“The most strikingly beautiful of all seabirds.” With a catch in his voice, Guerrand finished the sea gull’s favorite description of himself. Zagarus’s dark little eyes sank shut, and his labored breathing stopped. Crimson spears of pain pierced Guerrand’s body, twisting upward through him to explode in his head. For several unendurable moments he felt as if he had been ripped in half, front and back, by talons of flame.
The mage fell to the floor. Then the pain fled, leaving only a heavy ache in its wash.
Lying on his side next to Zagarus’s still form, Guerrand tasted blood in his mouth. The death of his familiar had caused the terrible reaction in his own body. Guerrand felt mentally weakened, and knew, too, that Zag’s passing had drained him of magic that he could never regain. Whatever the cost to himself, Guerrand thought fiercely, Zag had been worth it. He reached out and ran a finger along the bird’s white-tipped wings, his ebony back one last time. Rest well, friend. There was a hollowness inside Guerrand when, for the first time in more than a decade, there came no echoing response in his head.
Guerrand swallowed his grief and struggled to his feet. He half walked, half hobbled to where Dagamier lay near the door. Expecting that she, too, would be dead, Guerrand was surprised to find her breathing. The wound in her back was ugly. The flesh had blackened and shriveled away from the poison, but the wound wasn’t terribly deep. He called Dagamier’s name while patting her cheeks, but she responded groggily, as if drugged. Guerrand recalled the nagas’ glistening bodies and realized they must have been armed with a paralytic or sleeping poison. He briefly considered running back to his own storeroom for a potion that would neutralize the poison, when a noise behind him in the depths of the white wing made him turn back to the portal.
But the blazing purple opening to the Lost Citadel was gone. Beneath where it had hovered, a much-changed Lyim sat upon a marble slab. Ezius was slumped at his feet, reaching feebly toward the reborn mage. Before Guerrand could do more than take in the scene, Lyim gestured with his hands, and the white-robed mage’s head dropped to the floor.
“Lyim!”
Guerrand’s old nemesis spun around with a look of joyous anticipation on his face.
“What have you done?” Even as he asked the question, Guerrand knew the answer.
Lyim stood above Ezius’s body, smiling malevolently. His once-solid red robe was streaked in shades of bleached and baked red, and his jet-black hair was veined with white. His skin, however, was burned a deep red, with creases so deep they looked like sun-baked cracks. “You can’t even imagine where I’ve been, or the things I’ve seen, Rand.”
“Oh, but I can,” Guerrand said, matching Lyim’s glare. “I, too, saw the citadel, but I had the strength to turn back. The gods will not let your trespass go unpunished—for any of us.” He unconsciously made the warding sign against evil.
Lyim’s eyes narrowed. He was silent for a long time, his hands quiet at his sides. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned. It was like a flash of raw light. “Even after all that has happened between us, I can’t quite bring myself to hate you, Rand.”
A nerve leaped in Guerrand’s jaw. “Strange, I have no trouble hating you.” His brown eyes narrowed with unconcealed loathing, and he advanced on Lyim.
With a quickness that belied the pain still shooting through his body, Guerrand launched a spell of petrification, hoping to capture Lyim by turning him to stone. Gray dust materialized and swirled around the renegade mage.
Lyim watched it in amusement until, with a wave of his hand, he dispelled it. “We both know I have always been the better mage.”
Guerrand bristled under the taunt. He wanted to unleash every bit of magic under his command, but was bound by the Council’s directive to take intruders alive to face a tribunal.
He laced his fingers together into a lattice while shouting, “Dattiva, meshuot, lathrey dattivasum!”
Thin bars of pure force sprang from the floor to encircle Lyim. Spreading outward and upward from a single point on Lyim’s left, they threatened to enclose him. Lyim sprang toward the opening and leaped through before the cage could close. But the bars were quicker than he’d anticipated. They closed on his waist, trapping him partially in and partially out of the cage.
Lyim cast a spell on himself. His body began to swell. His muscles bulged and his chest expanded, straining against the shimmering bars. Massive hands gripped the bars and pushed, bending them outward. The cage of force twisted apart and Lyim stepped out, once again resuming his normal size. But the strain showed on his face.
