The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  “Bastion sounds like a wondrous place,” sighed Lyim. “One I’m destined never to see.”

  Esme smiled distantly in fond memory. “It is a wondrous place, made of the most pure and perfect red granite mined from the Kharolis Mountains.” She strode to a recessed shelf and took from a triangular pedestal a palm-sized red and creamy pink-veined ball from among the bric-a-brac there. “I pocketed this from among the scraps at the site as a souvenir. A local sculptor fashioned it to look like a miniature Lunitari.”

  Lyim laid his hand to the cold, polished stone. “It’s flawless,” he breathed in wonder. Abruptly, he set it back down and stood. “I’m sorry, Esme. It appears I’ve disturbed you for nothing.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Esme said generously. “I’d forgotten how … entertaining you could be, Lyim. Please stay long enough for me to offer you some repast.”

  Lyim hesitated, swallowing a pleased smile. “It was a long trip.”

  She headed for the door and placed her hand on the knob. “Just give me a few minutes to prepare something.” Lyim nodded his consent, a smile still pulling up his lips as Esme slipped from the room.

  The door clicked shut, and the mage nearly swooned with delight over his good fortune. He would get everything he’d come for and a meal with the beautiful woman he’d always desired.

  He had to move quickly, though. Lyim began muttering an incantation. Wisps of dark material emerged from the air around him, which he plucked and gathered into a ball. As long as he chanted, the wisps appeared, until he had collected a lump of sufficient size. His refrain then changed, becoming less rhythmic. The ball of material hovered in the air as Lyim’s hand wove around it, shaping it without touching it. Wisps separated from the ball to curl around Esme’s moon globe, then dart back to their starting places. The orb pulsated as if alive as it shifted and formed itself.

  And then it was done. The red globe of granite dropped into Lyim’s hand, pleasantly small but weighty. He compared the two; the match was perfect. Lyim placed his creation in the triangular holder on the shelf and concealed the original among the thick folds of his robe. The facsimile would not last forever, but it would certainly endure long enough to get Lyim away from Fangoth with the real globe of granite that would help him locate Bastion, and that was all he wanted. For now, anyway.

  Guerrand rubbed his eyes, which were red from staring, and glanced at the time glass on the small table behind him: only half the sand had sifted from the top to the bottom beaker. The mage let out a small sigh. He had half a shift to serve yet in the scrying sphere. Why was the time passing so slowly today?

  The muscles in Guerrand’s shoulders were knotted into thick cords. His stomach growled unrelentingly. The high defender’s temples throbbed from the strain of concentrating on the model of Bastion and its perimeter.

  Usually a patient man, Guerrand could hardly wait until Dagamier came to replace him in the sphere. He knew exactly what he would do then: pour an entire flask of restorative rosemary oil into the warmed wading pool in the seascape room. While the hot water covered him to the waist, cool air would fan his chest soothingly. Then he would open a bottle of green Ergothian wine, his own brew aptly named for both its color and flavor. Nibbling sweet biscuits, Guerrand would drink just enough wine to ease the stress from his back.

  Imagining it erased one furrow from Guerrand’s brow. He blinked; his sight wavered briefly before settling again upon the model on the table beneath him. It really was a marvel, this magically imbued diorama of Bastion. It resembled an architect’s rendering of a city. Guerrand had seen such a diagram back in Thonvil, a rotting and dusty wood-and-stone model made by Castle DiThon’s original architect.

  The similarity ended there, however. Bastion’s diorama was aglow with minerals and magic. In the middle of a curved table covered by clear glass, the stronghold’s three wings were represented in the model by resonating crystal that continuously hummed softly. The wings were surrounded by the courtyard, whose topiaries and statues were carved of emerald. Beyond the small fence that enclosed the model’s courtyard was a ring of crystalline sulfur attuned to the area patrolled by the hell hounds. Encircling the sulfur was a wide band of quicksilver, a literal representation of the vast mercury moat that was the final border of this demiplane of shadow. The outermost edges of the diorama were shrouded in ever-roiling gray mists that represented the Ethereal Plane, which abutted Bastion’s demiplane.

