature saw Bram’s eyesopen wide. “If that’s toodifficult for you, youmayuse the shortened form,tuatha—pronounced ‘too-a-ha.’”“Tuatha,”Bramrepeated

deliberately, lookingrelieved. He stood andwalked around the threetuatha, peering closely atthe small, soft-featuredbeings. “Where are your

wings?”Theblue-mantledtuatha

man gave a slight sigh.“Those would be pixies.Whilealsofaeriefolk,theywearsilly,curly-toedshoeslikecourt jestersand,asarule, come out only atnight.”Bram raised his

eyebrows and took in thedarkened sky. “You canseewhyIwasconfused.”

Thetuatharegardedhimthrough one slow, lazyblink.“Notreally.”Bram coughed self-

consciously. “I’m sorry, Ididn’t catch your names.I’m Bram,” he said,extendingahand.“Yes.” The blue-capped

beingignoredBram’shandandputatinypalmtohischest. “I am calledThistledown.”

He gestured to hiscompanioninthesnugredhat.“ThisisBurdock.”Theseconddiminutivecreaturebowedhishead.Thistledown waved to

the last tuatha, a youngfemale wearing a longyellow wool stocking capandadecorativegoldsashfrom one shoulder to theoppositehip.Herfacewasrosy and clean. “She is

Milkweed.” The blush inher cheeks darkened towine, and she averted hereyesfromBram’s.“Why don’t they talk?”

thenoblemanasked.“Because I am the

speaker in this troop,”explained Thistledownmatter-of-factly. “Burdockis the pathfinder.Milkweed is theenchantmentcrafter. King

Weador assigned us threetoyouwhenheheardyouspeakinghere.”“King Weador?” Bram

repeated dully. “I don’tunderstand what youmean,‘assignedyou.’”Thistledown turned to

Milkweed, who turned toBurdock,who turnedbackto Thistledown. Threesmall sets of shoulderslifted in shrugs. “It’swhat

we do, we tuatha. Weattach ourselves, so tospeak, to humans of highmoralstandards.”Bram leaned back andcrossed his arms. “I havehighmoralstandards,haveI?”“And a natural earthmagical ability,” saidThistledown, as if hehadn’tbeeninterrupted.“I do have a way with

plants,”agreedBram.Thistledown’s eyebrowswere drawn down inannoyance. “Watch thatpride, or we’ll have toleave,” he threatened,while Milkweed andBurdock settled theirshoulders as if preparingto disappear behind theirspeaker.“I’m sorry,” Bram saidquickly. “I didn’t mean

to…”Hisvoicetrailedoffawkwardly. He droppedbackdownbythefireandfolded large hands aroundhis knees, preparing tolisten rather than getfurther into trouble byspeaking.Thistledown seemed

mollified. “We performsmall services in exchangefor amug ofmilk, a littlebread,thatsortofthing.”

Thenobleman lookedathis wet belongings by thefireandsaid,“I’dbehappyto share my foodstuffswith you.” He fishedaround in his small pack.“I’vebeeneatingsnowforwater,butIhaveplentyofapples, carrots, andpeanuts, andahalf-loafofbread—”“We’re not here to eat

your food,” interrupted

Thistledown. “We’ve longpartaken of the bounty ofyourgardens.”Bramstraightenedup insurprise. “You know myfields?”Allthreetuathabeamed.“We tuatha have beenworking at night to helpyou return those weedpatches into workableplots.”Bram’s face lit with

sudden understanding.“I’ve wondered somemornings about findinggleaming pitchforks andshovels when I left dirtyones in the garden thenightbefore,”hebreathed.Bramleanedbackfromthefire. “So how long haveyoubeenhelpingme?”Thistledown leanedtoward Burdock. “Timehasnomeaningforus,”he

announced at length. “Wehaveaidedyoulongeragothan yesterday, but lessthan we will havetomorrow.This is the firsttime Burdock, Milkweedand I have been sent as atrooptoaidyou.”Bram blinked. “How

manytuathaarethere?”Thistledown turned

again to his companionsbeforespeaking.“Idaresay

we tuatha outnumber youhumans.”“I’m surprised, then,that I never sawevenoneof you before,” observedBram.“Wedidnotwantyoutosee us until now,”Thistledown said simply.“We live in the faerierealm, beyond humansight. In this place whereearthly magic once

flourished, your thoughtswere particularly resonantin our realm. That iswhyKing Weador sent us togiveyouaid.”Bram used the toe of anew boot to nudge theunburned ends of a loginto the flames. “Unlessyouhaveashipandafullcrew,”hesaid,“Ican’tseethat you can do anythingto help me get to

Wayreth.”“You could be there in

no time if you took thefaerie road,” suggestedThistledown.Bram waited for the

tuathamantoexplain,butas usual, Thistledownstared at him expectantly.“What’safaerieroad?”thenoblemanaskedatlength.Onceagain,Thistledown

conferred with his

colleagues. “Burdockremindsmethatthefaerieroad is like time. It looksdifferent to every humanwho traverses it, anddecidedly different to youthanitdoestoustuatha.Itwillmagicallyallowyoutotravel great distances in amatterofheartbeats.”Thistledown turned to

Milkweed,whodug intoapouch and extracted a

small object she thenpressed into the speaker’swaitingpalm.“Here’s your coin,” saidThistledown. A gold coinof unfamiliar designglintedbrightlyinthelightofthewhitemoon.Bram stared at the goldpiece in Thistledown’spalm. “I don’t understand.Whyareyoupayingme?”The tuatha man flipped

the coin inhis small, palehand.“Thisismilledfaeriegold, the coin of ourrealm,” he explained.“Only those invited toWayrethmay find its twintowers; thecoinwillserveas invitation. In addition,itwillofferyouprotectioninthefaerieland,butonlyif you keep the coin withyou and never stray fromthemainroad.”

“What happens if I stepfrom that pathor lose thecoin?”“You’ll either be struck

dead or kept hostage insome horrible fashion,”Thistledown respondedpromptly.“What if Imeetupwith

banditsalongthewayandit’sstolenfromme?”“The bandit who

touches it without your

leavewillbestruckdead.”“Hmmm.” Bram stroked

his chin thoughtfully.“WhatifIchoosetospendit along theway for food,orIsimplyloseit,orIgiveituptosavemylife?”“Dead,dead,anddead.”Bram pursed his lips in

dismay. “I should risk mylifeonthisroad?”Thistledown looked east

toward the cliff that

overlooked Hillfort. “Onlyyou can decide which ofyouroptionsisthegreaterrisktoyouorthevillagersforwhomyoufeeladuty.I can assure you that youwill be perfectly safe onthefaerieroad if youbidemywarnings.”Bram looked toward

Hillfort and knew theanswer he must give.“HowdoIgettothisfaerie

road?” he asked. “Is itfar?”“As near as here.”Thistledown reached overtotouchafinger,lightasafeather, cool as runningwater, to Bram’s righttemple. “You have but totake the coin and speakaloud the name of yourdestination. A road willappearbeforeyou.”Bram stood, collected

his belt and small pouch,then reached for thegolden coin inThistledown’shand.Tohissurprise, the tuatha mandrewhisownhandback.“Remember,” headmonished,“neitherstrayfrom the main road, norgive away the coin whilein the faerie realm. Onlythe third fork to the leftwilltakeyoutoWayreth.”

Milkweed abruptlypulledThistledown’seartoher lips again. “We havebeen advised to also tellyou that when you reachWayreth, you’re to givethe coin to a man namedPar-Salian, and Par-Salianonly. It will prove youtook the faerie road, fortheonlyhumanstopossesssuch a coin in yourworldare thosewhohave safely

traveledthatroadinours.”That said, Thistledownplaced the coin in Bram’swaiting palm. The mintedgold felt unexpectedlywarmandheavyandborethe symbol of a disk thatwas half sun, half moon.On the other side was animage that Bram assumedwas that of King Weador.Bram clasped the cointightlyashegaveawarm

smilethattookinallthreetuatha, even the oneswho’d never spoken tohim.“Will I seeyouagainafter I return fromWayreth?”Bram saw Thistledown’slips move frantically forone brief second, but hecould hear no soundcoming from them. Heblinkedonce,twice,beforerealizing he’d unwittingly

uttered the name of hisdestination. In the thirdblink of the nobleman’seye, the chilly hillside inNorthernErgothgavewaytoalush,greenforest.Bram had entered therealmofthetuatha.

Bram’sfirst thoughtwasto keep the faerie coin

safe,soheslippeditintoasmall inner pocket justbeneath the drawstringthat held up his browntrousers.Only thendidhelet himself look at hissurroundings.The road beneath hisfeet,craftedofinterlockingblocks of stone worn orcarved flat, was thesmoothest he’d ever felt.ThiswasnoErgothiandirt

path riddled with wagonrutsandpotholesoffrozenwater. His eyes followedits flat, gently curvingways around broad,gnarled trees andprotrudingboulders.Above the road the

green canopy was thickand close on all sides,making the path resemblea dark tunnel. The treeswere a variety he didn’t

recognize,withbroad,flat,oval leaves, somevariegated with whorls ofwhite, the rest a solid,blackish green. The barkwas smooth and gray likethat of a young maple,broken only by hugegnarls where oncebranches had grown. Theunderbrushwasthickwiththorny holly and rosybarberrybushesandahost

of common roadsideweeds,thoughhowanyofthem received enoughlight through the canopywas a puzzle to Bram.Occasional thin slivers ofbright blue limned theuppermost leaves,suggestingthatsomewhereabove a sky and a sunexisted. Unlike Stonecliff,the air was as warm asErgoth in the month of

Corij.Strangely, it was a

cheery forest in a dark,well-manicured sort ofway. It looked neithermagical nor foreboding asThistledown’s descriptionof a death-dealing placewouldsuggest.Bram’s fingertips

traveled to the hiddenpocket in his trousers forreassurance. Through the

fabric he could feel thesmall,roundoutlineofthefaeriecoin.Bramflungtheheavy lapels of his wintercloak over his shoulders,looped the strap of hispack from waist toopposite collar bone, thensetoffdowntheroadatabriskpace.Hehadnotwalkedveryfar before he noticed thatthe forest was strangely

silent,sosilenthebegantohear only his ownfootsteps. No birds sang,no squirrels chittered orshook the underbrush atthesoundofhisapproach.Bram found himself self-consciously stepping solightlythathisheelsmadeno noise to break theunnaturalsilence.The road cut through acopse of draping,

willowlike trees when thestrange whispering began.Bramspunaround,lookingfor the source of a vague,distantmumbling.“Hello?” There was noone in sight behind oraheadofhimontheroad,nor could he see anyoneamong the denseness ofthe trees. He thought itodd that while no breezelifted his hair, the thin,

golden vines of thesurrounding trees waftedinsomemysteriouswind.“Is anyone here?” hecalled again. His voiceechoed back at him threetimes, but there came noanswering call. Just theoddwhispering.Helookedmore closely at theunfamiliar variety of treethat surrounded him. Theleaves were long, pink-

tinged, and slightlyhumped in the middle.Though they lookedvaguelylikewillowleaves,whateachresembledmoreaptlywasadelicatepairoflips.The strange muttering

began to grate on Bram’snerves, and he hasteneddown the road, hoping toescape the irritatingnoise.He left the odd copse of

trees behind, and thewhispering graduallyreceded. Bram began torelax.It was only a matter ofmoments, however, beforehe spotted a flock offlamingo-sized birdsperched on a single,bowedbranch to the rightofthepath.Withbodiesofpinkfeathersandheadsoforange fur, they watched

him pass as one, five setsofyelloweyesglowinglikesmall suns. They seemedmore disturbing thandangerous, yet Brampickeduphispace topassthemquickly.Hehadnotwalkedverymuch farther when heheard a child’s voice, thinand reedy, up ahead. Thechild sounded frantic andin need of help, so Bram

broke into a run.His eyessearched the shrubs,looking for the owner oftheplaintivevoice.The road curved gently

to the right,andanarrowfork, obscured by tallbrush, abruptly appearedon his left. Bram stoppedat the turn and peereddown the smaller path forthe source of the voice.Several paces away was a

small child, nomore thantenyearsofage.Thechildwore a grubby, ripped,pink tunic that hung pastits knobby knees andbrushed the tops of therags thatwrapped its feet.Pale yellow hair dangledin limp, tangled ropes tothe shoulders. Bram couldnot be certain if the childwasaboyoragirl.“Please!”thechildcried.

“You must help me. Mymother is trappedbeneathalognearourhome,andIhaven’t the strength withmygirlisharmstomoveitoff her. She’s been therefor some timeandnear toblue,sir.”Bram hesitated, peeringdown the path behind thegirl,thenbacktothemainroad Thistledown hadinstructedhimtotake.

Seeing his reluctance,the young girl dropped toher knees. “Please, sir,”she begged, holding upclenched hands, “withyour muscles, it will takebutmoments tomove thelogthattrapsmymother.”Bram squinted again

overher shoulder, lookingfor a cottage or any othersignoflifebehindthegirl,but all he sawwasapath

much narrower than theoneonwhichhestood,asdark and confining as atomb. “Where’s yourfather?”heaskedher.“He’s in the forest,beyond the sound of myvoice,” she said. “Theforest is thick and darknearourcottage.Helefttochop some holes to thesky.”Bram could make no

senseofanyofthis.“Howdid your mother come tofallbeneathalog?”The girl had begun towring her hands. “Shewanted to help my fatherby trimming some treesnear our cabin. I warnedher not to, for fear a logwould strike our littlehome, but she wouldn’tlisten.” She lookedfrantically over her

shoulder yet again. “It’snot very far to our cabin,just around that firstbend.”Torn with indecision,Bram ran a hand throughhis hair. He looked at theroad beneath her feet, apath of sorts. He’d beenwarned to take the thirdfork to the left, not thefirst. Somehow he knewthe reason Thistledown

had not mentioned anyexceptions to the rulewasbecausetherewerenone.“Please, sir,” the girlbeseeched him, palmspressed together. “I fearthis hesitation may havealreadymadeittoolatetosave her. We could notsurvive without mymother.”Bram looked into herpale golden eyes and

found them strangelyunmoved, considering herdesperate words. “Haveyou any rope?” he askedsuddenly.The question surprised

her. “I suppose that wedo.”“You’ll need a long

piece,morethantwicethelength of the thickestbranch nearest yourmother,” he said quickly.

“Throw one end of theropeoverthebranch,thentie both ends around thelogthatpinsher.Establisha good foothold, then tugtheropesidewayswithallyourmight.Thelogshouldlift enough for yourmothertorolltosafety.”“But I told you I’m notstrong enough to lift thelog!” Her eyes werenarrowinginanger.

“The pulley will supplyenough strength,” Bramreassured her, “but if youstillhavetrouble,hitchtheropetoafarmanimalandletithelpyouliftthelog.”Bramwatchedherclosely.“It is all that I would beabletodo,I’mafraid.”Hethought for a moment. “Icouldgiveyousomeherbsthat would ease thesoreness your mother will

feel,ifyou’dlike.”The young girl stomped

a rag-covered footpeevishly, her helplessdemeanor gone. “What I’dlikeisforyoutocomeandhelpme!”Startled by the change,

Bram backed away. “I’msorry, but I’m in a greathurry,” he said. Hastilywishing her luck, henodded his head politely.

Whenhe lookedupagain,he saw something thatnearlyfrozehisfeettothestonepath.Onthedarkandnarrowbranch to the left was anenormous, buglikecreaturewith six legs thatended in razor-sharphooks. Above its fearsomefacialmandibleswereeyesthe color of shiny amber.The thing was at least

twiceBram’ssize.Beneathits yellow shell, its bellywas incongruously pinkandsoft-looking.Bram turned and randown the main path. Hecouldn’t be sure if thepoundingstepsheheardinhis head came from themonster in pursuit or hisownpulse pumping in hisears. He wanted to lookback but dared not.

Roundingacurvearoundathick tree, he stole a halfglance over his rightshoulder. The fork wasagain obscured by shrubs,and the enormous thingwasnolongerinsight.Bram bent at the waist,

grabbed his knees, anddrew in great gulps of airto catch his breath andslow his heart. He had astitch in his side, and

beads of sweat ran fromhis forehead and puddledabove his lip. He quicklyreachedforthecoininthepocket at his waist andsighed in relief to find itstillinplace.Bram continued on for

some time. The roadseemed to go on forever.Thenextbendwasalwaysjust a few dozen pacesahead, holding out the

promise of a destination.Butaroundeachbendwasanotherbend, inapatternthat soon becamemonotonous, then tedious,and finally, downrightirksome.Hungerbegantorumblein Bram’s stomach, thenslice clean through to hisbackbone. Withoutstopping,hepusheduptheflap on his pouch and

withdrewarubberycarrot.Using his trousers like astrop,hewipedtheroottoremove the finegrittydirtthathidunderbumps anddefied even a waterwashing. Bram wrenchedoff a too-soft bite of theroot. It was tasteless anddid nothing to ease thegnawing pain in his gut.He spit the mouthful intothe shrubbery and tossed

the restof thecarrotafterit.Roundinganothergentle

bend,hescrubbedafingerto his teeth, wishing hehad even a swallow ofwatertowashthegritandsmall,tastelesspiecesfrombetweenhisteeth.“Yoo-hoo!”Bram’sheadsnappedup,

andhewasinstantlyonhisguard. He followed the

voice to his right andblinked in surprise at thesight. A stout, apple-cheekedelderlycouple saton the stoop of a quaintlittle cottage. Theirwrinkled and pleasantlyweathered faces wereringedbylongyellowhairthat showed no signs ofgray.Bothworesimplebutcolorfulhomespunclothes,adorned with beautifully

embroidered suspenders,waist belts, aprons, andstockings. The manappeared to be carvingfaces on the handle of alarge serving spoon whilethewomanshelledpeas.Bram stood in stoop-

shouldered weariness andcould not keep a jealoussighfromescapinghislipsashelookeduponthefoodand the handsome cottage

of neatly tuck-pointedstone and plaster. Thethatch atop it was cleanand yellow-new, withgentle arches abovecurved, stained-glassdormers. Before it, theshrubs had been clearedaway to make room forbeautifully tended raisedbeds of vegetables andflowers, with all thevariety of Nahamkin’s

garden and none of thechaos. Yellow and whitemoths fluttered abovefloweringsweetpeas,lush,ripe tomatoes, and minty-greencabbages the sizeofsmall boulders. Climbingrosesofeverycolorscaledthe walls to encircle thesecond-floor dormers. Theair smelled strongly ofsweet-burning cherrywoodandmeatystew.

“Hello, stranger,” saidthecoupleinunison.“You look near to

dropping,” the womanobservedkindly.“Wehaveplentyofstew,fresh-bakedbread, and dark-brewedale, though we are notblessed with children toshare it. You would bemost welcome to join usfor a moment or an hourto ease your journey,

wherever you may beheaded.”“That’sverykind,”Bram

said,“but—”“They say I’m a pretty

fair cook,” the womancoaxed, a modest smilelifting her fleshy cheeksand crinkling shut hereyes.“Fair?” boomed her

husband,pattinghisroundstomach. “There isn’t a

better one for leagues, I’llwager.Actually,there isn’tanother cook for leagues,”he confided with achuckle. “This is a lonelystretch of road, but myGorsha would be the bestcook even if the pathwaslittered with a dozencottages.”Bram suddenly felt as if

he’d been travelingwithout food for days. He

shook his head sadly. “Ican’t tell you how muchyou tempt me, but to behonest, I was told not toleave the path for anyreason,and—”The man waved his

hand as if to dismiss thenotion.“That’sjustamyththe brownies spread tofrighten folks and makethemselveslaugh,”hesaid.“People leave the trail all

the time. Unlike thebrownies, who are alwaystakingaperson’sfood,mywifeand Iask fornothingbut the pleasure of givingsustenance to wearytravelerslikeyourself.”Bramwas jarred by theman’s use of the dreaded“brownie” word.Suspicious,helookedbacktowhere he’d come from,remembering the bug

creature. “Perhaps,” hesaid slowly, so as not tooffend the couple, “butI’ve had a close callmyself, without evenleavingthepath.”“That’sunfortunate,”thehusband saidsympathetically, “but theworld’s a dangerous placewhereveryouare.”“Why do you stay here,so far from everyone, if

you’re lonely?” askedBram.The man raised his

shoulders and spread hishands to take in hishomestead. “Who couldleave such beauty as this,and why would we wantto? We’ve made iteverything we’ve everdreamed.Itsuitsus,andifthe price is a littleloneliness, it is a small

enough fee.” The womannoddedsilentlybyhisside.Bram was sorely

tempted,andittookeveryounceofdisciplinehehadto recall Thistledown’swords once more. He bithisbottomlipuntilithurt,then forced the wordsfrom his throat, “Thankyou again, but I must bemovingon.”“As you will,” said the

man. He and his wiferegarded Bram with pity,lifted their shoulders inresignation, and steppedbackintotheirhomeyandinvitingcottage.No doubt to have some

delicious stew, Bramthought, gritting his teethas he continued down thepath. They’d made nountoward move, neithermentioned his coin, nor

turned into vile creatureswhenherefusedthem.Bram spun around andlooked at the beautifulcottage, his eyes seekingsome sign of the couple.His orbs were drawn,instead, to a brightwhiteness in the yardbehind the small building,previously screened fromhis view by the cottageitself. He blinked and

focused again. Thewhitenesscamefromapileof bones—legs, arms, andskulls—piledashighasthecottage itself, and pickedclean. Bram broke into arunagain,thankfulhehadwithstood another deadlytemptation.The young noblemancametothesecondforkinthe road just as a pack ofunseen creatures, like

enormousmoles,burrowedunder the path in lumpywaves. Insteadof crackingapart, the brick pathheaved up like a gentlysnapped rope, throwingBramtohisknees.Hedughis fingers around thelooseedgesofabrickandclung to it to stay on thepath. Breathless, Bramwaited many momentsafter the rumbling and

heaving stoppedbeforehecrawled back to his feetandhastenedon.At a distance, the third

pathtotheleft lookedthesame,alittlewider,alittlebrighter,perhaps,thanthefirst two. The sightinstantly renewed hisflaggingenergy,forhefeltcertainitcouldn’tbemuchfarther to Wayreth afterthe fork. He approached

theturnwithlighterfeet.Bram heard rustling in

thebushesintherightVofthe fork and he jumpedback, instinctively puttinga hand to the coin at hiswaist. Up popped a man,waist-high in greenery.Eyes on Bram, the manpushed his way throughthe bushes toward thefork. When he emerged,the nobleman could see

that themanwas actuallya centaur. The man’snaked, muscular cheststretched back into thechestnut-brown body of ahorse. Four hoovesclattered on thecobblestones as thecreature moved to planthimself in the middle ofthe fork. A sword wasstrapped across his back,and he held a staff before

him defensively, hisexpressiondistrustful.“Whichwaywillyougo,stranger?”“Left,”saidBram,tryingtoget abetter lookat theoddlybeautifulbeing.“Youmay not go to theleft,”thecreaturesaid.Bram frowned at thecentaur’s tone. “But I wasinstructedtotakethisforktotheleft.”

“Youcanonlygo to theright at this fork,”explained the centaurunhelpfully.Bramshookhishead. “Idon’t want to take therightfork.Iwasinstructedto follow the left forkbecause it is the only onethatleadstoWayreth.”“Butyoucan’t.”Bram’seyesnarrowed.“Ican’t go to Wayreth, or I

can’ttakethisfork?”Acornerofthecentaur’s

mouthdrewupslightly.“Itappears for you they’reoneandthesame.”“Look, Mr. Centaur,”

Bram said with thinlyveiledsarcasm,“thetuathagave me a coin and saidthat itwould allowme togo anywhere I wanted inthefaerierealm,includingtoWayreth.”

“Youhaveacoin?” saidthe centaur. “Then thetuatha spoke truly to you.Give the coin to me andyou can go anywhere youwish.”“If you know about

faerie coins,” Bram saidevenly, “then you alsoknowIcan’tgive thecointo you and still get safelytoWayreth.”The centaur shrugged.

“Thenyoucan’tgoleft.”Bramslammedhishands

onhiships. “WhoareyoutotellmewhereIcanandcan’tgo?”The centaur lifted a

brow and looked over hisshouldertotheweapononhis back. “I’m the centaurwiththesword.”And I’m the man with

thevegetablepeeler,Bramthought ruefully, recalling

his little knife. “Yes, Isuppose you are,” he saidinstead.The centaur continuedto look at Bramexpectantly, rhythmicallytapping his staff in hishand.Bram turned and staredbackdownthepathhehadwalked.Itlookedthesamebehind as it did ahead. Infact, the intersection

looked nearly identicalfrom any direction. Hepaused, momentarilyconfused. He had comedownthepathandtriedtoveertotheleft,whichwasnow behind him to hisright.Anideacame;itwasnotnecessarilyagoodone,for it interfered with hisoriginal plans somewhat,but it might pacify thecentaur.

“What if I go back theway I came and take theright fork?” Bram asked.“Would thatbeacceptabletoyou?”“I don’t carewhere you

go,” said the centaur in abored voice, “as long asyou don’t take the leftfork.”“Yes, I hear that’s not

allowed,”Guerrandsaidashe turned around and set

offdownthepath.Behind him to his left,

the centaur shouted,“Where do you thinkyou’re going now? That’snotthewayyoucame.”The exclamation was

punctuated by clatteringhoovesandagreatdealofcrashing and scraping, asthe centaur boundedthrough the thick brushthat hemmed in the Y

intersection.“It’s not?” Bram

exclaimed innocently,looking over his shoulderto where he had comefrom. “I guess I got allturned around andconfusedbyyourrules.”“There’s nothing

confusing about any ofthis,”snappedthecentaur.“You’re just simple-minded.” The centaur

extended its left arm andpointed behind Bram.“Now turn around and goright.”Bramquicklyspunabout

and retraced his steps.“Turn right here?” heasked, standing at theintersectionagain.Straightaheadwasthepathhehadalready traveled, and tothe right was the path hehad wanted to take from

thestart.“Yes, yes, yes!”exclaimed the centaur.“My, you humans arethick. I’m certain Iexplained all this to youclearly. You may turnright,justnotleft.Nowdoit and leave me in peace,beforeIhavetogetnasty.”Toemphasizeitspoint,thecreaturereachedbehinditsbackandplacedahandon

thehiltoftheswordslungthere.“Try not to be so thickinthefuture!”thecentaurcalledafterhim.Brambowedhisheadinmock deference, thenproceeded. He wasscarcely ten steps downthe left fork when he felthisvisionshiftandblurinavaguelyfamiliarway.Heblinkedonce,twice,thrice;

the magical path beneathhis feet disappeared andhe stood before wondrousgatesofgoldandsilver.

Lyimlookedoutacross

the awakening hillsidesthatslopedgentlytowardThonvil, and he sighedwith satisfaction. He hadteleported to the easterndirt road to give himselfthis view of the sleepylittle burg. Despite itscurrent run-down state,Thonvil’s half-timberedbuildings with thatchedroofs looked warm andinvitingagainstabackdrop

of greening grasses andcornflower-bluesky.It must have been a

wonderfulsettinginwhichtogrowup,Lyimthought,and not for the first time.Any place would havebeen better than the uglyand unyielding village ofmud huts in which he’dlivedonthePlainsofDust.The unfairness of thedichotomy was another

entry on the ever-growinglist of reasons to hateGuerrandDiThon.The first time he’d hadsuchenviousthoughtswaswhen, as an apprentice toBelize, Lyim had traveledtoThonvilonbehalfofhisfriendGuerrand. That hadended in the disaster thatwas Lyim’s hand. He’dcome to Thonvil then tosave Guerrand’s family.

Now he was here todestroy it. It seemedsomehowfittingtoLyim,aclosingofthecircle.Everyhideousandpain-

racked death occurringthis spring in Thonvilwason Guerrand’s head. Lyimhad no doubt about thatand felt no guilt. Deathknells rang here two andthree times a day becauseof Guerrand’s

unwillingness to bend therules to help the friendwho’d given his handsavingGuerrand’slife.Lyim adjusted the

fingerless leather gloveover his right hand andtucked it inside theoverlongcuffonhiscoarsebrown robe. It would notdo, particularlyconsidering the prevailingair of suspicion and fear,

to advertise his professionby wearing his usual redmage’s robe or allowinganyone to see his snakehand.Lyim followed the roadinto thevillage.Themagekept his eyes averted anddrewintohimselfsoasnotto attract notice as astranger, a habit he haddeveloped since theaccident thathad changed

his hand. He couldscarcely remember thedays when he had soughtthespotlightbybothdeedanddress.Theman in thedrab, dun robe had onceworn the brightest, mostflamboyant colors in theneweststyles.Hehadoncemade it a goal to get toknow the people in anysmallvillagehevisitedformore than a few days.

Especially the ladies.Those days were far inLyim’spast.Women still admired

him, he had noticed withsome small measure ofpride. Lyim’s handsomelookshadchangedlittleinnearly a decade, with nocarepaidtothem.Hishairwas long,dark,andwavy,though he no longer tookthe time to fashion his

signature top braid. Therigors of his life had kepthis muscles toned anddefined as only a strictregimen of exercise hadbefore. Yes, women stilllooked at him with eagereyes, until they inevitablysawthesnakethatwashishand.Lyim felt the creature

shiftannoyinglyinsidethethick leather glove. He

gaveanangryshakeofhisheadandturnedhis stridetoward the village greenencircled by Thonvil’stimbered buildings.Standing in the shadowofa tree, Lyim watched astwo men dug a grave inthenewlysoftenedsoil.Hecounted eleven freshmounds of dirt in thesquare that until recentweeks had but two or

three new additions eachyear. The plague wasturningouttobeasdeadlyashe’dhoped.Lyim could scarcely

believe the luck ofoverhearing thewhisperedconversation of a sailorwhohadrecentlyreturnedto Palanthas from theMinotaur Islands. ThesailorspokewithhorroroffleeingMithaswhenanew

and vile pestilence hadsprung up among thesmattering of humansthere. “The medusaplague,” theywere callingit, a diseasewhose arrivaland spread they wereblaming on the uncleanliving habits of thebovinelike minotaurs whoinhabitedtheisles.Lyimhadbeenstruckbythe plague’s similarity to

hisownsituation,howeverdifferent some of thesymptoms. He had nevershed skin, and he’d livedwith the affliction formany years. But thesnakes … it was toocoincidentaltoignore,andso he decided to travel totheislandsnortheastoftheBlood Sea to see thisdiseaseforhimself.En route, hehadbriefly

entertained the hope thatunlockingthesecretoftheminotaur plague mightprovide some clue tocuring his own affliction,butthatdiedwhenhesawthe firstvictim.Theman’slimbs had changed tothree-headed snakes, notthe single head that washishand.Whatwasmore,the victims all turned tostone within three days

anddied,soLyimrealizedthere was no link to hisownconditiontobefoundhere.Buthewasamagewith

a bitter grudge to settle,andthe randompestilencein Mithas gave himanother idea. A moredelicious idea, in that itwould allow him to curehis hand and get therevenge that he had

longed for in the handfulof months since Guerrandhad refused to grant himentrancetoBastion.Lyim spent two months

among the brutishminotaurs, living in themost squalid conditionshe’denduredsinceleavingthePlainsofDust.Mostofthe buildings on Mithaswere of either mud orrough planking, with

nothing better than a dirtpath between them, evenin the capital city ofLacynos. Despite horridliving conditions, theminotaurswereamongthemost honor-boundcreaturesLyimhadmet inall his travels. Theythoughthewasexaminingthe stone bodies to find amagical cure. If they hadknown he was actually

collecting the pestilencefrom the dead bodies andstoring it in a speciallyprepared magical gem,they might have killedhim,orworse.Lyim saw spreading the

plague in Thonvil as theperfect,triple-edgedswordto use against GuerrandDiThon.As if inflicting anepidemic upon Guerrand’speople weren’t revenge

enough,Lyimhadaddedacurse to the pestilence sothat Guerrand himselfwould appear responsiblefor the magical sickness.But the most useful of allthe repercussions of theplague was that the newsof its spread in Thonvilmight very likely drawGuerrand from Bastion.Lyimwould thenhave theopportunity to breach the

stronghold more easily,gainentrance,andseek toreverse the process thathadmutatedhishand.It had been a simplematter, under cover of adark night less than afortnight ago, to add thecollected pestilence in themagical gem to the waterin the village well. Whilemonitoring the plague’sprogress was enjoyable,

Lyimhadreturnedthisdayprimarily to discoverwhether news of thesickness had reachedGuerrand.The mage left the

gravediggers in the squareandsoughttheonepersonwho was the likeliest toknow: Guerrand’s youngersister, Kirah. If anyonehere still communicatedwithGuerrand,itwouldbe

she.Lyim hiked the quarter

league through unplantedfieldstowardtheblackandimposing stone castleperched on the Strait ofErgoth. Not usually of amind tonotice that springhad truly arrived, evenLyim could see that allpatches of snow haddisappearedintotheearth,and the pale beige of

winter was slowly turningto olive-green. Theprogressoftheplaguehadput Lyim in anuncommonly good mood,and he launched into theuplifting last refrain from“The Lark, the Rave, andthe Owl,” singing in anaggressive andundisciplinedbase:

Through night the

seasons ride into thedark,The years surrenderinthechanginglights,The breath turnsvacantontheduskordawnBetween the abstractdaysandnights.For there is alwayscorpselight in thefieldsAndcorposantsabove

theslaughterhouse,AndatdeepnoontheshadowyvallenwoodsAre bright at thetopmostboughs.

Lyimhadn’tfoundmuchto sing about in recentyears, though singing hadbeena favoritepastimeofhis since his days at thefeet of bards in thesmokey, decadent inns of

hisyouth.The brown-shroudedmage came to the lastgreen,gentleslopethatledto the portcullis on CastleDiThon’s northern curtainwall. Staring up at thecastle, blatant symbol ofelitism, Lyim was struckagain by the inequitybetween Guerrand’supbringing and his own.CormacandRiettaDiThon

had served as Guerrand’sparents. Though noblyborn, he knew from hisown brief encounter withthemthat theywereofnomore noble spirit than hisown poor parents. It wasdifficult to say of whichpair that was a greaterindictment.Ardem Rhistadt andDinayda Valurin wereconsidered trash by the

worst trash of Rowley-on-Torath.Lyim’sparentshadnevermarried, in facthaddone no more than passeachotherinthedarkonenight, as was commonwith Dinayda’s profession.Lyim was the result.Ardem Rhistadt had doneno more than allow thechild to take his name.Dinayda alwaysmaintained that she did

the best she could, whichwas to let Lyim run wild,with the understandingthathealwayshadaplaceto rest his head if hewanted it. Lyim didn’twantitaftertheageofsix.When he was ten, Lyimheard thathismotherhaddied of one of theunspecified diseases thatcommonly killed womenofheroccupation.

