The Medusa Plague

Chapter Five

He’d been told the manor house he sought was at the end of the narrow lane, behind a tall and obscuring copse of trees. The mage trudged the muddy track between cropped hedges of bright green dogwood. The light but steady rain continued, piercing the fog that clung like cotton batting to everything it touched, including the mage's mood.

Cinching the hood of his cloak closed beneath his chin, Lyim hoped this miserable trek would prove worth the effort. Lightning flashed overhead, and he I hastened his steps. The path abruptly opened up I around a curve in the road, giving view of a large beige I stone-and-timber manor, windows and shake roof I overgrown with curling tendrils of ivy. Lyim stood in I the rain for a few long moments, staring up at the I manor; he was not looking forward to again witnessing the pity he'd seen in her honey-colored eyes that night on Stonecliff. But there was no way around it, if he was to get what he'd come all this way to retrieve. Not even a pretty girl and her pity would keep him from reaching the goal of a half decade.

Lyim rolled down the last fold of his right cuff and secured beneath it the fingerless leather glove he'd had specially made for this trip. The mage came to the gate- room, a three-quartered cylinder fit against a corner of the manor. Standing under a small overhang, Lyim pounded first with his fist, then banged the lion-faced wrought-iron knocker repeatedly against the thick wooden door. Before long, he could sense someone regarding him through a small peephole. Lyim stood up straight, deliberately looking away from the door to present a casual profile.

The door creaked open on unoiled hinges. Lyim spun about with a warm smile of greeting on his face, expecting a servant to answer. His lip trembled slightly at the sight of the woman herself. Lovelier than he remembered, statuesque and still slim, Esme's face had taken on a depth of wisdom with age. The soft, round cheeks were now attractively hollowed and burnished with a healthy red glow. Shiny tendrils of curly golden- brown hair ringed her face and draped her shoulders like a thick cloak. Lyim preferred it loose to the tight bun he remembered her wearing at the nape of her neck. Her gown, a rosy whisper of a thing, draped and clung to her best advantage.

"Lyim Rhistadt."

Hello, Esme." Lyim took note that her smile held genuine warmth. He gave a courtly bow from the waist. "You look as exquisite as ever."

And you are ever the charmer," she said, clearly pleased despite her cynicism.

"It makes my words no less true," he said smoothly, calling upon skills dusty with disuse.

Esme colored ever so slightly. "What brings you to Fangoth?"

"You, of course," he said, his eyes sparkling directly into hers. He held his left hand out from under the stoop to catch the drops of rain that pelted his back. "May I come in?"

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, coloring a becoming shade of red. "Of course, please come in." Esme swept wide the heavy door and waved Lyim into the gate- room.

"I don't know what's the matter with me," she said, leading him over the polished slate floor in the small, circular room. "I've had so few visitors since my father died."

They entered a long hallway, dark and draped with thick tapestries. Esme turned left, into a small, cozy sitting room. Three large, arched windows, adorned with heavy mauve chintz, let in the rainy afternoon's meager light. The room was overfilled, for Lyim's taste, with flowery throw pillows and dark, heavy furniture, and tables covered with lace doilies and odd bric-a- brac. It was a very feminine place, and Esme slid into it like a hand into a well-worn glove.

The young woman lowered herself gracefully into an enveloping chair by the unlit hearth. "This room was always kept closed when my father was alive," she explained. "The furniture was here, though badly water-damaged from some long-ago flood. The first thing I did when I returned here to tend Melar during his illness was to clean the place up and redecorate to my own taste. It's my haven within the manor house. Most of my time is spent here-when I'm not in the laboratory."

Lyim spied a black-framed silhouette of a man with Esme's patrician nose and chin, but distinguished from her by a curling mustache. "Was your father ill very long?" he asked, settling into the second heavily padded chair. Lyim crossed his legs and arranged the folds of his red robe about his knees.

"No." Water dripped loudly and steadily from the windowsills outside.

In the awkward silence that followed, Lyim spied a spellbook, open and lying facedown, on the parquet table between the two armchairs. "I heard you passed your Test at the tower," he said.

"From the same person who told you I'd come back to Fangoth?" she quizzed.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I believe it was Justarius who told me both," Lyim said mildly.

"Justarius?" Esme looked surprised and a little disappointed at the mention of the Master of the Red Robes.

"Who else?" Lyim asked archly.

