This is what you and Esme fought about, isn't it?
Guerrand's hand sliced the air like a scythe. "You know I won't talk about that."
Zagarus was silent for some time. You don't even know why justarius has summoned you. Aren't you the least bit curious? Maybe he just wants to say hello.
Guerrand chuckled without humor. "That's so like Justarius." He sighed his resignation. "But I guess we'll find out the truth soon enough." Heading back for the cottage door, he announced over his shoulder, "I'm going to take a few moments to eat some of Dorigar's delicious-smelling stew. Then I'll pack a few things, and we'll leave for Wayreth through the mirror."
Do you even have that piece of glass anymore? asked Zagarus. I haven't seen it for years.
"I packed it away in a safe place after the confrontation with Belize," explained Guerrand, referring to the magical looking glass the archmage Belize had given Guerrand before they'd left Castle DiThon. It allowed the bearer to magically travel far distances via a mirror world by mentally picturing a mirror where you wished to reenter the real world. Guerrand had used it only once since the Night of the Eye upon Stonecliff, and that had been to transport Esme, himself, and Zagarus away from the site of the destroyed pagan pillars to Palanthas.
Is it wise to use it after so long? asked the gull. I mean, you need a familiar destination point, and we've been away from Wayreth for a long time. Even there, things must change.
Guerrand waved away the concern. "Justarius himself recommended we use it. He must have removed any magical wards on Wayreth that would prevent us from entering."
Guerrand returned some time later from the cottage with his old leather pack filled and strung from shoulder to hip. Digging around in the bag, he pulled from it a familiar, hand-sized fragment of dusty glass and set it on the dirt path. The mage smiled ruefully up at his familiar and extended his arm as a perch for the gull. "Justarius awaits us."
With the heavy old gull on his arm, Guerrand felt a long-forgotten sense of deja vu as he stepped upon the surface of the magical glass and slipped into the extradimensional mirror world.
As Guerrand suspected, Justarius had left a glowing trail in the mirror world that bypassed any protective wards and led them directly to a man-sized looking glass right inside the Hall of Mages. The room had not changed one jot since Guerrand's first audience here. It was a vast, round chamber carved of obsidian; the far walls and ceiling were beyond his sight, obscured in shadow. As usual, there were no torches or candles, yet the room was lit by a pale white light, cold, cheerless, without warmth.
Shivering in the dampness, Guerrand remembered with a bittersweet twinge his friend and fellow apprentice Lyim Rhistadt's first bit of advice to him, when tbe plague
they both were waiting outside in the foretower to be assigned masters: "It's a snap." He had been so afraid then. Now he felt only cold.
This time Guerrand was not surprised by the sudden appearance of the heavy oaken chair behind him in the otherwise empty room. He slipped into it and waited, fingers drumming the intricately carved armrests, anxiously at first, then with growing impatience.
"Be at ease, Guerrand," he heard at long last. He still could not see a face, but he recognized the slight quiver of age in Par-Salian's voice.
"We're delighted you responded to Justarius's missive." The years had not dulled LaDonna's sultry voice.
The members of the Council of Three chose that moment to reveal themselves. The light had not increased or crept farther into the shadows, and yet Guerrand could now see the semicircle of twenty-one seats, all but three empty. He had sat in one of those seats briefly, during the Conclave to discuss the building of Bastion.
Seated in the very center, in a great chair of carved stone, was the extremely distinguished, though frail- looking, head of the Conclave of Wizards. Age had not dulled Par-Salian's piercing blue eyes; the long, gray- white hair, beard, and mustache that nearly matched his white robe had not grown an inch.
LaDonna, too, looked as if not a day had passed since Guerrand's first audience. The Mistress of the Black Robes was seated to her superior's right. She was a striking woman whose iron-gray hair was woven into an intricate braid coiled about her patrician head. Her beauty and age still defied definition.
"You're looking well, Guerrand."
