The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Smiling gratefully, Bram gulped down the last of the cookie and wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

  Par-Salian nodded toward his red-robed companion. “Justarius, Master of the Red Robes, this is Brom DiThon.”

  “Bram,” the nobleman quickly corrected.

  Justarius limped forward slowly, considering Bram’s face. “I can see the resemblance in the hair and the cheekbones,” he said at length. “Guerrand had more of the timid rabbit look about him when he first came to the Tower of High Sorcery and became my apprentice.”

  “Can you tell me the whereabouts of my uncle, sir?” Bram asked, feeling the weight of time press. “It’s urgent that I find him right away.”

  Justarius lowered himself into one of the chairs by the hearth, stretching out his game leg. “What would you have your uncle do if you found him?”

  “As I was telling Par-Salian,” Bram began, nodding toward the venerable white-robed mage, “a strange, magical disease has struck our village. There are some who think Guerrand may be responsible for it, since he first brought magic to the village.” Bram was suddenly conscious that the remark might offend the wizards. “Whatever has caused it,” he added hastily, “I hope he will return with me and use his skills to cure the disease before it kills everyone I know and care about, including my family. Guerrand’s family.”

  The mages exchanged looks. “So you could be spreading this disease by leaving,” observed Justarius over steepled fingertips.

  “I could,” Bram agreed reluctantly, “but frankly I doubt it. I’ve been gone long enough that I would have exhibited the first symptom of a fever by now if I were carrying the sickness.” Still sensing Justarius’s disapproval, he added grimly, “What would you have me do, just wait there for everyone, including me, to die?”

  “None of that matters here,” Par-Salian interrupted dismissively. “The tower is protected from such things. The gates would have closed to prevent you from entering if you were carrying a deadly disease.”

  “So, will you tell me where my uncle is?”

  The mages sat, very still, exchanging glances.

  “It may not be important to you that a small village of people are dying while we speak,” Bram said, unable to hide his frustration, “but those people mean everything to me. They’re depending on me to help them; Guerrand is the only chance I have to find a cure.”

  Bram put a hand over his mouth briefly and willed a measure of calm. “I apologize for my bluntness,” he said. “If you don’t know where my uncle is, just say so, and I’ll be out the front door as soon as I can find it again. But if you do know, tell me, and I’ll leave just as quickly to look for him.”

  “You can’t,” Justarius said.

  Bram’s dark head cocked. “Is he dead?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Justarius rubbed his face wearily. “In an odd way that would actually make him easier for you to find.”

  Sensing that Bram was on the brink of snapping, Justarius struggled for a less cryptic explanation. “You have put us in an odd position, Bram.”

  “I’m in a bit of a bind myself,” the nobleman said.

  Justarius pursed his lips. “We’re not unsympathetic to your plight. However, your uncle holds a position of great importance to the Council of Mages, and to the future of magic, for that matter. By necessity, his location and actual duties are a closely guarded secret.” Par-Salian nodded from behind his desk across the room.

  “So,” Bram said slowly, trying to take in the news, “am I just supposed to go on my way?”

  Par-Salian stepped around his desk to close the gap between the three. “We’re not sure what we expect you to do,” he admitted. “Frankly, most mages are loners. We’ve not had a family member come looking for anyone in Guerrand’s position before.”

  But Bram would not be so easily put off. “Well, you have now.”

  “This is not, however, the first time Guerrand has had problems with his family,” put in Justarius. “The last such episode led to the catastrophic event that necessitated the creation of Guerrand’s current position.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bram said, shaking his head.

  Justarius waved the subject away. “It is a long and complicated story, and one I don’t think you’d like us to take the time to explain now. But please understand that our hesitation stems only from the fact that there are many who would pay dearly for the secret of Guerrand’s location.”

  Bram gasped. “Are you suggesting I’m a spy?”

  Justarius shrugged. “You may be and not even know it. It’s not inconceivable that you’ve been bewitched by a mage who wishes to learn the secret.”

  “But I haven’t!” cried the young man, yet his tone was more protest than persuasive.