By that time, Lyim’sfather had long sincemovedawayfromRowley.ThatasgoodasmadeLyiman orphan, but practicallyspeaking nothing hadchanged.Hewasearningafewcoinsandsomescrapsoffoodasageneralerrandand clean-up boy at thelocalinn.Itwasthere,onenight in Lyim’s twelfthyear, that he saw

something that wouldforever change thedirectionofhislife.A traveling sleight-of-hand artist—a charlatantrickster, really—waspassing through Rowley.Themagician,atall,lankyman with a dirty yellowcapeandhair,wasearningcoinbydoingtricksforthepatrons, such as makingcoins appear in their ears

or under their tankards.Lyim was mesmerized;he’d never seen anythinglike thismagicbefore,norseenthepoweritheldovertheviewer.Staying to clean up the

inn long after the patronshad left, Lyim hadopportunity to watch themagician count theevening’stake;itwasmoremoney than the youth

expected to earn in alifetime. For one night’swork!ByLyim’s standardsthemagicianwaswealthy,even after he gave Mowetheinnkeeperhisdue.Theyoung boy knew in thatmoment that he hadearned his last turnipsfromsweepingfloors.Lyim begged the

magician to take himalong as an unpaid

servant, in exchange forteachingallheknewaboutmagic. He quickly learnedthat Fabulous Fendocksavedallhischarismaandgood humor for hisperformances. Off stage,what lessons he offeredLyimwereimpromptuandenigmatic, andmoreoftenthan not they left theyoung man disgruntledand frustrated. But

sometimes, when alesoftened Fendock’s mood,he could change radically,becomingebullient,almost(butnotquite)genial,andhe would bring preciousgifts of insight to theinformation-starvedboy.Lyim learned two trulyuseful things fromFendock. First, he learnedthat the man was aprestidigitator who played

at performing simplecantrips, because truemagic was a far morecomplex and powerfulthingandwaswellbeyondFabulousFendock’sability.In many ways it wasunfortunate that Lyimprovedtobeaquickstudy,for Fendock punished theyoung boy for outdoinghim in subtle and obviousways.

The harshest and mostfar-reaching punishmentcame as a result of theother thing of value Lyimlearned from this odd“apprenticeship”:thenameof a true wizard bothrevered and resented byFendock. That laudedwizard’snamewasBelize.One night, after themagician had drunk toomuchduringaparticularly

well-received performancein Lantern on the EastRoad, he had pridefullyshown Lyim his mostprized possession: aspellbook written by thegreat mage Belize.Fendock’s good moodcausedhimtoconfesswitharrogance that he’d stolenthe small tome from apatron some years back.He was in such a good

mood, in fact, that he letyoung Lyim open thebook, confident that thecontentswould be beyondthe urchin’sunderstanding. But Lyim’snatural magical abilitieshad allowed him to readoneortwoofthewordsinthe magical books beforeFendock had furiouslyslammed the book shutand told him to never

touchitagain.Lyim had seen thejealous look in the man’seyes, and he quicklyrealized that themagiciandidn’t have the skill toread the book himself.Fendock was like a manwho could appreciate finemusic but was totallywithout skill to play it.Lyim’s punishment fordemonstrating that he

possessed the abilityFendock lacked was thecessation of even thepretense of magicallessons.When,ononedarknightafter a year of intolerableservitude, Lyim slippedaway from FabulousFendock’s wagon, he tookwithhimBelize’swritings.The young man reasonedthat the magician could

never utilize Belize’sworkproperly and that he hadserved Fendock beyondwhat he had received inmagicaltraining.“Never explain, never

defend,” had becomeLyim’smotto ever after. Itwaswhyhe’dliedwithoutremorsetoGuerrandaboutgetting the book fromsome elves. He had noshame about lying, but

plenty concerning hisblood and magicalheritage.Lyimcameto theCastleDiThon’s portcullis andwas surprised to see itclosed, aswell as the vastdouble door behind it. Hehadnever seen it so,evenwhen the residents shouldhave been expecting anattack from the familywhose land Cormac

DiThonhadconfiscated.Puzzled,Lyimlookedupto his right, to the guardtower. “Hallo? WhodefendsCastleDiThonthisday?”Afteratime,Lyimhearda squeaky voice thatsounded vaguely familiarcoming from the rampartsabove and to his right.“Whatisit?Yes?We’renothaving any merchants

fromthevillage.”Squintingskyward,Lyim

recognized the befuddledchamberlain who’dthought to dispatch anentire army of Knights ofSolamnia with theannouncement that hehadn’t the authority torecognize their siege. Theold man’s face was eventhinner and creased withmore worry lines than

when last Lyim had seenhim, his eyes more milkywithcataracts.“Good chamberlain, Iam no merchant withwaresforsale.Iamanoldfriend looking for KirahDiThon,”Lyimcalleduptothe man in his mostpersuasive tones. “I heardthere is plague in thevillageandwas concernedforherwelfare.”

“Kirahiswell,asfarasIknow,” said thechamberlain, his toneeased.“As far as you know?”repeated Lyim, puzzled.“Haveyounotseenher inthe castle with your owneyes?”“How would I?” askedthe chamberlain as if theanswer were plain. “I seelittle enough with these

eyes. Even still, Kirah haslived in the village sinceshortlyaftersherefusedtomarry the husband of hermother’schoosing.”“Where does she live?”heaskedthechamberlain.“Above the baker’s, I’veheard,” said the old man.“He’s just died of thesickness,ifGildeethecookhas it right from thegossips.”

ButLyimwasalreadyonhis way back to thevillage.

When Kirah heard theknock at her door, shethought it must be Dilbwith some wood for herfire. With Bram gone topartsunknown,thebaker’sson was the only one she

would trust to enter herlittle room. Still taking nochances,Kirahopened thedoor slowly and slightly,thenpressedher right eyeto the crack. Her breathabruptly caught in herthroat, and her heartskippedapainfulbeat.It could not be him.

After all these years, andallherwishes,itcouldnotbe Lyim. The world was

toobigaplace,herdreamstoo inconsequential, forLyim toarrive tohelphertwiceinalifetime.Andyetthere he stood on herstoop,beyondthecrackinherdoor.“Hello,Kirah,”themagesaid. “Is this how youwelcome an old friend,peering at him like he’s arobberinthenight?”Kirah primmed her

mouthinsuperiorfashion,then spoiled the effect bylaughing girlishly. “Yes—Imean no! I mean, helloand come in!” shemanaged at last, flusteredbeyond all reason. Kirahopened the doorwith onehandandpulledclosedherragged wrap with theother, suddenly self-conscious. It had been solong since she’d been

expected to behave likeanything but a crazyhermit.AsLyimwalkedintoher

room, Kirah noticed thatsomething about him wasdifferent, yet she couldn’tquite put her finger on it.It wasn’t just the simple,oversized brown robe thatseemed to engulf him, orthe odd leather mittens,although they were

uncharacteristic. His faceand hair were essentiallyunchanged, no early grayat the temples. Maybe itwastheeyes,shethought,looking for the sparkle ofhumor she rememberedthere and not finding it.Perhaps it was the man’sstride, slower and morecontained. His was nolonger the strut of apeacock proud of his

plumes.Unlike Lyim, Kirah hadnever cared what shelooked like. Until thisminute, anyway, when arecent memory of hervisage in a street puddlemade her shiver. Herunwashed hair was dullgrayinsteadofblonde,andflatagainstherhead,as ifshewore a cap. Kirah feltwell enough, but her eyes

andcheeksweresunkensothatsheappearedfarolderthan her nineteen years.Shelookedbeyondbonyinthe sacklike dress andwrap the baker’s robustwife had given her somemonths ago when herpreviousraggedyshifthaddisintegrated at theshoulders.Kirah made herself as

smallaspossibleinareed-

backed chair by thehearth.“Haveyoucometosave the village again?”sheaskedmorecausticallythanshe’dmeant.“There’saplaguehere.”“Iknow.”Lyimremovedhis left mit and set it onthe small table by thedoor,as ifhehaddonesoforyears.“ThatiswhyI’vecome. I was hoping you’dknowwhereGuerrandis.”

She looked up, mildlysurprised.“You’vecometothe wrong place, then,”she said. “Guerrand cameto see me just after weprevented the Berwicksiege, but I haven’t heardfromhimsince.”“You sound as thoughyou’restillangrywithhimafter all these years,”observedLyim.Kirahthoughtaboutthat

briefly. “No, I don’tsuppose Iam,” she saidatlast. “Wemadeourpeace,GuerrandandI.Hehadtoleave Thonvil.” Kirahleaned forward in thechair to add her lastmeager log to the coals.Brushing off her hands,Kirah stood and took twochippedpotterymugsfromthe narrowmantle. “I canoffer you rainwater tea,

but I’m afraid I havenothing else. I get mymeals after the baker’sfamily below, and they’renotcomingregularlynow,what with Glammis’sdeath.”“Did you know himwell?”“Glammis?” Sheshrugged thin shoulders.“You know everyone in avillagethesizeofThonvil,

even if you don’t liveabove them.Glammiswaskindly enough, ahardworking man with awife and young son tosupport.Idon’tknowhowthey’ll get along withouthim.”Shedroppedapinchof tea leaves into one ofthe cups. “If they don’tcatch the diseasethemselves,thatis.”Kirah poured heated

rainwater from a kettleonto the brittle greenleaves in both mugs. Shestoppedabruptly,herheadcocked as she regardedLyim. “It’s funny that youshould be looking forGuerrand now. Have youheardtherumors,too?”“Too?” he repeated,taking inhis lefthand thehot mug she held out tohim. He settled his bulk

into the chair Kirah hadvacated and took atentative sip. “Who else islookingforhim?”Kirah whipped backdirty strands of hair fromher face. “My nephewBramleftThonvilinsearchof Guerrand because hethinks Rand may knowsomething about curingthis plague. I’m afraidmybrother helped stir up

Bram’s suspicions, sinceCormac believeseverythingthatiswronginand around Thonvil isGuerrand’s fault. In thestuporthatishisconsciousstate,” Kirah said withgreat deliberateness,“Cormac has rewrittenhistory to exoneratehimself.”Lyim fidgeted in the

chair. “What made Bram

think Guerrand knowsanythingaboutit?”“I haven’t seen thepestilence myself,” Kirahconfessed, “but mynephewdescribedittomejust before he left. Bramsaid that he had heardwithhisownearswhatthegossips had beenwhispering: Just beforedeath, the victims’ snakelimbs whisper Guerrand’s

name.”“Do you think it’spossible Guerrand isresponsible for it?” Lyimaskedcautiously.AgainKirah shrugged, agesture seemingly asinvoluntaryasbreathingtoher.“AmonthormoreagoI wouldn’t have thoughtanyone Iknewcouldevencontract such a bizarreillness.”

Lyim sipped, looking ather over the brim of hismug. “And what do youthinknow?”Kirah moved to sit

across from Lyim on theedge of her small bed.“Thisillnessisoddenoughto be magical in nature,”she said slowly, “but Ican’tbelieveGuerrandhadanything to do with it.”Her face scrunched up

pensively. “Why onKrynnwouldhewant todosuchathing?”Lyim set his empty cup

down and wouldn’t meether eyes. “Do you thinkthis nephew of yours,Bram, has any chance ofreturningwithGuerrand?”“I don’t know. Frankly,

hehasmoredeterminationthanexperience.”Lyim frowned darkly.

“Where did your nephewgo, and when did heleave?”“I suggested he start byasking the wizards atWayreth—” Kirah stoppedsuddenly. “Say, you’re amage, Lyim. If thepestilenceismagical,can’tyou do something to stopit?”Herfacebrightenedinhopeful understanding.“That’s why you’re here,

isn’tit?”Lyim grimaced,wrestling with somedecision. “I had hoped tospare you what I knowaboutyourbrother,but—”“What is it?” Kirahjumped to her feet andreached out imploringlyfor Lyim’s arm, his right.The mage snatched awayhis gloved hand viciouslybefore she could lay a

finger to it. Stunned, shedrew back and looked athimwith pain in her paleeyes.Lyimrubbedhis face.“I

believe Guerrand isresponsible for thisplague,” he managed atlast.“Iknewit thesecondI stepped into the villageand heard the details oftheillness.”“But why?” gasped

Kirah,shakingherheadindisbelief.Lyim’s laugh was not

kindly. “Guerrand and Ihavenotbeenfriendssince—” he paused,considering, then pushedbackhisbigrightcuffandremoved the tan leathermit from his hand. “Sincethis happened to myhand.”Not knowing what to

expect, Kirah hung backapprehensively. Shejumped in stunned horrorwhenalong,single-headedsnakewithagolddiamondpattern on its headslithered forth whereLyim’s hand should havebeen.“I-I don’t understand,”

she stuttered,unconsciouslyavertinghereyes. “Are you saying

Guerranddidthattoyou?”Hisfaceredwithshame,Lyim tucked the hissingcreature back into itsglove. “Not exactly,” hesaid. “In fairness, I’mforced to admit that myown master inflicted thisuponme.ButitwaswithinGuerrand’s power to helpmecureit.Herefused.I’vebeen unable to cure itmyself, but I did manage

to find an antidote thatenabledmetocontainittoonehand.”Paler than death, Kirahdroppedbackontothebedand shook her head withslow but unceasingregularity.“If he has the power tocure it, Guerrand also hasthe power to create thedisease,” reasoned Lyim.When Kirah continued to

shakeherheadmutely,hesaid, “I didn’t want tobelieveiteither.”“Butwhy?” asked Kirah

in a small voice. “Whywould Guerrand want toinflict the same horriblepainonus?”“Because he can?” Lyim

postulated. “You don’tknow Guerrand anymore,Kirah. He’s become apowerful and influential

mage. Perhaps hisimpoverished roots are anembarrassmenttohim,I’mnot really sure, but I fearhis power has gone to hishead. It happened to mymaster—the magic tookhim over.” Lyim’s dark,wavy hair brushed hisshoulders as he shook hisheadsadly.“Itellyou,youwould not recognize yourbrother in the man who

refusedmy simple requesttocuremyhand.”Kirah’s eyes held a

faraway look. “Hepromisedmewhenhefirstleft that if ever I neededhelp, he’d somehow knowandcometome,”shesaidnumbly.“Instead he sent me,

rather than risk hisposition with his master,”Lyim reminded her.

“Apparently the seeds forhis selfishnesshadalreadybeenplanted.”Lyimsawthefirmsetto

hermouth.“Look,Kirah,Idon’t like to say thesethings, let alone believethem. But don’t you thinkall the coincidences are abit odd? My hand? Thesimilarity of the plague’ssymptoms to the afflictionGuerrand refused to cure

inme?Whyelsewouldthesnakes hiss his name?What but guilt or designcouldkeephimaway?”Kirah bristled. “Heprobably hasn’t heard ofourtroublesyet.”Lyim shook his headsadly. “You don’tunderstandthepowersofamageifyoubelievethat.”Kirah shook her headmutely.

“I … can’t … believe it.But maybe I don’t knowGuerrand anymore.”Overcome,shepressedherfaceintoherhands.Lyim knelt by her onone knee, his hair fallingto gently curl around hisface as he lifted her tear-streaked chin with hisgood hand. “I’ve come tohelpyou,Kirah.”Kirah tried to break the

bond thatheldhis eyes tohers, but the power thatgripped herwas as old assorcery and far stronger.She could only manage anod.“Together,wecanmake

Guerrand come forwardand face what he hasdone,” Lyim saidsmoothly. “Together, wecanend the suffering.”Hereached into his brown

shroud and withdrew aflask. “This is theantidoteI traveled to Mithas tosecure. It prevents thosewith symptoms of thediseasefromdying,thoughit won’t cure themutations. And it keepsthose without symptomsfrom contracting theillness. Guerrand willsurelycomeforwardwhenherealizeswe’vefoiledhis

plot.”Still on one knee and

holdingKirah’sgaze,Lyimpressed the flask into hersmall hands. “I have justenough with me for you,Kirah,” he intoned. “Youmusttakeit.Forme.”

Lyim had forgotten

how menacing WayrethForest looked. The treesand bushes were allhideously twisted, castingsinister shadows. Thedistant sounds of wolvesandbearsdidn’tmake theforest feel any moreinviting,either.Henoticed these things,but he wasn’t frightenedby the forest, never hadbeen. Right now he could

thinkonly of howhis calfmuscles were starting tocramp. He’d been waitingbehind the underbrushoutside the gates ofWayreth for days, eversince he’d teleported heredirectly upon leavingKirah. Growing annoyedwithwaiting,heshiftedtorelieve thepressureonhislegs,never takinghiseyesfrom the elaborate

gateway to the strongholdofmagic.Lyim resolved to giveGuerrand’s nephew untilsunset to make it to thetower; the Council wouldrecess then until the nextday.Afterthathe’dplaceamagical sentinel to watchfor the young man’sarrival. If the country boyever made it, thoughtLyim, knowing he could

not have missed himalready. It would take anon-mage more than aweek to reach Wayrethfrom Northern Ergoth.Still, thediscomfortwouldbeworththewaittoLyimif Bram got into WayrethandpersuadedtheCouncilto send him to Bastion. Itwas the best change Lyimhad for entering thestrongholdhimself.

The wizard had takenthe plague to Thonvil,hoping to draw Guerrandfrom Bastion. Lyim hadreasoned that if hewatched Thonvil closelyand witnessed Guerrand’smagical arrival, he mightfindaclue toentering theimpenetrable stronghold.But Kirah’s revelationabout her nephew’sdeparture for Wayreth to

find Guerrand had giventhewizardanotheridea.Afar superior and moreexpedientidea.Lyim still tingled whenhe recalled how his mindhad raced to conceive aplan that would take himall the way into theforbidden stronghold andcurehishand.Orkillhimtrying. But Lyim was nomoreafraidofthatthanof

theforestbehindhim.It was all within Lyim’s

grasp,ifonlythenephew’squest was successful. Thewizard waited andwatched with patienceborne of hope. A fewwould-be wizards cameandwent;halfofthelatterwere dragged away bydwarves, Lyim knew,because they had failedtheir Test. None of them

met Lyim’s mental imageof Guerrand’s nephew;most were either youngerthanBramwouldbe,orofadifferentrace.The wizard wasn’t even

aware he’d slipped into ashallow slumber ofboredom until he wasjoltedawakeforseeminglyno good reason. Nothinghad touched him; no oneelse had appeared before

the tower. And yet, somesensetoldhimthattheairaround the tower wassomehow different,charged. He was instantlyalert.Lyim blinked.When his

eyesopenedagain—itwasthat quick—a young manstood looking up withsurprised aweat the gatesofgoldandsilver.Thoughmagical entrances were

morecommon thannotatWayreth, this one seemeddifferent, as if the youngman himself weresurprisedtobehere.The man in the heavy

cloakturnedtolookattheforest that hid Lyim,giving the wizard a goodlook at his profile. Theresemblance to Guerrandin hair color and facialshapewasremarkable.

Lyim smiled. He hadonly to wait and monitorthe towers for significantexternal radiations ofmagicalenergy.HewasasgoodasinBastionalready.

The gates of gold andsilverbeforeBramweresomasterfully crafted theylookedasthinascobwebs.

The gates adjoined a wallin the shape of anequilateraltriangle,withasmall guard tower at eachpoint. Odd, unfamiliarsymbolswerecarveduponthe surface of the darkstone, symbols thatsuggested the strength ofthe earth even to thosewith no power to readthem. There were nobattlements on the

smooth-topped obsidianwalls. Bram presumed thewizards who gatheredthere had little use forsuchmundaneprotection.Beyond the gated wall,

twin towers of polishedblack obsidian pierced theforest roof. He turned toglance around, but theforestherelookedandfeltso oddly malevolent thathe quickly returned his

attention to the structure.Thegateswereopen,sohestrode slowly throughthem, eyes attempting tolook everywhere at once.The courtyard was starkand barren, paved withcold gray flagstone.Though he could see noone, he had the vaguefeeling that he was notalone, as if the yardwereteeming with people

rushingtoandfro.Turningquickly,hethoughthesawa face and the upturnedcollarofawhiterobe,butthenitwasgone.Heshookhis head, knowing thevision was impossible.Other than himself, hecould see no one in theflagstonecourtyard.Bramwalkedtowardthe

only door in a smallforetower between the

twin columns. At hisapproach the doorabruptly flew back.Though no one appeared,it was obvious he wasexpected to step inside,and so he did. Smokelesstorches provided dimillumination inside thesimple, circular room.Three doors led from theroomat equidistantpointsin the circle.Opposite the

door an empty row ofchairs followed the curveofthewall.Insidehisstill-newboots,Bram’sfeethadbegun to throb, so heslippedover to the rowofchairsandloweredhimselfinto one. Bramunconsciously tapped hisfoot while he waited forsomeonetoarrivetodirecthim.And waited. Had he

overlooked some bell orbuzzer new arrivals wereexpected to ring? Bramsquinted in the dark,spotted a simple woodenstand in the shadows tothe leftof thedoor,but itheld only a thick, much-usedbookfromthelookofthe binding. He drummedhisfingersonthearmrests.Many more anxious

moments passed, and

Bram began to debatewhether he should pick adoor and go looking forsomeone. Perhaps heshouldjustleave.He had just risen to doso when the door to hisleftopenedabruptlywithanoisy creak, and from itemergedamaninawhiterobe,pushingabroom,hishead bent to the task.Actually, Bram only

assumed it was a man,since all he could seewasthe top of the person’stilted head, hair slickeddown and carefullyarranged so that eachtoothmark of the combwasstillvisible.“Pardon me, my goodman,” Bram tried to say,buthisvoicewasphlegmyfrom lack of use this day.The words came out

sounding like something achickenmightcroak.Theman’sheadshotup.

Spying Bram in theshadows, he whirled hisbroom about and held itshandlelikeaspear.“Speakthe common tongue or besausage!” he threatened.Themanwasold,hisskinash-gray, as were thefingersthattrembleduponhismockweapon.

Bram cleared his throatand summoned the wordshe had been rehearsingsince Northern Ergoth. “Ihave traveled far to speakwith the wizard namedPar-Salian.”The man smacked his

lips in thinly veiledimpatience. “You’ve cometoo late in the day forTesting, or to declare analignment. The Council of

Threehas recessed for theday.” He continued tosweep, pausingexpectantlywhenhecameto the floor under Bram’sfeet.The youngman steppedfrom the broom’s path. “Idon’tknowanythingaboutTesting or alignments,”said Bram. “I need Par-Salian’shelp.”“Come back tomorrow,”

the man said, shooingBramtowardtheexitwitha wave of a blue-veinedhand.“But tomorrow may betoo late,” Bram cried. Herefused to be put off soeasily.“Can’tyoumakeanexception this once?” hepleaded, impulsivelytouchingtheman’sarm.Blue light crackledaround the bent figure,

gatherednearhisshoulder,andarced toBram’shand.Theyoungmanyelpedandyanked back his smokingfingers,assurprisedasifabucket of cold water hadbeen splashed in his face.He had just suffered fromwhat he was sure was asmalldemonstrationofthemage’s ability. If hewished to get anyinformation here, he

wouldhavetousehiswits.A vision of the tuathacoin sprang to mind, andhefishedaboutinthefoldsof his waistband toretrieve it. “I’mafraid I’vestarted out on the wrongfoothere,”hebeganagainin his most conciliatorytones. “I don’t know if itmatters, or warrants anexception to therules,butI was given a faerie coin

and instructed to hand itto Par-Salian by way ofintro—”“Afaeriecoin?”themanrepeated over a hunchedshoulder. “Whydidn’t yousay soearlier?”He let thebroom handle drop to theslate floor with a loud,ringing sound, while hestepped over to the bookonthestandnearthefrontdoor.Squintinginthedim

light,themanflippedbackthe heavy cover, sendingdust flying, and beganleafing through pages. Hecame to one in particularand traced an ash-coloredfinger down a column ofwords.Abruptlyhetappedthe page and mumbled,“Ayup. Faerie coins areright here under, ‘ReasonstodisturbPar-Salian,Headof theConclave,Masterof

theWhiteRobes.’”The man slammed the

heavybookshut.Whenhelooked at Bram again, thesmile on his face made itobvious his attitudetoward the youngnobleman had changed.“The name’s Delestrius,and I’m the warden onduty. Come along, then,”he said, stepping over thebroom on his way to the

door through which Bramhad seen him enter theforetower. Delighted withhis new treatment, Bramhopped over the broomhandle and followed thehastily retreating manthroughthedoor.The old man in thewhite robe scurried like amouse up a staircaseimmediately inside thedoor,allowingBramnota

glance about him as hehurried along behind. Itwasevendarkerherethanin the foretower. Therewere no torches, nocandles, no magical lightsof any kind on the stairs,or even the landings thathepresumed led to roomshe couldn’t see. Therewerenodecorationsofanykind,neithertapestriesnorcarpetstowarmthesteps.

Delestrius departed thestairway on the secondlanding and entered anarrowhallway.Awindowatthefarendallowedinasliver of light, but notenough to illuminateanything near Bram andhis guide. They walked,the man surefooted, Bramtentatively, in thehallwaythat felt as if it curved.Bram bumped into

Delestrius, who hadstoppedbeforeadoorway.The nobleman didn’t feelthe burning sensation hehad the last time hetouched the mage.Delestrius knocked at theunmarkeddoor.“Enter, Delestrius,” said

avoiceasstrongandclearas if its owner were notspeaking through a thick,wooden door. It swung

openwithoutBram’sguidetouchingit.BramfollowedDelestriusintoaroomthatwas nicely lit by a low-burning fire in the hearthagainst the left wall. Thelight radiated in warmyellow rays, strikingshelves of books bound inwhite leather, silver runesglinting upon their spines.The golden light ledBram’s eyes to a white-

haired man seated behindan elaboratedesk, one legliftedcasuallytorestuponitsclutteredsurface.“You know I would notfor the world disturb youafter hours, Master,”Bram’s guide saidwith anobsequiousness the youngman wouldn’t havethoughthimcapableof,“ifit were not of the utmost—”

“You know I trust yourjudgment, Delestrius,”interrupted the white-hairedmage.Settingdownafeatheredquill,heraisedkindly, tired blue eyes toBram.It took many longseconds before Bramrealized the look was aquestion. “I was given afaerie coin and instructedto place it only in the

hands of Par-Salian,” heblurted.“A faerie coin?”repeatedtheoldmanwithinterest.“AreyouPar-Salian?”Delestrius gasped andslappedthebackofBram’shead. “I was told I wouldsuffer death if I gave thecointoanyoneelse,”Bramexplained defensively,rubbinghisskull.

The white-haired manbehind the desk said,“Your reticence isunderstandable, undersuch circumstances. Ishould have introducedmyself.” He stood,walkedaround the desk, andextended a hand thatwinked with the facets ofmanypreciousgems.“Par-Salian, Head of theConclave, Master of the

WhiteRobes,KeeperoftheKey,andsoon,andsoon,”he said with a self-deprecatingformality.The young man’s work-reddened hand shook themage’s soft, warm one.“Bram DiThon,” he saidsimply.Par-Salian’s eyes litnoticeablywith interest atthesurname,butbeforehecould form a question,

both men heard Bram’sguide muttering,“Shouldn’t have tointroduce the greatestmagealive.”Par-Salian smoothed hissnowy moustache withtwofingers,hidingaslightsmirk. “That will be all,Delestrius.Thankyou.”Frowning, the manbobbed his head andbacked through the door,

leaving Bram and Par-Salianinthesilenceofthecracklingfire.Bram waited, red-faced,while the white-hairedmage slowly shuffled to achair by the hearth. Hemotioned Bram to joinhim. Par-Salian held outhis soft, wrinkled palm,leaving no question as towhat he wished. Bramrubbed the carved surface

of the wafer-thin magicalcoin one last time, thenplaced it in the man’swaiting hand. Par-Salianhad just enough time tovalidate Bram’s claimbefore the coindisappearedlikesnowintowater.“I’malways sorry to see

them vanish so quickly,”the wizard said wistfully.“I receive them with the

half-decade infrequencyofthethreemoons’eclipsing.The tuatha dundaraelrarelygivethemaway.”Par-Salian’s ice-blueeyes pierced Bram forsomemoments.“Isensenomagical training in you.What would cause thetuatha to favor you withtheir coin?” he askedbluntly.Bram shrugged. “They

said I had ‘high moralstandards.’ ” He repeatedThistledown’s exact wordswithouthubris,mindfulofthetuatha’sadmonishmentaboutpride.“That’s interesting,”remarked the wizard. Hecontinued to study Bram’sface. “I sense in you agreatdealofnaturaltalentfor the Art. Is that whyyou’vecomehere,tofinda

master with whom toapprentice?”Bram shook his head to

thequestionforthesecondtimethatday.“No,sir.I’vecomebecausesomesortofplague,forlackofabetterword, has struck myvillageinNorthernErgoth.I am neither doctor normage, but I suspect thecause may be magical innature.”

“Soyou’re looking for amage to find a cure,”finished Par-Salian. “Iappreciate your dilemma,youngman,butWayrethisthe seat of magicallearning, not a wizardmarket.”Bramfrowned.“Iwasn’tlookingforjustanymage,”he said. “I haven’t themoneytopayoneanyway.I was hoping to find my

uncle,whom I understandcame here seeking amaster nearly a decadeago.”Par-Salian’s expressiondarkened withdisapproval. “Neither areweanalumniassociation.”“I understand that,”Bramsaidquickly,“butifItoldyoumyuncle’sname,maybe you’d recognize itand would know if he is

evenstillalive.I’llleaveatonce, without furtherquestion, if the name isunfamiliar,”hepromised.Par-Salian waved adistracted hand, signalingBramtoproceed.“My uncle is GuerrandDiThon.”The wizard leaned backand tapped his whiskeredchin. “Yes, I recognize thename,” he said at length.

“Ialsobegintounderstandwhy the faerie folk mighthavegivenyouacoin.”“You know of him?”Bram exclaimed. “Thencan you tellmewhere heisnow?”Par-Salian wincedslightly. “That is a bitmore complicated.” Hestood and walked towardthe door, the hem of hiswhite robe whispering

across the stone floor.“Please wait here, while Iconferwithacolleague.”Bram quickly grew

restless with waiting, andhe began looking aroundtheroom.Thebookshelveshe’dspottedfromthedoorweretohisleft.Thewhiteleather spines lookedbutter-yellow in the glowof the fire. Somethingabout the silver-etched

letteringdrewhisfingertotrace the unreadablewords. He could almostfeel the magic radiatingfrom the tomes, butwhenhe tried to lift one, hecouldn’t move it from theshelf, as if it were affixedthere.He spied a plate ofcookies on Par-Salian’sdesk and was remindedhowlongithadbeensince

he’deatenhislastrubberycarrot. He lifted one fromtheplate. Itwas lightasafeather between hisfingers, and smelled ofalmond. The cookiecrumbled in his mouth,tastingofbutterandsugarof a quality not used inThonvilinsometime.The door swung openabruptly, and in steppedPar-Salian. Behind him

was a younger-looking,robust man in a red robetoppedoffbyawhiteneckruff. The second magedragged his left leg in amanner that suggested itwas crippled. Bothregarded the young manspewing cookie crumbswithamusement.“I’m sorry,” mumbled

Bramoverthemouthfulofhalf-chewedbiscuit.“Iwas

justsohungry.…”“Nevermind,” said Par-Salian. “If I had mymannersaboutmeIwouldhave realized you hadn’teaten for some time andofferedyourefreshment.”Smilinggratefully,Bramgulped down the last ofthe cookie and wiped hismouthonasleeve.Par-Salian noddedtoward his red-robed

companion. “Justarius,Master of the Red Robes,thisisBromDiThon.”“Bram,” the noblemanquicklycorrected.Justarius limpedforward slowly,consideringBram’sface.“Icanseetheresemblanceinthe hair and thecheekbones,” he said atlength. “Guerrand hadmore of the timid rabbit

look about him when hefirst came to theTowerofHigh Sorcery and becamemyapprentice.”“Can you tell me the

whereabouts of my uncle,sir?” Bram asked, feelingthe weight of time press.“It’surgentthatIfindhimrightaway.”Justarius lowered

himself into one of thechairs by the hearth,

stretching out his gameleg.“Whatwouldyouhaveyouruncledoifyoufoundhim?”“As I was telling Par-Salian,” Bram began,nodding toward thevenerable white-robedmage, “a strange, magicaldisease has struck ourvillage. There are somewho think Guerrand mayberesponsible for it, since

he first brought magic tothe village.” Bram wassuddenly conscious thatthe remark might offendthe wizards. “Whateverhas caused it,” he addedhastily, “I hope he willreturnwithmeandusehisskills to cure the diseasebefore it kills everyone Iknow and care about,including my family.Guerrand’sfamily.”

The mages exchangedlooks. “So you could bespreading this disease byleaving,” observedJustarius over steepledfingertips.“I could,” Bram agreedreluctantly, “but frankly Idoubt it. I’ve been gonelong enough that I wouldhave exhibited the firstsymptom of a fever bynowif Iwerecarryingthe

sickness.” Still sensingJustarius’s disapproval, headded grimly, “Whatwould you have me do,just wait there foreveryone,includingme,todie?”“None of that mattershere,” Par-Salianinterrupted dismissively.“The tower is protectedfrom such things. Thegateswouldhaveclosedto

preventyou fromenteringif you were carrying adeadlydisease.”“So, will you tell me

wheremyuncleis?”Themagessat,verystill,

exchangingglances.“Itmaynotbeimportant

toyouthatasmallvillageof people are dying whilewe speak,” Bram said,unable to hide hisfrustration, “but those

peoplemeaneverythingtome. They’re depending onmetohelpthem;Guerrandis the only chance I havetofindacure.”Bram put a hand overhis mouth briefly andwilled ameasure of calm.“I apologize for mybluntness,”hesaid.“Ifyoudon’t know where myuncle is, just say so, andI’llbeoutthefrontdooras

soonasIcanfinditagain.But if you do know, tellme, and I’ll leave just asquicklytolookforhim.”“You can’t,” Justariussaid.Bram’s dark headcocked.“Ishedead?”“I didn’t say that.”Justarius rubbed his facewearily. “In an odd waythat would actually makehimeasierforyoutofind.”

Sensing that Bram wason the brink of snapping,Justarius struggled for aless cryptic explanation.“Youhaveputusinanoddposition,Bram.”“I’m in a bit of a bind

myself,” the noblemansaid.Justariuspursedhislips.

“We’re not unsympatheticto your plight. However,youruncleholdsaposition

ofgreat importance to theCouncil of Mages, and tothe future of magic, forthat matter. By necessity,his location and actualduties are a closelyguardedsecret.”Par-Saliannodded from behind hisdeskacrosstheroom.“So,” Bram said slowly,tryingtotakeinthenews,“am I just supposed to goonmyway?”

Par-Salian steppedaround his desk to closethegapbetweenthethree.“We’re not sure what weexpect you to do,” headmitted. “Frankly, mostmages are loners. We’venot had a family membercome looking for anyonein Guerrand’s positionbefore.”But Bram would not beso easily put off. “Well,

youhavenow.”“This is not, however,

thefirsttimeGuerrandhashad problems with hisfamily,” put in Justarius.“The last such episode ledto the catastrophic eventthat necessitated thecreation of Guerrand’scurrentposition.”“I don’t understand,”

Bram said, shaking hishead.