  Though the defender who watched the diorama was unable to see into the Ethereal, any disturbances in this demiplane of shadow would be evidenced on the model in the scrying room. Trouble in the courtyard would make the emerald topiaries wink light and dark; disturbances among the hell hounds would illuminate the yellow sulfur. Guerrand, Dagamier, and Ezius watched in neverending rotation for such an event.

  Though time in the usual sense had no meaning at Bastion, a defender’s turn in the scrying sphere was kept to a short period predetermined by a sand-filled glass. The defender sat on a hard, wooden chair, intentionally uncomfortable to discourage dozing in the column’s silence. The only source of light was the diorama itself, which naturally drew the occupant’s attention in the otherwise dark sphere.

  As a rule, Guerrand looked slightly beyond the model, letting his gaze take in the whole image, rather than study one specific area at a time. The advantage was that any change in the replica would immediately catch his attention. The technique also lent itself to vacant staring.

  A faint, popping splash sounded in the small column. Guerrand watched the model intently. He heard splashing again, and a flicker of motion caught the mage’s eye. Guerrand spotted the disturbance on the farthest edge of the outer ring of mercury. A bubble formed out of the shiny liquid, growing slowly until it popped. Then a series of bubbles appeared and burst in rapid succession. Each time the rings left by the bubble receded rapidly into the Ethereal. Something was trying unsuccessfully to enter the quicksilver.

  In the year Guerrand had stood watch no intruder had entered Bastion’s demiplane. He could scarcely credit the bubbling mercury, but he swallowed his disbelief and set about his duty as high defender. Guerrand drew a crystal lens from a cupboard beneath the model table and peered at the bubbles. The sole purpose of the lens was to reveal glitches in the magical diorama. The bubbling mercury was clearly seen through the lens.

  There could be no question now—someone or something was trespassing upon the demiplane’s boundary. The intrusion could be caused by anything, from a real attack against Bastion to a wayward xorn that had lost its direction in the interstices between the planes.

  Following the established but never-used routine for such an occurrence, Guerrand consulted a schematic of the planes that bordered Bastion’s demiplane. In the ether that abutted the mercury moat, a powerful magical creature known as a ki-rin watched for intruders. The Council of Three had employed the ki-rin for this purpose because of the creature’s lawful nature and ability to read the mind of any living thing through telepathy.

  Guerrand unstoppered a beaker of clear alcohol and poured the liquid into a very shallow bowl carved into the lower right corner of the model table. The bitter smell of the volatile liquid filled the room. As the surface ripples died away, an image of the ki-rin appeared.

  Vaguely horselike in appearance though bulkier, the ki-rin’s forehead was adorned with a unicorn’s horn. Luminous golden scales covered its torso, though its tail and mane were hair. The ki-rin had eyes the oddest shade of violet. Despite its disturbing appearance, the ki-rin radiated an aura of beneficence.

  A human wanders the Ethereal, announced the ki-rin, its melodious voice echoing inside Guerrand’s head.

  “A human,” Guerrand repeated. “What does this person look like?”

  The Ethereal is vast, and even I cannot see everywhere at once. However, I have read the creature’s mind. The ki-rin paused, head tilted. This human seeks Bastion and you, Guerrand DiThon.

  Guerrand started. Who but Maladorigar a
nd the Council of Three knew he was here? The gnome couldn’t possibly have found his way to the outer edges of Bastion. Only a mage could have made that journey. Could Justarius have told Esme of his position?

  My instructions are to slay intruders, said the ki-rin.

  “Wait,” Guerrand commanded. “Continue monitoring the person’s movements,” he told the ki-rin. “Prevent the intruder from penetrating the demiplane, but do nothing else without my direction.”

  Guerrand spun away from the diorama and searched the shelves that surrounded the sphere’s door. They contained components for spells, as well as other magical devices that allowed passage through each of the uninhabitable protective spheres around Bastion. Guerrand sought the oil that would permit him to travel through mercury and observe the intruder at a safe distance.

  He spotted the appropriate label on a cobalt-blue bottle. Pouring the oil into his palm, he spread it over his skin and clothing like lotion. He felt his consciousness separate from his physical body, like the yoke from the white of an egg. He could think and see as usual, but he felt weightless. Guerrand looked down at his arms and hands and saw both his body and its dark reflection. His physical self would remain in the scrying sphere, while his conscious shadow would explore the lightless ring of mercury.