“All I ever wanted was to heal my hand,” he said fiercely, his breath a loose rattling sound.
“No matter the price to others,” Guerrand said evenly. He looked at the slumped white-robed mage. “How’d you do it, Lyim? Did you feign death in the courtyard, then overtake poor Ezius once you were inside the white wing?”
Lyim shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Never explain, never defend, that’s always been my motto.” His smile was anything but apologetic.
“We can see how that’s held you in good stead,” Guerrand said caustically, “by the success you’ve made of your life. Lyim Rhistadt, brave slayer of innocent women, children, and old men!”
Eyes narrowed, Lyim rolled his fingers, exposing a sharp-tipped metal dart. Flicking his wrist, he expertly fired the barb at Guerrand. The dart shattered Guerrand’s protective shell with a loud ping! on its path to the mage’s chest. Guerrand dodged to the side in the last heartbeat, and the magical dart’s acid tip caught in the flowing right sleeve of his cloak of protection.
Guerrand’s hatred flared to new heights. He released the stored-up spell that would magically compel the other mage, then formally declared, “Your actions have made you a renegade, Lyim. Surrender to me and the Conclave will fairly judge your actions.”
“I’d end up like Belize.” Lyim’s eyes shifted as he sensed Guerrand’s spell. His anger exploded. “You’ll never control me with a geas, Rand, particularly to face the Council. Who are they to judge my actions?”
“They’re the peers whose rulings you agreed to uphold when you declared your allegiance to the Red Robes.”
“Not anymore,” vowed Lyim, his bitterness obvious in the pinched line of his mouth. “Now that I’ve spent time in both a red and a white robe, I must confess I find both of them confining.” He paused, head tilted in thought. “I have pursued magic according to the Council’s rules for nearly a decade,” Lyim said slowly, as though the truth of that had just occurred to him. “Magic, in all its machinations, has consumed nearly two thirds of my life. And it has failed me at almost every turn.”
“You chose your own path, Lyim. Everything,” said Guerrand, repeating Lyim’s own words, “is a question of choice.”
Lyim’s eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to speak when the floor shuddered faintly. The quaking was weak at first, then it stopped entirely. Both mages looked at each other suspiciously. Moments later the quaking returned, stronger and of longer duration than before. With the third occurrence, beakers and other glass and ceramic containers on Ezius’s shelves rattled.
Lyim reached for the marble slab to steady himself. “It’s not me,” he said, a look of concern crossing his face for the first time since he’d emerged from the portal.
The tremors had grown so strong that it was difficult to stand. Guerrand’s first thought was to check the scrying diorama for disturbances on Bastion’s plane. He stumbled toward the doorway to the nave, collapsing to his knees when he reached the spot where Dagamier still lay unconscious. Looking out into the nave, he saw that the quakes passed through Bastion like a wave, shaking each wing of the building as they passed and returned.
Books crashed off the shelves, followed by glassware. Looking back toward Ezius’s laboratory, Guerrand saw vials, spell components, scrolls, and untold other mystical ingredients smashing together on the floor. Jars were exploding on the shelves, sending smoking fragments of glass and pottery through the air.
&n
bsp; Guerrand was unsure whether the white wizard was alive or dead, but while there was a chance to save him Guerrand could not give Ezius up. He dashed back into the wing to save the mage. “No one’s safe in here, Lyim,” Guerrand said to the wizard. “Help me get Ezius and Dagamier into the nave.” Without waiting for an answer, Guerrand grabbed Ezius’s robe and dragged the white mage’s body toward the doorway.
Lyim, looking about in stunned disbelief, seemed barely to hear him. “What’s happening, Rand?”
Guerrand came to the doorway and stopped briefly. “As I feared, the gods of magic are not letting your trespass into the Lost Citadel go unpunished. They’re destroying Bastion. We’ve got to get out into the courtyard before we’re crushed.”
Energized by adrenalin, the high defender grabbed Dagamier’s robe with his free hand and dragged her along with Ezius out into the nave, away from a rapidly building cloud of vapor that choked the white wing. Another tremor drove the struggling Guerrand to his knees as chunks of masonry rained down from the dome roof. With a tremendous crash, the scrying chamber collapsed in a boiling cloud of dust. Rays of white light pierced the rubble, searing outward in every direction. Mercury and sulfur spilled out from under the pile to drain into the tiny moat.