Justarius waved thesubject away. “It is a longandcomplicatedstory,andoneIdon’tthinkyou’dlikeus to take the time toexplain now. But pleaseunderstand that ourhesitationstemsonlyfromthe fact that there aremany who would paydearly for the secret ofGuerrand’slocation.”Bram gasped. “Are you

suggestingI’maspy?”Justariusshrugged.“Youmaybeandnotevenknowit. It’s not inconceivablethat you’ve beenbewitchedbyamagewhowishestolearnthesecret.”“But I haven’t!” criedthe young man, yet histone was more protestthanpersuasive.“Thereisawayforustodetermine that for

ourselves, if you arewilling,” suggested Par-Salian.Bram’sglancewashard.“Let’sdoit.”Par-Salian raised hisarms, white sleevesflutteringlikethewingsofa swan, and before Bramknewwhatwashappening,all three were gone fromthestudy.The nobleman blinked,

and when he opened hiseyes, he was with themages in a small, dark,hexagonal room. No fireburned but the flame of asingle golden candle. Atthe edges of his vision,Bram could make out afew long tables, an iron-bound chest, and behindhimachair.“Where are we? Is

Guerrandhere?”

“Sadly, for you, no.We’re in my laboratoryatopthenorthtower.”Par-Salian reached into apocketinhisgold-trimmedrobe and withdrew ahandful of sparklingpowder.Arcinghisarm,hedrew a perfect circle ofglowing silver onto thestonefloor.“Step into the circle,

Bram,”hecommanded,his

voice grave, eyes on thesphere.Bram hesitated,

instinctively resisting boththe pull of Par-Salian’stone and the aura of themagicalcircle.Theareaofmagicbegantosingtohimin a chorus of voices thatrosefromthedepthsoftheflooritencompassed.“Heed the song, Bram,”

Justarius said. “Itwill not

leadyouastray.”Bram relinquished hiswill and stepped slowlyinto the circle, handstwitching expectantly athis sides. Par-Salianopenedachestandpulledout an enormous, rough-cut crystal that he andJustarius suspended inmidairbetween them.Thetwopowerfulmagesbegantoswingthegemabovehis

head in ever-wideningcircles.Bram tried to shift to amorecomfortableposition,but found he couldn’tmovehis legsorhisarms.Hetriedtoaskthewizardswhy that was so, but nosoundmovedhistongueorlips. He could shift hiseyes,andthatwasall.Themages didn’twaverintheirconcentration.Par-

Salian began to chantwords Bram couldn’tunderstand, the languageof magic. Little twinklinglights,likewill-o-the-wispsacross the moors, dancedabout Bram’s head andflashed like fireworksbehindhiseyes.Thelightsswayed in unison, thenflew apart into a chaos ofsparks and motion, thencame together again to

sway hypnotically oncemore. One after anotherthe pinpoints of lightpiercedhisbodyuntiltheywerenolongervisible,butinsteadof pain orheat hefelt only a weightlessnesswithinhimself.Bramslumpedsuddenly,

feelingas ifall theenergyhadbeendrainedfromhisbody. Justarius caught hisarm in a strong grip and

pulled him from theglowingsilvercircletothesmallroom’slonechair.“That spell searches all

ofthecornersandcranniesofyourbeingandtendstomake them sore from theintense scrutiny,” the red-robedmage explained. Hepatted Bram’s hand. “Italso reads your intentionsand motivations, amongother things, and I am

pleased to announce thatyour mind is clear, yourcause pure,” hepronounced, then sniffedat the nobleman’s filthyclothing, his dark eyestwinkling with mirth,“evenifyouarenot.”“I could have told you

that and savedmyself thesore muscles,” the youngmansaid.Par-Salian smiled from

where he sat perched onthe edge of a table.“Justarius and I agreedthat if you passed theexamination, we wouldmake an unprecedentedexception in considerationof the potentialrepercussions of thisillness, and because, as anon-mage, you presentlittlethreattothesecurityofthissecret.Wewillsend

you to see your uncle foroneday.”Bram mustered hisstrengthtosittall.“Idon’twish to bother suchimportant mages further.Just tell me where I mayfind him, and I will gotheremyself.”Again Par-Salian andJustarius exchangedknowing glances. “That’snot possible,” said the

former at length. “He’sbeyond the normal circlesof existence and can bereached only by magicalmeans.Inotherwords,youcannotgettherefromhere—withoutourhelp.”“Go clean yourself up,”

Justariussuggested,“whileI prepare a message foryou to take toyouruncle.Par-Salian will askDelestrius to rustle up

somefood,sothatsomeofthe magical smoke we’vebeen blowing willdisappear from yourbrain.”Bram found himself

hustled out the door,consciousonlythathehadwon. Soon he would seehisUncleGuerrand.

Bram’seyeswereshut,

as Justarius directed,when the floor in Par-Salian’s study seemed toslipawaybeneathhisfeet.He immediately felt as ifhe were quickly, steadilyshrinking. In his mind’seye he saw his own smallbody rocketing toward alargewhitekeyhole in thestarry blackness of space.Hisbodypausedofitsownwill before the keyhole

briefly,and in that instantBram felt a jarring frombehind,as if someonehadpushedhim.Butthensomeforce ahead literallysucked him through thekeyhole and into awhitenessbeyondsobrightthat it burned throughhisclosedeyelids.Thementalimage ceased abruptlywhen the brightness wasextinguishedlikeacandle.

“Well, I’llbeabugbear!Bram,what are youdoinghere?” asked a voice,familiar as a distantmemory.The young noblemanheard his name through ahaze.Hecouldfeelhimselfswaying, yet had no ideawhichway to lean to stophimself from falling.Stronghandsgrabbedhimby the shoulders and

pulled him into a tightembrace.“Dizziness is common

after passing from threedimensions to two. You’lladjust faster if you openyoureyes.”Bram slowly let his

tightly closed lids slipopen, and he got his firstlookathisuncle innearlya decade. Guerrand hadaged considerably since

Bramhadlastseenhimonthesecond-floorhallwayofCastle DiThon’s keep. InfairnessBramhadtoadmitthat Rand had lookedolder that day than theone previous to it, for ifmemory served, Guerrandhadjustburiedhisbelovedbrother Quinn thatmorning.Still, Bram was not

exactly prepared for the

difference. Guerrand’scheekheldwhite tracesofa small fading scar. Hiswavy hair was muchlonger.Looselyboundwitha red ribbon, it was pastthemiddleofhisback,andgraying at the temples.The coarse red robecertainly was differentthan the casual, raggedtunic and trousersGuerrand had favored at

Castle DiThon. The robegave the mage an air ofdignity, or at least greaterseriousness.Guerrand shook him

gently, smiling hopefully.“DoIpassinspection?”“Of course,” Bram said

hastily. “No one told mewhat to expect. I’m still alittle surprised to actuallyhavefoundyouhere”—hisgaze traveled around the

stark nave—“whereverhereis.”Thetwostoodaloneina

soaring tower of a roomwithwhite,vaultedarches,sobrightitlookedlikethesun itself hung from theceilingmanystoriesabove.Thesnow-brightwhitenesswasbrokenbymany lush,tropical-lookingplants.“This is Bastion,” said

Guerrand, chuckling with

disbeliefandjoyatBram’spresence, “and you’re notthe only one surprised tofindyouhere!”Themage’shands looked soft andwhiteagainsttheredclothwrapping his hips. “Howdidyoutrackmedown,letalonepersuadetheCounciltosendyoutoBastion?”Bram’s forehead

furrowed.“Didn’tJustariusor Par-Salian tell you

anything?”Guerrand shook his

head. “They sent amessagethatsomeonewasarriving,” he explained.“But I hadno ideawho itwould be until youappearedinthenave.”A raven-haired woman

walked up behindGuerrand. Arms linkedbehind her back, shepeeredaroundthemageat

the stranger to thestronghold. “Bram,” saidGuerrand, stepping to theside, “let me introduceanother of Bastion’sguardians,DagamieroftheBlack Robes.” He noddedfrom her to the newarrival. “Dagamier, mynephew,BramDiThon.”Bram returned the

almostdefiantstareof theyoungwomanwho looked

no older than his AuntKirah. Against her onyxrobe, the woman’s skinwas as white as the wallsoftheroom.Hereyeswerean unusual shade of darkblue, almost an indigo.Blackhair,pulledintooneintricate braid fromforehead to shoulderblades, had the samebluishsheenashereyes.Unsmiling, Dagamier

leaned forward at thewaist and extendedapalehand.Hersilkrobepartedever so slightly, revealingslim, well-muscled legs.Bram could not help butnotice how cold andsensuousshelookedatthesame time. He jerked hiseyes back to her face,where a lightless smilepulled up the corners ofplum-coloredlips.

“We don’t get manyvisitorsatBastion.Orany,even,” she remarkedironically. “You must besomeone very special”—onedarkbrowraised—“orverydangerous.”Bram colored. “I’m sure

I’m neither,” he saidawkwardly,unabletokeepfrom fidgeting under herscrutiny. “I carry animportantmessage formy

uncle,that’sall.”Dagamier finished her

evaluation of him byturningonaheel. “Ihopeyoubringwelcomenews,”shesaid,disappearingintoone of seven dark-coloreddoors that led from thecentralroom.“Dagamier

is … unusual,” Guerrandsaid diplomatically,watching her departure.

Hesnappedhisgazeaway.“Letme show you aroundBastion, nephew.” Thefifth sentinel gesturedbroadly with his hand toinclude the structure.“There’s not muchcommon area to see, butmy apartments are quitespacious. We can speakprivately there of whatbrought you, when youfeel a little more oriented

to the dimensionalchange.”Bramfollowedhisuncle

around the nave, whileGuerrand recounted thehistory, general layout,and defensive purpose ofthestronghold.“But who would invade

Bastion,” asked Bram, “ifno one can get herewithout the Council’shelp?”

“Nonmageswouldfinditimpossible,” agreedGuerrand. “But there arewizards who would tryanything toreach theLostCitadel. There was one,not too long ago, who—”Guerrand seemed to stopthis line of thought withgreateffort.“Ezius is at his turn in

the scrying sphere. He’s abit reclusive,but I’llmake

apointof introducingyoulater.”Guerrand directed theminto hiswing and down along,widehall,featurelessexcept for the handful ofdoorsthatfedintoit.Likea proud parent, Guerrandlaunched into showingBram every cranny andcompartment in the redwing.“You seem very content

here,” Bram observedafterward, when theysettled into the kitchenarea.“It can get a littlelonely,” Guerrandconceded, “but this placeis a mage’s dream cometrue.” Guerrand wavedBram to a softly paddedchair.“Wine?”heasked.Nodding, Bram slippedhisheadthroughthestrap

of the scroll case thatcrossedhischestandsetitbythedoor.Guerranddebatedovera

row of prone bottles on awrought-iron rack.Deciding on one, hegripped its narrow neckand deftly uncorked itwith a flick of his thumb.A frenzy of small bubblesbroke the air in a widerange of green hues and

floated lazily in thedraftlessroom.“My own vintage,”

explainedGuerrand.“Icallit Green Ergothian.” Hepoured two goblets ofemerald green wine,drizzlingamberhoneyintobothbeforehandingonetohisnephew.Bramacceptedtheglass,

savoringtherichbrillianceof the color. Guerrand

raised his glass in a toast,moving it in small circlesto make a pattern in theair with the odd greenbubbles.“Tell me why you’vecome,” invited the mage,settling himself acrossfromBram.The young noblemanreluctantly set his glassdown and moved to thehearth. He warmed his

hands while hecontemplated how tounfoldthetaleofThonvil’splague. Feeling the pressof time, Bram decided onthedirectapproach.“Somesort of strange illness hasrecently struck Thonviland is spreading rapidly.”Bram watched his uncle’sreaction closely and wasrelieved to see thatGuerrandlookedgenuinely

shockedandconcerned.“Isn’t the village

physicker able to helpthem?”Bram shook his head.

“Everyone who hascontractedthesicknesshassuffered a hideous death.Herus and I have donewhatwe could,whichhasbeen very little, to easetheirsuffering.”Guerrand’s face twisted,

andhegrippedthearmsofhis chair. “What aboutKirah?Yourfamily?”“Mother and Fatherwere not sickwhen I left,norwasKirah,”saidBram,“but I fear for themeverysecond I’m away.” Helooked intently at hisuncle. “I—the villageneedsyourhelp,Rand.”Guerrand raised hishands helplessly. “I’m no

physicker. What makesyouthinkIcanhelp?”“Because there’sevidence that the sicknesshas a magical cause. Ibelieve only magic—yourmagic—cancureit.”Looking skeptical,Guerrand swallowed amouthful of wine. “Youthink because aparticularly virulent strainof influenza withstands

your bugbane ormeadowsweet that itmustbemagical innature?”Helooked at Bram intently.“Tell me more about thisillness.”Bram rubbed his face

wearily,tookanotherdeepbreath,thenrecalledtohisuncle the stages he’dwitnessed old Nahamkingo through before hishideousdeathonthethird

day as a snake-limbed,black-eyed creature ofstone.Bramtookadeepbreath

before he plunged ahead.“Before the victim dies,thesnakeshissyourname,Uncle.Itisnorumor,forIhaveheardthemmyself.”Guerrand paled, and he

shook his head in mutedisbelief.Theglasshewasholding shook soviolently

that green wine splashedoverhishand.Cursing,heinstinctively jerked hishand back, dropping theglass. It crashed to themarble tabletop andshattered. The magepicked up the shards andmopped up the spilledwine with a rag. “Youthink I’m responsible forthissickness.”“I never believed the

uncle I knew could havecaused it,” Bram saidslowly, still watchingGuerrand closely. “But Ithink there can be nodoubt that magic—thatyou—are somehowinvolved.”Guerrand noddedvaguely, his eyes focusedon some distant memory.“Iknewamanoncewhosehand changed into a

snake, but the othersymptomsarenotfamiliar.Hishandwasalteredafterbeing thrust through adimensionalportal,notbysome contagious disease.No other limbs mutated,andhedidn’tdiefromthechange.”Bram took up the glass

he’d left by the chair andthrew back the contents,waiting for the burn.

“You’ll return with me,then, to stop thispestilence?”Lost in his own

thoughts, Guerrandjumped. “It’s just not thatsimple, Bram,” he said,shaking his head sadly.“After all that you wentthrough to find me, youmust have someunderstanding now of myresponsibilities at Bastion.

Ican’tjustcomeandgoasIplease.”“Notevenforoneday?”

pressedBram.“Surelyyourcomrades could handlethings here for one day,”hesuggestedreasonably.“Dagamier, Ezius, and I

are not equals,” Guerrandexplained.“WhenIagreedto become Bastion’s fifthsentinel, the Council ofThree appointed me high

defender. That makes meresponsible for everythingthat happens here. It’sinadvisable, if notimpossible,formetoleaveunderanycircumstances.Igaveupmyfreedomtodoso when I agreed to takethis position. Abandoningmy post, even briefly,couldmeandestructionona scale you can’t evenimagine.Bastionisimbued

with the magical essenceofeverymageonKrynn.Ifit fails, every oneof themisdiminishedby it. Ican’ttake that responsibilitylightly.”Despite his words,Guerrand was obviouslystruggling to find someconcession. He grippedBram’s hand. “I promiseyou, Bram, I’ll use all myskills to discover what I

canaboutthissickness.It’sthebestIcando.”Bramsighedheavily.Hedidn’t like quarrels as arule, didn’t have theenergy to spend on them.Still, he couldn’t helpsaying,“Ijustthoughtthatthe Uncle Rand Iremembered would wantto know about his familyand would have at leasttriedtoreturntohelp.But

I can see he’s movedbeyondthatnow.”Brampushedhimselfupby the knees. “You’llexcusemy rudeness, then,butI’vealreadywastedtoomuch time pursuing thisavenue. I’llbeoutofyourway if you’ll signalJustariusorPar-Salianandtell them I won’t beneedingafulldayhere.Doyou think they’d know a

way to send me back toThonvil that’s faster thanwalking?” Bram’s lastsentencewas lostwithinayawn,andGuerrandmadehimrepeatit.Looking sad andfrustrated, the magestuttered toward sayingsomethingreassuring,thengave up. “You lookexhausted, Bram,” heobserved abruptly. “How

long has it been sinceyou’veslept?”Bram shrugged, beyondcaring. “It’s hard to say.Mysenseoftimeistotallytwisted.Sincebefore I lefthome. At any rate, itdoesn’tmatter.”“You’ll need your witsabout youmore than everwhen you return. I insistthatyou stay longenoughto close your eyes,” said

the mage, cannily adding,“I could use the time tocheck into a few thingsthatmayhelp youagainstthisdisease.”Bram only looked moreresolute.“I can arrange to haveyou sent directly toThonvil,” the mageoffered, sweetening thepot, thoughhisarmswerecrossed firmly, “but I

refusetodoituntilyou’verested,atleastbriefly.”Bram shook his head,

which suddenly felt heavyas stone. “I’ve got to getback,” he mumbled,unable to keep his eyesopen. He distantlywondered if he wasn’tunder some spell, sosuddenlydidthesleepinessdescend. Bram hadn’t thestrengthtoresist.

Guerrand wasted notime taking his nephew’sarm and leading him,droopy-eyed, through thearchway to the sleepingchamber. His foot caughtthe strap of a scroll caseBramhad set on the floornear the door whenGuerrand had begun topour the wine. Curious,Guerrandstartedtoliftthecase when Bram’s eyes

sparkedbrieflytolife.“I almost forgot,” hesaid groggily. “The scrollin the case is for you.FromJustarius.”Nodding,Guerrand toedthe case to the side andhelpedBramtothefeathertick. The young man wasasleep before his head hitGuerrand’s goose-downpillow.

Guerrand regarded his

sleeping nephew with atwinge of remorse. He’dhatedtocastthespell,butBramwasinasmuchneedof rest as Guerrandrequired time to think.Therehadtobesomewayto help Thonvil withoutabandoning hisresponsibilities here inBastion. The magesnatched up the roundleathertubefromJustarius

onhiswaytothelibrary.Guerrandsettledhimself

behind the dark walnutdesk to think. Someonewas deliberately trying toconnect him with thespread of Thonvil’s oddplague. Guerrand had noquestion who that was,since he had no greaterenemythanLyimRhistadt.The symptoms Bram haddescribed sounded too

muchlikeLyim’safflictionto be a coincidence. Thisplague was revenge, pureandsimple, forGuerrand’srefusal to grant LyimentrancetoBastiontocurehismutatedarm.But what an odd andevil revenge, thoughtGuerrand. There were toomany differences betweenthe plague and Lyim’smutation for them to be

exactly the same, not tomention the convolutedway Lyim’s hand wasaltered. The similarityreminded Guerrand toopainfully of the source ofthe unease he’d beenfeeling since he’d turnedLyimawayinthemercury.Thoughhefeltgreatpity

for Lyim’s suffering,Guerrand had no questionthat he had done right to

forbid Lyim entrance tothe stronghold. No mortalcause was worth openingthe very door Bastion hadbeen created to block. Hehad pledged his life topreventing a breach. Hewouldcompromisethatfornoone.Still, even Guerrand’s

unflagging commitment toBastion wouldn’t allowhim to dismiss

responsibility for theplague in Thonvil. WhataboutKirahandtherestofhis family? He couldn’tstay blithely in Bastionwhile his nephew wentbacktoThonviltosufferahideous death. They hadjust found each otheragain. Bram had growninto a well-spoken manwho reminded Guerrandnot a little of himself in

many respects. They heldin common wavy brownhair, a slightly flattenednose,wide dark eyes, andhigh cheekbones. Bramseemedasdeterminedandself-assured as Guerrand’sbrother Quinn had been,tempered by Guerrand’sownreflectivenature.As impossible as it was

for him to doom Bram, itfurther prayed on

Guerrand’s mind that theconsequences of thisplaguereachedfarbeyondhis family and thevillage.What would prevent thesickness fromspreading tothe rest of NorthernErgoth, to the rest of theworld? The end of life onKrynn simply couldn’t beof lesser concern to theCouncilofThreethanthatBastion be short a

defender for a matter ofdays.Guerrand had once told

Kirah that he’d beenwrong not to come to thefamily’s aid, insteadsendingLyim inhis place.Nearly ten years laterThonvil was still payingfor the misjudgment thathadputLyimonStonecliffduring Belize’s attempt toenter the Lost Citadel.

Guerrand could notcompound the mistake byrepeating it. Justariuswouldjusthavetoseethatstoppingthespreadofthismagical plague was asimportanttothedefenseofmagic as Guerrand’spresence at Bastion. Thehighdefender’shopeswerehigh in that regard,considering the exceptionthe Council had made by

lettingBramintoBastion.The thought reminded

Guerrandofthescrollcasefrom Justarius. It wasunusual to receive such aformal missive from theMaster of the Red Robes.He pried up the snap onthe end of the tube andshook out two curledpiecesofparchmentinside.Theyflutteredtothefloor.He scooped up the first

and unfurled it,recognizing the large,flowingscriptatonce.

Guerrand,Par-Salian and I

have met with yournephew and find himto be of soundcharacter. We haveconsidered both histale of a magicalplague and your

history of requests toreturn and help yourfamily. Once beforeyou were given achoice between yourmagic and yourfamily, and we bothknow the outcome ofthat unfortunateincident. Therefore,Par-SalianandIhaveagreedtograntyouashort leave-of-

absence, if you will,to deal with thissituation back inNorthern Ergoth, if itis your judgment ashigh defender thatBastion is secure.Sincetheteleportspelldoes not functionbetween planes, Ihave imbued thisscroll with the abilityto transport both you

and your nephew towherever you requireonthePrimeMaterialPlane, thus savingyour spell energy formore dire events.Goodluck.

—Justarius

Guerrand leaned backamong the cushions,stunned. Both he andJustariushadcomea long

wayintheirthinkingsinceGuerrand’s days as anapprenticeinPalanthas.The mage tossed the

curledparchmentontothedark surface of his desk.Hehadmuchtodobeforehe could depart forThonvil. First, he mustleave explicit instructionswith Dagamier and Ezius.Dagamier wouldundoubtedly remind

Guerrand she’d run theplace longbeforehecamealong, but the highdefender was ever carefulto establish his authoritywith the ambitious blackwizardess. Once Bastionwas as secure as he couldmake it in his absence,Guerrandwouldbefreetoconsider the componentsand spellbooks he shouldtake back with him to

Thonvil.Reaching into a desk

drawer,themagesnatchedup quill and parchmentandbegantoscratchalistof instructions forDagamier and Ezius. Hewas on his second pagewhenheheard thebayingof the hounds. Guerrandsnapped alert. The threedefenders had respondedin drills to the simulated

sound of the hounds, toconditionthemselvestobeever ready against attack.But thehighdefenderhadorderednodrilltoday.Guerrand jumped to hisfeetandracedoutthedoorof the library.He ran intohis nephew as Bramstaggeredintothehallway,blinkingawaysleep.“What’sgoingon?”“Either the stronghold’s

guardians are fightingagain, or something istrying to enter Bastion’splane.” Guerrand didn’tstop as he tore down thehallway, headed for thescryingsphereinthenave,Bramathisheels.Dagamier was at herturnatthewatch,standinganxiously in the smalldoorway of the column,which had activated the

bridge to form over themoat. She was speakingagitatedly with the white-haired Ezius whenGuerrandranuptothem.“Are the gargoyles and

hounds at it again?” thehigh defender askedhopefully.Dagamier’s expression

wastight,herlipspinched.“No.Somethingelseisjustbeyond the fence, stirring

upthehounds.”“But how can that be?”

demanded Guerrand,hands on his hips, hisexpressionhorrified.“Howdid something get thisclose to Bastion withoutdetectioninthesphere?”Dagamier looked

pointedly at Ezius. “I’msureIdon’tknow.”“IswearIdidn’ttakemy

eyes from thediorama for

a heartbeat!” breathedEzius. “Nothing registeredin the perimeter until thehoundsstartedbaying!”Guerrand frowned hisannoyance. “This is notime for recriminations.We’llusedrilltwo,butthisisn’tapractice.”Dagamierand Ezius exchangedglances. “Quickly now!”thunderedGuerrand.Dagamier seemed about

to protest, since drill twodictated she remain atwatch in the sphere, butshe nodded reluctantly. Inaccordance with thestrategy,Eziusracedofftothe white wing to gathercomponents beforepositioning himself on thewatch walk outsideBastion’swhitewing.“Where should I go?”Bram asked behind

Guerrand, startling themage.“Back to my

apartments,” said thehighdefender. Saving his spellenergyforwhatlayahead,Guerrand didn’t teleportthe short distance, butinstead headed on foot totheredwingtocollecthisownmagicalequipment.Bram ran at his side to

the laboratory. “You don’t

really expect me to goback to sleep, do you?PerhapsIcanhelp.”“Frankly,andImeannooffense,” Guerrand saiddistractedly while hescrapedflasksandpouchesdirectly into the sack heheld to the lab’s shelves,“we three defenders havepracticed for defense. Idon’tseethatthere’smuchyou can do but get in the

way of that. You have nomagical skill to defendyourself, and I’d have tospend my thoughtsworrying about yoursafety.”“I’mnottotallyuseless,”his nephew said. “Imanaged to find you,didn’tI?”Guerrand grasped Bramby the his well-muscledshoulders and gave him

five heartbeats of hisattention.HehadhopedtoangerBramenoughtoputhim off, and had plannedanother short speech torefuse his help. But thenthe mage saw thedetermination in hisnephew’seyes.“All right,” he sighed,

“but stay low behind me,and do exactly as I tellyou,when I tell you.” He

gave Bram a brief,bittersweet smile. “I’drather face four seasonedmagesthanRiettawiththenewsthatI’dletsomethinghappentoyou.”With that, he patted

Bramontheback,grabbedthe sack stuffedwith spellcomponents, and boltedback down the hall. Hepractically kicked in thedoor to the storeroom,

then squeezed himselfsideways between therightwallandthefloor-to-ceilingshelves,seekingthestairway to the redwing’swatchwalk.Guerrand located thesecretrelease,thedoorslidback, and he plunged upthe steps. Another doorflew open at the top andbothmenemergedintothewindless, dark air outside

Bastion.Guerrand stoppedbrieflyandlistenedfortheexact location of thehounds: they were justbeyond the front gate.With Bram still at hisheels, he took the leftbranch of the narrowwidow’s walk that circledtheexteriorofthenave.They came to thewiderbalcony at the front ofBastion, above the apse

and behind the facade.Guerrand reached into hissackandwithdrewseveralrings and bracelets. Heimmediatelyslippedoneofeach on, then handed thesametoBram.“Getdown,and stay down,” hecommanded his nephew.Donning the ring andbracelet without questionorevenknowingwhy, theyoung man reluctantly

dropped to his knees,where he peered throughthewrought-ironbars intothedarkness.Guerrand scanned the

nearby pointed gables ofthe white wing and thesmooth, flat ledges of theredandblacksections.Thehideous, winged creatureswho posed as downspoutson the strongholdwere inplace, eyes shifting

watchfully. The shadowsof topiaries in thecourtyard were asfrightening as ever, butlookedundisturbed.All signs of intrusion

stillcamefrombeyondtheornatewrought-ironfence.No longer muffled byBastion’swalls, thesoundsof snarling, shriekinghounds cut both men tothe core. The vicious

barking and snappingchanged abruptly to high-pitched squeals of pain,then nothing. The silencethat followed wasdeafening.Heart hammering,Guerrand looked for Eziusabove the white wing tohis left. He was reassuredby the mage’s presence,but he prayed to Lunitarithathewouldnothave to

witness Ezius’s skills inbattlenow.“What’s happening?Where are the hounds?”whisperedBram.“Dead.” Guerrand knewit as surely as he knewanything. Only deathwould have silenced theirhowls.Several anxiousmoments passed before aburst of flame cleared

away a knot of brushbefore the fence. As thesmoke and ashes parted,Guerrand saw a manridingonthebackofahellhound. The creature,obviously in torment,quivered beneath theman’s cruel grip. But theshock of this sight wasnothing compared to thesurge of adrenalin in thehigh defender’s system

when he recognized LyimRhistadt on the monster’sback.Guerrand recalled theCouncil’s edict to captureintruders for tribunalwhenever possible. Hefired a telepathic messageto the white mage, whowasalreadyrummaginginhis pack in preparation ofaspell.Hold off firing, Ezius,

until my command. Thehigh defender saw thepale-haired mage nod,though Ezius’s expressionwasobviouslypuzzled.“Good evening,Guerrand,” Lyim saidconversationally. “Or is itmorning here?”He swungthe beast beneath himaround like a horse,though it belched flames.“It’simpossibletotell.”

“I see you’ve defied theodds and found your wayhere.”Guerrandcursedhisvoiceforshaking.“Whatisit you expect to get foryourtrouble,Lyim?”“Men give up manythings willingly,”proclaimed Lyim. “Theirfortunes, their loves, theirdreams…Power,never.Itmust be taken. You gaveup all those things for

power, Guerrand. Yourpower here at Bastionrobbed me of the chancetorestoremyhandandmylife to normal. Now I’vecometoseizeyourpower.”The hell hound fidgetedbeneath Lyim. “But then,you knew the answer toyour question before youaskedit.”“And you know theanswer I will give,”

Guerrand said evenly. “IcannotandwillnotviolatethelawsofBastionforanymage.”“Not even for an old

friend who gave his handforyourlife?”“We’ve gone over this,

Lyim,” Guerrand saidgrimly. “To do what youaskwouldputeverymageon Krynn at risk. I wouldgivemyhandforyours, if

Icould,butIcannotgrantentrance to Bastion. Onlythe Council of Three cando that. Did you petitionthemasIsuggested?”“I told you before,asking those threewouldn’t have done anygood.” Lyim laughedbitterly. “It would onlyhavetippedmyhand,sotospeak. They would havebeen watching me, and

then I couldn’t havefollowed the nephew whocowersbehindyou.”Lyim chuckled again atthe sight of Guerrand’ssurprise.“OfcourseIknowabout Bram’s presencehere, Rand. I attachedmyselftotheslipstreamofthe spell that sent himhere.NowIfindmyself inthe awkward position ofbeing thankful that the

Councilmadeanexceptionfor him that they wouldneverhavemadeforme.”“The Council didn’t let

Bram in for his sake, butforthewelfareofNorthernErgoth and beyond,” saidGuerrand. “That’s thedifference between youand the Council. For thesake of one person—yourself—you spread adeadlyplagueinThonvil.”

“Never defend, that’salways been my motto,”saidLyim,idlytwistingthegemstone he wore in hisleft earlobe. “You mustseizewhat youwant fromlife. If destroyingeverything you ever caredaboutwastheonlywaytodraw you out of Bastion,thenitwasworthittome.Unfortunately,youseemedneither to notice, nor to

care,nortoact.”Guerrandheldhisangerin checkwith great effort,unwillingtoletitcloudhisthinking or his judgment.He clung to the hope thatLyimwouldsurrender.“Soyou intend to stormBastion, onemage againstthree. That sounds likesuicide.”“Whether or not wefightherehasalwaysbeen

up to you, Rand, butbeware. I am much morepowerfulandcunningthanwhen we wereapprentices,” warnedLyim.“You blocked detectionfrom our scrying,”observed Guerrand, justbeginning to understandthe measure of the otherwizard’sskill.Lyim lifted the lapels of

the transparent cloak thatcovered his red robe. “Imakeitapointtoplanforall possibilities and seizeallchances.”He pretended to bestruck with a suddenthought. “Speaking ofopportunities, did Bramtell you that your sisterKirah is looking well,despitetheplague?”“You saw Kirah?”

demandedBram,standing.“When?”Lyim pretended to tick

offtimementally.“Itmusthave been two days ago.Kirah was the one whotold me you had gone toWayreth to find youruncle,” Lyim explainedblithely. “She’s such atrusting soul. Seems a bitsmittenwithme,ifI’mnotmistaken. You needn’t

worry about Kirah,though.Igaveherabottleof the antidote.” Hepausedandtappedhischinwithhisonlyindexfinger.“Or was that the bottlewith the plague?” Heshrugged.“IguessIshouldhave marked them betterwhenIbroughtthediseasetoThonvilfromMithas.”Guerrand could containhis rage no longer. “Are

youtryingtomakemekillyou?”Lyim’s friendly facadeslipped away, and helooked deadly serious.“Whether I battlemywayinto Bastion to use theportal to the Lost Citadelor you kill me first, I’llfinally be free of thishideous arm. My life isalready worse than death,so I have nothing to lose.

The time has come tosettlethisonceandforall,Rand.”The hell hound beneath

Lyim howled andtwitched. Abruptly ittransformedintothesteelylikeness of a bull thattoweredaboveLyim’sheadas he floated easily to theground. Its eyes glowed afiercer red than even thehell hound’s had, and

whenitpawedtheground,Guerrand could feel all ofBastion shudder. Foul-lookingvaporsblastedandcurled from its nostrilswitheachexhalation.Stage two, Guerrandmentally commandedEzius, who stood waitingimpatiently above thewhitewing.Guerrand had neverbeen face-to-face with a

gorgon before, but herecognized it from booksofmythicalcreatures.Atagesture from the highdefender, the gargoylesswooped from theirperches to attack.Guerrandknewtheystoodlittle chance against thisterrible beast, but perhapsthey could buy some timewhile the mages prepareda defense. There was a

chance, being living stonealready, the gargoyleswould not be affected bythe gorgon’s petrifyingbreath.Withdeafeningroarsthe

monstersmetandclashed.But Guerrand’s attentionwas already elsewhere.With deft movements andsoftly muttered words heetchedanintricatepatternof lights in the air before

him to reinforce Bastion’sever-present wards. Thesame lights, in the samepattern,redrewthemselvesaround the exterior ofBastion. There they weresuspended,pulsing,aroundand above the buildinganditsdefenders.Dagamier’s spells firedfrom the top of the blackwing would provideinvaluable help, but

protections on the scryingspherepreventedGuerrandfrom sending her atelepathic message. ThemageturnedtoBram.“Goto the scrying chamberandtellDagamiertobegindrillthree.Hurry!”Bram bolted for thetrapdoor and divedthroughitjustasamagicalbolt of some sort tossedfrom Lyim’s hand hit the

facade where Bram hadbeen sheltering, sendingfragments flying past hisheels.Guerrand was in themidst of casting aprotectivespellonhimselfwhen chunks of the wallslammed intohis legs andabdomen.Hewasknockedto the walkway andbloodied. He cursed thewasted spell, only half

cast.A quick glance belowrevealed Lyim hoveringwaist-high above theground, surrounded byshimmering bands ofmulticolored light. On theroof of the white wing,Eziuspointed awand intothe courtyard andmouthed several words.Eventhroughtheshieldingmagic of Guerrand’s rings

and bracers, he felt theblast of heat as threesuccessive balls of fireexploded below. Guerrandhad to turn his face awayfrom the blinding lightthat flared from red toyellow to unbearablewhite. Three thunderclapsshook the building asblisteringairsearedpast.The courtyard was a

swirling tumult of smoke

and ashes outlined by thetwisted remains of thefence, now glowing red-hot. The gorgon andseveral gargoyles layblackened on the charredground. Even before thesmoke settled, Guerrandcould hear the laugh heremembered so well.“Nothing is so predictableas a lawful white wizardwith a wand,” Lyim

declared.He counterattacked bytossinga smallpouch intothe air. At a wave ofLyim’s hand the pouchstreaked towardEzius andburst open above thewhitemage,rainingafinedust down over him. Acircular sweep of Ezius’shand created a shieldabove him that kept theflakes off. As the dust

settled, the shield sizzledandpopped.Itwasalreadybreaking into chunks bythetimeEziusflungitoverthe parapet and scurriedaway from the fewremainingflecksofdust.Out of the right corner

ofhisvision,GuerrandsawDagamier and Bramscramble onto the watchwalk of the blackwing. IfLyimhasn’tnoticedher,he

thought, perhaps she cancatchhimoffguardasdrillthree is intended to.Dagamier wasted no timein trying; one hand, smalland slender, made acircling gesture. A thin,silvery ray of tremendouscoldflashedfromherhandacross the blasted scene.Like Ezius’s fireball, theattack struck the bands ofscintillating color

enclosing Lyim. But thistimeitlookedlikesomeofthe spell’s energy piercedLyim’sglobe,astheleeringred mage appeared towince under the ray’sprobingfingers.Lyimwasquicktoreact.With practiced speed hebegan casting a spell toshore up his weakeneddefenses. The magicalchant creatednewenergy,

but it had to be woveninto the protective bandswith Lyim’s good lefthand. The physicalgestureswere complex.AsLyim worked, the snakesnapped at his left hand,biting it just behind thethumb. Reflexively Lyim’sleft hand jerked back,spoilingthespell.Hoping to capitalize on

what might be only a

moment’s advantage,Guerrandquicklycreatedagigantic hand, formedentirelyofmagicalenergy.The hand took shapebehind Lyim. Immediatelyits outstretched fingerswrapped around themageandsqueezed.At first, the hand

seemed to have no affect,was unable to penetrateLyim’s colored bands. But

the weak point had notbeen repaired,andonebyone the bands burst,showering theareawitharainbowofsparks.Aseachbandruptured,Lyim’sfacegrew more red and morefearful. At the lastmoment,thelookofterrorand pain on his faceburned itself intoGuerrand’s memory. Hisscreamrosetoaninhuman

pitch, then abruptly cutoff.Guerrand willed themagical hand to releaseLyim’s body; the othermageslumpedtoBastion’sdarkandmurkyground.Ezius was the nearest,and so was the first tocautiously approach thefallen mage. Guerrand,and Dagamier with Bram,watched from high above

on the walks. Slowly thewhite mage advancedacross the courtyard.Pausing at a distance ofseveral paces, Eziuswithdrew a crystal lensfromafoldofhisrobeandheld it to his eye. Formany moments heinspected the body.Satisfiedatlast,hesteppedup to Lyim and nudgedhim with his toe, waiting

for many long moments.When Ezius looked up tothe high defender, noannouncement wasnecessary.Guerrand stumbled

backwardastep,ahandtohis throat in disbelief.Lyim was dead. After allthe drills they hadperformed, the defenders’three-pronged attack hadworked—perhapstoowell.