Guerrand's eyes shifted at last to the speaker whose voice, robust with unspoken humor, he knew so well.
Justarius alone seemed to have aged. There was more salt than pepper now in the mustache and the shoulder-length hair that was simply parted down the middle. New, tiny lines pulled at the corners of his mouth and the narrows between his dark eyes. His usual neck ruff was a crisp and clean white, in contrast to the red linen robe below it.
"I am well," the former apprentice said stiffly.
The three revered mages exchanged surprised looks. Par-Salian brushed a wisp of white hair from his watery old eyes. "The Council has summoned you, Guerrand, to offer you a position of some importance."
"I'm happy enough where I am."
Justarius's eyebrows narrowed in a familiar gesture of irritation. "I see you've compounded your impertinent tendency to jump to conclusions. You would do well to listen and not waste our time."
Though words welled in his throat, Guerrand had the wits to press his lips into a tight line.
"Let us not mince words, Guerrand," began Par-Salian. "Bastion's representative from the Red Robes has abruptly resigned, and we are in need of an immediate replacement. The Council has raised your name as a possibility to fill that position."
Guerrand could not keep the shock from registering on his face. His mouth dropped open. None of his musings regarding the nature of the summons had included Bastion. He couldn't speak, which was fortunate, because there was still more to hear.
"Since its completion," continued Par-Salian, "Bastion has been run democratically by three occupants, a representative from each order, but that doesn't seem to have worked. Somehow even the most trivial issues degenerate into a two-against-one brawl. These conflicts divert the mages' attention from their real purpose in the stronghold: to be ever vigilant against intruders seeking the Lost Citadel."
Par-Salian leaned forward on his chair, elbow propped on the right armrest. "To prevent this from continuing, the Council has voted to create the position of high defender. The model is this very Council. 1 am the head of the Council of Three, as would the high defender be to the occupants of Bastion."
Par-Salian paused for effect. "Justarius has recommended you for that position."
"So I would be in charge of two mages who've been there for some time?" Guerrand asked.
Par-Salian nodded, but held up a blue-veined hand for Guerrand to allow him to finish. "You must also know that the work is lonely and tedious, requiring constant vigilance for something that is likely never to happen."
Guerrand squinted one eye suspiciously. "Why did the previous mage resign?"
"Vilar… was unstable," Justarius said, picking his words carefully. "Bastion is very isolated, particularly if you don't get along with its other occupants." The red mage sighed. "He was not the first, but the second to resign; Ezius of the White Robes is the only original representative. You will be the fifth sentinel and the first high defender… should you accept the position."
Overwhelmed, Guerrand ran a hand through his mop of dark hair. "1–1 can't give you an answer right now. 1 need time to go home and think, and-"
"There isn't time for a trip," interrupted LaDonna a bit peevishly. "Surely you can understand the need to fill this position immediately. You have until sunrise to decide."
"Your old room in the north tower has been prepared for your comfort," Justarius added more kindly. "Of course, Zagarus is welcome. I'll take you there now."
Guerrand stood weakly, holding fast to the arm of the chair. He nodded briskly to Par-Salian and LaDonna, then walked from the Hall of Mages at Justarius's side. The red archmage seemed to be limping more than Guerrand remember
ed, favoring the leg that had been twisted by his own Test. Their footsteps, Justarius's irregular, echoed against the cold, circular walls. The two mages crossed the small foretower where once Guerrand had waited with other hopeful apprentices, then entered the north tower.
Both men knew there was no need for Justarius to show Guerrand the way to the sleeping chamber some five levels above Par-Salian's study. He'd stayed there for several days before and after his Test, then during the planning of Bastion. Guerrand couldn't decide if Justarius was acting as jailor or host now. Neither spoke as they climbed the narrow flights of stairs to the sixth level. The exercise brought warmth to feet that had grown cold in the foreboding ceremonial hall.
Guerrand automatically took a sharp left at the top of the stairs, passed the first room, and turned the marble knob on the second. Squeezing through the door to the triangular room, he mumbled, "Thank you," and made to shut the door behind him.