The trembling now was continuous, with no discernable pattern. Guerrand heard explosions in each of the wings. Through the open doorway, he saw flashes of lightning zigzagging crazily about the white wing.
“Come on, Lyim, before it’s too late!”
Lyim’s response was a piercing scream. His tortured howl rose above the tumult, then was lost again in chaos.
Guerrand’s attention was drawn away from Lyim’s fate as swirling shapes, like speeding, mother-of-pearl clouds, formed from the magical mortar between blocks in the nave. The choking, dust-filled air there filled quickly with these energized clouds, streaking in from all three wings and swooping around like malefic birds. Two rushed at Guerrand, eyes blazing and gaping jaws full of razor teeth. The dust-streaked mage hadn’t time to dodge when the first shape crashed into him. The entity of coalesced energy knocked Guerrand sprawling to the floor with a bad gash in his arm. Others surged forward behind the first, but Guerrand dived out of their way as they swooped past to smash holes in the dome and knock out massive sections of wall. The odd, dim light of the courtyard cut through the dusty air in slants.
The stored magical energy of a thousand mages was being unleashed with instruction to destroy Guerrand had to get the defenders out of the stronghold and into the courtyard, where at least they would stand a chance. Guerrand looked toward the apse, a tumbled heap of shifting rubble. The high defender crouched between the still forms of the other two sentinels and formed the words of a spell in his mind. It was a dangerous gamble. Safe teleportation required perfect knowledge of the destination, and Guerrand had no idea what sort of changes might have occurred outside from the devastation. He willed total concentration until, once again, he experienced the familiar sensation of momentary unreality.
Guerrand nearly cried his relief when he opened his eyes and saw the shadows of the topiaries, though half of them were ripped out by the roots. Blocks from the facade had fallen here, too, but not nearly as many as inside. He chanted and motioned again, and a clear shell, like half of a hollow crystal orb, formed above their heads. It grew into a perfect semicircle and sealed itself against the ground. The shell wasn’t high enough for Guerrand to do more than sit, particularly with the prone forms of Ezius and Dagamier, but it was welcome sanctuary. Guerrand turned his attention to the wounds of his fallen comrades.
Four multicolored shapes, ravenous creatures of coalesced smoke and ash, dashed themselves against the barrier. They slashed and gnawed at the clear surface with talons and teeth that grew longer as the entities’ fury mounted.
But the creatures scattered when they heard the dome of the nave crash down inside the stronghold. The hammer blow resounded like a huge bass drum even in the courtyard. Guerrand watched as the entire roof of Bastion collapsed. Tons upon tons of elemental-forged stone and masonry rained down inside the walls and outside upon Guerrand’s protective sphere. Summoning the very dregs of his magical energy, he strained to maintain the spell and hold up the shield, fearing the pounding would never stop.
When the last block in the last wall fell, Bastion’s magical essence turned on itself, as if one last battle between the orders of magic remained. The mortar fiends sank their razor-sharp teeth into each other in a hideous feeding frenzy until all but one were devoured.
Inside the protective shell, Guerrand waited to emerge until after that last bloated fiend exploded from its gorging. Only a handful of whole red blocks of granite remained in his wing. Numb, Bastion’s high defender stared at the rubble for many moments. A hollow wind sounded in the distant corners of this plane that had known no breeze. Guerrand raised a feeble, dust- and blood-covered hand in a spell.
Dimu sagistara.
One of the blocks jerked from the rubble and rose shakily above the others. His muscles shook from the effort, but Guerrand held the block aloft by sheer dint of will until his failing energy couldn’t be denied. Acknowledging the futility of the gesture, Bastion’s high defender directed the block to fall again. The stronghold built with the energy of a thousand mages could not be rebuilt by one.
The full Conclave of twenty-one mages never failed to inspire reverence among its members. They gathered only rarely in the cold and cheerless Hall of Mages, the vast chamber in the base of Wayreth’s south tower. Par-Salian of the White Robes, Head of the Conclave of Wizards, sat upon a great carved throne in a semicircle of stone chairs. To his right, as always, sat LaDonna, Mistress of the Black Robes. The six stone chairs next to her were filled with wizards clothed all in black, their hoods pulled low over their faces. To Par-Salian’s left sat Justarius of the Red Robes, his six red members of the Conclave beside him. The remaining white representatives finished the circle.