Thehighdefenderrealizednowthatsomepartofhimhad still hoped to takeLyimalive.ThenGuerrandrememberedthatLyimhadfatally poisoned manywithout thought, and hisbrief feeling of lossabruptly changed to asense of justice done.Lyim’s bitterness haddriven him to measuresbeyondredemption.

Dagamier had joinedEzius in the courtyardbelow. Guerrand cast afeatherfall spell on bothhimself and Bram, andthey drifted down next totheotherdefenders.Ezius’s face wassmudged with the soot ofspells. Squinting throughhis thick,dustyspectacles,hesaid,“Theremustbenoburial ceremony for one

such as he. I have someexperience with coroners’techniques.Ifyouwish,I’llattendtohim.”Bramspokeup. “I thinkyoushouldlethim,Rand.Ineedyoutosendmebackto Thonvil immediatelyafter what this Lyim saidabout Kirah. How did heevenknowher?”“Kirah met him once,years ago,” Guerrand

explaineddistantly,“whenLyim came to CastleDiThoninmystead.I,too,got the feeling that shewastakenwithhim.”Bram frowned at the

revelation. “The villagersallsayshewaitsbytheseaforalover.…”“If Kirah ran into Lyim

again, she would havetrustedhimwithher life,”Guerrand said softly, his

gaze far away and verysad.“Do you believe he

spoke truly,” askedDagamier, “orwas he justtrying to goad you intoattacking?”Guerrand shook his

head. “I believe Lyimwouldhavedoneanythingtofurtherhisownends.”Bram squared his

shoulders. “Do what you

must, then, to send mebackimmediately.”Guerrand thought of

Esme, of his little sisterKirah and the innocentvillagers of Thonvil, as hewatched Ezius drag thedead body of the friendwho had become hisadversary up the stairs tothe nave. The gem inLyim’searstudcaughtthelight from several small

fires still burning in thecourtyard. It seemedsomehow fitting thatLyim’s death had givenGuerrand greater freedomofmindtofacedisastersofLyim’screation.“We’ll go together,

Bram.”Theannouncementof Guerrand’s earlierdecision surprised hisnephew. The highdefender was rewarded

withagratefulsmileandajoyous pat on the back.Dagamier nodded heracceptanceofhisdecision,with the usual mysteriouslight in her eyes as shefollowedthetwomenbackintoBastion.

Kirah awoke at first

light with aninexplicable sense ofwell-being she had notfelt in a long time. Shebounded from her feathertick, feetdancingover thecold floor, seeking herworn boots. Jamming herfeet into the things, moremud than good leathernow, she stoked the firewith just one small pieceof wood to keep the

cinders burning while shetoiledinthebakerybelow.Kirah had secretly done

work for the baker’s wifefor some time. Glammishadn’t been thrilled withthe idea of CormacDiThon’s crazy sisterworking forhim, letaloneliving in the room abovehis bakery. But his wife,Deeander, had taken pityon Kirah and offered her

room and board inexchange for sweepingfloors,changingtherushesoccasionally, and the oddbitofsewingandmending.Kirah wasn’t happyGlammis had died fromthe plague, for the bakerhad been a kindly man,despite his prejudices.Still, she was happy thathis passing had given herthe opportunity for work

thatwasmoretoherlikingthan the tedium ofordinaryhouseholdchores.Today she would bakebread, until the flour ranout,thatis.Kirah shrugged on her

dirt-stiffenedclothing—oldhose and the thin shiftDeeander had given her—then gnawed off a smallpiece of hardtack andgulped some soured milk

before skipping down thestairstothebakery.She bypassed the open

front door and took thealleyway to avoid thepatrons.Twomeager,half-filledsacksofgroundspeltflourwereproppedagainstthe back door, left byWilton Sivesten, themiller’sson.Normally,thebakery would receive fivetimes that amount each

day, but the mill hadslowed its productionconsiderably since thedeath of the miller.Frankly, there were farfewerpeopleinthevillageto buy the bakery’sproducts,anyway.Kirah asked herselfwhyshe should be feeling solight of heartwhen thingsin Thonvil seemed theirgrimmest. She didn’t have

to lookfarfortheanswer.Lyim.Hehadmiraculouslyarrived in her life for thesecond time, bringinghope.Once Kirah had had an

endless amount of hope.Hope and two loyalbrothers. But first Quinnleft,thenGuerrand,takingwith him the last of herhope. All she’d had leftwasbelief inherself.Even

that had provedinsufficientinGwynned.As usual, Kirah turned

her mind away from thatunspeakable time. Therewassomethingpleasant toponder now. Lyim caredenoughabouthertotravelfarwith thecure.Shestillhad difficulty believingGuerrand had caused thisplague,butwherewashe,ifhewassoinnocent?

Kirah stepped into thestone-block baking roomand loopedabroad,whiteapron nearly twice abouther narrow waist. Shedidn’twaitforDeeandertotell her the day’s tasks—they seldom varied.Besides,thebaker’swidowwas undoubtedly busy inthe frontroom,selling thelastofyesterday’syield.First, Kirah stoked the

two brick ovens, rakingout the ashes to preparethehotfloorfortheloavesshe would prepare next.When she was satisfiedwith the level of heat,Kirah went to the longmarble baking table andcarefully lowered thecloth-covered bowl offermented bread starterfrom a high shelf. Shetossed a wooden scoopful

ofthegoopy,sour-smellingstuff into an enormousmixing bowl. To that sheadded coarse, brown speltfromoneofthenewsacks(there was no one whocould afford fine whiteloaves, even if they couldget the flour), a pinch ofsea salt, and a largeladleful of warm wellwater from the cauldronthat always hung above

thefirepit.Kirahmixeditaround with her barehands, squeezing theconcoction between herfingers.Next came her favoritepart.Sprinklingthemarbletablewithafrugalamountof flour, she flung thestringy mixture onto it,pushed her sleeves pasther elbows, then began tofuriouslykneadthedough.

Itwas the colorof coarse,undyed cotton, with darkflecks of brown. Kirahcounted to three hundredwhile she pushed andprodded the stuff aroundthetable.Whenshewasatlast satisfiedwith the softfeel of it, Kirah choppedthedoughintothirdswitha sharp knife. Fashioningeachintoaperfectlyroundball, sheplaced themone,

two, three on the flatshovel end of a long,wooden peel and gentlyloweredthemuponthehotoven floor. With a quicktug, she yanked the peelfrom under the bread andwithdrew it from the heatbefore the wood couldchar.Brushing the leftover

flour from her hands,Kirah surveyed her work

with satisfaction. Threeloaves in the oven in notimeatall.Awispofhairfell across her face, andshelookedat itcross-eyedbefore trying to blow itback. The strands stuckuponhersweatyforehead.Funny, she thought,scraping them away withthe back of her hand, Idon’t feel hot enough tosweat.Ifanything,shefelt

a little chilly, despite herstrenuous efforts at thekneading table. Must bethe heat of the ovens, shedecided.Kirah was preparing to

mix a batch of pie crustwhen Deeander pushedback the curtain to thefrontroom.The stout woman’s face

waspalewithstrainasshelooked upon the loaves in

the brick oven. “I wouldhave stopped you had Iheard you come in.” Sheshook her head sadly.“Everydaytherearefewerand fewer to come andbuy bread. I have yet tosellyesterday’sloaves.”“People still have to

eat,”Kirahsaid.“What people?” barked

the baker’s wife, herpatience suddenly

snappinglikealutestring.“Have you looked outsidetoday?Have you seen thebodies of stone stackedheadtotoeuponthegreenbecause they can’t diggravesfastenoughtoburythedeadanymore?”Brightspotsofangryredmottledher fleshy face. “Why dowe make bread to sustainpeople who will only diehorrible deathswithin the

week?”“With that line ofreasoning,” said Kirah,“you could ask why everfeed someone? They willonly die in forty or fiftyyears anyway.” Herexpression turned serious.“Because to not feedpeople is to ensure theirdeaths,that’swhy.”The baker woman’sbosom heaved, and she

wearily lowered herselfinto a flour-flecked chair.“It’sjustthatI’vegivenuphope. I see no reason norend for this disease.SometimesIwishitwouldjust take me and end thewaiting!”“Don’t ever say that!”Kirahgasped,lookingoverher shoulder to see if thewoman’s young son hadheard her, but there was

nosignofhim.“YouhaveDilbtothinkabout.”“It’s about him that I

worry endlessly,” thewoman confessed. “HowcanIkeeptheplaguefromhim, when I don’t knowhow to keep it frommyself?”Kirah massaged the

woman’s thick shoulder,hoping to impart strength.Shewished that she could

give the woman the hopeshe herself felt, but thetown had never beentrusting of mages. Shewould just have to waituntil Lyim returned withenough antidote foreveryone, then hope thetownspeople would followher example and take thecure.“Make no more bread,

and take the rest of the

day off,” Deeanderinstructed her, pushingherselfup to return to thefront room in hopes thatsomeone would come tobuy bread. “I’ll watch theloavesyou’vemade.”Kirahclearedthemarblepastrytable.Removingherapron, she hung it on ahook and wondered whatshe would do to fill herday. She wished Lyim

would return soon, forreasons that had nothingtodowithcures.He’d lefttwo days ago to getenough antidote for therest of the village. Shemissedhimmore thanshewas comfortableadmitting,tornbetweenanexpectationtoostrongandfear of disappointment.Suddenlyshecouldnotsitstill—not for a moment—

leaving her in an itchingagony.She would stop by the

inn. Surely Lyim wouldstay there when hereturned with the cure.Kirah polished the bottomofapiepanwithacoarsesleeve and checked herreflection. Her face wassweaty and her hair lank.With clumsy, untrainedhands, she braided the

paleblondstrandsintoonelong plait that rested onherrightshoulder.Pulling on a loose,scratchy woolen cape,Kirah steppedout into thenarrow, filthy alley andshivered. She hadn’trememberedtheairfeelingso cold. Thankfully, theRed Goose Inn was onlytwo thatched buildingsand a vegetable patch

down the street, acrossfromthegreen.Shewouldwarm herself by the firetherebeforecheckingwiththe innkeeper. Kirahrounded the corner andemergedintothesunlight.She had kept to herroomandthebakerysinceLyim left andwas amazedat the change a few daysmadeinthevillage.Neverprosperous, it looked

nearly deserted now. Thetaint of decay waseverywhere, including theshabby, boarded-up shopfronts. The breeze carriedthe scent of burning flesh;she’d heard people werenow cremating the husksof skin that victims shedon the second day of thedisease, in hopes ofstopping its spread. Thegreatest shock came from

the sight of bodies piledupon the green, asDeeanderhadsaid,waitingforburial.Without realizing it,

Kirahhadslowedherpaceuntil she was barelymoving.Thehorror of thestacked bodies wasriveting.Humantorsosandfaces frozen in terror andpain intermixed with amass of snakes that still

seemed towrithe, in spiteofbeingstone.Shedidnotlookcloselyenoughat thefaces to recognize anyone,butitwasclearthatmanyof the deadwere childrenand infants. Snake bodieslayonthegrass,brokenofffrom limbs by careless orhurriedhandling. Itwas ascene fromanightmare, acharnel pit of snakessquirming over and

betweenthecorpsesofthetormenteddead.Kirah yanked her gazeawayfromthehorridstackand coveredher eyes. Shehad become suddenlylightheaded and waitedseveral seconds for thedizzinesstopass.Hergazewent wide to the right,over a fallow vegetablepatchandtothefieldsthatsurrounded Thonvil.

Unharvested corn stoodexposedinsoddenpatches,where the previouswinter’ssteadynorthwindhad bent the old stalksuntil they trailed theground like willowbranches. Kirah spied ashape trudging throughthe distant fields, bentalmost double beneath aload. She couldn’t seewhether it was man,

woman, or child, but shedidn’t hail the person, forit was enough to knowthere was at least oneother person in the worldwho had not yet stoppedhislifefortheplague.Kirah hastened up the

stepstotheinn.Thesmellofdecayseemedtovanishhere,replacedbythescentofdampashes.Thehearthhad just been cleaned. So

much for warming myselfbefore the fire, Kirahsighedinwardly.No one was inside the

large taproom. Kirahwaitedfortheinnkeeperatthetallcounter,wherethedark, pitted wood of thebar met the back wall.Feelingalittlequeasyofasudden, she loweredherself upon a stool. Themuscles of her shoulders,

neck, and lower back hadbegun to ache. It wasprobablyagoodthingthatDeeander had given herthe day off, she decided.She’d obviously beenoverdoingitatthebakery.Growing impatient,Kirah rappedherknucklesuponthehardwoodenbar.Cold, despite theperspiration between hershoulder blades, Kirah

shivered her thin capecloser, as if a birdrearrangingitsfeathers.“Hallooo?” she calledtoward the kitchen doorwhen her knuckles weresorefrombanging.At length a thin, shiny-pated man in his middleyears pushed through theswinging door, wiping hishandsona filthyapron, alookof suspicious surprise

on his face. His inn hadnotseenthelikesofKirahDiThon before, either aslord’s daughter or crazywoman. Llewen knew heronlybyreputation.“If you’re here to breakfastorfornoonlunch,I’mafraidallwehaveisafewof yesterday’s greasyturnips,” Llewenconfessed. “There’s nomeat to be found in the

town.”“I’m not here to eat,”saidKirah.“I’mlookingforsomeone who probablystayedhererecentlyandisexpected to return anyday. He’s tall, with long,dark, wavy hair. He waswearing a dark brownrobe.”Theinnkeeperraisedhiseyebrows at the word“he.” Everyone in town

believedthestoryofcrazyKirah waiting for thereturn of a lover whodidn’t exist. “What’s hisname?”Llewenasked.Kirah saw thedisapproving curiosity inthe man’s watery eyes.“Either you’ve seen theman I’ve described or youhaven’t.Whichisit?”“Haven’t,” he said,shaking his head.

“Nobody’scometoThonvilor stayed at the inn sinceword of the sicknessspread.”“But that’s not possi—”Kirahbegan,thenstopped.Lyimwasamage;perhapshehadmagicedhimselfupa place to stay. “Thankyou,” she said weakly,turning to leave. She felthotandlimp.“Haveyouacup of water, please? I’m

notfeelingquiteright.”The man looked at herinalarmandsteppedbackfromthebarwarily.Shesawhisfearthroughbleary eyes. “Don’tworry,it’s not the plague,” shemuttered, though theworld began to spincrazily. “I can’t be gettingthe plague, you see …”Kirah didn’t finish thesentence, because she had

slouched, unconscious, tothefloor.

Guerrand did one lastrun-through in his mindabout the state of securityatBastion.Hehadgivenahastily jotted list ofinstructions to Dagamier.Ezius had replaced her inthe scrying sphere after

removing Lyim’s bodyfrom the courtyard andtakingittothewhitewingto prepare it for burial.She’d taken the piece ofparchmentreluctantly,andonly after he insisted.Though she might haverun things well enoughbefore Guerrand arrived,he was responsible forBastion now, even duringhisabsence.

Satisfied that he haddoneallhecouldtoensuresmooth running of thingsduringhisleave,Guerrandused the scroll JustariushadsentforthepurposeofteleportingBram,Zagarus,and himself back toThonvil. The moment thewords inscribed on thescroll left his lips,Guerrand felt a briefdisorientation, likehewas

a scrap of paper in thedraft of a chimney,flaming and floating,weightless.Butitwasonlyforamoment,andthenhiseyes were readjusting todaylightonthemainstreetofThonvil.He,Bram, andZagarus stood before theopendoorofthebakery.Turning, Guerrand

accidently stepped on oneofZagarus’swebbedfeet.

The bird squawkedangrily.Watchwhereyou’regoing,oaf.“What’s eating you?”Guerrand asked himsilently. “I thought you’dbe happy to leave Bastionfora tripback toThonvil.You’realwayscomplainingaboutlivingthere.”Yeah,well,Idon’twanttogettoousedtoskyandearthagain, since we’ll he

returningtothatshadowboxwe call home too soon, thebird huffed. The look inhis beady dark eyesabruptly softened.Guerrand could see thatZag was merely coveringhis own trepidation withbluster.Uncomfortable with hismaster’s scrutiny, ZagarustoldGuerrandthathewasgoingto thecovetosee if

anyone from the old dayswasstillalive.Guerrand watched theoldgulllumberintotheairand flap stiffly toward thesea.He turned in a circle,peering around with eyesthat could not fathomdistanceorendurethesunafter so long at Bastion.Before Rand could getmorethanawhiffofdecayand an impression of

Thonvil’s general squalor,Bram took his hand anddragged him up the openflight of stairs next to thedoor embellished with asigncarvedinthelikenessofasteamingloaf.“Kirah!” Bram cried,banging his fist on thedoor to his aunt’s room.“Come on, Kirah, it’sBram. I’m back withGuerrandasIpromised.”

“Maybeshe’snothome,”Guerrandsuggested.“Maybe,” Bram

muttered. To his surprise,the door creaked open acrack. Bram pressed hiseyetoit,thengavethatupand gave the door a hardshovewithhisbootedtoe.Thedoorswungbackon

rusty hinges. The chokingstenchof sweatandvomitandrottingfleshrolledout

ina cloud.Bram tore intothe room ahead ofGuerrand. “We’re toolate!”hecried.Blood pounded atGuerrand’s temples as hefollowed Bram into thecold, fireless room. Hefound his nephew on hiskneesatthesideofasmallrope bed.Unceremoniously dumpeduponthedirtyfeathertick

was someone he barelyrecognized.“Bram?” she whispered,blinking in disbelief.Kirah’s eyes had alwayslookedlikethesortcreatedto house mysteries, butnowtheyseemednomorethan the soft, unseeingeyesofacowatgraze.Heronce-blond hair was ash-colored and damp abouther emaciated face. It

looked to have beenbraided, but fuzzy hankshadbeenrubbedoutoftheplait inback.Herclothingwas worse than a beggarwoman’s andbeginning toripatthesleeves.“Yes, it’s me, Kirah,”

Bramsaid,chokingbackasob. “When did you getsick?”“I … don’t know,” she

said haltingly. “The last

thing I remember IwasattheRedGoose Inn, askingfor some water. I was socold.” She shivered,remembering.“Imusthavehad the flu because I feelmuchbetternow.”Bram looked over hisshoulder. The two menexchangedworriedlooks.Guerrand steppedforward into his sister’sview. “Hello, Kirah.”

Guerrand hoped hisexpression held the rightshade of sympathytouched by the diffidencedue an estranged memberofone’sfamily.Shestarted,thenweaklypushedherselfupontoherelbows. “It is you. Well,well,” she said caustically.“Frankly, I’m surprisedyoufoundthetimeforus,but I guess history does

repeat itself. Once again,you’ve made it back toolate to help most ofThonvil. And, once again,your old friend, Lyim,squeezed us into hisschedule.”“Did you swallow the

concoction he gave you?”Guerrandaskedanxiously.“Of course,” she said.

“Twodaysago.”A cry escaped Bram’s

lips,acurseGuerrand’s.“Does that disappointyou, Guerrand?” askedKirah, giving him a cannylook.“Thathegavemethecure to thisdiseaseyou’vecaused?”In the middle of herquestion, Guerrand hadbeguntoshakehisheadindisbelief, gaining bothspeedandpower,untilhiswholebodyshook.“Isthat

what Lyim told you?ThatIcausedthisplague?”“I saw his hand,” shesaid.“I’veheardthesnakeshissyourname.”A muscle twitched inGuerrand’s jaw. “Whatwouldmake you think I’dwant to cause anyone tosuffersuchhideousdeaths,let alone my family andthe villagers withwhom Iwasraised?”hedemanded.

Kirah scoffed. “Thatquestion implies that Iknow anything about youanymore. Lyim said youwere an important mageandweretryingtodestroyall evidence of yourhumblebeginnings.”Guerrand was struckdumb, and he turnedaway. His hands curledinto fists at his side as hepaced. For the first time,

he was glad he’d killedLyim. The man hadpoisoned his sister’s bodyand mind, just to punishhim. Lyim had been amasteroflies.Bram touched him onthe arm, and Guerrandjumped. “From the looksof her,” Bram whispered,“she had the feveryesterday.” They bothgaveworried glances over

their shoulders. Kirahwassitting up, scratching herrightarm,herexpressionapracticed mask ofcarelessness.“Are you sure she has

it?” Guerrand whisperedback.Bram nodded his head

reluctantly. “She’s on daytwo, which means she’sgoing to start sheddingskin any time now. I’ve

learned there’s no pointtryingtostopitbytyingapatient down, but it’seasier on them if you cankeepthemonthebed.”Helookedathisuncleclosely,then dropped his voiceevenmore. “Do you thinkyou’llbeable tohelpme?It’s horrifying to watch,but it’s nothing comparedtowhatwillhappenlater.”“OfcourseI’llhelpyou,”

Guerrand said. “That is, ifshe’llletmenearher.”As they turned backtoward Kirah, both mennoticed that her casualscratching had turned todetermined scraping. Herarm was covered withthick, redweltswherehernails had dug into theflesh.“Now I have this awfulitch,” Kirah moaned. “I

really need a bath, afterthat fever from the flu.”Her hand continuedscrapingbackandforthonher right forearm all thewhile she spoke. But thescratching did nothing torelieve the itch, whichonlymadeKirahattackthearmmoreferociously.Within moments, she

was nearly frantic. “Thisarm, it’sdrivingmecrazy.

I’ve never itched like thisbefore!”Guerrand glancedquestioningly at Bram.Kirah surely must haveheardthesymptomsoftheplague.DidshereallyhavesuchfaithinLyimthatshestill didn’t suspect his“cure”?Lyimhadnotbeenabove using a magicalcharmonher.Orwas shesimply fooling herself out

offear?“Just lie back, Kirah,”Bramsoothed.“We’llgetaragandsomewarmwater.It will make you feelbetter.”Tears welled in Kirah’seyes and left light-coloredstreaks down her dirtycheeks. “Hurry, please,”she pleaded, gouging evermorefranticallyattherawarm.

“What’shappening?”shewailed, looking down thelengthofherarms.Kirah’shead went from side toside in shocked, old-womanishgestures.“You have the plague,

Kirah. You’ll shed a layeror two of skin today,”Bram explained as calmlyashewasable.“I can’t have the

plague!” she howled,

rubbing her arms at afurious rate against theroughness of the sheets.“Lyimgavemethecure!”“Lyim gave you the

plague,” Guerrand saidharshly.“I don’t believe you—I

can’t!” Kirah rubbed herlimbsandthrashedagainstthebed,bothmenholdinghertokeepheronit.“It’s true,”saidBram.“I

heard him boast of it,Kirah.”Bram motionedGuerrandtowardthewashbasin for thewet rag.Theolderman had taken onlya few steps when apiercing shriek spun himaroundinhistracks.Kirahwas arching violently onthebed.Bramstruggledtopush her shoulders to themattress. “Help me,

Rand!”Bramcried.Kirah’sright arm twitchedhorribly as she banged itover and over against thebedframe.Guerranddashedbacktothe bed and tried to grabhis sister’s flailing limb.“Justholdherdownsoshecan’thurtherselfworse.”Guerrand did as Bramasked and was surprisedby the strength in Kirah’s

thin, fevered frame. Herarmstruckhiminthebackseveral times, butGuerrandignoredit.Acryof anguish rent the air asthe skin split along theentire length of Kirah’sright forearm and hand,then slipped away in ahideouscurl.Shelookedatthe red, raw fleshbeneathit with large, teary eyes.Her glance traveled to

Guerrand, unable to denythetruthanylonger.Kirahfellbackagainstthesoiledpillow,theneedtoscratchsilenced for the moment.“Why?” she asked in ahollowvoice.“Whywouldhe do this? I thought hecaredaboutme.”“Hedidcareaboutyou,

Kirah,” whisperedGuerrand. “Just not asmuchashehatedme.”

Kirah cried out again,andBramheldhertightly.He shot an anxious lookover his shoulder at hisuncle.“Can’tyoucomeupwith some spell to lessenherpain?Guerrand snapped from

his stupor to recall amixturehehadoncegivenEsme when she broke herleg. He found theprerequisite herbs in his

packandhastilyconcoctedthe mixture of crusheddried peppermint leavesand cream-coloredmeadowsweet flowerssoaked in oil of clove. Heleaned in, strugglingagainst her thrashing, andplaced the tincture underKirah’s tongue. Withinmoments, her strugglesvisibly, though briefly,lessened.

“I’d like to trysomething else as well,”Guerrand said pensively.“If this illness is magic-based, perhaps it can bedispelled.”“Do it!” urged Bram,turning back to his aunt,whose legs had begun tosplitnow.Guerrand reached intohis pouchandwithdrewahardened leather scroll

case.Hepoppedoffthelidand pulled out a heavyscroll. The spell ofdispelling was a simpleone to a mage ofGuerrand’sexperience,andhe had cast if frommemorymanytimes.Butifthis worked, he wouldneedtocast itmanymoretimes, so he had broughtalong several such scrolls.Guerrand took a moment

to compose himself andfocushismind,closingoutKirah’s shrieks of pain.With eyes narrowed, hetranslated aloud themystical symbols soprecisely scribed on theparchment. As each waspronounced,itflaredlikeatiny wisp of paper setalight, to immediatelyswirl away above thescroll. Familiar magical

symbols danced throughhis mind, organizingthemselves in the properpattern, and disappeared.Finally, Guerrandmumbledthewords,“Delusolisar,” to trigger thepreciselycraftedspell.Both men held their

breath as they watched.Bram’s eyes darted fromKirah’s legs to her face,andbacktoherlegsagain,

in a nervous cycle.Guerrandsatmotionless.Finally,Bramwhispered,

“What’s happening? Whycan’tIseeanything?”“Becausethere’snothing

to see,” sighed Guerrand.“If the spell had worked,it’seffectwouldhavebeenapparent right away. Itfailed.”Without a word, Bram

turnedbacktoKirah.

Whentheskinwasshedentirely from the first leg,she was so exhausted shelapsedintoashallow,fitfulsleep. Bothmen knew therest was only temporary,until her other leg beganto shed. Bram joined hisuncle by the cold hearth.“Is there nothing else youcantry?”Guerrand shook hishead. “Despite the

simplicity of the process,most magic can bedispelled.Whateverthisis,it goes beyond the realmofpuremagic.Amultitudeof forces are at workcreatingthisdisease.”“Youcan’teveneaseherpain more fully?” askedBram, his voice far away,yeturgent.“I can keepadministering the

analgesic herbs, but I’mneither a physicker nor apriest. Mine are nothealingspells.Idon’tevenunderstand what I’mdealingwith.”“Then learn about it,”

charged Bram. “WalkaroundThonvilandseeitseffects. You’ve got untilsunset tomorrow night tocome up with a cure.That’s when Kirah’s limbs

willturntosnakesandhereyestoonyx.”Guerrand nodded. “Of

course.”Bramsawthebriefflash

of guilt and self-doubtcloud his uncle’s face.“These people will not becuredbyyourguilt,butbyyourwitsandyoursweat,”he said. “Whateverdecisions led Lyim to hisactions, you are to blame

forwhathappenshereonlyif self-pitykeepsyou fromworking to cure what hecaused.”Guerrand regarded his

nephew with a newrespect.Themageresolvedto do whatever he could,leave no magical conceptuntried, to keep his sisterfromturningtostone.Hernext round of pain-rackedscreams began as her

second leg began to shedits skin, reminding themage that he had verylittletime.

Strangely, the sky on

theafternoonofRuindai,the twenty-ninth day ofMishamont, was clearer,warmer, brighter thanGuerrand remembered forspring on the island ofNorthern Ergoth. Orperhapsitwasbecauseanyamountofsunlightseemedglaring to the mage afterthegloomofBastion.Still,lightseemednottoreach the streets where

Guerrand walked in thesilence of a dying village.No blessed breeze blewaway the stench of shedskins left to rot whereverthey fell. Guerrand lookedallwayswithhis eyesbuthad difficultyconcentrating over thepaininhisheart.The mage felt certain

any clue to the plague’scure lay with the

symptoms themselves. Heneeded to see the plagueand all its ramificationsfirsthand. His dread ofwitnessing such pain waslessened only by hisdeterminationtoendit.Guerrand saw a fewpeople trudging at adistance, dirty ragswrapped around theirfaces and feet, as if oldlinen could keep the

sickness from invadingtheir skin. Their headstheykept low, fearful thata polite meeting of eyeswas invitation enough totheplague.The streetandstoops were littered withtheleavingsoflife,mostoftheshopsclosed,unswept,some of them boardedover. Bram had warnedhim of the village’sgrowing dereliction, that

some of the closures hadoccurred before theplague, but the warningdidlittletolessentheblowof seeing Thonvil sodeserted. There was noteven a dog or pig orchicken in sight, whereonce the street had dailyseemedlikeasmallspringfair.Three mud huts, their

roofs and timbers burned,

huddledattheedgeofthevillage. Guerrand lookedover them, to where athick, black flame lickedthe light blue sky. HevaguelyrememberedBramsaying Herus had advisedthe burning of clothing,tools, even the homes ofplague victims in a futileattempt tostop thespreadofwhathedidn’tknowatthe time was a magical

illness.Guerrand’s head

snapped left at the soundofawagoninthestreet.Itwas a trundling greenthing pulled by an old,sway-backed horse. Twopeople sat upon the seat:oneayoungboy,theotherof an age with Guerrandandvaguelyfamiliar.Bothjumped to the dirt roadandclamberedaround the

wagon. Removing oneside, they began tounceremoniously shoveone of the heavy, stonebodies piled in the cart tothe soft, greening groundofthesquare.“Hey, ain’twe supposed

to take these to the fieldon the north edge oftown?” posed the youngerof the two, who could benomore than tenyearsof

age. “Nomore roomhere,andnoonetodigholesfor’emanyway.”The father straightened

his spine above the stone-stiff bodies in the wagonandrubbedhislowerback.“Whocareswheretheygo,boy? Dead’s dead,” hepronounced. “The plaguewouldn’tatook’emiftheywasgoodpeople, anyway.Not like us.” He thumped

hischest.“You’nmebeenspared, boy, so’s we getthepickofthehousestheydon’tburn.Youmakesureeverything valuable wasoff’em?”Theboynodded,patting

apouchathiswaist.Horrified by what he

was witnessing, Guerrandtriedtoplacethefaceandvoice that seemed sofamiliar.Suddenly itcame

tohim.“Wint?”Guerrandcalled

to the man, recalling himas the younger of thebullieshehadchasedfromthis very square forstoning a woman theyclaimedwasawitch.The man swung around

insurpriseatthesoundofany voice. Thin lips drewback in recognition,exposing big box teeth.

“You!” he gasped. Winthooked his thumbsthrough his belt andcockedonescrawnyhipinan effort to portrayindifference. “They saidyouwasdead,but Iheardit whispered you broughtthisplagueonus.”Guerrand looked at himlevelly. “Then I’d beafraid,ifIwereyou.”The belligerent man

squinted at Guerrand, anevil grin stretching thesparse whiskers on hishawkish face.“Yougotnopower here anymore,DiThon,” he snarled. “Yerbrother and sister arecrazy, the whole lot upthere”—hetossedhisheadin the direction of CastleDiThon—“they’re as pooras us common folk andsealed up like mice in a

tomb.”Guerrand had so little

regardforthemanthathecouldn’t bring himself tobeangry.“Got nothin’ to say,

without yer brother thelord to protect you, eh?”the man taunted, lookingwith eager pride to see ifhissonwasimpressedwithhisbravado.“You’re still a bully and

a blowhard, I see,”Guerrand observed withsigh. “Apparently youhaven’t the courage orbrains to succeed, so youwaitinshadowstofeedoffthe work of others.”Guerrand fishedaround inhis pack of components,found his sole caterpillarcocoon, then raised hisrobed arms. “Perhaps it’stime you saw the world

throughtheeyesoftheratyouare.”Wint’s chest had puffed

out indignantly, and hishandscurledintofists.Butwhen Guerrand raised hisarms, the man drew backslightly, looking bothconfused andmore thanalittle worried. “Whatchadoin’ there? I’m warningyou,stopit!”“What’s the matter,

Wint? No one to protectyou from the witch?”Guerrand asked. Wint’sface became a mask ofhorror as Guerrandcontinued the circle he’dbegun with his arms.“Doduvas!”Blue and green light

sparked like the hottestfireabove thewagon,andwhereWinthadstoodwasnow a squealing brown

rat. The creature’swhiskered face sniffed atthe edge of the wagon,then it leaped to theground and skitteredacross the road, headingfor the shadows betweenbuildings. Wint’s youngson took one frightenedlook at Guerrand, jumpedfrom the wagon, andscrambledafterhisfather.The mage looked upon

the faces of stone in thewagon; a youngishwoman, man, and anelderly matron whoresembled the man in thenose and set of the eyes.They must have been thelastofafamily,whichwaswhy the three were beingburiedbystrangers.Wintaside,somuchhadchanged since lastGuerrand was in Thonvil.

