The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Guerrand frowned. “Then this is one time when I’ve got to learn the reason for the memory. I’m certain there’s some additional lesson I’m supposed to take from it. What if I miss it?”

  “You’ll miss the rest of your life,” returned Esme, “if you keep agonizing over this.” She strapped her pouch on over her red robe and sensible trousers, preparing to leave.

  Nodding in concession, Guerrand followed the young woman out the door, to where giants and golems worked among mages to make history.

  Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea

  Five years later …

  Gritting his teeth, Guerrand stretched out his left arm, straining until he thought his shoulder would pop from the socket. It was no use; the juiciest, orange-red rose hips were still a handspan beyond his reach. He would simply have to plow his way through the thorny wild rosebushes that grew on the banks of the Straits of Schallsea. Resigning himself to ruining his homespun red robe, yet thankful for the protection it offered, he held high his small wooden gathering basket and plunged ahead. His sights were locked on his quarry, highlighted against the bright blue of the nearby straits.

  Guerrand stopped abruptly and asked himself, What am I thinking? He shook his head, graying now at the temples because of his Test at the tower, though he was still shy of thirty years. Stealing a glance around, the mage assured himself he was alone on this stretch of heath several rods west of Harrowdown. It was not fear of persecution that made him think twice about casting the simple cantrip that would pluck and carry to him the nutrient-rich fruit from which wild rose petals bloomed. Quite the contrary. The villagers had grown used to—almost complacent about—his magical abilities.

  He had grown five years older since the day he and Esme had stopped for the night at the Settle Inn in the small, run-down village of Harrowdown, between Hamlton and Restglen in Southlund, the southernmost province of Solamnia. They had chosen it simply because the inn was nearby at the precise moment their legs would move no farther.

  The couple had been wandering northward from the forests near Skullcap without real purpose for more than a fortnight after the building of Bastion was completed, vaguely intending to make their way to mage-friendly Palanthas. Their wanderings had taken them through Abanasinia, a territory decidedly unfriendly toward mages, which was why they were so exhausted. The struggle to keep from getting lynched by barbarian plainsmen or pirates had taken its toll, just as life had taken its toll on his relationship with Esme.

  Guerrand chased the unexpected and unpleasant memory of lost love from his thoughts, as always. There were too many happy moments with her to recall. He focused his thoughts on the task at hand. The rose hips that he would use and sell for a soothing tea were steadily filling his basket when Guerrand heard the loud squawk of his familiar.

  “Kyeow!” Zagarus’s white wings lowered him from the cerulean sky to a dark branch of a spreading cypress tree. There you are, Rand! I have a message for you from Dorigar.

  Guerrand looked up from the thorny bushes to the large sea gull. Guerrand had conjured his familiar more than a decade before, in what was perhaps his first successful attempt to wield magic. Zag’s head was brown-black in a diagonal from the base of his small skull to his throat. His entire underside was yellow-white. Edged with a sliver of white, his wings and back were once as black as onyx. There was no doubt about it; Zag was getting old. The intense coloration of his feathers was duller than it once was; and his yellow legs shambled more than walked now.

  “You were no more than three rods away, near enough to speak with me,” Guerrand remarked, referring to the mental link that allowed masters and familiars to communicate even over distance. “I’m surprised you left the comfort of your nest at the cottage,” he gibed gently. Settling into the late autumn of his life, the gull was less inclined to fly these days.

  Zagarus looked at him with one eye closed. I thought I might find some food while I was about.

  Guerrand snorted. “I should have guessed. What’s the message?”

  Message? Oh, yes. There’s some creature Dorigar calls a sylph waiting for you with a scroll from Justarius. She won’t give it to anyone but you. An odd-looking little thing, if you ask me. Wings like spiderwebs. I don’t know how she can handle a head wind with them.

  “Justarius!” cried Guerrand, extricating himself from the tangle of rosebushes. “Why didn’t you say so?” He hooked the handle of the basket over his shoulder, hiked up the hem of his robes, and broke into a run.