Never a lighthearted affair, the gathering this day was unusually grim. All twenty-one members were feeling the effects of the magical essence they’d lost with Bastion’s destruction. The stronghold they had united to create was rubble on a distant plane. Bastion had collapsed under the wrathful hands of the gods of magic.
Par-Salian spoke from his chair in the center of the dais. “Fellow mages,” the venerable white-haired wizard said, “we gather again under dark circumstances. However, I submit to you that while Bastion was destroyed, it did not fail.”
Par-Salian’s announcement fell like drops of water into a still pond, causing ripples of movement and sound through the vast and shadowed chamber.
“We—not just the guardians, but all twenty-one of us—failed Bastion and the mages we represent.” Par-Salian’s icy blue gaze swept over the wizards on either side of him.
The heads of the three defenders of Bastion—Guerrand of the Red Robes, Dagamier of the Black Robes, and Ezius of the White Robes—dipped noticeably lower. Noting that, Par-Salian held up a pale, wrinkled hand to silence the restless gathering.
“Bastion’s collapse was caused not by incompetence,” he insisted, his voice sharp, “but by arrogance.” There were more angry murmurs, and a number of the Black Robes threw back their hoods and raised up in their stone seats. Sadness was reflected in the faces of most of the red and white-robed mages.
“I would finish!” Par-Salian snapped. His anger rolled around the hall like thunder. After a moment, the Black Robes reluctantly dropped back in their seats, still frowning. “This fractious meeting proves my point. All of us had more pride in our orders than in the thing that unites us: our Art. Magic is our first loyalty, no matter who we serve or what color robes we wear.” His white head shook ruefully. “We forgot that when designing Bastion in three distinct and separate wings.” The head of the Conclave was disrupted anew by voices.
Dark-haired LaDonna rose from her seat and waved an arm like an ominous raven’s wing. “Silence!” The head of the black order spoke so seldom
during the Conclave that everyone fell quiet in surprise. LaDonna’s black eyes pierced those of her order. “We Black Robes were the greatest culprits in this,” she said bitterly. “Our own wing was a model of disunity. While that reflects our natures, it worked in opposition to the purpose of Bastion.”
“We share the blame equally,” insisted Justarius, with a firm shake of his salt-and-pepper head. “And from it shall we learn equally.”
“That is the point of this Conclave,” Par-Salian interrupted with a relieved sigh. “It was not enough to give a part of our magic to Bastion’s mortar.” Par-Salian paused deliberately, letting his words penetrate the disparate temperaments of the Conclave.
Then, very slowly, the Head of the Conclave let a hopeful smile spread across his lined face, to encourage the healing of Krynn’s wizards. “All is not lost, brother mages,” he said at length. “The Council of Three has decided to rebuild Bastion. This time, however, it shall truly represent the cooperative effort of all three orders of magic. One structure designed by all three, inhabited by a representative of all three. Next to the entry of our failure, Astinus the historian will record a new spirit of cooperation between our orders.”
A silence descended while the Conclave absorbed the decree.
“Are you seeking new candidates for the defender positions?” asked a member of the Red Robes.
Justarius cleared his throat. “I can’t speak for the white and black orders, but—”
“If it pleases the Council,” Ezius of the White Robes said anxiously, “I would like to keep the post I have held since Bastion was first raised.” He touched a hand to his bandaged head. “These will be off shortly, and I’m told I’ll be fully recovered.”
“Duly noted,” said Par-Salian with a nod.
“As for the Red Robes …” Justarius turned his thick, raised eyebrows to face Bastion’s high defender. “What say you, Guerrand DiThon?”
Guerrand stood self-consciously and bowed to the Conclave as custom dictated. He spoke without guilt or guile. “Acting as Bastion’s high defender has been the greatest experience and honor of my life,” he said. “That is why I must relinquish the position. There is another more deserving and desirous of the post.” His gaze crossed the room to the young mage of the Black Robes. Dagamier’s face spread into a grateful smile that few there recalled ever having seen from her.
The Medusa Plague Page 28