  “There is a way for us to determine that for ourselves, if you are willing,” suggested Par-Salian.

  Bram’s glance was hard. “Let’s do it.”

  Par-Salian raised his arms, white sleeves fluttering like the wings of a swan, and before Bram knew what was happening, all three were gone from the study.

  The nobleman blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was with the mages in a small, dark, hexagonal room. No fire burned but the flame of a single golden candle. At the edges of his vision, Bram could make out a few long tables, an iron-bound chest, and behind him a chair.

  “Where are we? Is Guerrand here?”

  “Sadly, for you, no. We’re in my laboratory atop the north tower.” Par-Salian reached into a pocket in his gold-trimmed robe and withdrew a handful of sparkling powder. Arcing his arm, he drew a perfect circle of glowing silver onto the stone floor.

  “Step into the circle, Bram,” he commanded, his voice grave, eyes on the sphere.

  Bram hesitated, instinctively resisting both the pull of Par-Salian’s tone and the aura of the magical circle. The area of magic began to sing to him in a chorus of voices that rose from the depths of the floor it encompassed.

  “Heed the song, Bram,” Justarius said. “It will not lead you astray.”

  Bram relinquished his will and stepped slowly into the circle, hands twitching expectantly at his sides. Par-Salian opened a chest and pulled out an enormous, rough-cut crystal that he and Justarius suspended in midair between them. The two powerful mages began to swing the gem above his head in ever-widening circles.

  Bram tried to shift to a more comfortable position, but found he couldn’t move his legs or his arms. He tried to ask the wizards why that was so, but no sound moved his tongue or lips. He could shift his eyes, and that was all.

  The mages didn’t waver in their concentration. Par-Salian began to chant words Bram couldn’t understand, the language of magic. Little twinkling lights, like will-o-the-wisps across the moors, danced about Bram’s head and flashed like fireworks behind his eyes. The lights swayed in unison, then flew apart into a chaos of sparks and motion, then came together again to sway hypnotically once more. One after another the pinpoints of light pierced his body until they were no longer visible, but instead of pain or heat he felt only a weightlessness within himself.

  Bram slumped suddenly, feeling as if all the energy had been drained from his body. Justarius caught his arm in a strong grip and pulled him from the glowing silver circle to the small room’s lone chair.

  “That spell searches all of the corners and crannies of your being and tends to make them sore from the intense scrutiny,” the red-robed mage explained. He patted Bram’s hand. “It also reads your intentions and motivations, among other things, and I am pleased to announce that your mind is clear, your cause pure,” he pronounced, then sniffed at the nobleman’s filthy clothing, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth, “even if you are not.”

  “I could have told you that and saved myself the sore muscles,” the young man said.

  Par-Salian smiled from where he sat perched on the edge of a table. “Justarius and I agreed that if you passed the examination, we would make an unprecedented exception in consideration of the potential repercussions
of this illness, and because, as a non-mage, you present little threat to the security of this secret. We will send you to see your uncle for one day.”

  Bram mustered his strength to sit tall. “I don’t wish to bother such important mages further. Just tell me where I may find him, and I will go there myself.”

  Again Par-Salian and Justarius exchanged knowing glances. “That’s not possible,” said the former at length. “He’s beyond the normal circles of existence and can be reached only by magical means. In other words, you cannot get there from here—without our help.”

  “Go clean yourself up,” Justarius suggested, “while I prepare a message for you to take to your uncle. Par-Salian will ask Delestrius to rustle up some food, so that some of the magical smoke we’ve been blowing will disappear from your brain.”

  Bram found himself hustled out the door, conscious only that he had won. Soon he would see his Uncle Guerrand.

  Bram’s eyes were shut, as Justarius directed, when the floor in Par-Salian’s study seemed to slip away beneath his feet. He immediately felt as if he were quickly, steadily shrinking. In his mind’s eye he saw his own small body rocketing toward a large white keyhole in the starry blackness of space. His body paused of its own will before the keyhole briefly, and in that instant Bram felt a jarring from behind, as if someone had pushed him. But then some force ahead literally sucked him through the keyhole and into a whiteness beyond so bright that it burned through his closed eyelids. The mental image ceased abruptly when the brightness was extinguished like a candle.