  Watching him flee, Zagarus muttered, I thought I did say so. Despite clouding vision, the wily old bird spied a fish leaping in the nearby straits and closed on it, Guerrand forgotten.

  Instead of following the curving dirt path along the shore, the mage took a shortcut on the balk, the turf left unplowed between the rows of Jeb Sanbreeden’s field of maize. The rich green leaves rifled Guerrand’s shoulders and fluttered like a wave on the sea breeze of the late-Sirrimont day. Strange, he thought, that after five years he still thought in terms of the Ergothian calendar, instead of the Solamnic one the locals used.

  Five years … Guerrand could scarcely believe so much time had passed since his and Esme’s first night in Harrowdown, when Seth, the outgoing innkeeper, had recognized their calling and offered to hire the two mages for short-term work. Though Guerrand had found the man a bit unsettling, Esme had thought the respite the small village offered would do them good while they determined a direction for their lives.

  They settled into a cottage on the edge of the village. Initially fearful of displaying their calling, little by little Guerrand and Esme let their skills be known. The people of Harrowdown immediately saw the good that could come from magic. The village and its people flourished. Months turned into two idyllic years for Guerrand.

  He was not even aware that Esme had begun to find their life mundane until news reached them that Esme’s father, farther north in Fangoth, was ill. Guerrand was equally surprised to hear that she was ready to return to her father and face the shadows of her past.

  “You’re hiding out here in Harrowdown,” she accused him when he’d declined the offer to join her. “This was supposed to be a transition in our lives, not our final destination.”

  “I’m needed here now,” Guerrand remembered responding defensively, “but I don’t intend to live in Harrowdown forever.”

  “Your family in Ergoth, this dream you have of your Test and jumping from the tower as Rannoch …” She’d shook her head sadly. “You’ll be here until you stop letting your past haunt you,” she’d pronounced. Then, kissing him tenderly, bittersweetly, she’d wished him luck and exited his life with the same independent and determined spirit she’d exhibited on the day she’d entered it, in the hills surrounding Palanthas. He’d spent the last three years trying to fill the emptiness she’d left in him by helping the villagers of Harrowdown. Some days were better than others.

  The field gave way to the first of the small buildings in Harrowdown, and Guerrand was reminded again how much the village had changed since their arrival. Timber-framed and of wattle-and-daub construction, the homes and businesses of the small village were neat, clean, and newly thatched. Guerrand remembered how run-down they’d looked when he’d first arrived; many had half rotted away, offering little more than a windbreak in winter and a place for rats and other vermin to find food in the warmth of summer. Life in Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea had certainly changed since a wizard had come to town.

  “ ’Scuze me, Your Honor,” said a stout woman in a well-patched apron, rosy jowls bouncing as she tried to match Guerrand’s stride. “Just wanted to tell you them herbs you give me for Cowslip done brought the milk down again.”

  “Yes, well, I’m glad, Agnus. If you or your cow need anything else, just stop by the shop.” Guerrand remembered the woman and her cow’s malady, and he knew that if he allowed her to engage him in conversation for even a moment, he would be trapped for hours. The mage forced the pace of his stride until he left the wom
an panting before the huge, slowly turning waterwheel that marked the miller’s shop.

  Rounding the corner, Guerrand’s glance fell upon two children on the green playing a placid game of mumblety-peg with dull trowels. He smiled and waved at their mother who was nearby, shooing chickens from the lettuce and onions in the small, burgeoning croft next to their house; she waved happily back. Wilery had come to him a fortnight before, haggard and pale, complaining that her children’s wayward behavior was more than she could bear. A pinch of marjoram added to their daily milk had apparently calmed them considerably and put color in their mother’s cheeks again.

  Guerrand hastened past the Settle Inn. Seth, the scrawny innkeeper, spotted him through the open door and hurried out to the steps. “Stuffed that white chicken with wild onion and boiled him for soup,” said Seth. “My luck turned around, just as you said it would!”