He began to walk, andbefore long his feet ledhimdownthetwistedsidestreetstooneinparticularhe had traveled manytimes in his youth. Hetripped over somethingsquishy.Lookingdown,hesaw thebloatedbodyof adead rat. The sightpropelled him on evenfaster.Guerrand rounded the

lastcorner,wheretheraysof the sun never reached.Wilor the silversmith’sstorefront came intoview.Though the shutters wereclosed, the silversmithshop wasn’t boarded uplike so many of the otherstores around it.Guerrandrecalled briefly that hisfather’s old adventuringcrony had threatened toretire those many years

ago, when Guerrand hadcome to retrieve a trinketfor Ingrid Berwick, and totalkofhisbrotherQuinn’scasketcover.Suddenly the mage had

a nostalgic eagerness totalktotheoldsilversmith.Perhaps Wilor knewsomething about theplague that might helpGuerrand.Hewellrememberedthe

metalsmith’s heavy doorbearing its silver unicorn;it set the stall apart fromthe much more practicaldoors of the othermerchants and signifiedWilor’s trade. Guerrandknockedtentativelyonthedoor, then more loudlywhen no one answered.Whenstillnoonecame,helookedoverbothshouldersbefore tugging at the

ornate door and slippinginside.Elevenanvilsweresilentin the modest shop, thesmall furnace cold. Therewasnoneoftheusualhazehanging among theexposed rafters, noglowing bits of metalanywhere.Cold,blackrodslay next to many of theanvils, a testament thatthey had been still for

some time. A crucible oftarnished silver layclamped in a long pair oftongs,waitingforasmith’spracticedhammer.Guerrand stood

remembering the last timehe’dbeenhere.Ithadbeenthe second time he’d metBelize, when his life hadtaken such a dramaticturn.Hismemoriesofthatmad wizard were not

pleasant, and he turnedthem away.Hewas aboutto leave entirely,convinced that Wilor andhis heirs had moved on,leaving everything inmidproject,whenhehearda low but unmistakablegroaning coming fromsomewhere beyond theroom. He followed thenoise to the back of theshop, where a heavy

woolen curtain hung fromhooksintheceiling.“Hello?” Guerrandcalled tentatively througha crack in the curtain. “Isanyonehere?”“Just,” came a man’sadenoidal rasp. “Who’sthere?”“A… friend,” Guerrandsaid, unsure if he wantedwhoever was behind thecurtain to know him or

not.“Come back only if

you’veastrongstomach.”The warning gave

Guerrand pause for amoment before he pushedhis way past the openinginthescratchycurtain,hislowerlipclampedbetweenhis teeth expectantly. Hisfirst breath beyond it washalf-choked by the stenchof rotting flesh he

recognized too well fromKirah’s room. The mageblinked away the tearsthat instantly welled duetothesmell.Thesilversmithlayona

dirty mound of linen-covered hay in the cornerofadarkroom,litinthin,muted streaks by a smallwindow in back. Theman’s thick, grizzledforearms that had always

reminded Guerrand ofroastedmeatwerenowsixwrithing snake heads. Hecould see that snakes alsowrithed beneath theblanketthatcoveredWilorfrom thewaist down. Theonce-powerful man wasshrunken and pale andcrippled, and clearlywouldneveragainpracticehisbeautifulcraft.“Guerrand DiThon, as I

barely live and breath,”the smith said withdifficulty, surprise andpleasure evident on thepale, sunken face that themage remembered asround and jolly. “I hadn’texpected yours to be thelast face I behold beforeHabbakuk takesmehome,butIcanthinkofnoneI’drathersee.”“I-I’m sorry to find you

thus, Wilor,” was allGuerrand could think tosay. Wilor had been ashort, sturdy man ofimmensestrengthfromhisvigorous life. His teethwere gone save one. Thesmith’s hairline hadrecededevenfartherinthelast decade and was nowpast the midpoint of hisscalp, until only a narrowring of salt-and-pepper

hairremained.“How is the second son

of Rejik DiThon?” thesmith asked, as if overshepherd’s pie at the RedGoose Inn. Wilor eyedGuerrand’s red robes withobviousinterest.“Well enough, Wilor,”

saidGuerrand.Whatcouldhe do but shrug hisshoulders, apologizing forhis healthy presence at

death’sgrimdoor?“Ah, well, I have been

better,” said the man,trying hard but notsucceeding at a self-deprecating chuckle.Instead, Wilor was caughtupinachokingcoughthatslowlysubsided.Guerrand could thinkof

nodelicatewaytoaskthequestions that burned inhis throat. “Marthe? Your

sons?”hequeried, lookinghopefully about the dimstoreroom.Wilor didn’t blink. “Alldead. The boyswent first,aboutaweekago.IwishIcould have sparedMartheseeingthat.”Hisbaldpaterocked from side to side.“After watching them, Iconsideredsparingusboththis, but—” He sighedfromhissoul.“Itturnsout

I was too much a cowardtodoanythingaboutit.”Wilor looked,unblinking, toward thewindow,tothesky.“ThenMarthe caught the chill,andIhadtostayforher.”Hiseyes sank shutbriefly,as if willing the couragefor the words. “She wenttwonights ago.By then itwas too late for me. Ididn’t tell Marthe, but I

got the fever thatafternoon and barely hadthe strength to bury her.”Wilor bit down on his lipuntil it bled and a tearrolled down one wancheek. “At least Marthewasn’t alone in the end.Shegotaproper layingtorestnexttohersonsinthefield she tilled for yearsout back, instead of beingsqueezed into the green.

It’sallthatmattersnow.”“I’ll stay with you,Wilor.”The silversmith turnedhis head with great effortto look directly atGuerrand. “You’d dothat?”Guerrand noddedheavily.“Ipromisetostayas long as you need me,until the Blue Phoenixcomes to takeyouhome,”

he vowed, invoking theErgothiannameofthegodhe knew the adventuringfriends, Wilor and Rejik,had revered. Guerrandgained an odd sense ofstrengthandpurposefromrepeatinga secretpromisehe’dmadeasaseven-year-old at the deathbed of hisownfather.The smith’s expressioncontained an odd mix of

gratitude andembarrassment. “Thepromise of Rejik DiThon’ssecond son has alwaysbeengoodenoughforme.”Guerrand gave him agrateful smile, then stoodawkwardly, unsure whattodonow,unableeventohold the dying man’shand. He ordered hisreluctant feet forward toclosethedistancebetween

them so that Wilorwouldn’t need to strain soto speak. Suddenly thesnakeshissedandsnappedtoward the mage. Cursingthevipers,Wilorstruggledto hold themdown to thebed of straw. Theirtongues lashed andflickered, as if they hadheard the man’s sadnessandwerelaughing.Oneofthe heads lashed away

fromtherestandsnatchedasmall, fright-eyedmousefrom the shadows of thefloor and swallowed thethinginonegulp.Guerranddrewbackand

maintained a four-footremove fromthesickmanso as not to excite thesnakesagain.Hestared,asif mesmerized by theintricate diamond patternsbehindthedarkandbeady

eyes on their heads. Eachlittle, slithering headrecalled to Guerrand thememory of themagewhohadcausedthis.He circumnavigated thebedof straw topropopenboth the grease-streakedwindow and door to letsome fresher air into thesickroom. “Is there muchpain,Wilor?”Wilor seemed to realize

Guerrand was not justmaking idle conversation.He leaned forward andconsideredhisbizarrenewappendages. “Some,mostly when I try tocontrol them. The changewas excruciating, I’lladmit,butnowthesnakesare more inconvenientthanhurtful.Ican’tusemyhands or feet to doanything.It’sagoodthing

nothing itches anymore.”He fell back against thestraw,winded.“Butit’llallbe over as soon as themoons rise. There’s acomfortinknowingthat.”Guerrand only nodded;

his reparteewasnotat itsbest today. He had oftenplayed attendant to theminor ailments of folks inHarrowdown, listening totheir dilemmas and

suggesting solutions bothmagical and not. Thoughthiswasnominorailment,Guerrandpulledupastoolandcalledthoselong-usedskillstohisside.“I’m a mage now,Wilor,”Guerrandinformedhimsoftly.“I figured that out fromthe robes,” said thesilversmith,andhisglanceheldacovertamusement.

Guerrand reddened. “Idon’t know what yourviews on magic are,” hecontinued somewhathesitantly,“butI’mhopingto use my skills to find acure. Kirah’s got theplague now.” Guerrandheard his own hollowvoice in the quiet of thedeath room. “She justfinished shedding the skinfromherarmsandlegs.”

Wilor bobbed his headsadly. “You’ve seen toomuch death in your life,Guerrand DiThon.” Thesilversmith stunnedGuerrand with his nextwords.“Usemetofindthecure.”“Idon’tknowthatIcanhelp you, Wilor,” he saidawkwardly.“I’mnotaskingyou to,”Wilor nearly snapped.

“Have I given you theimpression I’m afraid todie?” The mage had toshake his head. “I don’twish to live without myMarthe”—he looked downathimself—“likethis.”Wilor scowled when hesaw Guerrand hesitatewith a look of pity themage couldn’t disguise.“Don’t waste time,”declared the smith,

lookingat the slantof thelight. “I’m unsure howmuchofthatIhaveleft.”Guerrand rummaged

around in the pack he’dcarried with him on hisfirsttripfromThonvilandwithdrew his much-usedspellbook. Hundreds ofpageshadbeenfilledwithhis illegible scribblingsince the handful he’dpainstakingly inked in

secretcornersofthecastleand upon a potato wagonoutsideWayreth.He looked up, his lipspursed in thought. “I’munclear about what startsthediseaseinsomepeopleand not others,” headmitted. “Kirah said shedrank something thatcaused the onset of theillness. Do you recalldrinking anything

unusual?”Wilor creased his browmomentarily. “Just waterandale.”Guerrand scowled hisfrustration. “I’ll bet Lyimtainted the village water,butitwouldhelpifIknewif thediseasewasmagicalin nature or simplytransmittedbymagic.”Hesnapped his fingers as aneasyenchantmentcameto

mind. Themagemutteredthe oft-spoken words thatwould reveal the presenceof magic in Wilor’s body.He frowned when that,too, revealed no glowingemanations,nothing.Or did it? Guerrand

hastily flipped open hisspellbookagain, foundtheentry for dispelling, andtracedhisfingerdownthecolumnofhisownwriting:

Other-planarcreaturesarenot necessarily magical.Multiple types of magic, orstrong local magicalemanations,may confuse orconcealweakerradiations.Guerrand slammed thebook shut. The plaguecould still be magical innature, despite his spell.Heknewnomore thanhedidbefore.“You’re getting as

frustrated as some of thevillagers,” said Wilor.“They’vecomeupwiththecraziest notions about acure. Several triedchopping the snakes off,buttheyonlygrowback.Iknow of one who beggedhissontopoisonhissnakehand.”“What happened?”Guerrandasked.“The man got violently

ill from the poison,”admitted Wilor, “and hestill died at sunset on thethirdday.“Fear is a powerful

force,” Wilor continued.“Shortly after the firstoutbreak, a group ofvillagers went on arampageandkilledall thesnakes they could find, atHerus’s suggestion. Whenthat didn’t work, they

moved on to otheranimals.”Wilor’s lips pursed withconcern. “I’m afraid thatthosewhodon’tdieoftheplague will suffer alingering death ofstarvation.” Abruptly,Wilor’s face contorted inpain.Guerrand shifteduneasily at the sight ofWilor’sagony.“Iknowmy

spells haven’t proven veryimpressive, but I couldgive you an herbalanalgesic that might easethepain.”Wilor absently noddedhis approval. Guerrandquickly combined themixture of crushed driedpeppermint leaves andmeadowsweet flowerssoaked in oil of clove hehad used to help Kirah.

Resolutely ignoring thesnakes, the mage quicklyleaned in and placed thetincture under Wilor’stongue before the mancouldchangehismind.Almost immediately,Wilor’s eyes took on apeaceful look, far away intime and place. “Yourfather would have beenproud of your being amage,” he said distantly.

“Rejik was more than alittle interested in the arthimself after he marriedyourmother.”Guerrand’s heartskipped a beat at theunexpected revelation. “Ialways suspected Fatherhad more than a passinginterest, from thevolumesinhislibrary.”“Zena wasn’t a blue-blood like your father or

his firstwife,”Wilorwenton, as if Guerrand hadn’tspoken, “but Rejikfollowedhisheart,despitepressuretomarrysomeonefromhisownclass.”Guerrandknewthispart

of the story too well; itwastherootofhisconflictwith his brother Cormac.Cormac’s mother, of oldErgothian stock, had diedof Baliforian influenza

when Cormac was buteight. Ten years later,Rejik remarried a womanjust two years older thanhis son. Zena DiThon’sfamily had settled inNorthern Ergoth just aftertheCataclysm(some threehundredyearsbefore),butprejudice was rampantamongthenobility.Peoplenot of the old, darker-skinned stock that had

lived in Ergoth proper,before the Cataclysm splitthe region into twoislands, were considerednewcomers.The smith’shead shook.“You suffered for theirunion as much, if notmore, than they—you andQuinn and Kirah.EspeciallyafterRejikdied.Between you and me,”Wilor whispered, leaning

forward conspiratorially,thoughnoonewasaroundto hear what had longstoppedmatteringtotownfolk anyway, “Zena wastwicethewomanCormac’smotherwas,bluebloodbedamned.”Wilor fell back against

the rustling straw, an oddsmile lighting his face.“YougetyourmagicalskillfromZena,youknow,”he

confided.“Hergypsybloodruns in your veins. Shewas a pale-skinned,sprightly miss with hairlike Solinari’s light, andjust as enchanting. ‘Onewith the magic of theearth,’ was how Rejikdescribed Zena. He wasbewitched by her everydayoftheirmarriage.”“I…neverknewanyofthat,” breathed Guerrand.

“Father refused to talkabout Mother after shedied.”Wilor managed a half-shrug. “It was the grief.”He closed his eyes. “Iknow nowwhat it can dotoaman.”It was obvious toGuerrand that the tincturehad loosened Wilor’stongue,aswellashisholdonhisemotions.Thesmith

seemed toneed to talk, asif he realized his time todo so was fast passing.Guerrand leaned back onhis stool and listenedpatiently, arms crossed,letting the man speak hisfill.“It was Zena who

noticed the oddness inBram, you know,” Wilorsaid faintly. Guerrand satforward to question the

statement, but the smithwasn’tfinished.“Well I remember the

nightRejikmetme at theRed Goose, all sweaty-faced and edgy,” Wilorcontinued, his voicepicking up speed andvolume. “ ‘Zena’s certainCormac’s son Bram is achangeling,’”Wilorsaidinan imitation of Rejik’svoice. “Your father

confessed it after he’ddrankmoretankardsofalethanI’deverseendownedbefore.”Guerrand jumped to hisfeet.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“I never spoke of it toanyone,nordidIseekyouout now, dear boy,” saidWilor, his eyes clear yetsad. “But when youarrived here today, it

seemed like providence,like you were put in mypath one last time for areason.Ican’tletthetruthdiewithme.”Wilor’sheadshookasherecalledapainfulmemory.“It almost killed yourfather, too, knowing thatabout his own grandson,knowing that Zena wasnever wrong about suchthings, knowing that

nothing could be doneabout it without riskingthe wrath of the tuathawho’d pulled off theswitch.” Wilor coughedviolently and spat, thenasked for a drink. “Theway things have been inThonvil since then, I’vehad my suspicions abouttheir meddling. … I’venever spoken them aloudbefore, but what can

faeries do to me that therising of the moons won’tdo in mere minutesanyway?”“WhyhaveIneverheard

this before?” demandedGuerrand. “Has anyoneever told Bram theythought he might havefaerie blood?” Legendswere common of suchbaby exchanges, butGuerrand had never seen

evidence of such anoccurrence.Wilorrolledhisheadon

the straw. “Not that I’vebeen able to see. Yourfather never said so, but Ithink Rejik shared hissuspicionswithCormac,orCormac guessed himself,because I hear tell he’salwayskeptadistanceanddeferred judgment abouttheboytohismother.”

Guerrand couldn’t denythetruthofthat.Hisheadwas a tangle of questionsthat forced their way tothe front of his tongue atthe same time. All thatcameoutwas,“WhatamIsupposed to do with thisconfession now? Whetherit’s trueornot,howcan Iever look at Bram thesame way again, knowingmy mother and father

believedit?”“Believeitornot,thatisyour choice. Take it toyour deathbed, as I did.But remember, it makesBram no less a man thanyou thought him before.”Wilor’seyestraveledtothewindow, where the longyellow streaks of twilightstretched into the room.“I’m afraid the sun issetting.” He didn’t looked

theleastbitafraid.“Thatcan’tbe!Notnow,

not yet!” Scowling,Guerrand raced to thewindowsill. “If only Icould hold the sun inplace!” he cried infrustration, but no magewas powerful enough forthat. The window lookedto the west. Guerrandcould already see thatSolinari and Lunitari had

risen before sunset, faintwhite and red outlines inthe purple sky above theStraitofErgoth.Wilorwasright—there wasn’t muchtime.“IfearI’veleftyouwith

more questions thananswers, dear boy,” thesilversmith said ruefully.“Life,andespeciallydeath,aren’tatallneat.”Guerrand turned away

fromthewindowandbackto the weakened man onthebedof straw, stoppingshortwhenthesnakesroseup, hissing. “I’m the onewho needs to apologize,Wilor. You’ve been a truefriend.”Wilor’s breath whistled

two notes at once inresponse.He stared blankly, and

his lips moved in a word

that Guerrand could nothear. Heart in his throat,the mage scorned thesnakes and moved closer.They didn’t writhe, butslowly settled upon thestrawassoftlyasfeathers.“Please, not yet!” the

mage gasped again as thelight in the eyes of hisfather’s oldest friendwinked to black. Withoutthinking, Guerrand leaped

to thewindowagain,as ifto question that the timehad come. Though hecould not see it, therescuttled across the purple-darkened sky a distant,round shadow heunderstood too well. Thethird moon, Nuitari, hadrisen like the gleamingonyx in Wilor’s eyesockets.Guerrand cursed the

wretched soul of LyimRhistadt, who had madeall this happen when hebegan following the blackmoonlit path of the evilgodofmagic.

It happened everynight on Krynn.

Moonrise.Tonight,whiteSolinari rose first, ablindinglybrightlightthatwasquicklytingedavaguepink by the rising of redLunitari. Momentsafterward, the pinkishmoonlight was mutedfurtherbytherisingofthethirdmoon, blackNuitari.People not of an evildisposition were neverquite sure if Nuitari had

risen, or if the suddenmuting was caused byclouds scuttling in thenighttimesky.Guerrand tilted his face

and stood silent in thedoorway for a moment,reading some pattern inthe heavens. Though thenight sky was partlycloudy, there were noclouds nearwhite Solinariand red Lunitari to dim

their lightnow.Themagerecalled that Solinari andLunitari’s combined pinklight had shone for manyminutes while Wilor stilllived. But the silversmithhadturnedtostoneat theprecise moment whenNuitari’s black light haddimmed the glow of theother two moons.Guerrand knew he hadfound his clue, knew it

with the certainty of aseasoned mage whoseexperiments hadmetwithboth failure and success.Nuitari’s rising was acomponent in the spreadof the plague. Only theevilblackmoonnodecentperson could see wouldcausesuchsickness.Why hadn’t he realized

before what was soobvious now? Guerrand

hadneeded towitness thefinal transformation to seethe answer. Everyonethoughtthattheendcameatsunsetonthethirdday.But,notbeingmages,theyhad looked at a symptom—the setting of the sun—ratherthanthecause—therising of the moons onthree successive days. Thevillagerscouldn’tknowthemagical influence of the

heavenly bodies thatwerethesymbolsofthegodsofmagic.WhatwasstilluncleartoGuerrand, though, waswhathecoulddoaboutit.It was not the sun heneeded to stop, as he’dcried to Wilor, but therising of the moons,specifically Nuitari.Guerrandsighedandranahand through his long,

graying hair. Hemight aswell try to split Krynn inhalf as keep Nuitari fromrising. He doubted eventhe Council of Three hadthe power to accomplishsuch a feat. The magedroppedhis chinuponhispalm and stared out thewindow.“Guerrand?”Themagenearlyjumped

from his skin. He spun

about, turning eyes likesaucers upon the form inthe straw. Wilor was stillstone, still dead.Thedoorto the silversmith’s street-frontshopswungopenandBram stepped through it.His brows were furrowedwith anxiety, but theyeasedupatthesightofhisuncle.“Thank goodness,” he

puffed,outofbreath.Bram

bentoverandgrabbedhisknees,lungsheaving.“I’vepractically sprinted overevery inch of Thonvil insearchofyou.”Alarmed, Guerrand

grabbedthedoorframeforsupport.“IsitKirah?”“The disease

is … running its course.She’s still alive, restingnow.” Bram broke inbeforeGuerrandcouldsay

anotherword. Pausing, hetiltedhisheadandseemedonlythentosensetheoddstillness in the room.Bram’s gaze shifted leftwithajerkymotion,tothemanofstone,thenbacktoGuerrand’s careworn face.Hehadwitnessedthefinaltransformation too manytimestoaffordthesightofthe dead silversmithmoreemotion than sad

acceptance.“I-I’m sorry,” Bram said

haltingly.“Wiloroncetoldmethatyoutwohadbeenfriends. That’s how Ithought to look here foryou—after I’d covered therestofthevillage,thatis.”Guerrand approached

the man on the bed ofstraw. “Wilor was alone.Therestofhisfamilydiedinthelastcoupleofdays.I

can scarcely spare thetime, but I promised tobury him in the field outback.”“I’ll help you,” Bramoffered. He bounded inand removed the blanketfromWilor’sbody.Nodding, Guerrandhefted the smith’s snakelegswhileBramsupportedthe lion’s share of Wilor’sstone-stiff body. Together

theytookhimthroughthesupply door and out intothe scrubby field, wherepotatoes had last grown.Guerrand steered themtoward three freshly dugrockymoundsof dirt, andtheysetWilordown.Bram looked around,

palms up. “No shovel.Wilor must have had oneto dig these other graves.I’ll go look.” Bram swept

by Guerrand on his waybacktotheshop.There was a sound of

thunderabovetheirheads.As so often happened onthe windswept coast, thegood weather was at anabrupt end. The magecaught his nephew’s arm.“There’snoneed,”hesaid,squinting skyward as thefirstcolddropsofrainfell.Murkygraycloudscovered

the moons. “We haven’tthe time to spend ondigging,anyway.”Bram whirled around

andstared,slack-jawed,athisuncle. “Areyou sayingweshouldjustleaveWilorinthefield?”“Of course not,”

Guerrand snapped,distracted from searchinghis memory for a helpfulspell. “Just stand clear.”

Bram watched himcuriouslyandsteppedbackasGuerranddugaroundinthe deep pockets of hisrobe until his fingerssettled upon the items hesought.The mage’s hand

emerged holding someminiature items. Thewords of the spell weresimple enough, inscribedon the handle of the tiny

shovel he held up in hispalm, next to an equallysmall bucket. Guerrandlowered his head inconcentration, but out ofthe corner of his eye hecould seeBramwas aboutto question him, thenthoughtbetterofit.“Blay tongris.” Instantly,

thetoplayerofmud,thendrierdirtbegantoflyfromthe ground in a steady

stream as if under thepaws of some invisible,burrowing creature.Although the hole waswide enough, Guerrandmentally directed thecrater to lengthen toaccommodate Wilor’sheight. When hedetermined it to be ofsufficient size, the magesimplystoppedthespellbybreaking his

concentration. The bucketand shovel remained, themage knew, because theduration of the spell hadnotyetexpired.Bram looked impressed.Guerrand’s face wasflushed with success, hislower lipredbecausehe’dbeenbitingdownonitasafocus.Together,astherainturned from drizzle totorrent, the two men

loweredthesmithintotheground. Turning hisattention to the newestmound of earth, Guerrandreactivated the spell andcommandedaholebedugthere.Thelooseearthflewagainand landedatop thestone body of thesilversmith.When all the dirt hadbeenreplacedinthegrave,Guerrand cut his

concentration again andthe digging stopped.Nonetoo early, either, becausethis time the tiny bucketand shovel disappearedfrom Guerrand’s soft,whitepalm.Guerrand regarded his

nephew, blinking againstthe drops of rain thatsplashed his face. “I’vediscovered the plague’sfinal component that

causes victims to turn tostone.”Bram pushed wet ropes

ofhairbackfromhisface.“You knowhow to stop itthen?”Guerrand shook his

head. “I didn’t say that.Come inside where it’swarmandI’lltellyouwhatI’ve learned.” The magegaveWilor’sgravea final,farewell pat, then trudged

back toward the smith’sshop, Bram clumpingalong eagerly beside him.Mud gathered upon theirbootsuntiltheirfeetfeltasheavyasblocksofwood.Guerrand seized thehandle of a bucket full ofrainwater sitting by thedoor, then removed hismuddy boots beforestepping inside. Next hestokeda fire in thehearth

of the storeroom, andmade two double-strengthcups of Wilor’s tea fromthe rainwater. He felt ajitteriness inside thatcrawledupintohisthroat,tellinghimtorunallwaysatonce,seekinganinstantsolution. But he had toomuch to consider and notime to get the answerwrong.Kirahhadlessthantwenty-four hours left

beforeshe,too,wouldturnto stone, before she, too,would be placed in theground. Guerrand forcedhimselftosipthetea.Bram took the steaming

mug his uncle offered,then sat back on hishaunches before the fire.He wrapped a blanketaround his shoulders andover his head, watchingthe mage with thready

patience. If Bram hadlearnednothingelseaboutthisstrangerofanuncleinthe last days, it was thatGuerrand would not berushed.Guerrand pulled up achild’s chair by thewarmth of the flames. Hewasted no time, revealingtohisnephewhistheoryofNuitari’sdamaginglight.Bram’s lipswere pursed

in thoughtabovehismug.“I don’t understand whythis black light is soimportant. It’s not thecause, but just a trigger,isn’tit?”“I believe it’s a triggerfortheinitialinfectionandallthreestagesanddaysofthe plague,” saidGuerrand. “Exposure toNuitari’s light triggers thefever, and soon,until the

final exposure turns thevictimstostone.”Bram was still shaking

hishead. “Thenwhycan’twe just shield everyonefrom the black moon’slight—lower the shutters,put them underground,cover their eyes, that sortofthing?”“I doubt seriously

whether that would haveanyeffect,”saidGuerrand,

with a long, slow, sorryshake of his head. “Magicjust doesn’t function thatwayMoonlight,especially,is insidious. Where magicdepends on its effect, yourarelyneedtoactuallyseeit in order for it to work.You can even bottle it, ifyou know what you’redoing.” He shrugged,adding, “Moonlight shineson our world whether we

seeitornot.”Guerrand felt the needtopacewhilehepondered,thumbs hooked in hiswaist. “I’m going to haveto think of a way toactually prevent the blackmoonfromshininghere.”“Can’t you ask theCouncilofThreeforhelp?”Guerrand grimaced.“I’veconsideredit.Butyoutoldthemabouttheplague

and they didn’t offer tocome.”“How can they turntheir backs on thedecimation of an entirevillage?”“They’re too powerfuland important to concernthemselves directly withanything but the welfareof the whole world.”Guerrand saw Bram’scontinued confusion. “In

their own way, they havehelped Thonvil more thanI would have expected,first by letting you speakwith me in Bastion, andsecond by allowingme toreturn here to do what Icouldtosavethevillage.”Bram nodded his

understandingatlast.“It’s funny,” said

Guerrand, struck with anew thought. “This

wouldn’t even behappening at Bastion. Nomoons shine there.” Themage’s expression shiftedfrom vague musing torecognition. He snappedhisfingers.“Bastionisonatwo-dimensionalplaneandnot part of Krynn, orsubjecttoitsmoons.”Bram could see his

uncle’sfacelightupashismind went to work. “So?

You’re not contemplatingsome really strange idea,like transporting everyonetoBastion,areyou?”Guerrandobviouslywas,

becausehis face fellwhenhe admitted, “I couldn’tmanage that magically,even if it weren’t aviolation of my vow tokeep intruders fromentering Bastion.” Hesquinted at his nephew.

“You still haven’t told mewhatyousaid topersuadePar-SalianandJustariustosendyouthere.”“I know it may soundstrange, but somemagicalcreatures called ‘tuathadundarael’ haveapparently been helpingme restore the gardens atthe castle for some time.They gave me a coin andsetme off on a path they

called a faerie road.” Helooked far away. “It feelsso long ago I can scarcelybelieve it myself, but itapparently impressedyourJustarius and Par-Salianenough to bend the rulesforme.”For a brief moment,Wilor’s dying words cameintoGuerrand’smind, andhe found himselfscrutinizingBram’s face to

assignhereditaryfeatures.“What are you staringat?” Bram asked, coloringto the roots of his hair.“Did I say somethingwrong?”Guerrandjerkedhiseyesaway awkwardly. Therewere no answers to befound in his youngnephew’s face. Itwouldn’tdo for Bram to furtherquestion the scrutiny. “I—

No, you didn’t sayanythingwrong,Bram,”hehastily assured hisnephew. “As a matter offact, your thoughts arehelpingmeagreatdeal.”Bram beamed. “Whatabout sending victimssomeplace else on Krynntoavoidthemoonlight?”Guerrand shook hishead. “Aside from beingimpractical to accomplish,

Nuitari’s light would findthem eventually. No, I’vegot to figureoutaway toprevent Nuitari fromrising.”He scratched the pinkscalp beneath his brownhair. “The only mages Iknow who’ve even comeclose to disrupting thecourse of the moons arethe Council of Three. Ibelieve I told you that

after the conclave oftwenty-one magescompletedBastionhereonKrynn, Par-Salian,Justarius, and LaDonnacombinedmagicalenergiestosendthebehemothfromthe Prime Material Planeand compress its threedimensions to two whilenot altering its function.…”Guerrand’s voice trailed

off as an idea began toblossom behind his eyes.When Bastion wascompleted, the Councilhad to prepare it fortransit to the two-dimensional demiplanewhere it now resided. Ineffect, they had to stripawayonedimension.Thatalteration wasunnoticeable, because itseemed normal in the

fortress’snewlocation.The exterior of Bastion

was covered by mysticrunes, scribed by Par-Salian, LaDonna, andJustarius as the final stepin the building’sconstruction. Though hehad not witnessed theirinscribing, Guerrand hadstudied the runes often inthe long months ofsolitude as high defender.

He found their intricaciesfascinating. As far as hecoulddetermine,therunesthemselves provided mostof the impetus for thechange from threedimensions to two. It hadtakenthecombinedpowerof all three councilmembers to move thestructure from one planetoanother,butalmostanymagecouldhavetriggered

the dimensional collapse,withtherunestobackhimup.Guerrand was pacing inWilor’s small back room,his demeanor growingmore and more excitedwitheachnewrealization.Finally, Bram had tointerrupt his uncle. “Whatis it, Rand? You’re on tosomething,aren’tyou?”Guerrand paused for a

moment with his headdown, collecting the rushof thoughts before theydisappeared. “Bram, youprobablywon’tunderstandthis, but we can makeNuitari two-dimensional—actuallyturnitonit’sside—bytranscribingtherunesfromBastion to themoon.Therunesarethekey.Wehave a lot of work to dobefore the next moonrise,

but by the grace ofLunitariwe’llgetitdone.”“You’re right,” agreedBram, his brow crinkling.“I don’t understand. Ididn’t see any runes atBastion, and even if theyare there, how do we getthemtothemoon?”“Of course you didn’tsee them,” Guerrand said.“They’remagical.Half thetrick of reading magic is

just being able to see it.WhatI’mproposinghereisambitious. I’m going toneed your help,” hecontinued. “Will you dowhatever I ask, nomatterhow strange it mightsoundatthetime?”“Ofcourse,”hisnephewreplied, “but I still don’tunderstand what you’regoingtodo.”“That’snotyourconcern

now,”Guerrand said. “I’mgoing to need as manysheets of parchment, potsof ink, and good goosequills as you can find.While you’re at it, telleveryone you meet toavoid the villagewell anddrink only freshlycollected rainwater. I’mguessing Lyim passed thedisease through thecommunalsourceofwater.

If—when I succeed, theabsence of Nuitari shouldcleanse the water of theplague.”Heleftthestenchand darkness of the deathroom and went back intothe silversmith’s shop atthefrontofthestore.Bram followed him,staringtransfixed.But the mage scarcelynoticed him, his mindracing ahead. He spotted

Wilor’slargeworktable.Inone quick motion,Guerrand swept Wilor’stools to the floor anddragged up a stool. “Thiswill do perfectly,” heannounced. “Bringeverything here; this willbe my work area.” Themagedumpedthecontentsof his shoulder bag ontothedeskandbegansortingout the few sheets of

vellum and quills hecarried.HelookedupthenandnoticedBram’sgapinginactivity. “Hurry now.You have important workto do before you can getbacktotendingKirah.”As if he’d snapped fromatrance,Bramjolted,thenjogged out the door intothe darkness and rain.Guerrand shouted hisname, and Bram stopped

in the puddled street topeerbackinside,squintingagainsttheraindrops.“Bringcandles,too!”Bram sprinted awaydown the street, splashingashewent.