  Guerrand rested dark, flat palms upon the lefthand portion of the diorama’s mercury border and intoned the magical words, “Illethessius umbra intentradolum.”

  Guerrand slipped like fog into a sea of warm, dark quicksilver. It enveloped him, rolled over his shadow form in thick, heavy waves. He was as buoyant as a bubble, though without its delicate nature. As shadow, he saw in the darkness of the mercury as people see in light. He stretched his dark, shadow-flat arms and swam toward the distant grayness of the Ethereal Plane.

  Guerrand was stopped at the farthest edge of the mercury moat by the defenses of the demiplane and could not see into the Ethereal.

  Ki-rin, he called telepathically, bobbing in the sea of mercury.

  Yes, high defender, the guardian creature responded.

  Open a window to your plane so that I can see who seeks me.

  As instructed, a curtain of gray slowly parted.

  Standing in the mists of the Ethereal Plane was a red-robed mage Guerrand knew well. “Lyim Rhistadt,” he hissed.

  Lyim heard his old friend’s voice, and he spun around to face the wall of black mercury. His snake arm hissed at the sudden movement. Lyim unconsciously cursed the vile creature.

  Squinting into the darkness of the quicksilver he said, “Rand, is that you? I’ve been sending message after magical message to you, but I was beginning to think I’d never draw your notice.”

  “You drew it,” Guerrand said grimly. “You must have stepped briefly from the Ethereal into the mercury, because you set off the alarms in Bastion. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, of course,” said Lyim, trying to sound jocular. “You might at least say hello, after my extraordinary efforts to find you.”

  When Guerrand said nothing, Lyim frowned. “Can’t you make yourself visible? I feel foolish talking to a black sea.”

  Consisting now only of shadow, Guerrand could not rise above the mercury. So instead he formed the mercury to himself and pressed upward slightly against the surface, forming a slight, three-dimensional image of his face on the smooth, silvery stream.

  “How did you determine the location of Bastion’s plane?” Guerrand demanded. “It’s a well-guarded secret.”

  “I had a piece of the exact red granite used for its walls and a visual memory of you to home in on. That spell brought me as far as this border, but I’ve been unable to get any closer.”

  “Bastion’s defenses are far too powerful,” said Guerrand proudly. “A ki-rin was moments from slaying you as it was.” His mercury-delineated eyes squinted suspiciously. “Where did you find the granite?”

  “Come on, Rand,” Lyim said evasively, “you know I’m a resourceful guy.”

  “I also know you’re not one to go through all this trouble just to chat with an old friend,” Guerrand said evenly.

  Despite his annoyed tone, Guerrand’s silvery face showed conflicting emotions. Lyim believed he also saw a measure of warmth.

  “You know me too well, Rand, so I’ll not mince words,” said Lyim. “I need a favor that only you can grant me. I’ve learned through painstaking research that in order to restore my hand I must recreate the portal to the Lost Citadel Belize constructed on Stonecliff. Bastion is the only place left where that’s possible.” Lyim paused for effect. “Bring me into Bastion, Rand, and we can work together to restore my hand.”

  “I can’t do that,” Guerrand responded softly, but without hesitation. “I can’t let anyone into Bastion.”

  “Don’t answer so quickly,” said Lyim. “Just think about it.”

  “I’m sorry, Lyim,” said Guerrand, “but there’s nothing to think about. I took an oath to prevent anyone from entering Bastion.”

  “I don’t ask this lightly,” growled Lyim. “Believe me when I say that I’ve literally been to the ends of Krynn trying to get my hand back.”

  “And I don’t refuse you lightly,” said Guerrand. “No one would like to help you more. But you of all people understand what it is to be a mage, to pledge your life to magic and magic alone. I strengthened that pledge when I took the position of high defender. To violate that vow, here at the final stronghold before the Lost Citadel, would betray all magic and all mages—everything that I stand for. I can’t do it, even for you, Lyim.”