  “Well, I’ll be a bugbear! Bram, what are you doing here?” asked a voice, familiar as a distant memory.

  The young nobleman heard his name through a haze. He could feel himself swaying, yet had no idea which way to lean to stop himself from falling. Strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.

  “Dizziness is common after passing from three dimensions to two. You’ll adjust faster if you open your eyes.”

  Bram slowly let his tightly closed lids slip open, and he got his first look at his uncle in nearly a decade. Guerrand had aged considerably since Bram had last seen him on the second-floor hallway of Castle DiThon’s keep. In fairness Bram had to admit that Rand had looked older that day than the one previous to it, for if memory served, Guerrand had just buried his beloved brother Quinn that morning.

  Still, Bram was not exactly prepared for the difference. Guerrand’s cheek held white traces of a small fading scar. His wavy hair was much longer. Loosely bound with a red ribbon, it was past the middle of his back, and graying at the temples. The coarse red robe certainly was different than the casual, ragged tunic and trousers Guerrand had favored at Castle DiThon. The robe gave the mage an air of dignity, or at least greater seriousness.

  Guerrand shook him gently, smiling hopefully. “Do I pass inspection?”

  “Of course,” Bram said hastily. “No one told me what to expect. I’m still a little surprised to actually have found you here”—his gaze traveled around the stark nave—“wherever here is.”

  The two stood alone in a soaring tower of a room with white, vaulted arches, so bright it looked like the sun itself hung from the ceiling many stories above. The snow-bright whiteness was broken by many lush, tropical-looking plants.

  “This is Bastion,” said Guerrand, chuckling with disbelief and joy at Bram’s presence, “and you’re not the only one surprised to find you here!” The mage’s hands looked soft and white against the red cloth wrapping his hips. “How did you track me down, let alone persuade the Council to send you to Bastion?”

  Bram’s forehead furrowed. “Didn’t Justarius or Par-Salian tell you anything?”

  Guerrand shook his head. “They sent a message that someone was arriving,” he explained. “But I had no idea who it would be until you appeared in the nave.”

  A raven-haired woman walked up behind Guerrand. Arms linked behind her back, she peered around the mage at the stranger to the stronghold. “Bram,” said Guerrand, stepping to the side, “let me introduce another of Bastion’s guardians, Dagamier of the Black Robes.” He nodded from her to the new arrival. “Dagamier, my nephew, Bram DiThon.”

  Bram returned the almost defiant stare of the young woman who looked no older than his Aunt Kirah. Against her onyx robe, the woman’s skin was as white as the walls of the room. Her eyes were an unusual shade of dark blue, almost an indigo. Black hair, pulled into one intricate braid from forehead to shoulder blades, had the same bluish sheen as her eyes.

  Unsmiling, Dagamier leaned forward at the waist and extended a pale hand. Her silk robe parted ever so slightly, revealing slim, well-muscled legs. Bram could not help but notice how cold and sensuous she looked at the same time. He jerked his eyes back to her face, where a lightless smile pulled up the corners of plum-colored lips.

  “We don’t get many visitors at Bastion. Or any, even,” she remarked ironically. “You must be someone very special”—one dark brow raised—“or very dangerous.”

  Bram colored. “I’m sure I’m neither,” he said awkwardly, unable to keep from fidgeting under her scrutiny. “I carry an important message for my uncle, that’s all.”

  Dagamier finished her evaluation of him by turning on a heel. “I hope you bring welcome news,” she said, disappearing into one of seven dark-colored doors that led from the central room.

  “Dagamier is … unusual,” Guerrand said diplomatically, watching her departure. He snapped his gaze away. “Let me show you around Bastion, nephew.” The fifth sentinel gestured broadly with his hand to include the structure. “There’s not much common area to see, but my apartments are quite spacious. We can speak privately there of what brought you, when you feel a little more oriented to the dimensional change.”