Guerrand was stillhunched over the table,completely absorbed in

scribing illegiblecharacters onto a sheet ofparchment, when Bramreturned for the fourthtime with supplies. Othersheets were scatteredacross the workbench,mostly covered withdrawings and arcanewriting. Zagarus wasperched on an oppositecorner of the table,snoozing peacefully. Bram

struggled through thedoorway and plunked hisheavybasketonthefloor.The noise attractedGuerrand’s attention. “Oh,thank goodness you’vereturned,” he expounded,“I was nearly out ofparchment,andI’vecarvedat least six new points onthis quill.” Immediatelythe mage beganrummaging through the

package, and his facebrightened tenfold. Heheld aloft a sheaf of newparchmentandabundleofbeeswax candles. “This ismarvelous, Bram! Wheredidyoufindallthis?”Bramsteppedtothefiretowarmhishandsanddryhis cloak. “Leinster thescribediedthreedaysago,and his wife and childrenfled town. They left most

ofhis things behind. I gotthe candles from a … afriend.Ihelpedmakethemafewdaysago,althoughitfeels likemonths,with allthat’shappened.”Guerrand was already

shifting fresh supplies tohis worktable. “I willprobably need even moreparchmentthanthis,ifyoucanfindit,”hecalledoverhis shoulder. He lined up

three stone vials of inkfrom the basket and, onebyone,unstopperedthem,smeared a bit of theircontents between hisfingers, smelled it, andeventastedonebatch.Hisface wrinkled up indistaste.“Thisink,unfortunately,won’t do,” Guerrandannouncedsadly.Bram cast a worried

lookawayfromthefire.“Idon’t know where I canfind any more. Leinstermadethatinkhimself,andanyone in the villagewhoneeded inkbought it fromLeinster.”“What about at thecastle?”“The castle is closedoff,” Bram said, obviouslyembarrassed by theadmission. “My mother

thinks that if she bars herdoor securely enough,noneofthiswillaffecther.She as much as told methat if I left the safety ofCastleDiThontofindyou,even I would not beallowedinagain.”“The mountain dwarvesdidthesamethingtotheirown during theCataclysm,”saidGuerrand.“Ican’thelpthinkingthere

must be a message in theparallelsomewhere.”The mage sat upon hisstool and stared at thesubstance on his fingers.“This ink was made fromdogwood bark. It doesn’thavesufficientrichness—itisn’t substantial enough tocarry magic.” The magesat for several moments,rubbing his fingertipsthoughtfully. “We’ll just

have tomake it work. Doyou have any oak gall inyourherbstocks?”“I don’t, even if I could

get to it,”Bramsaid. “ButI’msure Icould findsomeinthesameplaceIgotthecandles. Nahamkin has—had—an exhaustivecollection.”Guerrand scooped up

the three ink bottles.“Dump all this ink

together. Then mix in agood, strong infusion ofoak gall and some sulfateof iron.” He fished in afoldofhisrobeandtosseda vial to Bram. “This inkdoesn’t have to stay blackforever,butitdoeshavetomakea trip to themoon.”Guerrand flashed a smileof encouragement at hisperplexed nephew, thenturnedbacktohisworkon

thetable.Bram picked up hisdamp cloak and wasnearly out the door whenGuerrand’s voice stoppedhimagain.“DidyoucheckonKirah?”Shivering against itscold wetness, the youngman pulled his clammycloak around hisshoulders. “She wassleeping in fits a while

ago. I gave her honeyedtea for energy and a freshblanket.” He grimaced. “Idon’t like leaving heralone. In the morningshe’ll begin to—” Heneither needed to norcouldfinishthesentence.Whittling pensively at

his quill tip, Guerrandgave a grim nod. “Fetchthat gall, then go sit withher. I’ll be at this for the

rest of the night and thebetter part of tomorrow’slight,anyway.”Bram was surprised.“Thatlong?”Guerrand looked upfromhiswork.“I toldyoumagic was a complicatedand time-consumingbusiness, and not alllighting fires with yourfinger.” He looked backwith great concentration

to his tracings. “Now beoff, or I’ll miss my sunsetdeadline.”Properlychastised,Bramdisappeared once moreinto the darkness, ashadow in rain-shroudedmoonlight.

Themoons, at least theonesGuerrandcouldseeas

he hurried from thesilversmith’s to Kirah’s,rose before sunset. In thestill-bright sky, paleSolinari looked like thebleached bones of somegreat beast, sucked dry oftheirmarrow.Guerrand tried not to

dwell on the fleeting day.His task of transcribingBastion’s runes frommemory had been more

taxing than even he’dexpected it to be; thedemands on his memorywere extreme as hereconstructed the intricatepatterns, making subtlechanges as necessary. Hebelieved—and hoped—that he had enough timeremaining to put hismagical plan intooperation.Tell me again how this

works, requested Zagarus,swooping low acrossGuerrand’s path. Do youseriouslyexpectme tocarrysomethingtothemoon?“No, Zag,” repliedGuerrand, “at least not allthe way.” The magepausedat thereardoor tothe bakery. Bram wasupstairs with Kirah, hadbeen through her thirdterrible morning of the

plague. By now her limbswould be awrithingmassof snakes. Guerrandsteeledhimselfagainst theshock of seeing her likethat.AsGuerrandclimbedthestairs, everything that hadhappened in the past fewdays seemed to focus onKirah’s life. He was theonly person who couldsave her. If this spell

worked, shewould live; ifit failed, she would die.His hand trembled as hereached for the doorhandle.Ashisuncleentered the

room, Bram stood, wearyeyessearchingforasignofhope. Guerrand wastremendously relieved tosee that his nephew hadpulled sacks over Kirah’slimbs, although the way

they bulged and twitchednearly brought upGuerrand’smeagerlunch.Kirah turned, too, and

watched Guerrand enter.Like Wilor, she appearedperfectly lucid, but thefever had been muchharderonher thanon thestout silversmith. Hercheeks were beyondsunken, her eyes hollowand dark. She opened

cracked lips to utter abarely audible, “Hello,Rand.”Aflickerofhisold,scrappy kid sister cameinto her pale eyes. “You’llhave to excuseme fornotdressing for visitors. I’mfeeling all thumbs today,”shemanagedwith aweakgrin,thenlaystill.Guerrand’s own smile

held affection and sadnessand a thousand other

things. More thananything, though, hewanted to pick up hissister and carry her awayfrom all this horror. Hewanted to play fox andhound over heather andcreeksthewaytheyhadaschildren.Hewanted tobeanywherebut inthistownfilled with death, pinningKirah’s life on a basketfulof scribbled runes and an

untriedspell.Bram cut intoGuerrand’s thoughts. “Wehaven’t much time. WhatcanIdotohelp?”Guerrand quicklyfocusedhismind.“I’llneedtobeoutside.”“Takemealong.”Kirah’swhisper-weakvoicecaughtbothmenby surprise. Shecouldbarelyraiseherheadfrom the pillow. “I don’t

want to be alone in herewhen—” Her eyes werepleading.Bram looked to

Guerrand, who motionedhim toward the bed.Together they picked upthe straw mattress withKirah on it and carried itoutside to beneath a treeon the edge of the green.Bramranbacktotheroomand fetched Guerrand’s

basketofpapers.Thewizard picked up a

sheaf of them, weighed itthoughtfully in his hands,added another sheet, thenrolled and tied themwithabitoftwine.ToBramhesaid, “Help me bundlethese parchments, sevensheetsatatime.Besuretokeep them in the properorder.”Bram dropped to his

knees and set to work,rollingparchments.Guerrand looked to his

familiar, perched on theroofofthebakery.“You’reon, Zag.” The gullswooped to his master’sside. Guerrand heldtoward him the firstparchment roll, letting thegull grab the twine in hisbeak. “Fly this up as highas you can go.When you

can’t possibly get anyhigher and we just looklike tiny dots on theground, give the roll atoss.Thenreturnasfastasyoucanforthenextone.”Give it a toss?wondered

the bird. You think I canthrowthisallthewaytothemoon? While I am ahooded, black-backedErgothiangull,the—Guerrand squeezed Zag

until his breath squeakedout his beak, cutting offthegull’s trademarkreply.“Ofcourseyoucan’tthrowit that far. The scroll willknowwheretogo,andtherest of the trip will takecareofitself.”With a stifled, slightlyindignant “Kyeow!”Zagarus lifted off. Threepairs of eyes watched hisprogress as he climbed,

circling round and round.The bird was nearly lostfromviewwhenaflashoforange light drew twosurprised gasps. Flamingrunes etched themselvesacross the sky, flashinguntil all were complete,then raced away eastwardtowardthedarkeningblue,finally disappearingbehindthehorizon.Zagarusfoldedhiswings

and plummeted like arock, arriving with atremendous flappingtumult just moments afterthe last flaming sigildissipated. He snatchedanother bundle withoutpausingandwasoffagain,spiralingskyward.Rollingparchmentsnext

to Bram, Guerrandexplained the process:“Thesymbolsandruneson

these parchments areetching themselves onNuitari. When that’scomplete, I’ll trigger thespell and the moon willbecome two-dimensional,with its edge turnedtoward Krynn, like a coinonitsside.”Squinting, Guerrand’s

gaze shifted. “Here comesZagforthelastbundle.”Bynow,Zagarusdidnot

landsomuchashesimplyslammed into the ground.I … don’t know … howmuch longer I can do this,pantedZagarus,staggeringtohisfeet.Guerrand held out the

bundle. “Just one more,old friend, and then youcanrestforayearandeatallthefishyouwant.”It’s a good, thing,

too … because I think

Nuitari isabout torise.Thegulltookthebundleinhismouth,stumbleddownthestreetwithwingsflapping,andtookoff.Afterwatching the finalbatch of sigils headskyward, Bram turnedback to Guerrand. “Whatabout the moon’s edge?Won’t that still provide atinybitoflight?”Guerrand had already

rolledbackhissleevesandclosed his eyes inconcentration. “Not if thespell works properly. IfNuitaribecomestrulytwo-dimensional, its edge willnot exist in this world. Ifyou want to worry aboutsomething,worry that thespell won’t work at all;that’sfarmorelikely.“Idon’tknowhowlongIcanmaintainit,”themage

continued,“soI’mgoingtocast the spell at the lastpossible moment, just asthe sun disappears. I haveto prepare now.” Hepressed his hands to hisears briefly, clueing Bramtostaybackquietly.As the sunlight waned,

Guerrand silently repeatedthewordsofthespelloverand over with greatconcentration,untilhefelt

himself no more than ablack hollowness, like thelength of a flute throughwhich the invisible soundpassed. He repeated thespell like a mantra theentire lengthofhismind’sbody, opening passages tothe power and stoppingthe interference of others.He dared not open hiseyes, lest he loseconcentration. He would

knowwithoutseeingifthespell worked. The magesqueezed his eyes shutmore tightly, and withevery clenched andtingling muscle in hisbody,hewilledthespelltowork. He’d doneeverything he knew howtomakeithappen.Guerrandfeltthemental

presence of Zagarus at hisside, telling him that all

the scrolls had beendispatched. Guerrandpronounced the words hehadbeenrehearsing.“Ine jutera, Ine swobokla,

jehthInelaeranma.”A tremendous clap of

thunder rattled doors andshook the ground beneaththeir feet like anearthquake for manymoments. Guerrand’s eyesflew open in alarm as he

stumbled about, crashinginto Bram, who wasalreadyonhisknees.“What’s happening?”cried Bram, struggling tokeep Kirah on her strawmattress.ButGuerrandcouldonlyshake his head mutely.Whathadhedonewithhisrearranging of ancientsymbols? A bolt oflightning cracked the

dusky sky and zagged apath above the buildingsof the village, straight toGuerrand. The bolt struckthemage full in the chestin the very instant herealized it would. To hisgreater surprise, therecameonlyaslighttinglingpain.Guerrand reached up ahand to the wound, butthe earth dropped away

beneath him, throwinghimoffbalance.Yethedidnot tumbledownbut flewforward,as ifall thewindin the world were at thesmall of his back, archinghim like a bow until hethought he might snap.The skin of his face drewback from the incrediblespeed of his passage,exposing the outline ofevery tooth and bone in

his head. His ears rang,and his head felt stuffedwithwool.Strangest of all,

Guerrand seemed to begoing somewhere in agreat hurry. He washurtling through a vastexpanse of blacknessbroken only by tinypinpoints of distant light.One of those pointsloomed larger than the

rest, until its impossiblybright, blinding light wasall that was ahead,chokingout theblackness,burningGuerrand’seyes.And then the breakneck

ride stopped. Instantly.Guerrand was thrown tohis knees, and his headsnappedforwardpainfully.Hekepthiseyesshutashecrawled to his feet, onehandrubbinghisneck.He

was afraid to open hiseyes, but curiosity wonout, and he spared aglancearoundhim.Themagewasinaroomdefinedsoonlybythefourcrystal-clear glass wallsthat separated him fromthe vastness of blue-blackspace. Even the floorbeneath his feet wastransparent,coldglass,theview broken only by

winking stars. The feelingwas disorienting, as if asurface as thin as a soapbubble were all that kepthim from tumblingthroughtheheavens.Slow-paced footstepsabruptly hammeredagainst the glass.Guerrand’sheadjerkedup,eyes wide. A youngishman stepped into viewfrom the blackness of

space. His jet-black hairand long black robeseemed to form from thedarknessbeyondtheglass.Pinpoints of starlighttwinkled in his eyes, setslant-wise and sly andentirely ringed withshadows. He radiated asenseofmajesty, coolandunreachable. Guerrandwouldhavedroppedtohisknees insupplication ifhe

weren’talreadykneeling.The aristocratic man

stepped to the middle ofthe room, a curious smileplaying about his mouth.Hebentatthewaist,andachair grew beneath him,risingout of the floor likestretched,heatedglass.Hecasually crossed his legsand raised an arm, and atable grew similarlybeneath it. He appraised

Guerrand with a serenevisage, his eyes alightingwith brief interest uponGuerrand’sredrobe.Ifnotforhisvenerableaura,theman looked at a distancelikeanyintelligentlistenersittingatatableinaninn,with fried root vegetablesand a cup of lily wine onthetablebeforehim.“Whyareyouscribbling

on my moon?” he asked

coolly.“Your moon?” Guerrand

gasped. With a small jerkof his head, he looked allaroundtheglasswallsandnoticed the dark, circularshadow that loomed tallerthana cliff face.He couldalmost make out smallershadows of familiarmagical runes scratchedupon the darker shape.Guerrand’s head snapped

back to the man at thetable.The red-robedmagegrew paler than amushroom, when, withsimple, terribleunderstanding, he realizedhewas lookingat thegodof dark magic himself,Nuitari.“Did you think Iwouldn’tnotice?”“I-Ididn’tthink—”“Alwaysdangerousfora

mage,” broke in Nuitari,his lips pursed indispleasure.“I had good reason,”Guerrand began againfeebly.The god smothered ayawn. “You earthboundmagesalwaysdo.”“I’m not some ordinarymage playing atspellcasting,” Guerrandmanaged.“Iamoneofthe

wizardswhowaschosentoman Bastion, thestronghold that defendsagainst entrance into yourLostCitadel.”The mage dispatched

Bastionwith a flick of hislong, tapered nails. “Doyou truly believe I needyour help to protectanything?”“N-No,” stuttered

Guerrand. “I just thought

—”“That a position I did

not bestow should grantyoufavor?”“No!” exclaimed

Guerrand. “I just thoughtitwouldnotdispleaseyouif I prevented anothermage from continuing touse the power of yourmoonwithoutyourleave.”Nuitari’s dark-ringed

eyesnarrowed.“Explain.”

Guerrand quicklycomplied, taking heartfrom the fact thatNuitari,drumminghisnailson theglass table, seemed toseriouslyconsiderhisstoryaboutLyim.“Iknewof it, of course.

But why should I careabout this other mage’spurpose,”heposedatlast,“aslongasitincreasesthepresenceofmydarkmagic

inyourworld?”“But this mage was noteven of the Black Robes!”exclaimedGuerrand.The god frowned,reconsidering again. “It issomewhat distressing tohave power drainedwithout devotion paid tothe proper god.” Heshrugged. “Still, the endresult is the same.” Hisslyly slanted eyes

narrowed still further. “Atleasthewasnotscribblingonmymoon.”“The inscriptions areonly temporary,” revealedGuerrand in his mostconciliatorytone.“You think thatmitigatesthefactthattheyare there at all, andwithoutmypermission?”Desperate, Guerranddropped to one knee and

bowed his head. “Then Ihumbly ask your leavenow.”“Too little, too late,

don’tyouthink?”Guerrand looked into

the god’s sparkling stareyes and said gravely, “Iknow only that it growslate for my sister and theothers whose very livesdepend on me hiding theraysofyourmoonforthis

onenight.”“We are between times

here,” Nuitari saiddismissively. “It will notpass for those you leftbehind until—if—youreturn.” Again hedrummed his dark nails,considering some point.AfterstaringatGuerrand’sred robe briefly, heseemed to come to aconclusion.

“Perhapsit’snottoolatefor both of us to benefitfrom this unfortunateepisode,”hesaidinasoft,grayvoice.“Neverletitbesaid that I let anger cloudmy vision fromopportunity.”Guerrandshookhishead

slowly, fearfully. “I don’tunderstand.”Nuitari gave a

patronizing roll of his

shadowedeyes.“What I’msaying is, cast your littlespell to change my moonto two dimensions—temporarily, that is,” hesaid. “I will even adviseyou, free of obligation,that you would be betterserved to rearrange thefinal two symbols. Doingso will lengthen theduration of thedimensional change, to

last until the rising of thesun.”“That’s it?” Guerrandasked, incredulous.“You’re going to let mereturn to Thonvil andfinishthespell?”Thegodlookedamused.“Nothingiseverthateasy,mageoftheRedRobes.”Guerrand jumped as ifelectrically shocked whenNuitari reached out with

black,manicurednailsandgentlyfingeredtheclothofhis red robe. “I ask onlyone thing: Remember thisfavorIhavegrantedyou.”Every muscle inGuerrand’s body froze.Heplayed the god’s wordsthroughhismindagain indisbelief, then shifted justone eye up to Nuitari’spale face. “Areyouaskingmetochange…?”

“I’m asking younothing,” interrupted thegodofdarkmagic.“Ihaveno use for another minorsupplicantatthismoment.Later?” Nuitari shrugged.“Who can say? For now,simplyrememberthefavorIhavegrantedyou.Iwill.”Guerrand bowed his

head and said nothing.When he looked up, for abrief moment the features

of Rannoch, the blackwizard who haunted hisdreams, played across theface of the god of darkmagic. Guerrand blinkedindisbeliefandtheillusionwasgone,sometrickofhisovertaxed mind, hesupposed.Nuitari’s laughter rang

in Guerrand’s ears as theglass floor sagged beneathhis feet. Therewas a loud

ping! as if a large bubblehad burst, and thenGuerranddroppedintothedarkness of the heavens.He plummeted head overheels, past bright Solinari,past the red glow ofLunitari, past a thousandunnamed stars. He didn’tknow whether he wouldlive or die, whetherNuitari had alreadyrenegedontheirunspoken

deal, only that he wasfalling.Andthen,intheblinkofaneye,he stopped.Likeateleportspell,onemomenthe was tumbling throughspace, and the next hestood in the exact placeandposition,armgesturesand all, as before he’dbeen thrust into theheavens by Nuitari. Themomenthadheld.

“Guerrand? UncleRand!”ThelastwasabarkfromBram’smouth.Themage’svisionfinallysighted the face of hisnephew. Guerrand’s gazetraveled to his sister lyingbeneath the lone tree,looking wan and hopelessin the moment before herdeath, and he well andtruly came back fromwhereverhehadbeen.

Except in one regard.Guerrand silenced Bramwitha stingingglance.Hesnatcheduponelastpieceof parchment, hastilyscrawled therearrangementof the finaltwosymbolshehadplacedupon theblackmoon,andsent Zagarus skyward onemoretime.Guerrand waited for

some earth-shattering,

cosmos-shifting sign. Butwhite Solinari and redLunitari drifted withoutconcern across the duskyskyasbefore.Therecouldbenoquestionthatthesunhadset, fornolastorangybeams stretched eastwardfrom the west. GuerrandrefusedtolookatKirah,toeventurnhisheadslightlyto see if she still moved.Neither he, nor Bram, nor

Kirah seemed to drawbreath. A few dead leavesskipped over the cobblesinthebreeze,andstill thethree waited, as still asstatues, for the end tocome or the beginning tostart.Bramblinked inwonder

at the sky. “The nightseemsbrighter thanusual,as if daylight’s wick hasbeenturneddownjustone

notch.”“Nuitari’s black light,”

Guerrandbegantoexplain,hisvoicethinbutgrowing,“usually mutes theintensity of Solinari andLunitari’s rays.Without it,the moonlight is muchbrighter.”“And that’s not all,”

Bram fairly shouted.“Look, near the crownconstellation!”

Guerrand scanned theskylookingforthefamiliarcrown-and-veilarrangement of stars. Itwas obscured, not bycloudsornightmistbutbydark, fleeting shapes. Thesky seemed suddenlycrowdedwith them in thearea where the crown ofstars usually twinkled.Guerrand saw nothingobscuring the nearby

constellations:thegracefuldoubleellipsesofMishakaland the massive bisonzodiacal symbol of Kiri-Jolith were clear. To thefarsideofthebison,wherethe constellations shouldhave portrayed a brokenscaleandadragon’s skull,the stars were againobscuredbydartingbitsofdarkness.“What does it mean?”

Bram wondered aloud,turning inacircle toviewtheoddsky.“I can only guess,”

Guerrand replied. “Thoseconstellations that areobscured tonight mustusually reflect the light ofevilNuitari,nowabsent.Itisagoodsign,Ithink.”Guerrand’s musing was

cut short when Kirah’ssnakes suddenly became

agitated. Her limbsthrashed wildly beyondher control, upsetting theblanket she had insisteduponcoveringherselfwithout of an uncharacteristicsenseofvanity.At first Guerrand and

Bram were worried thatthefightingwassomenewmanifestation of thedisease, until they noticedthat the snakes appeared

to be in great pain. Thenthe creatures began toattackandbiteeachother,those conjoined on thesamelimb,aswellasfromonelimbtothenext.Kirahstruggled invain togetasfar from her warringreptiles as possible. Shehad to settle for turningher head and squeezingher eyes shut, though shecouldn’t silence the sound

oftheirviolenthissingandthrashing. She began toscream,along,lowwailofpain that gave the snakesonly abrief pause. FinallyKirah fell still,unconscious, either fromshock or as an escape, orboth.Guerrand and Bramwatched helplessly, bothwondering if they shouldstop the snakes from

killingeachother,butnotknowing how to go aboutit. Bram made a movetowardthethrashingblackcreatures, but Guerrandstayedhimbygraspinghisarm.“For better or worse—forKirah’ssake—we’vegotto let the malady reverseitself,”hesaidsoftly.Then Bram emitted agaspandpointeddownthe

street. “Look, Guerrand—snakes!”Guerrand followed

Bram’s pointing fingeruntil he, too, saw them.Knots of thrashing snakeswere clearly visible in thebright moonlight. Theyhad emerged from theirhiding places all aroundtown and, like the snakeson Kirah’s limbs, werefighting to the death in

squirming knots. Brampicked his way carefullydown the street to thevillage green. When hereturned, he reported thathundreds of snakes wereattacking each other allover the town, seeminglydrivenmadbythelight.ThelastsnakeonKirah’s

body, vibrant colors nowdull, died of its woundsjust before sunrise. Kirah

wasunconsciousuntil thatvery moment, when hereyes flew open wide,hopeful, and instantlyalert. As the first rays ofthe fourth day’s sun cutacrossherface,thelifelesssnakes simply slippedaway with the last tracesof moonlight, replacedwith fully formed armsandlegsthepinkishhueofanewbornbabe.

Face shining with joy,Kirahplantedhernewlegsbeneath her with theawkward gait of a colt.Bram stumbled forward tohelp his aunt, whileGuerrand stood back andwatched with joyousamusement, recallingKirah’s first toddling stepsasachild.Theycouldhearthe jubilant shouts thatbegan ringing all over the

villagethat,justyesterday,had been as silent as thetombithadbecome.Kirah’s pale eyeswelledup as she looked at herbrother. “I’m sorry Idoubtedyou,Rand.Ever.”Guerrand sank to hisknees with relief at thesound of her voice. Hestruggled to control thefloodofemotionscoursingthrough him, to find

somethingupliftingtosay,but no clear thoughtwouldsettleuponhis lips.His nephew squeezed hisshoulderencouragingly.The mage felt utterly

empty of magic, couldsense the void where hispower should be. He wascertainitwouldtakesometimebefore it returned, atleast anight’s sleep.Whathe had done to turn the

moon had drained morefrom him than any act ofmagic ever had. Yet,seeing his sister restored,hearing the villagers’happy shouts, Guerrandthought all the strain hadbeenworthit.Themage foundhimselfraising his eyes to theheavens in silent tribute.Butthesmileuponhisfacefroze, and his heart

skippedabeat.Cleartohisview for the first time,nexttothewhiteandpinkbones of Solinari andLunitari in the lavendermorning sky, was thedarkershapeofNuitari.The moon no decentpersoncouldsee.

The celebration was

brief,consideringKirah’sweakened condition.She, of course, wanted todance in the streets,but afew coltish steps provedthe young woman was alongwayfromdoingajig.At lastKirahagreed to letBram carry her, frail butwithrestoredlimbs,acrossthe road and up thestairway to her room,where she could rest in

comfort.Seated upon the bottom

step near the entrance tothebakery,whichwasstilldark, silent, and scentless,Guerrand waited for himto return. The magescarcely noticed the streetaround him; he stared atit,withoutreallyseeing.Whatdiditmean,seeing

the black moon? Was hedisposedtowardEvilnow?

Guerrand didn’t feel anydifferent. Maybe that wasthe point. Perhaps evilpeople weren’t all thesame, or even as differenton the inside as he’dbelieved. Hadn’t Justariussaid that same thing afterGuerrand’sTest?Bram slipped down thestaircase and joined hisuncle. “Kirah’s as scrappyas ever,” the young man

said fondly. “Tried to talkme into taking her for awalk in thesunlight,but Ifinallygothersettled.Shefell asleep before I couldgettothedoor.”Guerrand nodded his

head to acknowledge thecomment. One by one thelimbs of plague-strickenvillagers had returned tonormal, reassuring themthat theplague’s spellhad

been broken. Justyesterday Thonvil hadlookedandsounded likeaghost town, the deadlystillnessthathadpervadedbrokenonlybyagroaningspring wind. This sunnymorning a handful ofpeople walked the streets,stirring up the noises ofliving, though where anyof themwere going whenno shops were yet open

wasanyone’sguess.But the greatest signthat fear had passed wasthatfolkswouldmeeteachother’seyesagain.“They don’t even knowyou’re the one who savedtheir lives,” Bram saidwhenayounggirlandhermother, both with headshawls lowered to feel theheat of the sun on theirchocolate-brown hair,

noddedingreeting.“It’s better that they

don’t,” Guerrand saidsoberly.Themen fell intoadull

silence, watching thevillage slowly come backtolife.“I should get home—I

mean to the castle, to seehow everyone there hasfared,” Bram said after awhile. The young

nobleman stoodreluctantly, turning thegesture into a long, slowstretch. His eyes traveledsouth, over the buildingsof Thonvil, to the distant,dark fortress that rose upbetween blue sea andgreen earth like amountainofcoldstone.Bram didn’t look at his

uncle as he said, “Youshouldcomewithme.”

Guerrand thought thecenturies-old fortressappearedmore forebodingand entrapping than theTower of High Sorcery atWayreth, which had beendesignedtolookthatway.“I … don’t think that’s agoodidea,doyou?”“Perhaps not,” Bram

agreedsoberly.“Besides,” Guerrand

said, standing also, “I

should be getting back toBastion.”Bram’s head swung

around,his eyeswild. “Sosoon? You arrived justdaysago.”“Is that all it’s been?”

Guerrand shook his headin amazement. “It feelslike years since …” Hestopped himself short ofmentioning Lyim’s death.Somuchhadhappened in

soshortatime.“I know what you

mean,” Bram agreed,plucking at his filthyclothing. “I’ve worn thissametunicandtrousersforsolongthey’restiff.”Bram’sobservationlefta

thoughtful silence. Hisexpression grew sober.“Strange, but it feels likeonly hours since I foundyou.” The young man

looked away and saidsoftly,“I’mjustnotwillingtosaygood-byeagainyet.Didn’t Justarius’s note sayyou could take as muchtimeasyouneeded?”“Yes,” acknowledgedGuerrand, “but my workhereisdone.”Bram’s adam’s appleroseandfellslowly.“Iwashopingyou’dwelcome thechance to get to know

yournephewagain.”Guerrand felt his throat

thicken. Meeting hisnephew’s gaze, the magewondered what growingup at Castle DiThon hadbeen like for Bram.Probablyasfrustratingandfatherless, consideringCormac’s stateofmind,asit had been for Guerrand.From all accounts, life atthe castle had gotten

steadily worse in the lastdecade. Rank povertydidn’t usually improvethings. Bram’s mother,Rietta,was…well,Rietta.As for his father, Cormachadalwaysseemeddistantfrom his only son, andnow he was crazy, goneevenwhenhewaspresent.Guerrand was remindedagain of Wilor’s dyingwords.

Bramcouldseehisuncleweakening. “Oneafternoon,that’sallIask,”he pressed. “One calmafternoon, where I canlearn what lifepath tookyou to Bastion, whatinterests or irritates youand what doesn’t.” Bramgave his most persuasivesmile. “I know a placewhere nothing intrudesexcept the rodents in the

thatchoverhead.”“Truth to tell,” said

Guerrand, “I’mnot in thatgreat a hurry to return towhere there isnograssorsky or trees.” He lookedsidelong at Bram. “Thisplace you know, is it onewhere a man can put uphis feetandhaveadecentcupoftea?”“The best!” Bram was

already three steps down

the street, forcingGuerrand to hurry to fallin stride with him.Rounding the corner onthe faredgeof town, theycame into sight of a run-downshack.“I sat with Nahamkin

through the plague justbefore I left to find you,”Bram explained. “I wasmorethanalittlesurprisedthis morning to find that

thevillagershadn’tburneddownhiscottage.”Atfirstglance,Guerrand

thought it wouldn’t havehurtthelookofthevillageif the shack were gone.The thatch was old andblack all over. The wallswere of rocky mud,crumbling in places. Andyet, as he got nearer,Guerrandcouldn’thelpbutsee thecomfortable, lived-

in and well-loved lookabout the place. Thegarden appeared to bestruggling against neglectand the season to renewitself.The cottage remindedhimofarun-downversionof the one he’d sharedwith Esme inHarrowdown. There camethat familiar tight feelingin his chest, as of the

apprehended return ofpain that always camewith thoughts of Esme,especially now. Heresolved to try to contacther before he returned toBastion,when hismagicalstrengthreturned.“Nahamkin,” Guerrandrepeated. “Wasn’t there afarmer who lived in thesurroundsbythatname?”“One and the same,”

Bram said. “Nahamkin’sfamily more or lessabandoned him once theplague struck. I was hisonlyfriend,andhemine.”He said thewordsmatter-of-factly.Bram stopped and

stooped before the oddlytilting wooden door, as ifrecalling some pleasantmemory, then steppedinside and waved

Guerrandin.Pots and tins and

wooden buckets were onevery available surface,but no drips fell from therottedrooftoday.Hangingfrom the rafters was ayear’s supply of butter-colored candles in avarietyofshapesandsizes.Theplace smelledofmossand worms and long-deadashes.

Bram returned from thewell with a pail full ofwater that he set by thehearth. The young mandropped to his kneeswitha sigh. “Damnation,” hecursed softly. “I didn’teven think to grab flintand stone to start a fire.”He stood and lookedaround with a frown onhisface,handsonhiships.“Theremustbe something

aroundhereI…”Guerrand knelt next toBram, nonchalantly lit thelogswithasimplecantrip,thendroppedintoacanedladder-back chair by thehearth.Bramregardedhisunclewith obvious admirationbefore moving toNahamkin’s dry sink.Underneath he shiftedaround crocks until he

found the one he sought.Standing again, he shookhishead.“I’membarrassedto admit that I’ve alwaysthought my herbal skillswere pretty useful,” hesaid,siftingtwopinchesofdried rose hips intoNahamkin’s best pewtermugs. “Now they seempretty inconsequentialcomparedtoyourmagic.”He gave a self-

deprecatingsnortwhileheadded hot water to themugs.Guerrand shifteduncomfortably underBram’s admiring glance.“You’d be surprised tohear, then, that there aremages whose range andknowledge are greaterthanmine.YoumettwoofthemattheTowerofHighSorcery.”

Bram sighed wistfully.“What I wouldn’t give tocast even one of yourspells.”Theroomwasstilldark.As the young noblemanreached for a candle atopan empty, narrow-neckedbottle and held it to thenew flame in the hearth,he appeared struckwith asudden thought. “Perhapsyou could teachmea few

spells!Thatfireonewouldcertainlycomeinhandy.”“Magic isnot something

to be learned piecemeal,”Guerrand said, “like knottying or scrimshawcarving.”Bram reddened and

drewbackinsurprise.“I’msorry, it was just athought. I didn’t mean toimply—”“Unless you’re talking

simplecantrips,”Guerrandsaid,“truemagicdemandsthat you renounceeverything you’ve evercared about. Are youprepared to do that anddevoteallyourenergiestothestudyoftheArt?”“I don’t know.” Bram

was obviously flustered,but strangely unafraid.“I’ve always suspected Ihadafeelformagic.ButI

had neither books nor amentor nor hope of eitheruntilnow.”Holding his mug, Bramstrode over to a smallwindow that overlooked aweedy garden patch andstared out. “I don’t spendmuch time ponderingimpossibilities. That’spartly why I’ve thrownmyself into restoringCastle DiThon. I can feel

the progress with myhands,seeitwithmyeyes.It’s real to me. Still,” hemuttered again, more tohimself than Guerrand. “Ijustcan’tshakethefeelingthat my life, thoughobviously not charmed, issomehow…magical.”Guerrandheldverystill,recalling when he’d hadthe exact same thoughtaboutBraminthehallway

of Castle DiThon on theday he’d left to become amage himself. He foundhimself remembering aswell Wilor’s dying wordsabout Bram’s possibleheritage.“You have more than

enough ability to achievewhatever is your goal,Bram, be it magic orotherwise,” he managedafter he had sorted

through thebriarpatchofhis thoughts. “But know,too, that every desirecomesataprice.Onlyyoucan decide if the gain isworththecost.”“Hasitbeenworthitfor

you?”Bramasked.“I thought so.” The

mage’sanswerwasabrupt,involuntary, and itshocked him. He set hismugdownmoreforcefully

than he’d meant on therottedwoodfloor.“Thank you for this

afternoon, Bram,”Guerrandsaidbriskly.“It’smeant more to me thanyoucanknow.Butnowit’stime for me to pay myrespects to your aunt andreturntoBastion.”Expecting Bram to

protest, Guerrand avoidedhis nephew’s gaze and

jumped up from the chairby the fire. Strangely, hefound his feet would notsettle beneath him. Hishead reeled. He lookedquestioningly at Bram; hisnephew’s head wasslumped upon his chest.Guerrand could only fallback into the unyieldingchair as darknessdescendedinawave.

Guerrand knew beforehe opened his eyes thatsomething was wrong. Achill breeze, damp andgreen,blewacrosshisface,verylikelythecauseofhisawakening. But hecouldn’t recall where he’dbeen so that he coulddetermine what was sodifferent now. Whereverhe was, he was certain

he’d not been lying downbefore. He heard noconversation or othermovement to indicateanyone’spresence,andyetthe air fairly tingled withexpectation,withwaiting.Guerrand cracked hiseyesenoughtosee,butnotenough to alert anyonenearbyofhiswakefulness.Something small andwarm began prying his

eyelids open painfully.“Hey!” he cried, slappingreflexively at whatever itwas. His eyes burnedmadly, and he blinkedawayarushoftears.“He’s awake, all right?”Guerrand heardBram say.“Forpity’s sake, just leavehimalonebeforeyoublindhim.”Guerrandsatupanddughis fists intohiseyesuntil

the watering stopped andhe couldnearly see again.Twoshortbeingswithbigblue eyes in pale littlefaces stood staring back.Their richbrownhairwasfeather-fine and supportedjaunty hats of wool, onegrass-green, the otherflawless white. Pouchesand tools dangled fromtheir shoulders and waistbelts.