  “I’ll bet it made a delicious broth, too,” Guerrand said kindly without stopping. A corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. Seth was an odd one, all right. Somewhere he’d come up with the notion that the lone, snow-white hen in his coop glared at him every time he came to collect eggs. Stranger still, Seth was certain the hen was angry at him for taking her eggs. Guerrand knew that he wouldn’t change the man’s mind, so he gave Seth the idea to stuff the bird. A chicken’s life was short in the best of times.

  The mage reached the eastern edge of town at last. His eyes fell upon his own modest, thatched home with a sense of pride many would have found surprising had they known he was raised in a castle. In fairness, he had to credit Esme and Dorigar for its simple beauty. She had insisted on the window boxes that adorned every opening, and he had faithfully replanted them every spring since she’d left. He’d long since given up hope of her return. Still, to leave them fallow would have reminded him too painfully of the void she had left in his heart.

  The garden of annuals and perennials was the domain of Dorigar and the envy of every woman in Harrowdown. Hardier crops like parsley and carrots, protected by thick piles of dried oak leaves, were harvested even in the dead of winter. In summer, the garden had a tumbledown, overgrown look that was at once inviting and overwhelming. Bees buzzed around the fist-sized clumps of crimson bee balm, then flew back to their hive, where he and Dorigar regularly extracted the fruit of their labor.

  Chickens scattered, and one of Guerrand’s two pigs skittered from his path and into Dorigar’s garden. The mage surveyed the grounds from the stoop of his small home to the smaller drying shed, but saw no sign of a waiting sylph. He hastened through the heavy wooden door and into the house. Guerrand squinted while his eyes adjusted. A small fire smoldered in the hearth, the smoke rising through a hole cut in the thatched roof. A kettle of water whistled softly. His assistant was nowhere to be seen on the first floor.

  Guerrand knew that Dorigar’s love of naps was second only to his love of gardening. The mage set his basket of rose hips on the plank table and scrambled up the narrow, makeshift ladder to the sleeping loft. The feather tick lay upon new hay just as he’d left it this morning. Frowning, he pressed his feet to the outside rails of the ladder and slipped back to the dirt floor.

  “Where could Dorigar and this sylph be?” he muttered aloud. Standing stock-still, he cocked his head toward an open window and could vaguely hear his assistant’s prattle coming from behind the cottage. Guerrand bounded out the door again, blinking against the bright sunlight as he raced around the house.

  He found Dorigar in the sunlit herb garden, chattering wildly at a most unusual-looking creature.

  “Youreallyshouldnteatchervilyouknow. Wereshortonit. BesidesImnotquitesurewhatitwilldotoasylph. CouldgrowwartsforallIknow.”

  Dorigar, being a gnome, was more than a little unusual-looking himself, thought Guerrand. His skin was as brown as aged wood. Vibrant violet eyes, a bulbous nose, and strong white teeth poked through the mussed and curling hair that otherwise obscured his face. His clothing sense made Guerrand’s coarse red robe seem like the height of fashion. His favorite, and current, ensemble consisted of an orange-and-green pair of trousers woven with the stripes running horizontally and worn with the pockets pulled out, and a soiled yellow tunic under a hot, brown leather vest, heavily stained with vegetable dyes. Tools and notebooks and other gizmos dangled from all manner of straps and handles attached to his stocky three-foot frame.

  Guerrand chuckled at the odd little gnome, then turned his attention to the reason for his return to the cottage. His breath instantly caught in his throat at the sylph’s fragile beauty. She appeared as a small, extremely slender and sinuous human woman in a diaphanous gown through which jutted enormous dragonfly wings. They were the most vibrant iridescent purple-green, and veined like a dried leaf. Her hair reminded him of vaguely ordered seaweed, woven with delicate meadow flowers and variegated vines.

  Guerrand stepped forward. “Thank you, Dorigar. I’m here now and can take the message myself.”

  “Wellitsabouttime,” huffed Dorigar. “Ithoughtshemighteatmyentirecropbeforeyouarrived.”

  As the annoyed and colorful gnome stomped past Guerrand, the mage patted his assistant on the back good-naturedly. “Don’t forget to take your medicine,” he advised.