  Bram followed his uncle around the nave, while Guerrand recounted the history, general layout, and defensive purpose of the stronghold.

  “But who would invade Bastion,” asked Bram, “if no one can get here without the Council’s help?”

  “Nonmages would find it impossible,” agreed Guerrand. “But there are wizards who would try anything to reach the Lost Citadel. There was one, not too long ago, who—” Guerrand seemed to stop this line of thought with great effort.

  “Ezius is at his turn in the scrying sphere. He’s a bit reclusive, but I’ll make a point of introducing you later.”

  Guerrand directed them into his wing and down a long, wide hall, featureless except for the handful of doors that fed into it. Like a proud parent, Guerrand launched into showing Bram every cranny and compartment in the red wing.

  “You seem very content here,” Bram observed afterward, when they settled into the kitchen area.

  “It can get a little lonely,” Guerrand conceded, “but this place is a mage’s dream come true.” Guerrand waved Bram to a softly padded chair. “Wine?” he asked.

  Nodding, Bram slipped his head through the strap of the scroll case that crossed his chest and set it by the door.

  Guerrand debated over a row of prone bottles on a wrought-iron rack. Deciding on one, he gripped its narrow neck and deftly uncorked it with a flick of his thumb. A frenzy of small bubbles broke the air in a wide range of green hues and floated lazily in the draftless room.

  “My own vintage,” explained Guerrand. “I call it Green Ergothian.” He poured two goblets of emerald green wine, drizzling amber honey into both before handing one to his nephew.

  Bram accepted the glass, savoring the rich brilliance of the color. Guerrand raised his glass in a toast, moving it in small circles to make a pattern in the air with the odd green bubbles.

  “Tell me why you’ve come,” invited the mage, settling himself across from Bram.

  The young nobleman reluctantly set his glass down and moved to the hearth. He warmed his hands while he contemplated how to unfold the tale of Thonvil’s plague. Feeling the press of time, Bram decided on the direct approach. “Some sort of strange illness has recently struck Thonvil and is spr
eading rapidly.” Bram watched his uncle’s reaction closely and was relieved to see that Guerrand looked genuinely shocked and concerned.

  “Isn’t the village physicker able to help them?”

  Bram shook his head. “Everyone who has contracted the sickness has suffered a hideous death. Herus and I have done what we could, which has been very little, to ease their suffering.”

  Guerrand’s face twisted, and he gripped the arms of his chair. “What about Kirah? Your family?”

  “Mother and Father were not sick when I left, nor was Kirah,” said Bram, “but I fear for them every second I’m away.” He looked intently at his uncle. “I—the village needs your help, Rand.”

  Guerrand raised his hands helplessly. “I’m no physicker. What makes you think I can help?”

  “Because there’s evidence that the sickness has a magical cause. I believe only magic—your magic—can cure it.”

  Looking skeptical, Guerrand swallowed a mouthful of wine. “You think because a particularly virulent strain of influenza withstands your bugbane or meadowsweet that it must be magical in nature?” He looked at Bram intently. “Tell me more about this illness.”

  Bram rubbed his face wearily, took another deep breath, then recalled to his uncle the stages he’d witnessed old Nahamkin go through before his hideous death on the third day as a snake-limbed, black-eyed creature of stone.

  Bram took a deep breath before he plunged ahead. “Before the victim dies, the snakes hiss your name, Uncle. It is no rumor, for I have heard them myself.”

  Guerrand paled, and he shook his head in mute disbelief. The glass he was holding shook so violently that green wine splashed over his hand. Cursing, he instinctively jerked his hand back, dropping the glass. It crashed to the marble tabletop and shattered. The mage picked up the shards and mopped up the spilled wine with a rag. “You think I’m responsible for this sickness.”

  “I never believed the uncle I knew could have caused it,” Bram said slowly, still watching Guerrand closely. “But I think there can be no doubt that magic—that you—are somehow involved.”