Justarius's good leg shot out to place his foot between the door and its frame. "I know you well enough to see when something is troubling you, Guerrand. Do you care to tell me what it is?"
Guerrand looked at his feet. "I don't know what you mean."
"You don't do coy at all well," Justarius remarked. "That was always Esme's specialty."
Guerrand's head jerked up at the mention of Esme's name, as Justarius had obviously intended.
"She's doing well, by the way," Justarius said conversationally. "She's still living in Fangoth." The archmage managed to steer them into the small, triangular
room. Thin light filtered through a tiny window, more an arrow loop, on the far wall. "Her father died several years back, and she's working toward restoring the locals' faith in magic after her father's reign of terror. But you would know about that."
"I–I knew her father died, but not the rest," confessed Guerrand. "I haven't heard from her in years."
With pursed lips that raised his mustache, Justarius acknowledged the admission. "I meant, you would know about raising the morale of a village with your magic. From what I've observed, you've accomplished near miracles in Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea."
" 'From what you've observed?' You mean you've been watching me?"
"I make it a point to follow the progress of all my students." Justarius's eyes alone held the warmth of the confession.
Guerrand sank with a sigh into the deep chair by the hearth on the curved, outside wall. "I didn't know."
Justarius let out a breath as he closed the door. "Why do you think I recommended you for the position at Bastion?"
"Frankly," chuckled Guerrand, "I haven't had time to consider your reasoning. Your missive revealed nothing about the nature of the meeting."
"What made you answer the summons?"
Guerrand considered the question honestly. "Mainly curiosity," he admitted at last. "Besides, I wasn't sure I had the option of ignoring a summons by the Council."
Justarius raised one brow. "I believe I told you once, when you wanted to return to Thonvil to help your family, that you always have a choice."
Guerrand acknowledged the memory with a small nod.
Justarius moved by the fire and crossed his arms expectantly. "So now that you've had your curiosity
satisfied, are you interested in the position?"
"I… don't know," Guerrand admitted. 'There's just so much to consider. The people of Harrowdown depend on me, and-"
"They'll survive without you," Justarius broke in. "Every master must let his students fly or fall one day. You've given them the tools to succeed on their own."
Guerrand gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "But will I survive without them? What if I'm no more suited to the job at Bastion than the previous red mage?"
"I have not succeeded at a great many things," Justarius said soberly 'The only thing I have not failed at is trying. Failure is an integral part of the life cycle."
"But I am a rousing success in Harrowdown," said Guerrand. "There's a great deal of comfort in knowing that."
Justarius cocked his head in question. "Is comfort the achievement that you seek?"
Guerrand frowned, discomfited with the introspection, but unable to deny Justarius his answers. "At one time, I didn't think so. After the battle at Stonecliff with Belize, then the creation of Bastion, I believed I was destined to follow in your footsteps to becoming an arch- mage. But when that didn't happen, I began to suspect I wasn't suited to more than I had in Harrowdown."
"If you feel shorted of opportunities," Justarius observed, "it's because you haven't sought them out." He gave an ironic chuckle. "Just how many times did you expect to save the world, anyway? You've already been given more opportunities than most. Life is tedious, life is dirty, life is stimulating, life is ordinary for all of us. There are good days and bad days, and there will be no less of each at Bastion if you accept the position."
Guerrand set his chin firmly. "But I've resigned myself to my small success in Harrowdown. That's enough for me now."
"Now, today, perhaps, but will it be sufficient three years hence? Or fifteen?" demanded Justarius. He tapped a finger to his chin as he seemed to recall something. "This conflict of expectations, exacerbated by fear of failure, was the source of your conflict with Esme, wasn't it?"