“Who are you?”Guerrand asked. The twocreatures merely blinkedtheir eyes at him likesilent, watchful owls.“Well?”hefairlyhowled.“These are the tuatha Itold you about meetingbefore,” explained Bram,dropping to his knees byhis uncle. “Not these twoin particular. They’re verylike the faeries of wives’

tales, secretly performinghousehold functions forfood, but don’t make themistake of calling thembrownies.”“I’ve heard of them,”Guerrand interrupted,proppinghimselfuponhiselbows. “They must haveputasleepspellonus.”Bram nodded. “I guesstheywantedtogetusintoNahamkin’s garden,” he

suggested. “Though whattheywantwithushereisapuzzle. Still, they’rebenevolent little creatures.They’re probably the onlyreasonI’mspeakingtoyounow. I never would havemadeittoWayrethintimeto find you without theirhelp.”“I’ve heard the tales

about the tuathadundarael,ofcourse,”said

Guerrand as he walkedaround both tuatha,peering closely at thesmall,soft-featuredbeings.“But I’ve never met anybefore.” The creatureslooked back at himimpassively. “TheyvaguelyresembleasylphIoncemet.”“Probably another kindof faerie-folk,” Bramconcluded. “I’m surprised

aspeakerwasn’tsent.Igotthe idea they alwaystraveled in threes.” Hepeered expectantly intothe taller weeds at theedge of the garden.“Maybe these two justwant a mug of milk or abit of bread for somepastdebt,”hemuttered,thoughhis tone indicated hedoubted the thoughthimself.

Suddenly the air beganto sparkle around them.Frolicking hues of goldand red andgreendancedjust above the brown,withered remains of lastyear’s garden. Everywherethe sparkling touched, theplants became slightlygreener and stood a littlestraighter. The effect wasstartlingyetbeautiful.While the humans and

tuatha watched, thetwinkling, colorful lightsslowly gathered into therecognizable form of athirdtuatha.Thetwomutetuatha dropped to theirknees and bowed theirheads.Bram recognized thenewly arrived child-sizedbeing,wearingaslate-bluemantle and wool cap.“Thistledown!” he

exclaimed,thencockedhishead, his expressionclouding with concern.“Your face looks pale anddrawn.Areyouunwell?”“Allwillbeexplainedtoyou,” the blue-mantledtuatha said. “Bow beforeKingWeador.”Guerrand and Bramexchangedsurprisedlooks.Some force, like a greathand, pressed down on

their shoulders, droppingthemhardtotheirknees.Arainoflightfellonthegarden then, illuminatingeverything with rainbowhues, running off Bram’sand Guerrand’s backs inmulticolored waterfalls.The light puddled on flatsurfaces,onlytoevaporateaway in an instant. Then,in a most unmagicalfashion, the weeds parted

andbetweenthemstrodeasight that wasincongruously majestic inthetangledgardenpatch.The tuatha, who fromhis obvious wealth andregal staturemustbeKingWeador, approached theminslow,measuredsteps,asifceremonialmusicplayedthat only he could hear.Supporting himself with awalking stick, he stopped

between two fragrantrosemary topiary plants.The noble tuatha’s eyessank shut as he inhaledlanguorously, then openedslowly so that he couldconsider the two humanswhowereconsideringhim.The tuatha king’s hair

was white as new snowandhungdownhisbacktowithin ahand spanof theground. His face didn’t

look old or wrinkledexactly, though it wasetched with straight,parallel, deep browncrevices. The effectreminded Guerrand of alady’s perfectly folded,oiledparchmentfan.Weador’s clothinglooked far richer than theserviceable wool garmentsofhisservants.Hismantle,drapinghim to the thighs,

was made of carefullystitched mouse pelts,decorated with the subtleunder-feathers of apheasant, and was heldclosed with a shiny goldbrooch. Fine-spun spider-silk garments dyed in themuted tones of the earthcompleted his statelyappearance.Every one of Weador’sten fingers, short, thick,

and fringed with downywhitehairs, carried a ringof a natural substance:several of carved, creamyscrimshaw, ivory, stone,and wood. In his righthand was the scepter hehad used as a walkingstick. Its tip was ableached-white turtleskull. The eye socketshadbeen replaced with pure,shininggold.

Guerrand noticed allthese things and wasproperly impressed. Yetthefeaturethatcaughthisattention and held it wastheking’sfrostyblueeyes.King Weador’s eyes werethe saddest Guerrand hadeverseen.“Rise.”Inthatoneword,the king’s voice was likethe sound of fog rollingover the Strait of Ergoth,

like wind through willowleaves, likeraindropsonathatch roof, like all of thesounds defined by words.“I apologize for mymethods, but the sleepspell seemed the gentlestway to keep you herewhen you seemeddeterminedtoleave.“I must also apologizefor my delay,” KingWeador continued,

lowering himself upon athrone that grew beforetheir eyes from a smalltoadstool. “I have nottraveledwithadestinationin mind recently and didnot properly gauge thetime needed in humanterms.”Allmanner of responses

cametomindatonce,butnone came to Guerrand’slips.

“I will waste no moretime,” continued KingWeador, “since there willbe little left for us hereunless we three reachsome manner ofunderstanding. I feelcompelledtoseekitbeforecommandinganexodus.”“With all due respect,”Guerrand began, “whyshould we listen to youafter the way we’ve been

treated? Honorablewizards who seek thecooperation of strangersdon’t usually get it bycasting spells upon thosestrangers.”The king bowed hishead with good grace.“Forgive me, but I couldnot risk your leavingbefore we spoke. Thepresence of my people—and yours—in Northern

Ergothdependsuponit.”Guerrandwas intrigued,as Weador had intended.“Goon,”hesaidsoftly.Weador’s blue eyesblinked. “Though most ofyou are unaware of ourexistence,” he began,“humans and tuatha havea symbiotic relationship.That is,when the humansthrive, we tuatha thrive,andviceversa.Wesecretly

clean your houses, tendyour gardens and fields,turn your mills, andperform myriad otherdaily tasks that makehumans happy andfruitful. In turn, weflourish, both from theincreased production andthe positive energystimulatedbyallaspectsofathrivingeconomy.“WehavebeeninErgoth

since the beginning oftime, since theconstruction of themagical pillars atStonecliff.WesurvivedtheCataclysm here, whenErgoth was divided intotwo islands, and thesubsequent droughts,floods, and famines. Butnever,inallthattime,hasthe decay here been assevere as it is now. This

plague has affected eventhetuatha,asyoungBramnoticed in ourThistledown’sface.”“Buttheplagueisover,”Bram exclaimed.“Guerrandmadethemoontwo-dimensionalso—”“I am aware of whatoccurred,” the king cut ingently. “But you areshortsighted if you thinkcuring the cause of the

plaguewill instantly eraseallofitsaftereffects.”“What do you mean?”Bramasked.“Most of the animalshave been slaughtered,”thekingexplained.“Cropshaveyettobeplanted,noraretheylikelytobe,sincetuatha scouts report thatmany of the grain storeswere destroyed byThonvil’s hay-ward in the

hysteriaoverthesourceofthe plague. With the seedstores gone, how will thealreadylowfoodsupplybereplenished?”“I have some seeds at

CastleDiThon,”saidBram.“If they aren’t enough, I’llbuyorbegwhatIcanfromvillages that weren’taffectedbytheplague.”The king’s snow-white

head shook imperceptibly.

“I hope that will beenough, forwetuathacanonly augmentwhat exists.Iflittleornothingexiststoembellish, then we areforced to move on tosurvive.”“And if you move on,”prompted Guerrand,catching the king’sdirection at last, “thenThonvil, in its alreadyfragile state, will very

likelyperish.”The king snapped histhickfingers.“Exactly.”“Sowhatareyoutellingustodo?”askedBram.“Humansarenotsubjecttomy rulership,” the kingreminded him placidly.“I’m merely suggestingoptions. If you care aboutthe survival of the villageor the presence of thetuatha, then you must

work immediately torestorethelands.”“You know, of course,”

began Bram, “that I’vebeentryingtodojustthatformanyyears.Thetuathahavebeenhelpingme.”“That might have been

enough,” conceded thetuathaking,“ifnotforthisplague. However, time iscritical now. The villagewill survive only if

someone providesdirection and leadershipthathas longbeen lackinghere.”Bram fidgeted. “Thonvil

already has a lord in myfather.”“Yes,Iknow.”Thepause

that followed spokevolumes about the king’sopinionofCormacDiThon.“A littlemore than twoofyour decades ago, I

predicted this decline andtookwhat steps I could tostave it off. We increasedintervention in your fieldsand homes,” the kingcontinued. “I daresay ourefforts made thedifference, in the lastdecade, between eatingand not formany of yourvillagers. Iknowitdidforustuatha.”“You’re suggesting I

seize my father’sauthority,”saidBram.Guerrand had no lovefor Cormac. Therewas nodoubt his brother shouldhave relinquished hisauthority to Bram yearsago. “Haven’t you all butdone that anyway?” heaskedhisnephew.“I had hoped to sparemyfathersomemeasureofdignity,” conceded Bram,

“though he has donenothing toward thathimself.”“We,” said the king,

speaking royally, “havetaken other, more severe,measures to preventThonvil from perishing.”His intenseblue eyesheldGuerrand’s meaningfullybeforesettlinguponBram.“Buttheyhaveyettoyieldfruit. I am not without

hope; however, I don’tthinkThonvilcanwait.”Guerrand felt a

precognitive shiver runthroughhisbody.“Let us assume, for the

sake of argument,” saidBram, “that I’mwilling tooust my lord and father.JusthowamIsupposedtolead the people tosalvation?”“You are a human of

high intellect and moralcharacter,” the kingremarked, “not unlike theprevious lord, RejikDiThon. He was a strongandvirtuousleader.”“Iwasveryyoungwhen

my grandfather died,”reflectedBram.“I’mafraidI remember precious littleabout him, and certainlynotenough toemulatehisbehavior.”

“But your uncle does.”Though his words weredirected at Bram, theking’s frosty eyes heldGuerrand’s. “Can youenvision what your fathercould have accomplishedduringhisreignifhe’dhadanablemageathisside?”The question strummeda sharp memory chord,and Guerrand noddedvaguely. Even his small

magics had brought newlife to the small village ofHarrowdown-on-the-Schallsea.“Then imagine howBram’s compassionate ruleand your magic couldrestore this land,”promptedtheking.Guerrand recalled, toowell, a discussion withCormac on the verysubject. He’d tried to

convince his brother toconquer his fear of magicand see the good it coulddo in Thonvil. But, ofcourse, Cormac had flatlyrefused to consider thatmagic was anything butevil. Guerrand thought itironicthat,tenyearslater,he was being given thechance toprovehe’dbeenright.King Weador watched

theplayofemotionsacrossthemage’s face. “Youwillhave a wise advisor andpowerful magical ally inyour uncle,” the king saidconfidentlytoBram.Guerrand came back

fromhisthoughtsandheldhispalmsup.“Slowdown,there. I already have ajob.”The king’s white

eyebrows turned down.

“Ah,yes.Bastion.”“Youknowofit?”“That question indicates

an inadequateunderstanding of tuathadundarael,” King Weadorobserved. “Remember, wemade it possible for Bramto reach Wayreth in amatter of moments,instead of a fortnight.There is almost no cornerof the cosmos our faerie

roadsdonotreach.Infact,there is very little in themagical world of which Iam not at leastperipherallyaware.”Weador’s intense blue

eyes abruptly penetratedGuerrand’s in a mostdisconcerting way. Theking said nothing at first.Instead, he reached out astubby, be-ringed hand tothe front of Guerrand’s

robeandbrushedawaythesootyblacksmudgesthere.All but one magicallydisappeared under theking’s fingers. Expressiongrave, Weador gave thatside of the robe a tug sothatGuerrandcouldbetterseethemark.Perplexed into silence,Guerrand squinted downhischintoregardthedarksmudge that so interested

King Weador. On closerinspection, the sootappeared to have apattern, like the whorlsand linesofa thumbprint.Ablackthumbprint.Guerrand’s head jerkedup, and his eyes metWeador’s knowing gaze.He gasped as thememoryof who had last touchedthe front of his robesprangtomind:Nuitari.

“It’s a thumbprint. Sowhat? What does itmean?”demandedBram.“Ihavesensedyouwere

in grave danger from themoment we met,” KingWeador admitted toGuerrand, ignoringBram’squestion. “But that feelingintensifiedwhenwespokeof Bastion.” The king’seyes commandedGuerrand’s in a manner

the mage couldn’t resist.“Beware there, GuerrandDiThon.”That said, the king of

the tuatha pushed himselfup from his toadstoolthrone. “Our business isconcluded.” Before theireyes, the white-hairedtuatha king and his silentminions faded from viewlike a bittersweet dreamuponwaking.

And, like a dream,Guerrand could not callWeadorbackforquestions.

“I’ve got to get to

Bastion,” Guerranddeclared, his voicebreathy with anxiety. Hefishedaroundinthepouchwhose strap stillcrisscrossedhischest.Bram grabbed his arm.“Stopandthink,Rand,”hepleaded. “Weador saidthere was danger for youthere. What better reasondoyouneedtostayhereinThonvil?”

Guerrand stoppedrummagingbrieflytogapeindisbeliefathisnephew.“You can’t mean that—you’re no more a cowardthanIam,Bram.Bastionismyresponsibility.”Bram rubbed his face.

“No, I didn’t mean that.I’m just worried, is all. Ihaven’t gone through allthis to lose you to somethreat I don’t even

understand.”Frowning hispreoccupation, Guerranddidn’t hear Bram. Hisfingertips at lastmetwiththeobjecthe sought. “Gotit!” he cried, holding thefragmentofmagicalmirroraloft.Bram looked at theshard in that acceptingway he’d come to viewstrange things of magic,

took a deep breath, andstood up straight. “Well,then,let’sgetgoing.”Guerrand lowered the

mirror slowly. “You can’tcomewithme,Bram.”“Whynot?”“I’ll list some of the

countless reasons, in noparticular order,”Guerrand said. “Bastion ismy responsibility, notyours. You haven’t

permissiontoreturnthere.You’re needed here tobegin bringing Thonvilbacktolife.”“Thatcanwaitoneday,”

Bramcountered.“Can it?” Guerrand’s

tone suggested he thoughtotherwise. “Besides,” headded, “you have to stayhere and keep my mirrorsafe.”Bramlookedperplexed.

“Ican’tteleportbetweenplanes,” Guerrandexplained. “Instead, I’mgoing to step into thismagical mirror and exitthrough one in the redwing of Bastion. But thatmeans I have to leave themirror behind. Althoughonly someone who hasseen the inside of Bastioncould use it to follow methere,it’sstilltoopowerful

adevicetoletfallintothewronghands.”Bram’s nostrils flared in

anger.“SoI’mtostayhereandprotectapieceofglasswhile you’re in who-knows-what manner ofdanger.” Guerrand’sexpression told Bram hewouldn’t budge on thisissue.“Idon’tlikethisonebit,”theyoungermansaid,but he bowed his head in

resignation.“Imust go now, Bram,”

Guerrandsaidasgentlyashe could. Turning back tothe cottagewhereZagarusrested on the roof, heyelled, “Come on, Zag.”The familiar spread hiswingswithadolorousflap,apparently resigned tonevergettinganyrest,andflew directly into the tinypiece of glass and

disappeared.Guerrand raised a foot,

but turned to Bram. “I’llsend word, either inperson or by missive, sodon’tfear.”Hetouchedhisnephew’ssleeve,thenbenthishead to the shard. “Beofstrongheart,Bram.”“Have a care!” Bram

cried, but his uncle hadalready disappeared intothe impossibly small

mirror. All the noblemancouldseenowwashisownfretful expression reflectedin the shiny glass. Hesnatched up the mirror,placed it in a pocket, andstrode off to face his ownproblemsatCastleDiThon.

Guerrand fairly flewthrough one of the

reflective mirrors in theseascape room, trying tolook all ways at once. Hestopped and shook hisheadathisbehavior.Asifwhatever danger Weadorpredictedwouldbelurkingin his seascape whereZagarus was perched atwater’sedge.ThefirstthingGuerrand

did was race to hisdressing area and remove

his red robe, moretarnished than soiled. Hewrenched it from hisshoulders and flung it tothe ground, unable toresist the temptation togrind the thumb-printedthing under his feet as hereached for one of theclean red garments thathung in his clothespress.He shrugged that one onand cinched it tight about

thewaist.As if toconfirmthat he had removedNuitari’s mark and wassafe,hecheckedhimselfinaglass.Beforehishorrifiedeyes, themarkreappearedin the same spot on thenewgarment,andoneachof the three others hefrantically donned.Devastated,Guerrandgavein to the inevitability ofthe mark and slid down

the wall to the floor tothink.Did the ever-present

black thumbprint meanthe danger Weador saidawaited him at Bastionwas somehow linked toNuitari? The god had arepresentative here atBastion:Dagamier.Guerrand’s eyes

narrowed with suspicion.Ezius was too quiet and

befuddled to ever be athreat. ButDagamier…Sheobviouslycoveted the position ofhigh defender; the blackwizardess had foughtagainst Guerrand’sauthority from the firstmoment they’dmet. She’dmade it easier forGuerrandtotakehis leavefrom Bastion by assuminghis responsibilities. Had

she spent the timearranginghisdownfall?He turned back to his

shoulderbag,nowlyingonthe floor, and donned thebracelets and rings thatcarried his protectivespellsandwerecapableofshieldinghimagainstbothphysical blows andmagical forces. Checkingthe scrying schedule, hedetermined that it was

Dagamier’s shift in thesphere.Guerrand covered the

distance to the nave in amatter of heartbeats. Hepassed through the doorand approached thewhitecolumn that housed thescrying diorama, willinghimself to remain calm.Still, he didn’t hesitate tobriskly call her nameacross the moat from

whereheknewthedoortobe. “Dagamier! It’sGuerrand. Open thesphere,please.”After a brief pause, the

door slid open asrequested. Dagamiersteppeduptostand in thesmall archway,her cheeksdimpledinasmilethatsether green eyes slantwise.Her body looked slim andsalamander-smooth in the

snug-fittingblacksilkrobethatclungtoeverycurve.“You’reback.”Thesmilegave way to her usualstudied mask ofindifference.“ItrustthingsarewellagaininThonbergwithBertram?”A muscle leaped inGuerrand’s jaw.“BramhasthingsundercontrolagaininThonvil.”“Fine.” Dagamier made

to return to the scryingsphere.“Form the bridge,Dagamier,” Guerrandcommanded. “I wouldhave a report of eventssinceIleft.”She frowned at theunusual request. “Can’t itwait until Ezius’s turn atthe sphere? There’s toolittle room, as you mustrealize—”

“No.”Dagamier searched his

face and must have seenthat he would brook nodefiance today.Shrugging,as if Guerrand’s authoritystill meant little to her,Dagamier touched atapered finger to thebutton that activated thebridge,callingitforth.Guerrand crossed the

crystal bridge and joined

herinthenarrowcolumn.The darkened room, thereal heart of Bastion, wasaustere and functional.Dagamier was alreadyseated again before thefaintlyglowingdioramaofBastionanditsperimeter.Guerrand pressed his

back to the wall awayfrom Dagamier, to keepfrom touching the black-robed wizardess. “Please

tell me of your activities,both unusual andmundane,sinceIleft.”Dagamier kept her eyesfixedonthemodel.“That’sanodd request. I tookmyturnsat the sphere,whichweredoubled,Imightadd,by your absence. I slept,studied, drilled fordefense, and conductedexperiments in myapartments. The usual

things.”“Nothingelseof interestoccurred, either inside oroutsideBastion?”She gave him a fleetingglance, her lips pursed.“That depends on if youconsider conversing withEziusinteresting,”shesaidcoolly, returning herglance to the diorama.“However, the demiplanehas been as quiet as a

tombsinceyouleft.”The younger woman

abruptlyleanedawayfromthesubjectofhergazeandcrossed her arms. “Whydon’t you just tell mewhat’sgotyousoedgy?”Guerrand watched

Dagamier’s reactionclosely as he said,“SomeoneIhavereasontotrustsaidthatgreatdangerawaitedmeatBastion.”

“So naturally youthought of me.” Shereturned her gaze to themodel, betraying neitherconcernnoroffense.He watched herexpression. “I’m thinkingof invoking my right ashigh defender to searchboth yours and Ezius’sapartments,Dagamier.”To Guerrand’s greatsurprise, the black wizard

gaveher trademark shrug.“Go ahead and check myapartments if you must.That is your right. Whileyou’re in thewhitewing,”she continued, nonplused,please remind Ezius toarriveontimeforhisnextshift. Maybe it was thechange in schedule whileyouwere gone that threwhim off, but he forgot toshow up for a few of his

turnshere.”“Did he?” asked

Guerrand.“That’sunusual.Ezius is usually verypunctualandreliable.”Dagamier looked

unconcerned. “He cameimmediately when Ireminded him. If you askme,heforgotbecausehe’sbecome preoccupied withthe body of that wizardfriend of yours who

‘dropped by’ just beforeyou left with yournephew.”“Ezius told me he was

goingtoarrangeforproperdisposalofthebody,”saidGuerrand, frowning. “Ithought he would havedonesobynow.”Dagamier could only

lookatGuerrand.The high defender’s

mouth drew into a

pinched, worried line.“Have you noticedanything else odd aboutEzius since I’ve beengone?”The black wizardreturned her gaze to themodel. “He’s kept to hisapartments when hewasn’t scrying.” Shechuckled suddenly. “Thereis one thing, though it’smorefunnythanodd.You

remember how long ittookyoutokeephimfromcallingyouRind,afterthatcobbler he once knew?”Guerrand nodded. “Well,Ezius may have got yourname straight now, buthe’s taken tomixingmineup. He keeps calling meEsme,”Dagamier said,hereyes still on the sphere.“I’ve never even knownanyonebythatname.”

Guerrand’s blood frozein his veins. He slowlylifted his head to stare ather pale, chiseled profilebefore whisperinghoarsely, “Are you sureaboutthatname?”“Yes,” she said. “It was

unusual enough toremember.” Dagamiershiftedhereyes to lookathimquizzically.Without speaking,

Guerrand whirled on hisheelinthesmallchamber,meant only for one. Thedoor raised, the bridgeformed across the smallmoat, and he walkedacross it, oblivious to theplant fronds in his path.His heels pounded acrossthe cold marble floor onhiswaytothewhitewing.The door to the wing

was closed, as usual.

Guerrand grasped theheavybrassringthathungfrom the griffon’s-headknocker and slammed itagainstthedoor.Whennoresponse came, Guerrandtried again, waiting withincreasingimpatience.“Ezius!” he howled to

theroof,legsspread,armsand fists stiff at his sides.“I demand that you openthisdooratonce!”

The white doorremainedclosed.Guerrand didn’t hesitatetocallforththespellgivenonly to thehighdefender.He placed his right handagainst the door.With hisfingers arranged veryprecisely, he muttered,“Lenithis kor.” The airaround his hand flaredbright yellow, and thedoor shuddered beneath

anear-numbingboom.Butstillitdidnotopen.No legitimate power inBastion could haveprevented the spell fromgiving the high defenderaccess to any area in thestronghold. Undaunted,Guerrand prepared tobreak down the door tothewhitewing.

The white-robed mage’shead shot up. Loudbanging at the far end ofthewide-openwingbrieflybroke his concentration.Recognizing Rand’s voice,he willed himself not topanic. So, the highdefender hadreturned. … What did itmatter? The mage hadprepared for thispossibility and put up

protections to prevent, orat the very leastsignificantly slow, anyonewho tried to enter thewhitewing. Itwould takesometimeforGuerrandtobreak through the door,and there were stilladditional safeguardsbeyondit.The thoughtconsiderably calmed themage. He stood next to a

white marble table thatheld the corpse of LyimRhistadt. The table waspartofasmallworkspacein the section designatedas the wing’s laboratory.Though there were nowalls to delineate roomshere, the purpose andboundaries of each areawere clear, designated byfunction: bookshelvesplainly marked off the

library, thick carpets lentwarmthtothesmalllivingspace, tables andcountertops in neat rowsfilledtheworkarea.Since bringing the bodyinto the wing, the magehad maintained a spellthatalsopreventedscryingor other magical methodsof direct observation.Because of the spell, eventhe high defender was

virtually powerless toknowwhatwashappeninginside the white wing.Whether Guerrand wasmerely seeking a reportuponhisreturntoBastion,or was already suspiciousof Ezius’s behavior, itmattered little. The magein the white robe hadworked too long andhardtoward the goal that wasmoments from being

realized tobe turnedbacknow.To further protect

himself againstinterruption, the stooped,pale-haired mage quicklypreparedtocasttwomorespells in a sequence thatwouldcausethesecondtoprotectthedurationofthefirst.Withdrawing a smallcrystal bead from a deeppocket in his robe, he

mutteredthearcaneword,“Pilif.” The globe ofinvulnerability appearedas a faintly shimmeringsphere around the mageand the entire marble labtable before him. He setthe crystal bead on thetablebythecorpse.The second spell wouldprevent anyone fromdispellingthemagicoftheglobe. For it, the white-

robed mage removedanothergemfromhisrobe,alargediamond.Placingitgingerly in a marblemortar,hedrovethepestleintoitlikeahammeragainand again, until he hadshattered the preciousstone. He ground thediamond into coarse dustandsprinkledbothhimselfand the red mage’s bodywith the glittering shards.

Though there was novisible effect to indicatethe spell’s discharge, themageinstinctivelyfeltthathe had successfully madethem immune to mostspells. For a short time,anyway.Themagepridedhimself

on his good planning. Buthe was also dependentuponameasureofluckforhaving gotten this far. It

hadbeenthegreatestgoodfortune that the highdefender’s nephew hadtakenhimaway,givingthemage time to prepare hisspells before anyonequestioned his activitieswiththered-robedcorpse.Dead?Hah!Themageinthewhiterobepressedtwofingers to the death-coolleftwrist of thebody thatlay beneath him upon the

cold marble slab. A reedypulse,slowedtoatenthitsnormal rate, was barelydetectible against thewarm index and thirddigits of his right hand.Whatadelicioussensationwas feeling a pulsethrough fingers, thoughtthe mage, though it hadtaken some time toreadjust to having a righthandatall.

Butnotaslongasithadtakentogetaccustomedtolookingatone’sownbodythrough the eyes ofanother. Lyim had nevernoticed the small ring ofmoles at the nape of hisownneck,orthathischininprofile receded slightly.Maybe he’d just been tooconsumed in recent yearswiththemonstrosityattheend of his right arm to

notice anything else.Unconsciously, Ezius’sdark eyes were turned byLyim’s darkermind to thediamond stone piercingLyim’sleftlobe.Themagic jar spell thatmade all this possiblecould not have workedmore flawlessly. In VillaNova, before his finalattack upon Bastion, Lyimhad chosen the diamond

ear stud to be thereceptacle, briefly, for hislife-force, because he feltcertainasmallearringwaslikely to remain with hisbody,unlikealarger,moreostentatious piece ofjewelry. Besides, hedoubted the mages atBastionwerelooters.It had been a relatively

simple thing, then—amatter of timing in the

heatofthebattleLyimhadforced—to transfer hisessencetothediamondearstud. His body hadcollapsedas if slain,whilehislife-forcewentintothegem.It had been Ezius’s badluckthatbroughthimfirstto inspect Lyim’s body.Seizing themoment, Lyimjumped his life-force fromthegemintoEzius’sbody,

simultaneously forcingEzius’s body intoimprisonment in thediamond. The spell hadbeen instantaneous andseamless; no one elsecould have detected theprocess.Thatwaswhytherehadbeennoreasontoquestionthe white mage’s offer tocarry the body of the“slain” red mage into the

white wing of Bastion forburial.AsLyimhadhoped,Guerrand had been toooverwrought by the battleto question Ezius’s offer.The Black Robe obviouslyhadn’t cared to deal withthe body of a mage notfromherorder,whichwasjust as well, from Lyim’sperspective, though itmight have beeninteresting to inhabit the

bodyofawoman.It had all worked sosmoothly that Lyim hadstruggled to keep fromsmiling when, with theBlack Robe and Rand, hehad carried his own bodyup the stairs and into thesacredhalls ofBastion.AsEzius, he fought againstgaping in wonder, sincenone of it would haveseemed new to the White

Robe. Fortunately, they’dlefthimat thedoor tohiswing, which allowed himto familiarize himself inprivate. Lyim’s first taskhad been to placeprotectionsonthedoor.Only later had Lyimlearned from DagamierthatRandhad leftBastionto battle the medusaplague. Rand’s absencehadbeen thegreatestgift,

giving Lyim precious timeto lay the groundwork forrecreating the events thathadmutated his hand.Hehadhopedtobedonewiththe preparations sooner,but of course everythingtook longer when youwere working in someoneelse’s laboratory, not tomentionbody.ThemagicjargaveLyim

the option of keeping

Ezius’s body, with its twogoodhands,buthehadnointerestinlivingverylongin anyone’s body but hisown. Ezius’s was stiffenedwith age and a level ofinactivity to which Lyimwas unused, and hiseyesight was good onlythrough the use of thicklenses. Still, Lyim neededto keep himself lockedwithin Ezius’s form now

for one very importantreason: two hands wereneeded to make thecomplex motions requiredby the spell that wouldcurehishand.Soon, he told himself,the hideous snake wouldbe gone, and he wouldhave his own form again.Lyimused the thoughts togivehimselfenergyforthetasksthatstilllayahead.

TherewerenomoonsatBastion to worry aboutaligning, nor did he needto anchor a cross-dimensional bridge.Thankstothemeddlingofthe Conclave of Wizards,Bastion was at adimensional crossroads,the only one that gaveaccess to the Lost Citadel.But, unlike his masterbefore him, Lyim had no

intention of entering theLost Citadel; he wishedonly to open exactly thesame sequence ofpathways unlocked byBelize, then inserthisarmso that it crossed thesnake-creature’s plane.OnlyuponseeingitshomewouldthereptilefleefromLyim’s body, allowing thelimb to return to itsnaturalform.

Lyim thought he heardGuerrand howl Ezius’sname outside the wing’sentrance. He turned hismind to casting the mostimportantspellofhislife.Ezius’shandssummoned

aswirlingsphereofflame.The ball writhed betweenhis fingers, twisting,flickering, contained onlyby Lyim’s will. Withintense concentration the

mageturnedandextendedhisarmssothattheballofenergy hovered over hisphysical body on themarbleslab.The flickering globeflared angrily and swelledto twice its previous size.Its eerie light shimmeredon the clean surfaces intheall-whitelaboratory.Next, Lyim drew asuccession of vials and

containers he had placedfor this purpose upon theshelves. He tossed eachinto the swirling inferno,just as Belize had donethoseyearsagonexttothestoneplinths.Hemutteredarcane phrases andcompleted the specifiedhand gestures—one shortslice with the right hand,bothhands slowly circlingthrice. The fiery globe

grew steadily larger untilitsshapebegantochange,to flatten and stretch intoanoval.Theswirlingmassyawned open with anunbearable,purplishlight.Lyim looked through

Ezius’s bespectacled eyesat the hated appendagecoveredinscalesofbrown,red, and gold, patternedsymmetricallyinringsandswirls. Without hesitation,

he commanded Ezius’shand to raise the silentsnake arm and plunge ittoward the wall ofwhirlinghues.There was no soulwithin Lyim’s body toscream this time, or towrithe in pain. Butthrough Ezius’s handsLyim could feel the limbthrashing, could sense theunworldly energy blazing

throughit.Thememoryofthe flood of agony,undimmed by theinterveningdecade,surgedto life again. But now hewas steeled by years ofstriving, and hewould letnoscreampasshislips.Lyim recalled hismaster’swordsasifthey’dbeen spoken justyesterday: “These portalsfrequently contain the

undead remains ofcenturies’ worth ofunsuccessful adventurers.They jump like starvingfleas upon the first freshtravelertheymeet.”Lyim knew there would

be no new creatureswaiting in the passage,since Bastion had blockedthis dimensional portalalmostsincethedisasteratStonecliff. A decade of

curiosity about whathappened beyondprompted Lyim to bringEzius’s head nearer theopening he’d created intheplane.The mage was

astonished when theincandescent curtain ofswirling light parted forhim like an opening eye.Beyond it layapassage, atunnel bored through the

dimensions. The walls,floor, and ceiling pulsedwith electrical energy andtwistedandwrithed likealivingthing.A creature thrashedbelow him. Lyimimmediately recognizedthesnakelikeheadnext toa pale, limp arm. But thesnake’s thick, fur-coveredbody supported bythousands of red-veined

fingersmadeLyimgasp.Itwasimpossibletotellhowlong the creature was,with its coils lapped oneatop another inthoughtless loops. Ratherthan slithering, themonster wound its bulksidewaysasifrollingdownan incline, anddisappeared through thetunnel wall into whateverunknown dimension lay

outside, leaving behind afaintlyglowingtrail.Lyim was watching the

glow recede when theundulating tunnel eruptedin brightness moreblinding than a thousandcandles. He clamped hiseyes shut, but the lightburned through his lids.Withoutmoving,Lyimwasphysically drawn throughtheportal.Next tohimhe

could feel his own,unconscious body beinglifted off the marble slaband dragged into themaelstromby the restoredarm, as if some powerweredrawnby themages’magical emanations. Thepull was overwhelming.Though he had not comefor this, Lyim, onceexposed to the citadel’spower,didn’tevenwantto

resist. The bodies of bothmages glided through thepulsating confines of thetunneltowardthedistancesourceofthebrilliance.Though Lyim’s eyes

were still closed, the lightetched upon his lids amultisensory image. Hewitnessed the birth of theworld, the origins of theraces, the calamities andtriumphs that marked

thousands of years ofKrynn’s history. He sawmagical forces beingmolded and applied inwayshehadneverdreamtpossible, as well asmagical disasters thataltered the shape of theworld.Theforcethatpulledthemages’ bodies stopped asabruptlyas itbegan.LyimcommandedEzius’seyesto

open.Radiant gates of spider-spun gold rose up from aknee-high fog. A jaggedrangeofpolishedmineralsand semiprecious rockencircled the citadel.Three immense diamondspires sliced through thebillowingfogandgoldandsilverfoothillstopenetratetheblacknessofspace.Thetriangleofglitteringspires

wassetuponapentagonofpolished gold, the sourceoftheyellowradiancethatsent blinding light upthrough the faceteddiamondspires.ThewholeeffectremindedLyimofanenormous jeweledpendant.No windows or

balconies marred thecrystalline surface of thespires, nor doors the gold

base, to mark it as ahabitable place. Yet thecitadel pulsed withmagical energy, with theessence of life. Thecontrast of stark, coldminerals and hot goldenlight seemed to symbolizethe complexities of magicitself.An understanding of

what he saw cameunbidden to Lyim, as if

any mage who lookedupon the forbidden LostCitadel could not butrealize these things aboutthemostmagicalofplaces.The faceted surfacesreflected the foundationupon which all earthlythings were built—amirrorheldtotheuniverseto reveal a skeletoncomplex beyond compare.The citadel’s mineraled

walls had risen naturallymillennia ago from themire of Krynn to housethreenovicemages.Whenthose first wizardsunleashed far more magicthan they could control,settingoff floods and firesand earthquakes, theywere transported in theirtower to a place beyondthecirclesoftheuniverse.Ever after, the tower was

knownastheLostCitadel.The mages became thefounders of the Orders ofHighSorcery.Ezius’soldfingerscurledaround the delicate goldfiligree of the gate. As hedid so, the craggy, coldfoothills surrounding thecitadel began to quake,sending boulders of goldandsilvertumblingtowardthe gate. The quake

continued, unabated, untilthe tunnel beneath Ezius’ssandaled feet and Lyim’sprone,truebodytrembled.Lyim grasped the gatetighter to steady himself,but the move onlyincreased the intensity ofthe tremors. Lyim felthimself thrown to Ezius’sknees.The power of thecollapsing portal began to

drag both mages backthrough the tunnel inmuch the same way asthey’d been pulled towardthe gate. Ezius’s handsfutilely stretched towardthe gates of the citadel,even as Lyim’s mindreached out to thewonders beyond them.Ezius’s body slipped fromthe tunnel, through theportal’s purple whorl,

heartbeatsafterLyim’s.Hefell upon his ownunconscious body,slumped on the marbleslab, then tumbled like afish to the cold floor ofBastion’swhitewing.Lyim was only barely

awarethatabovetheslab,the portal spiraled slowlyinward and began todarken and shrink. Thevibrant colors that had

been almost too bright tolook at quickly faded todark red-orange, thendisappeared.Lyim was dazed and

incredulous. He hadlookedupon the sourceofall magic, witnessed thewrath of the gods.Almosteverything he had everdone seemed trivialcomparedtothat.Except for one thing.