  “AllrightbutIdontseethatitchangesanything,” said Dorigar, blowing out an exasperated breath that fanned his frizzy hair, briefly exposing his frowning face. “Ifyouaskmeyoushouldtaketheherbstospeedupyourears.” Dorigar continued to mutter to himself as he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

  The sylph calmly continued to pluck the soft green chervil leaves, either unable or unwilling to understand the fast-speaking gnome. Guerrand had to clear his throat several times before the enchanting creature looked up, strings of chervil hanging from her mouth. “You have a message for me?” he asked.

  Wings fluttering to lift her several feet above the garden, the sylph approached Guerrand. She looked him over, then shrugged, as if she found him wanting. The sylph reached delicate, marble-pale fingers into her revealing little robe, extracted a delicate parchment scroll bound with a pressed dollop of beeswax, and held it toward him.

  Guerrand turned the scroll over and recognized the crescent-moon-in-a-cup imprint in the wax from a ring Justarius wore. “How did you come by this?”

  Her voice was as lilting and evanescent as the wind. “I am returning a favor to Justarius.” With that, she lifted her wings, as fine as spiderwebs, and slipped away like mist into the thick canopy of trees beyond the rectangular herb garden.

  “Wait!” Guerrand cried, knowing as he did that the elusive creature would wait for no one. He looked again at the scroll, tapping it thoughtfully as he went back inside the homey cottage. Now that he had the missive in his hands, Guerrand was more puzzled than ever. What did Justarius want with him after so many silent years?

  He set the scroll on the table. Dropping a handful of the rose hips into a mug, the mage covered them with hot water from the simmering kettle in the hearth. He sipped the brew unsteeped, staring at the scroll pensively.

  Aren’t you going to open it?

  Guerrand’s head shot up, and his gaze went to the open window. He hadn’t even heard Zagarus’s return. He set the mug down and looked into the flames. “Eventually.”

  You’re afraid.

  Scowling, Guerrand snatched up the scroll and broke the wax seal with a flick of his thumbnail. The curled parchment tumbled open. Guerrand blinked in confusion when he saw only an intricate, symmetrical pattern inked there. He had been expecting words, not magical symbols. These symbols meant nothing to him, although they stirred a distant memory.

  The star-shaped mosaic pattern in the summer dining room of Villa Rosad … These symbols reminded Guerrand of the configurations of colorful tiles Justarius required all of his apprentices to memorize through visualization to heighten their awareness of magical patterns.

  What does Justarius have to say? asked Zagarus.

  “That’s going to take me a few minutes to figure out.” G
uerrand moved the clutter of spellbooks, notes, and pots of dried and fermented components to the floor. He lit his biggest tallow candle, as thick and long as his forearm, and used it to pin the top of the curling scroll to the coarsely planed table. Staring at the odd symbols, he racked his brain to recall the key to Justarius’s tile exercise. He’d conjured few spells more complicated than cantrips for a long time, and he’d had no need to create his own as Justarius had taught him. He was simply out of practice.

  Guerrand’s eyes were dry and red from smoke, and the candle had burned by half before he began to make sense of the missive. The spiral pattern was far more complex than it had appeared at first, consisting of not one but eight intertwined paths. Woven through the spirals was a series of recurring symbols, elongated ovoids, that repeated an intricate pattern.

  He leaned back in the stool and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Outside the open window was darkness. Guerrand wrapped a hand around the mug of his long-forgotten tea; it was well past cold.

  If it’s proving so difficult, why don’t you just get rid of the note? The gull was settled in his nest in the far corner of the room, his small eyes closed.

  Guerrand sat motionless for several moments. Abruptly he jumped to his feet and kicked back his stool, sending it crashing to the dirt floor. “Perhaps you’re right, Zag.” With that, Guerrand snatched up the scroll on his way to the open hearth and tossed the odd message into the flames.

  Zagarus’s beady orbs popped open in surprise as his master then jumped back behind the meager protection of the table and watched the missive burn. Smoke from the scroll roiled out of the hearth and formed the face of the Master of the Red Robes, Justarius, in a wavering, gray image. Excited, Guerrand came around the table to face the foggy image.