Guerrand winced, nodding. It still hurt to think of it, let alone speak of his separation from the young woman. She had never understood his conflicting emotions. "Be happy with what you are, whatever it is, and you'll be a success," she'd say. He understood now that she had been right, but it didn't erase the conflict from his mind. That conflict had been the springboard of their friendship, since she, too, had suffered from confused expectations. The difference was, she had conquered her demons sufficiently to return to help her taskmaster father, while Guerrand had never been able to return to Thonvil, even for a visit.
Justarius watched the interplay of Guerrand's emotions on the young man's face. Shaking his head sadly, the archmage turned to leave. "I have things 1 must attend to while I'm here at Wayreth." He eased his crippled leg to the door and placed his hand on the knob. "Let me just say this, Guerrand. If public adoration or the trappings of comfort represent success to you, then turn down the job. But if you seek the opportunity to use your skill for something important, you'll jump at this chance." The archmage squinted through one eye at his former apprentice. "You'll probably never get another." Justarius wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself and stepped from the room.
Guerrand was staring, unseeing, at the closed door when he became aware of something moving about on the small, thick window ledge. Turning, he spied Zagarus. He'd not even heard the bird arrive. Zagarus merely stood staring expectantly at his master.
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" Guerrand demanded. "Let me guess. You heard our conversation, and you think Justarius is right?"
It doesn't matter what I think. I'm just a bird, Zag shot back. Don't expect me to solve all your problems. What do you think?
Guerrand already knew the answer to that. Both Esme and Justarius, the two people who unquestionably knew him best, had so easily recognized in him what he had refused to believe until now. He had been hiding out in Harrowdown, at least for the last few years. He had already lost Esme because of it. Justarius would not recommend him twice for the position of high defender. He had to accept the offer, or he would always wonder what his life might have been. Besides, if he failed, he could always return to Harrowdown, couldn't he?
Guerrand yanked open the door and stepped out of the room. Justarius stood a dozen paces away, conversing with another red-robed mage. Both looked up as Guerrand entered the hallway.
"I wouldn't miss this opportunity for the world, Justarius," Guerrand announced. "I'm your man."
Chapter Two
"There it is!" breathed the old fisherman, pointing knobby finger to the churning water off the New Coast peninsula. "The Boil above Itzan Klertal."
Lyim Rhistadt looked over the bow of the small fishing boat to where a
swath of sea appeared to boil in a wide, dark, frothing circle. Dead fish and other sea creatures bubbled to the top as if in a stewpot. Since its birth more than three hundred fifty years before, New Sea had roiled here, like an eternal flame, to mark the spot where the evil city once known as Klertal had stood. Lyim had never seen anything like this angry black water, and it fascinated him.
"Take me closer," he ordered the fishermen he'd paid handsomely to ferry him to this locally feared triangle of sea. Lyim's eyes never left the spot where angry black water boiled and churned.
"This is near enough," hissed the sailor's son, a thin lad with a wispy mustache and fly-away hair the color of mouse fur. His eyes grew wide as he saw bloody bits of fish float nearer their small boat. His lips trembled. "We'd best turn back, Pa."
Lyim's left hand stopped the old man as he leaned into the oars to turn the small craft. "I paid you a year's wages to take me to the Boil."
"And that we have done," said the old fisherman, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. "Any closer, and we'll surely be pulled into the maelstrom."
"If it's a closer look he wants, I say push him in and let him swim," grumbled the man's other son, a surly, suspicious lad with thick, veined forearms. He had strongly opposed his father accepting the job from the first, when the strange, secretive man had approached them on the dock back in the tiny fishing village of Balnakyle.
Lyim's coal-dark eyes pierced the burly son's, saying what his lips did not. I have not searched five long years to let your pitiful fear stop me now. The surly lad drew back to the farthest corner of the dinghy, and still it was not far enough from the shrouded man who hid his right hand.
"You'll take me wherever I say." Lyim turned his back on all three of the fishermen dismissively, mentally measuring the distance to the angrily boiling waters. He could easily swim the distance, and yet it was the principle of the thing. He had paid these fainthearts well.
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