  Lyim regarded the profile in the gray-black wall with an uncontrollable sneer. “You were my last remaining hope, Rand.”

  “Have you petitioned the Council for entrance?”

  “Those three help no one but themselves,” snapped Lyim. “Your master promised to find a cure for my hand.” He held up his mutated right limb; the snake sputtered and hissed above his head. “You can see the result of his promise at the end of my arm. Justarius knew there was only one cure for my hand. If he had been willing to let me recreate the portal to the Lost Citadel, he would have suggested it himself.”

  “Perhaps they’ll make an exception to their rule, considering your heroism at Stonecliff,” Guerrand suggested. “I’d be willing to petition them on your behalf.”

  Lyim could see the pity in Guerrand’s silvery face, could hear it in his tone. It angered him more than Guerrand’s refusal to let him into the stronghold. “A supreme sacrifice, I’m sure, from the man whose life and family I saved.”

  Lyim exploded in helpless, caustic laughter. “It occurs to me that once again I play the fool in this friendship. I thought you were the one person who wouldn’t let me down, if only out of a guilty sense of debt.” Lyim’s hysterical laughter hiccuped to an angry sob. “Seems your ambition is greater than your guilt these days.”

  “This isn’t about such transitory things,” Guerrand said coldly. “My position has taught me that Bastion’s purpose is far more important than one man’s guilt—or another’s hand. It’s about the survival of magic, of life. I won’t make a choice that puts that in jeopardy.”

  “Everything is a question of choice.”

  “Petition the Council,” Guerrand urged more strongly.

  But Lyim scarcely heard him. Once again, he realized that he was the only one he could rely on.

  “I’ll help you any other way I can, Lyim.”

  Lyim vaguely heard Guerrand’s voice through the fog of his bitterness. “There is no other way,” he responded, low and threatening.

  “Then I’m truly sorry.” Guerrand’s rubbery profile disappeared from the surface of the mercury wall.

  “Not as sorry as you will be.” In a vessel-bursting fury, Lyim dispatched himself from the Ethereal Plane with a magical wave of his left arm. Guerrand DiThon might be safely back in the confines of his precious Bastion, but Lyim Rhistadt was far from through with him.

  Bram DiThon picked his way carefully between
the potholes and ice patches on the road to Thonvil, wishing the soles of his boots were not four years thin. The usual freeze-and-thaw cycle was in full swing, dawn ice turning to afternoon mud. Sometimes Bram wondered if spring would ever truly come to Ergoth’s moors. The dark-haired young nobleman drew his winter cloak, heavy as a sack of coins, closer as he headed for old Nahamkin’s cottage for some promised seeds.

  Bram had been hoping the eighteenth day of Mishamont, his twenty-first birthday, would find him with new boots. He was not terribly surprised when they didn’t appear. His mother Rietta was too busy struggling to maintain the image of the lady of the manor. His father—well, Cormac was someone Bram didn’t like to think about. Besides, not receiving a present from his family was a small price to pay for the freedom of neglect.

  In fact, Cormac’s neglect of all of his responsibilities had given Bram’s life purpose. It was his ambition—his obsession, even—to restore Castle Thonvil to the productivity and prosperity of his grandfather’s time. Due to lack of coin, Bram’s mother had been forced to abandon her aspiration for him to become a Knight of Solamnia, so he had been free, at sixteen, to inconspicuously assume the day-to-day duties of a castle’s steward.

  Unsurprisingly, Cormac’s overtaxed tenants had long ago fled. It had taken Bram almost five years of working alone from dawn to dusk to resuscitate Castle DiThon’s demesne and get the family’s personal lands producing food again. That had been no small feat, considering he hadn’t horse or ox to plow with.

  Bram had not yet had time to attend to the castle itself, which looked run-down enough to be abandoned. Besides, crumbling stone walls just weren’t as interesting to him as the perennials that would be popping up soon: lady’s mantle, foxglove. He’d already seen hopeful lavender poking through the last crusts of snow. Bram supplied many of the villagers with dried herbs, but the winter had been a bad one for minor influenzas, and he was running low on the more common medicinals. Fortunately, the end of the season of sickness coincided with the beginning of the herb season.