The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Justarius leaned forward in his chair, wincing at the pressure on his game leg. “You would not be saying this out of a feeling of failure?”

  “No, Justarius.” Guerrand’s denial was genuine. “You have made me see the error of that thinking. In truth, I believe my magical skills are needed more in my homeland.” He bowed his head in respect. “Of course, I submit myself to the will of the Council of Three in this decision.”

  The Council briefly conferred quietly. All three heads nodded as they leaned apart. “Your request to be replaced is approved,” announced Justarius.

  LaDonna’s gaze fell upon Dagamier, though she spoke to Guerrand. “Your suggestion for replacement is well taken, but it requires further discussion.” The young wizardess’s head bowed respectfully to the mistress of her order.

  “What of the renegade who set in motion the destruction of Bastion?” demanded a black wizard from the depths of his drawn hood.

  “Lyim Rhistadt is dead,” exclaimed Ezius of the White Robes. “No one could have survived the destruction inside Bastion.”

  “No body was found,” Dagamier pointed out softly.

  Par-Salian frowned. “If he is alive, Lyim Rhistadt will be dealt with in the manner of all renegades.” The head of the Conclave pushed himself up from his stone throne. “This special Conclave is adjourned. We will gather again at the usual time in a fortnight, when Solinari is in High Sanction. Until then, I counsel you all to consider your part in the construction of the new Bastion.”

  The Council of Three stayed behind while the White Robes filed out first according to custom. They were followed by the Black Robes, in deference to LaDonna’s secondary seat on the Council of Three. Justarius’s Red Robes were the last to vacate their seats among the dark shadows of the Hall of Mages.

  It had also become custom among the Council of Three to conclude each Conclave with a reflective bottle of elven wine. Justarius did the honors this time, producing from thin air a dusty red bottle and three delicate crystal goblets.

  Par-Salian swirled the rosy liquid in his glass, then sipped gingerly at the rim. Just as he liked it: dry. “Lyim Rhistadt does present a dilemma,” he said almost without voice.

  LaDonna lifted a plucked black brow, slender fingers twirling the fragile stem of her glass. “That depends on whether you feel compelled to obey the letter of our laws.”

  The wine was too acrid for Justarius’s taste. He set the goblet down after one sip. “I agree with LaDonna in this, Par-Salian. If he is alive, Lyim is too dangerous to round up in the usual manner for tribunal. We all know what must be done to insure the survival of our Art.”

  Par-Salian bowed his balding pate briefly. “The survival of magic alone must guide our actions,” he agreed. “Very well, then.” The Head of the Conclave swallowed the last of his ruby wine before waving a white-robed arm. Three heavily cloaked figures appeared from the shadows. Though the colors of their robes identified their different magical orders, they held one thing in common: the assassin’s scimitars slung across their backs.

  About the Author

  Having earned a bachelor of arts degree in English from Lawrence University in 1981, Mary Kirchoff went from Dante to dragons immediately afterward (some would say there’s not much difference). Since writing the story “Finding the Faith” for the first Tales anthology in 1987, she has written extensively in the wonderfully fertile DRAGONLANCE® world. Her works in that series include Kendermore, Flint, the King (with Douglas Niles), Wanderlust (with Steven Winter), and The Black Wing.

  Previously the head of TSR’s book department, she now lives and writes full-time in a rural Wisconsin village. Her active young sons, crazed Irish Setters, and perpetually renovated Victorian home provide ample and welcome distractions. She credits her imagination to caffeine.

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