Guerrand set the quill down. "Besides, I left Cormac's home to get control of my own life. I can take care of this myself."
A sharp rap drew their attention to Justarius standing in the doorway. His calm expression suggested he'd not heard their conversation. The mage glanced around the room. "Hello, Guerrand. Zagarus," he added with a nod. "I came to tell you that you're going to the festival now."
Guerrand raised his hands plaintively from his notes. "Oh, Justarius, I was just beginning to make some progress here. I'd really rather stay-"
"No," the mage interrupted, "you're coming to the festival. No one is allowed to miss it, another tradition here at Villa Rosad. Rest assured, your notes will still be on your desk when you return."
Seeing there was no recourse, with a sigh Guerrand closed his notebook, wiped the quill clean, then stood obediently.
"Esme has gone ahead," explained the older mage, "but you and I will have a fine-or at least interesting-time. You'll see."
Master and apprentice walked through the cool marble vestibule and into the terraced gardens that enhanced the entrance to Villa Rosad. The view from the winding mountain road that connected Justarius's home with the city below was deceptive. Nestled into the scrubby hillside, the villa looked narrow, not much wider than a primitive cottage. The similarity ended there.
The facade of the building was supported by two twenty-foot statues intricately carved of rose marble. The statue to the right of the double door was a curvaceous woman dressed in the same type of soft-flowing gown Esme favored. The left statue was of a well-defined man, muscles bulging under his artfully draped toga. Both statues had regal, aquiline features and wore jewel-studded crowns. As Guerrand watched, the perfectly formed lips of the woman moved.
"Are you going to the Festival of Knights, Justarius?"
Justarius turned around with a salute and flourish at
the sound of the statue's high-pitched monotone. "Yes, Mitild, I thought we might. It's a lovely day, isn't it?"
Mitild's marble eyes shifted in their hard sockets. "Yes, the garden is quite perfect now. I prefer the autumn flowers, chrysanthemums and sedum."
"I do wish we could go to the festival," said the male statue wistfully, his tone deeper, yet still mechanical. "It sounds so fascinating from up here."
"Now, Harlin," said Justarius in a stern voice, "I've offered you and Mitild your freedom more times than either of us can remember."
"Thirty-seven," supplied Harlin. "We couldn't possibly go free, Justarius. You know you'd be lost without us guarding the villa."
"Yes, that's true enough," the mage agreed kindly.
"Besides, what would we do with our freedom?" said Mitild in that high, hard-edged voice. "Walk through the city, frightening children?"
"Couldn't you go live with other stone giants?" Guerrand suggested innocently. Suddenly he could feel the hot stares of two sets of cold marble eyes.
"Harlin and I are not stone giants," Mitild said icily. "Justarius's master, Merick, brought some of those here a century or so ago. An ignorant, ugly bunch."
"I'm sorry," said Guerrand quickly, flushing hotly. "I just assumed-"
"Why, because we're as tall as buildings and made of marble?"
"Well… yes."
"Let up on the boy," admonished Justarius. "It was a logical assumption. He lacks your broad experience of stone giants, after all." The statues seemed mildly pacified.
Mitild's eyelids narrowed as she peered intently at Justarius. "Oh, would you look at that? Please hold this, Harlin," she said with a quick glance to the cornice above her. To Guerrand's amazement, the perfectly sculpted male took one arduous step into the tiny doorway between the two statues. He twisted slightly, revealing a perfectly flat back, since only his front had been carved. Harlin reached up with his smoothly crafted left arm to support the portion of the roof above Mitild's crowned head.
With the sluggish grace and grinding noises one would expect from moving marble, Mitild lifted the hem of her gown and stepped slowly down the stairs toward Justarius. Towering more than three times the height of the unperturbed mage, the giant statue reached down with her enormous, pale hand and tugged at the ever-present white ruff around the mage's throat. "Who would straighten your attire whenever you leave the villa?"
"Certainly no one could do it as well as you, Mitild. It's become crystal clear to me that I could not run Villa Rosad without you, so wipe the thought from your heads," Justarius said firmly, pleased at the slight smiles his words brought to the lips of the statues. "And now, good day."
With that, the mage grasped Guerrand by the elbow and propelled him through the garden. They could still hear the statues' cries of farewell from below on the winding road that led through the kettles to the valley in which Palanthas sat.
Finally out of earshot, Guerrand ventured to ask, "If they're not stone giants, what are they?"
Justarius shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea," he confessed. "Never have been able to figure it out. Mitild and Harlin came with Villa Rosad. They do a superb job screening and scaring off intruders. In exchange, I must spend a few minutes every now and then making them feel indispensable. It's a small enough price to pay."
"They certainly frightened me sufficiently when I arrived for the first time." Guerrand recalled clearly the day he had followed the tower's shadow to Justarius's villa. "I was so thrilled at having found the place that I strolled straight in as if I owned it-until a pair of marble hands as big as my torso picked me up by the shoulders and made me introduce myself."
Justarius laughed. "And they had orders to give you the hospitable treatment!"
Despite having changed into a summer-weight robe of light linen, Guerrand was perspiring heavily by the time they reached the bottom of the hill. Justarius's road fed into one of the spokes leading to the city's southwest gate. Master and apprentice passed under the twin, golden minarets that soared above each gate in the Old City Wall. The Tower of High Sorcery loomed to the left, commanding their attention. As usual, Guerrand shuddered.
"The tower is an important part of our heritage as wizards," said Justarius, noting Guerrand's reaction. "However hideous it looks, however grim the stories surrounding its downfall, it is a constant reminder to us all how precarious is our position among nonmages. We must be ever-vigilant not to abuse our powers in the eyes of others. It is vital, not only for the survival of the orders, but more importantly to maintain the delicate balance between Good and Evil."
"Frankly, in my little corner of the globe, I never thought of the world as locked in any sort of eternal struggle," admitted Guerrand. "If I had, I might have concluded that the best world is one entirely dominated by Good."
Justarius looked deeply puzzled. "Then why did you declare allegiance to the Red Robes, instead of the White?"
"I listened carefully to all three descriptions of the orders given at the tower," said Guerrand, then paused. He looked at Justarius with concern. "Can I be frank, without retribution?"
Guerrand's master frowned. "J expect nothing less from my apprentices."
"Since you've asked, I thought Par-Salian's definition of the philosophy of the White Robes too simplistic and idealistic to be possible. Simply telling everyone they should be good doesn't make it happen."
Guerrand drew in a breath. "As for LaDonna's explanation of the Black Robes… it sounded like a rationalization for them to do whatever they want, the consequences be damned. That's just immoral."
Justarius lifted one brow. "So you chose the Red Robes by default?"
"No!" cried Guerrand. "I–I liked what you said about the importance of maintaining a balance between Good and Evil. I confess I didn't entirely understand it," he admitted sheepishly, "but at least I didn't disagree with it. Besides," the apprentice blurted, "I admired you."