Lyim’sgaze traveledup tohis own body, beautifullyrestoredanddanglingfromthe slab abovehim.Therewas no need for loathinganymore. Lyim examinedall five fingersofhis righthandwithachild’sjoy.Itcametohiminaflashthathehadnomoreneedfor Ezius’s old and tiredframe. He quickly closedEzius’seyestoconcentrate

onthegeminhisownear.Instantly his entireconsciousness was altered.Hissenseswerecompletelystripped away; he wassuspended, numb, in ablackness that no light,sound, or heat couldpenetrate. Instinctively hehomedinontheslow,thinpulse of his own body.Slowly, like fog slippingover the sea, his essence

driftedfromthegem.Lyimfound himself drapedacross the marble table,staring at the vaultedceiling far above. He hadbeen out of his body forperhapstwodays,butstillit felt strange to Lyim. Inmoments the feelingpassed, and a thrill ranthroughhimasherealizedhewaswholeagain.Lyim gathered up his

red robe and rolled stifflyintoasittingpositionatopthe cold white slab. Hisbody felt strongandright,as if he’d slipped on afamiliar, butter-soft glove.The mage flexed thefingers of his right handbefore wide, disbelievingeyes, until he couldn’tcontain his elation. Heleaped from the slab intothe air. Coming down, he

crashed into Ezius,slumped against themarblebase.Lyim blinked at the

white-robed mage. Eziusraisedatremblinghand,asif about tocasta spell.Atleast that’s what Lyimpresumed when hereached out with his ownright hand and touchedEzius’s temple. The olderman’sfacewentslack,and

all comprehension left hiseyes. Ezius stared aroundthe room like an idiotchild, bewildered byeverything he saw. Lyimreachedouthishandoncemore,poising it above themage’shead.“Takealittlerest, Ezius. You’ve earnedit.”Fineamberdustdrifteddown from Lyim’s hand.The dust clouded Ezius’salready vague eyes, and

then his head slippedgently to the porcelainfloor.“Lyim!”The mage looked up atthe sound of a familiarvoice cursing his name.Lyim spun about to facehis most hated foe, hishandsomefacespreadinawolfish smile ofanticipation.

Bastion’s high

defender stared at thepulsing,writhing,purpleglowaroundthedoor,andthe meaning of KingWeador’s warning camecleartohim.Guerrandhadwitnessed light like thatonly once before: duringthe triple eclipse onStonecliff. Lyim Rhistadthad lost his hand thatnight. There could be nomistakingthedangernow.

Guerrand calledDagamierfromthescryingsphere and sent her tocollect all the wands,cloaks, and componentsshe could lay her handson. He sized up themagicalprotectionsonthedoor and settled upon thelikeliest spell to breakthem. From his ever-present pack, the magepulledastringedchime—a

small, silvery tube—andwaited impatiently for theblackwizardtoreturn.The radiance beneaththe door flared up,streaming through thecracks so that Guerrandwas bathed in anultraviolet glow. The highdefender knew he couldwaitnolonger.Setting aside the chimemomentarily, Guerrand

searched through hispouchagainandwithdrewa small glass bead. As hewhispered an incantation,he used the bead to tracemagical symbols on hisforehead, the backs of hishandsandarms,hischest,and finally, in the airsurroundinghim.Withthefinal phrase of the spell,Guerrand released thebead. It shattered like a

fine crystal glass, and themage was surrounded insoft, shimmering light. Aslongasitlasted,hewouldbe protected against allbut the most powerfulmagic.Guerrand retrieved the

chime and held it up bythe string. He struck itslowly once, twice, thricewithasmall,rubber-tippedmallet. With the third

tone, the double doorsburst inward. Guerrandleaped one step inside thedoor, discarding thechime.The high defender hadbeeninsideBastion’swhitewing only on those fewoccasions when Ezius hadinvitedhim.Theareanearthe door was dim withmurky blue-violet light.But the purple,

incandescent portalthrobbedandswirledwithenergy at the far rightcorner of the wing’s vast,open room. It glowed sobrightly at its center thatGuerrandcouldnotbeartolookdirectlyatit.Themageglancedaway,

eyes burning as if he’dstaredatthesun.Apairofluminescent eyes,unblinkingandmotionless,

rose before him. Theywere feline in shape, butfar too large to belong toanycatGuerrandhadeverseen.Withawaveofhishand

and a muttered word,Guerrand filled his end ofthe vast chamber withlight.TherewasnosignofEzius or Lyim, dead oralive, anywhere in thewing. But he found the

source of the odd,luminous eyes. No pastexperiencecouldkeephimfrom starting backward.The creature that blockedhis path to the portalresembled a snake or aneel in form, but itsproportions weremonstrous. It was coiledinto a loop, but Guerrandguessed the creature’sbody must have been at

least twice as long as hisownframe,possiblymore.The body appeared black,but where light reflectedfrom the tiny, glossyscales,theyflashedadark,subterraneanblue.Most unsettling was the

creature’s human-shapedhead. The dark, slantedeyes had vertical irises,likea cat’s.Theearswerepointed and too far back

on the head to lookhuman, though, and itsteethresembledneedles.At the other end of the

body, held straight up intheairwithgreatmenace,wasabonystingeraslongas Guerrand’s forearm.Venomglistenedonitstip.Guerrandshuddered;Lyimhad chosen his guardianwithirony.The two adversaries

eyed each other warily.Guerrandhadheardaboutnagas, fiendish andintelligentmonsterswithahunger for magicalknowledge. They wereknown to offer theirservicestopowerfulmagesin exchange for spellformulae. Even whenGuerrand was anapprentice, Justarius hadwarned him against

dealing with such beings.If Belize had done thesame for his apprentice,Lyim had obviouslyignoredhim.The wizard was greatly

relieved to hearDagamier’sfootstepsasshereturned across the nave.The black-robed magestepped into the whitewing and slung a heavycloak across Guerrand’s

shoulders that wouldprotect the wearer like asuitofarmor.Thenaga’seyesfollowed

Dagamier, the firstmovement Guerrand hadseenthemonstermake.Heraised his hands beforehim. Sparks raced acrossGuerrand’s flesh, ready toleap forward as a bolt oflightning.Nagas were highly

susceptible to bribes, sobeforeattacking,Guerrandthought to offer one. “Wewant your master, andhavenoquarrelwithyou,”he began, searching hismemory of Bastion’scollectedmagicalitemsforan artifact of use to alimbless creature. “Standaside,andIwillgiveyouamagical circlet after I’massured we’ve passed

freely.”“Mymasterisnothere,”

thenaga replied inadarkvoicethatheldnotraceofanaccent.“Hehasenteredthe portal. I will acceptyour offer and let youpass.” With silken gracethenaga’scoilsslidoffoneanother. The creaturebacked away warily, butits unblinking eyesremained riveted on

Guerrand.Dagamier tossed a

disbelieving glance atGuerrand. He, too, wassurprised at the monster’seasyacquiescence,anddidnot entirely trust it. Withthespellstillreadytocast,headvancedintothewhitewing, balancing cautionagainst the immediateimperative of drawingLyim from the portal.

Dagamier followed threestepsbehindhim.A scream setGuerrand’s

heart hammering. Lookingback over his shoulder hecursed. Silhouetted by thedoorway, Dagamier hadherarmsthrownwide,anda look of horror and painwas frozen on her death-pale face. With greateffort,as ifpullingagainsta harness, she tipped her

darkheadbacktopeerupintotheraftersabove.But Guerrand hadalready seen whatDagamier could not.Dangling heavily from anoverheadbeam,justinsidethe door, was a secondnaga. Its serpentine tailhung down anddisappeared behindDagamier. The nagaquivered its tail, making

Dagamier twitch like amarionette. Slowly hereyes rolled back and herhead slumped. The blackwizard’s entire body wentlimp. Yet she remainedstandinguntil,withaflickof its tail, the nagasnapped its poisonedstingeroutfromherback.Dagamier collapsedsideways and laymotionless.

Before the woman’sbody hit the floor, twobolts of lightning rippedfrom Guerrand’s hands tosmash into the monstroussnake-thing above thedoor.Theaircrackledandbuzzed as the twin arcstwitched in a fantasticdance across the openroom,rootedatoneendtoGuerrandandat theothertothenaga.

Theblastconstrictedtherippling muscles in thecreature’s body. Theglistening stinger thrashedandjerkedthroughtheair,which quickly filled withthe stink of burning flesh.The shriek that eruptedfromthesecondnaga’slipswas nothing like thesmooth tones of itsaccomplice. The nagawasblown from the rafter

amidst a whirlwind ofsmokeandwoodsplinters.It landed next toDagamier, a mess ofburned flesh andsmolderingblood.The first naga launcheda spell of its own. Thenagas’ magic was uniqueto their species, becausetheir spells had to betriggeredwithnomaterialingredients. The first

naga’s humanlike lipscurled back across itsneedle teeth,andaballofblueflamerolleddownthelengthofitsforkedtongue.The naga caught theroilingpelleton the tipofitsstingerandthenhurledit, with a snap of its tail,straight at Guerrand’sback.The ball expanded as itflew,until it smashed into

the protective globesurrounding Guerrand. Itflattened itself against themagical field and gropedwithtendrilsofblueflameacross the softly glowingsurface, searching for anyweakness. The blue flamecontinued growing in sizeand intensity until itappeared it might engulfGuerrand inside hisinvulnerableglobe.

Thehighdefendercouldfeel the heat against hisskin even through themagical shield and cloak.Still,hewasconfidentthatthe blue flames could notpenetrate his defenses.Within moments theflamesbegantoflickerandfade.Guerrand’s vision wasobscured by the naga’sspell for brief seconds,

timethebeastusedtorushforward,stinger-tippedtailslashing at the wizard.Drawing a small rod fromhis waist belt, Guerrandleaped toward the thing’stail and struck it.Crimsonlight flowed out from therod to encircle the naga,constricting and crushingit.Themonsterthrashedina frenzy and stiffenedmomentarily. But the

unearthlyglowreturnedtoitseyesas it shookoff therod’seffect.The naga screeched its

rage until Guerrandthought his ears wouldburst. It stopped only tostare at him warily,malevolent intelligenceshininginitscrueleyes.I’ll distract it, came the

thought into Guerrand’smind,sothatyoucankillit.

Startled, Guerrandscannedtheroom,spottingZagarus perched atop abookcase against the farleft wall. No, he thought.The naga’s too dangerous,Zag. I can handle it. Gobacktoourquarters.Buttheseagullwasnot

soeasilyputoff.I’msureIcan peck a snake withoutgettinghurt.Zagarusspreadhis wings and launched

himself into a slow glideacrossthevast,openroom.The naga was weavingbackandforth,lookingforanopeningforitspoisonedtail. Zagarus swooped lowacross the creature’s back,slashing at the tiny blue-blackscaleswithhisbeak.Thenaga’showlwasmorepique than pain. Thesnake-thing whipped itsbodyaroundlikeaclubso

quickly that the sea gullwasknockedtothefloor.Dazed by the blow,Zagarus scrambled on thehardtilestogetawayfromthe naga. But he hadhardly moved before astream of smoking ichorsprayed from the naga’smouthandsplashedonthegull’s back. “Kyeow!” Thebird thrashed on the flooras the feathers and flesh

onhis backbubbled awayinsizzlinggobs.“Zag!”Ahorrible,burningpain

seared Guerrand’s spine.He stumbled slightly fromthe shock, but his mindclung tenaciously to themagical formula he wasreciting. In the time themonster had spentresponding to Zagarus’sunsuspected attack,

Guerrand had prepared aspell. Through his and hisfamiliar’s shared pain, herecited the magical wordsbeforethenagacouldturnback to him. The floorbeneath the thing turnedto rippling white liquid.The enormous snake-creature let out anothershriekofshockandpainasthree-fourths of its lengthwasabruptlyrootedtothe

liquid floor. It foughtmadly to tear itself away,butwithoutsuccess.Sensing its doom, the

naga flailed in a berserkfrenzy to break free.Slowly the lastof itsheadsank, screaming, into theswells of the floor. Theporcelain surfaceimmediately returned toits original state, smoothandundisturbed.

Three quick stepsbrought Guerrand towhere Zagarus had fallen.The faithful familiar waslying still, except for hisbreathing.Itdoesn’thurtsobad anymore, came thebird’sthought,laboredandslow. My body is sonumb…Icanhardly…feelanything…Guerrand stroked thegull’sdark, featheredhead

tenderly, his throat thick.I’mnotreadytoreleaseyouasmyfamiliar,Zag.Of course you aren’t,Rand. Zagarus’s thoughtscamehardandbroken,theeffortnearlytoomuch.I’ma hooded, black-backedErgothianseagull—“The most strikinglybeautiful of all seabirds.”With a catch in his voice,Guerrand finished the sea

gull’s favorite descriptionof himself. Zagarus’s darklittle eyes sank shut, andhis labored breathingstopped.Crimsonspearsofpain pierced Guerrand’sbody, twisting upwardthroughhimtoexplode inhis head. For severalunendurable moments hefelt as if he had beenripped in half, front andback,bytalonsofflame.

The mage fell to thefloor. Then the pain fled,leavingonly aheavy acheinitswash.LyingonhissidenexttoZagarus’s still form,Guerrand tasted blood inhis mouth. The death ofhisfamiliarhadcausedtheterriblereactioninhisownbody. Guerrand feltmentally weakened, andknew, too, that Zag’s

passinghaddrainedhimofmagic thathecouldneverregain. Whatever the costto himself, Guerrandthought fiercely, Zag hadbeenworth it.He reachedoutandranafingeralongthe bird’s white-tippedwings,hisebonybackonelast time.Rest well, friend.There was a hollownessinsideGuerrandwhen, forthefirsttimeinmorethan

a decade, there came noechoing response in hishead.Guerrand swallowed hisgrief and struggled to hisfeet. He half walked, halfhobbled to whereDagamier lay near thedoor. Expecting that she,too, would be dead,Guerrandwas surprised tofind her breathing. Thewound in her back was

ugly. The flesh hadblackened and shriveledawayfromthepoison,butthe wound wasn’t terriblydeep.HecalledDagamier’sname while patting hercheeks, but she respondedgroggily, as if drugged.Guerrand recalled thenagas’ glistening bodiesand realized they musthave been armed with aparalytic or sleeping

poison. He brieflyconsideredrunningbacktohis own storeroom for apotion that wouldneutralize the poison,when a noise behind himin thedepthsof thewhitewingmade him turn backtotheportal.But the blazing purple

openingtotheLostCitadelwas gone. Beneath whereit had hovered, a much-

changed Lyim sat upon amarble slab. Ezius wasslumped at his feet,reachingfeeblytowardthereborn mage. BeforeGuerrand could do morethan take in the scene,Lyim gestured with hishands, and the white-robed mage’s headdroppedtothefloor.“Lyim!”Guerrand’s old nemesis

spunaroundwithalookofjoyous anticipation on hisface.“What have you done?”Even as he asked thequestion, Guerrand knewtheanswer.LyimstoodaboveEzius’sbody, smilingmalevolently. His once-solid red robe wasstreaked in shades ofbleached and baked red,

and his jet-black hair wasveined with white. Hisskin,however,wasburnedadeepred,withcreasessodeeptheylookedlikesun-baked cracks. “You can’teven imagine where I’vebeen, or the things I’veseen,Rand.”“Oh, but I can,”

Guerrand said, matchingLyim’s glare. “I, too, sawthe citadel, but I had the

strength to turnback.Thegods will not let yourtrespass go unpunished—for any of us.” Heunconsciously made thewardingsignagainstevil.Lyim’s eyes narrowed.He was silent for a longtime,hishandsquietathissides. Then, unexpectedly,he grinned. It was like aflash of raw light. “Evenafterallthathashappened

between us, I can’t quitebring myself to hate you,Rand.”A nerve leaped inGuerrand’sjaw.“Strange,Ihave no trouble hatingyou.” His brown eyesnarrowed withunconcealed loathing, andheadvancedonLyim.With a quickness thatbelied the pain stillshootingthroughhisbody,

Guerrand launched a spellof petrification, hoping tocapture Lyim by turninghim to stone. Gray dustmaterialized and swirledaroundtherenegademage.Lyim watched it inamusement until, with awave of his hand, hedispelled it. “We bothknow I have always beenthebettermage.”Guerrand bristled under

the taunt. He wanted tounleasheverybitofmagicunder his command, butwas bound by theCouncil’s directive to takeintruders alive to face atribunal.He laced his fingerstogether into a latticewhile shouting, “Dattiva,meshuot, lathreydattivasum!”Thin bars of pure force

sprang from the floor toencircle Lyim. Spreadingoutwardandupward froma single point on Lyim’sleft, they threatened toenclose him. Lyim sprangtoward the opening andleaped through before thecage could close. But thebars were quicker thanhe’d anticipated. Theyclosed on his waist,trapping him partially in

and partially out of thecage.Lyim cast a spell onhimself.Hisbodybegantoswell. His muscles bulgedand his chest expanded,straining against theshimmering bars. Massivehandsgrippedthebarsandpushed, bending themoutward.Thecageofforcetwisted apart and Lyimstepped out, once again

resuming his normal size.But the strain showed onhisface.“All I ever wanted wastohealmyhand,”he saidfiercely,hisbreathalooserattlingsound.“Nomatter the price toothers,” Guerrand saidevenly. He looked at theslumped white-robedmage. “How’d you do it,Lyim?Didyoufeigndeath

in the courtyard, thenovertake poor Ezius onceyouwere inside thewhitewing?”Lyim shrugged his

muscular shoulders.“Never explain, neverdefend, that’s alwaysbeenmymotto.” His smile wasanythingbutapologetic.“We can see how that’s

held you in good stead,”Guerrand said caustically,

“by the success you’vemade of your life. LyimRhistadt, brave slayer ofinnocentwomen,children,andoldmen!”Eyes narrowed, Lyimrolledhisfingers,exposinga sharp-tippedmetal dart.Flicking his wrist, heexpertly fired the barb atGuerrand. The dartshattered Guerrand’sprotective shell with a

loud ping! on its path tothemage’schest.Guerranddodged to the side in thelast heartbeat, and themagical dart’s acid tipcaughtintheflowingrightsleeve of his cloak ofprotection.Guerrand’shatred flaredto new heights. Hereleased the stored-upspell thatwouldmagicallycompel the other mage,

then formally declared,“Your actions have madeyou a renegade, Lyim.Surrender to me and theConclave will fairly judgeyouractions.”“I’d endup likeBelize.”

Lyim’s eyes shifted as hesensed Guerrand’s spell.His anger exploded.“You’ll never control mewith a geas, Rand,particularly to face the

Council. Who are they tojudgemyactions?”“They’re the peerswhose rulings you agreedto uphold when youdeclaredyourallegiancetotheRedRobes.”“Not anymore,” vowedLyim, his bitternessobviousinthepinchedlineof his mouth. “Now thatI’ve spent time in both ared and a white robe, I

mustconfessIfindbothofthem confining.” Hepaused, head tilted inthought. “I have pursuedmagic according to theCouncil’srulesfornearlyadecade,”Lyimsaidslowly,asthoughthetruthofthathad just occurred to him.“Magic, in all itsmachinations, hasconsumed nearly twothirds of my life. And it

has failed me at almosteveryturn.”“You chose your ownpath, Lyim. Everything,”said Guerrand, repeatingLyim’s own words, “is aquestionofchoice.”Lyim’s eyes narrowed,and he seemed about tospeak when the floorshuddered faintly. Thequakingwasweakat first,then it stopped entirely.

Bothmageslookedateachother suspiciously.Momentslaterthequakingreturned, stronger and oflonger duration thanbefore. With the thirdoccurrence, beakers andother glass and ceramiccontainers on Ezius’sshelvesrattled.Lyim reached for themarble slab to steadyhimself. “It’s not me,” he

said, a look of concerncrossing his face for thefirst time since he’demergedfromtheportal.The tremors had grown

so strong that it wasdifficult to stand.Guerrand’s first thoughtwas to check the scryingdiorama for disturbanceson Bastion’s plane. Hestumbled toward thedoorway to the nave,

collapsing to his kneeswhen he reached the spotwhere Dagamier still layunconscious. Looking outinto thenave,hesawthatthequakespassedthroughBastion like a wave,shaking each wing of thebuilding as they passedandreturned.Books crashed off theshelves, followed byglassware. Looking back

toward Ezius’s laboratory,Guerrand saw vials, spellcomponents, scrolls, anduntold other mysticalingredients smashingtogether on the floor. Jarswere exploding on theshelves, sending smokingfragments of glass andpotterythroughtheair.Guerrand was unsurewhether the white wizardwas alive or dead, but

while there was a chanceto save him Guerrandcould not give Ezius up.He dashed back into thewing to save the mage.“No one’s safe in here,Lyim,” Guerrand said tothe wizard. “Help me getEzius and Dagamier intothenave.”Withoutwaitingfor an answer, Guerrandgrabbed Ezius’s robe anddragged the white mage’s

bodytowardthedoorway.Lyim, looking about instunned disbelief, seemedbarely to hear him.“What’s happening,Rand?”Guerrand came to thedoorway and stoppedbriefly. “As I feared, thegods of magic are notletting your trespass intothe Lost Citadel gounpunished. They’re

destroying Bastion. We’vegot to get out into thecourtyard before we’recrushed.”Energized by adrenalin,thehighdefendergrabbedDagamier’s robe with hisfreehandanddraggedheralong with Ezius out intothe nave, away from arapidly building cloud ofvapor that choked thewhite wing. Another

tremor drove thestrugglingGuerrand to hisknees as chunks ofmasonryraineddownfromthe dome roof. With atremendous crash, thescrying chamber collapsedin a boiling cloudof dust.Raysofwhitelightpiercedthe rubble, searingoutward in everydirection. Mercury andsulfur spilled out from

underthepiletodrainintothetinymoat.The trembling now was

continuous, with nodiscernable pattern.Guerrandheardexplosionsin each of the wings.Through the opendoorway,hesawflashesoflightning zigzaggingcrazily about the whitewing.“Come on, Lyim, before

it’stoolate!”Lyim’s response was apiercing scream. Histortured howl rose abovethe tumult, then was lostagaininchaos.Guerrand’sattentionwasdrawn away from Lyim’sfate as swirling shapes,like speeding, mother-of-pearl clouds, formed fromthe magical mortarbetween blocks in the

nave. The choking, dust-filled air there filledquickly with theseenergizedclouds,streakinginfromallthreewingsandswooping around likemalefic birds. Two rushedat Guerrand, eyes blazingand gaping jaws full ofrazor teeth. The dust-streakedmagehadn’t timeto dodge when the firstshape crashed into him.

The entity of coalescedenergy knocked Guerrandsprawlingtothefloorwitha bad gash in his arm.Others surged forwardbehind the first, butGuerrand dived out oftheirwayastheyswoopedpast to smashholes in thedome and knock outmassive sections of wall.The odd, dim light of thecourtyard cut through the

dustyairinslants.The stored magical

energy of a thousandmages was beingunleashedwith instructiontodestroyGuerrandhadtoget the defenders out ofthe stronghold and intothe courtyard, where atleast they would stand achance. Guerrand lookedtoward the apse, atumbled heap of shifting

rubble. The high defendercrouchedbetween the stillforms of the other twosentinels and formed thewords of a spell in hismind. It was a dangerousgamble. Safe teleportationrequired perfectknowledge of thedestination, and Guerrandhad no idea what sort ofchanges might haveoccurred outside from the

devastation. He willedtotal concentration until,onceagain,heexperiencedthe familiar sensation ofmomentaryunreality.Guerrand nearly criedhis reliefwhen he openedhis eyes and saw theshadows of the topiaries,though half of them wereripped out by the roots.Blocksfromthefacadehadfallen here, too, but not

nearly as many as inside.He chanted and motionedagain, and a clear shell,like half of a hollowcrystal orb, formed abovetheirheads. Itgrew intoaperfect semicircle andsealed itself against theground. The shell wasn’thigh enough for Guerrandto do more than sit,particularlywiththeproneforms of Ezius and

Dagamier, but it waswelcome sanctuary.Guerrand turned hisattentiontothewoundsofhisfallencomrades.Four multicolored

shapes, ravenouscreaturesof coalesced smoke andash, dashed themselvesagainst the barrier. Theyslashedandgnawedattheclear surface with talonsandteeththatgrewlonger

as the entities’ furymounted.But the creatures

scatteredwhen theyheardthedomeofthenavecrashdown inside thestronghold. The hammerblow resounded like ahuge bass drum even inthe courtyard. Guerrandwatchedas theentire roofof Bastion collapsed. Tonsupon tons of elemental-

forged stone and masonryrained down inside thewalls and outside uponGuerrand’s protectivesphere. Summoning thevery dregs of his magicalenergy, he strained tomaintain the spell andholduptheshield, fearingthepoundingwouldneverstop.When the last block in

the lastwall fell,Bastion’s

magical essence turnedonitself, as if one last battlebetween the orders ofmagic remained. Themortar fiends sank theirrazor-sharpteethintoeachother inahideous feedingfrenzy until all but oneweredevoured.Inside the protective

shell, Guerrand waited toemergeuntilafterthatlastbloated fiend exploded

from its gorging. Only ahandful of whole redblocksofgraniteremainedin his wing. Numb,Bastion’s high defenderstared at the rubble formany moments. A hollowwind sounded in thedistant corners of thisplane that had known nobreeze. Guerrand raised afeeble, dust- and blood-coveredhandinaspell.

Dimusagistara.Oneoftheblocksjerkedfrom the rubble and roseshakily above the others.His muscles shook fromthe effort, but Guerrandheld the block aloft bysheerdintofwilluntilhisfailing energy couldn’t bedenied.Acknowledgingthefutility of the gesture,Bastion’s high defenderdirected the block to fall

again.Thestrongholdbuiltwith the energy of athousandmages could notberebuiltbyone.

The full Conclave oftwenty-one mages neverfailed to inspire reverenceamong its members. Theygatheredonlyrarelyinthecold and cheerless Hall of

Mages, the vast chamberin the base of Wayreth’ssouth tower. Par-Salian oftheWhite Robes, Head ofthe Conclave of Wizards,sat upon a great carvedthrone in a semicircle ofstone chairs. To his right,as always, sat LaDonna,Mistress of the BlackRobes.Thesixstonechairsnext to her were filledwithwizardsclothedallin

black, their hoods pulledlow over their faces. ToPar-Salian’s left satJustariusoftheRedRobes,hissixredmembersoftheConclave beside him. Theremaining whiterepresentatives finishedthecircle.Never a lighthearted

affair, the gathering thisday was unusually grim.All twenty-one members

were feeling the effects ofthemagicalessencethey’dlost with Bastion’sdestruction. Thestrongholdtheyhadunitedto create was rubble on adistant plane. Bastion hadcollapsed under thewrathfulhandsofthegodsofmagic.Par-Salian spoke fromhis chair in the center ofthe dais. “Fellow mages,”

thevenerablewhite-hairedwizard said, “we gatheragain under darkcircumstances. However, Isubmit to you that whileBastion was destroyed, itdidnotfail.”Par-Salian’sannouncement fell likedrops of water into a stillpond, causing ripples ofmovement and soundthrough the vast and

shadowedchamber.“We—not just the

guardians, but all twenty-one of us—failed Bastionand the mages werepresent.”Par-Salian’s icyblue gaze swept over thewizards on either side ofhim.The heads of the three

defenders of Bastion—Guerrand of the RedRobes, Dagamier of the

Black Robes, and Ezius ofthe White Robes—dippednoticeably lower. Notingthat, Par-Salian held up apale, wrinkled hand tosilence the restlessgathering.“Bastion’s collapse was

caused not byincompetence,” heinsisted, his voice sharp,“but by arrogance.” Therewere more angry

murmurs,andanumberofthe Black Robes threwback their hoods andraised up in their stoneseats. Sadness wasreflected in the faces ofmostoftheredandwhite-robedmages.“I would finish!” Par-

Salian snapped. His angerrolledaround thehall likethunder. After a moment,the Black Robes

reluctantly dropped backin their seats, stillfrowning. “This fractiousmeeting proves my point.Allofushadmoreprideinour orders than in thething that unites us: ourArt. Magic is our firstloyalty,nomatterwhoweserve or what color robeswewear.”Hiswhite headshookruefully.“Weforgotthat when designing

Bastion in three distinctand separate wings.” Thehead of the Conclave wasdisruptedanewbyvoices.Dark-haired LaDonnarose from her seat andwaved an arm like anominous raven’s wing.“Silence!”Theheadof theblack order spoke soseldom during theConclave that everyonefell quiet in surprise.

LaDonna’s black eyespiercedthoseofherorder.“WeBlackRobeswere thegreatest culprits in this,”shesaidbitterly.“Ourownwing was a model ofdisunity. While thatreflects our natures, itworked in opposition tothepurposeofBastion.”“We share the blameequally,” insistedJustarius, with a firm

shake of his salt-and-pepperhead.“Andfromitshallwelearnequally.”“Thatisthepointofthis

Conclave,” Par-Salianinterruptedwitharelievedsigh.“ItwasnotenoughtogiveapartofourmagictoBastion’s mortar.” Par-Salianpauseddeliberately,lettinghiswordspenetratethe disparatetemperaments of the

Conclave.Then, very slowly, the

HeadoftheConclaveletahopeful smile spreadacross his lined face, toencourage the healing ofKrynn’swizards.“Allisnotlost, brother mages,” hesaid at length. “TheCouncil of Three hasdecidedtorebuildBastion.This time, however, itshall truly represent the

cooperative effort of allthreeordersofmagic.Onestructure designed by allthree, inhabited by arepresentativeof all three.Next to the entry of ourfailure, Astinus thehistorianwillrecordanewspirit of cooperationbetweenourorders.”A silence descended

while the Conclaveabsorbedthedecree.

“Are you seeking newcandidates for thedefenderpositions?”askeda member of the RedRobes.Justarius cleared histhroat. “I can’t speak forthe white and blackorders,but—”“If it pleases theCouncil,” Ezius of theWhite Robes saidanxiously,“Iwouldliketo

keep the post I have heldsince Bastion was firstraised.”Hetouchedahandto his bandaged head.“Thesewill be off shortly,and I’m told I’ll be fullyrecovered.”“Duly noted,” said Par-Salianwithanod.“As for the RedRobes…”Justariusturnedhis thick, raised eyebrowsto face Bastion’s high

defender. “What say you,GuerrandDiThon?”Guerrand stood self-

consciously and bowed tothe Conclave as customdictated.Hespokewithoutguilt or guile. “Acting asBastion’s high defenderhas been the greatestexperience and honor ofmy life,” he said. “That iswhy Imust relinquish theposition. There is another

more deserving anddesirous of the post.” Hisgaze crossed the room tothe young mage of theBlack Robes. Dagamier’sface spread intoagratefulsmile that few thererecalled ever having seenfromher.Justariusleanedforward

inhischair,wincingatthepressure on his game leg.“Youwould not be saying

this out of a feeling offailure?”“No, Justarius.”

Guerrand’s denial wasgenuine. “You have mademe see the error of thatthinking.Intruth,Ibelievemy magical skills areneeded more in myhomeland.” He bowed hishead in respect. “Ofcourse, I submitmyself tothe will of the Council of

Threeinthisdecision.”The Council briefly

conferredquietly.Allthreeheads nodded as theyleaned apart. “Yourrequest to be replaced isapproved,” announcedJustarius.LaDonna’sgazefellupon

Dagamier, though shespoke to Guerrand. “Yoursuggestionforreplacementis well taken, but it

requires furtherdiscussion.” The youngwizardess’s head bowedrespectfullytothemistressofherorder.“What of the renegadewho set in motion thedestruction of Bastion?”demanded a black wizardfrom the depths of hisdrawnhood.“LyimRhistadt isdead,”exclaimed Ezius of the

White Robes. “No onecould have survived thedestruction insideBastion.”“No body was found,”Dagamier pointed outsoftly.Par-Salian frowned. “Ifhe is alive, Lyim Rhistadtwill be dealt with in themanner of all renegades.”The head of the Conclavepushedhimselfupfromhis

stone throne.“This specialConclaveisadjourned.Wewill gather again at theusual time in a fortnight,when Solinari is in HighSanction. Until then, Icounselyoualltoconsideryour part in theconstruction of the newBastion.”The Council of Three

stayed behind while theWhiteRobes filedout first

according tocustom.TheywerefollowedbytheBlackRobes, in deference toLaDonna’s secondary seaton the Council of Three.Justarius’sRedRobeswerethe last to vacate theirseats among the darkshadows of the Hall ofMages.It had also become

customamongtheCouncilof Three to conclude each

Conclave with a reflectivebottle of elven wine.Justarius did the honorsthis time, producing fromthin air a dusty redbottleand three delicate crystalgoblets.Par-Salian swirled the

rosy liquid in his glass,thensippedgingerlyattherim. Just as he liked it:dry. “Lyim Rhistadt doespresent a dilemma,” he

saidalmostwithoutvoice.LaDonna lifted aplucked black brow,slenderfingerstwirlingthefragile stem of her glass.“Thatdependsonwhetheryoufeelcompelledtoobeytheletterofourlaws.”The wine was too acridforJustarius’staste.Hesetthe goblet down after onesip.“IagreewithLaDonnain this,Par-Salian. Ifhe is

alive, Lyim is toodangerous to round up inthe usual manner fortribunal. We all knowwhat must be done toinsure the survival of ourArt.”Par-Salian bowed hisbalding pate briefly. “Thesurvival of magic alonemust guide our actions,”he agreed. “Very well,then.” The Head of the

Conclave swallowed thelast of his ruby winebefore waving a white-robed arm. Three heavilycloaked figures appearedfromtheshadows.Thoughthe colors of their robesidentified their differentmagical orders, they heldone thing in common: theassassin’s scimitars slungacrosstheirbacks.

AbouttheAuthor

Having earned a bachelor of artsdegree in English from LawrenceUniversity in 1981, Mary Kirchoffwent from Dante to dragonsimmediatelyafterward(somewouldsay there’s not much difference).Sincewritingthestory“FindingtheFaith” for the first Tales anthologyin1987,shehaswrittenextensively

in the wonderfully fertileDRAGONLANCE®world.Herworksin that series include Kendermore,Flint, theKing (withDouglasNiles),Wanderlust (with Steven Winter),andTheBlackWing.PreviouslytheheadofTSR’sbookdepartment, she now lives andwritesfull-timeinaruralWisconsinvillage. Her active young sons,crazedIrishSetters,andperpetuallyrenovated Victorian home provideample and welcome distractions.

She credits her imagination tocaffeine.

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