Esme stood and rubbed her arms as if chilled. "No one, of course," she said, fidgeting as she placed some tinder in the cold hearth. "I lead the quiet life of a mage in study here. Justarius is about the only other wizard with whom I ever communicate, and then only rarely." Esme stood and brushed off her hands, preparing to light the wood.

Lyim watched her profile as he artlessly asked, "What about Guerrand?"

The young woman went sdff. "What about him?"

Lyim shrugged his shoulders. "I thought you two were-"

"We were," she cut in abruptly, "but we aren't anymore." The fire leaped to life beneath Esme's fingers. She whirled around, amber eyes flashing, her composure totally fled. "Why don't you cut short this little fishing expedition and tell me why you're really here, Lyim?"

"Esme!" Lyim feigned shock, left palm pressed to his breastbone. "I merely came to see an old friend-"

Her laughter cut him off. "You traveled hundreds of leagues from Palanthas-"

"It's not that far."

"Just to see me and check on my social life after- what's it been, five, six years?" Esme chuckled again. "Lyim, Lyim," she intoned, "you might have been able to fool Guerrand, but I always saw through your slick act." She shook a tapered finger at him. "Mind you, I'm not overly angry, but neither am I stupid."

"No one would ever mistake you for that." Lyim matched her firm expression, but he was the first to look away, smiling sheepishly. "I'm no less sincere about seeing an old friend, just because I had a dual purpose to this visit," he said with exaggerated contrition in his tone.

Esme had the good grace to acknowledge the possibility with a polite nod. She leaned against the back of a chair, facing him, her arms crossed expectantly.

Lyim blurted, "I understand that you were among the mages who designed and built Bastion."

"That was quite some time ago," she replied cautiously, leaning forward. "How did you hear about it? I thought the identities of the designing members were supposed to be kept secret."

"What can I say? The magical rumor mill in Palanthas is a living thing. Besides," he said, shrugging, "it wouldn't have been a difficult thing to figure out. In addition to the Council of Three, who were the other eighteen members of the Conclave at the time of construction?"

Esme pursed her full lips. "Why the curiosity about a place none may enter?"

Lyim decided to speak boldly "I want to become our order's guardian there. Frankly, Esme, my life hasn't turned out as I'd planned. I haven't been able to cure my… deformity." He drew his leather-gloved hand back when her eyes inevitably strayed to it.

"I'd welcome the isolation," Lyim went on in an enthusiastic rush. "There, only two other people would be subjected to seeing my hand."

"I'm sorry, Lyim," she said softly.

He tore his gaze from the pity he'd expected, and now found, in her eyes. "I don't want your sympathy," he said sharply. "I want your help. You know what Bastion is like. You were among those who designed and built it. Tell me what you know," he rushed on, leaning toward her, "and it will give me an advantage over other candidates the next time the position becomes available."

Lyim reached out with his hand for one of Esme's, then noticed the thick, silver bracelet in the shape of a snake encircling her right bicep. He remembered well the electrical shock the protective armband delivered. Lyim's hand curled into a desperate fist. "Please, Esme. I've never wanted anything so much in my life."

The young woman visibly paled. "Don't you know?"

For once, Lyim didn't have to pretend ignorance. "Know what?"

"That Guerrand took the position less than a year ago," she supplied. "And unless something has happened to him-"

"Guerrand DiThon is the Red Robes' guardian?" gulped Lyim, uncharacteristically surprised.

Esme nodded, her brow furrowed. "I can't believe that you spoke to Justarius recently and he didn't mention it." t

"We didn't really discuss Bastion or Guerrand," muttered Lyim. That wasn't surprising, since he hadn't spoken to the Master of the Red Robes in years.

"I'm sorry to be the one to dash your hopes," Esme the OcdusA pUgue

said. "Frankly, I don't think I could have helped you very much anyway. Though I participated in the exterior design and construction of the stronghold, all but the Council of Three were dispatched from the site before the interior was complete and it was sent to the plane where it would block passage to the Lost Citadel."

"What plane is that?" Lyim asked.

Esme pondered the question. " 'Between earth and sky' was all Justarius would ever say about it."

"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 tbe COei›usA pUgue

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 and 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 direcdon."

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 hsrhtless ring of mercurv.

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,

OK ro" t›usA plague

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 1 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 one 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 hetistation. "I can’t let anyone into Bastion." Don’t answer so quickly." said Lyim. "Just think…

"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 1 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.