Guerrand dropped to his knees at last, his energy exhausted, head and wounded side aching. The apprentice looked skyward through rivulets of sweat just as dark Nuitari slid off-center from red Lunitari. The trio of light strands that formed the bridge abruptly rejoined into one column, then snapped in half. The lower portion collapsed upon the earthbound marble plinths, while the upper half shot away to disappear among the stars. Spiralling slowly inward, the gate itself began to darken and shrink, until the vibrant colors which had been almost too bright to look at faded to the dark red-orange of a smith's furnace.
The hilltop grew eerily silent.
"How did you do that, Rand?" Esme breathed, regarding him with new respect. "And what did you do with Belize?"
"I hope he's rotting in the Abyss for what he's done to me," snarled Lyim, then winced from the effort of sending air through his badly bruised lungs.
"Your arm-" Guerrand began, reaching out.
"Is a snake," Lyim finished viciously. "It disgusts me, but no more than the thought of your pity. I couldn't bear that, too."
Guerrand knew no other way to help his friend than to spare his pride, and so he looked away. Just then, the colors about the dwindling gate flared briefly, drawing the trio's attention. A shape tumbled with a loud popping sound through the plinths and onto the beaten grass, rolling to a stop against Belize's trunk. The ground began to shake, and the carved plinths swayed and rocked. Guerrand jumped back to Esme and Lyim just as the marble columns cracked and crashed to the ground, striking the mysterious shape as they tumbled. The swirling colors of the gate dissipated entirely, casting the hilltop back into the dimmer light of the moons.
"What is it?" gasped Esme, nodding toward the amorphous shape.
Steeling himself, Guerrand walked through the shattered blocks of marble and approached the trunk. The young mage's stomach churned as he stared down into the face of Belize, set in the middle of an oozing, flabby, ulcerous body like those Guerrand had seen in the archmage's lab. A shapeless flipper groped up toward the lid of the trunk. What remained of his mouth quivered, lidless eyes rolling from side to side, revealing his agony. Guerrand clapped a hand to his own mouth to keep from retching.
"It appears that the Master of the Red Robes has been following the ways of the Black Robes for some time."
Guerrand's head snapped up at the sound of a familiar voice. Justarius stooped to pick up the burned and tattered sheafs of Harz-Takta's spellbook near what remained of Belize. "Some knowledge is better left unrecovered."
Justarius's gaze upon Belize's body was grim. "He made the frequently fatal conceit of allowing love of himself to supersede his passion for magic. Magic must always come first."
"Wh-When did you get here?" stammered Guerrand, holding fast to Esme.
Justarius eased himself onto a blasted block of the marble plinths, closing his robe against the crisp wind that blew off the strait. "It was quite simple, really. Your comments about Belize's research practices plagued me, until, by the time I teleported to Wayreth, I was certain these were no idle experiments he was performing. Par-Salian agreed that they sounded like the result of gating experiments."
He blew the chill from his hands. "LaDonna recognized the name Harz-Takta. He was a Black Robe a millennium ago, considered too nefarious even for that order."
"That," explained Justarius, "concerned me enough to immediately scry in my crystal ball for Belize's whereabouts, which revealed this place. Hearing Belize's plans, I teleported here, but you had already prevented him from entering the Lost Citadel." The red archmage raised an ironic brow with a look that took in both his apprentices. "By the way, weren't you two supposed to wait in your chambers for my return?"
Esme's face burned crimson. "What's going to happen to us?" she whispered from the circle of Guerrand's arm.
"Considering that Belize's crimes motivated your actions, Par-Salian and LaDonna have agreed to let the matter of your transgressions drop. Under the circumstances, however, I think we must terminate your apprenticeships," he finished gruffly.
"You mean you're kicking us out?" Guerrand cried indignantly
"I mean," said Justarius with heavy emphasis, "I have taught you all that I can. You both handled yourselves admirably against great odds." He nodded his head toward the vast emptiness where Belize's gate had been. "The spell Guerrand devised to defeat Belize was truly inspired."
Guerrand's relief blew out in a breath, and he gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "You mean inspired by desperation."
Justarius shrugged. "The result still demonstrates that you have mastered the visualization technique." He smiled. "Besides, you have a bad habit of bending the rules, a trait you seem to have passed on to Esme." He smiled fondly at the young woman. "It is a quality that makes for difficult apprentices but formidable mages."
"What will happen to Belize?" whispered Esme, regarding what remained of him with undisguised revulsion.
"He'll be given a tribunal to determine his status," explained Justarius. "If found to be a renegade, he'll be executed immediately in keeping with our order's policies. A renegade's unpredictability threatens the delicate balance between Good and Evil." Justarius toed the monstrosity that was Belize. "Frankly, I don't think he'll live long enough for a tribunal. But that is his due."
From the protection of darkness, Lyim asked, "What will happen to his disfigured apprentice?" A snake's soft hiss told that Lyim had lost the most for his part in tonight's battle. "I have no master, no hand-" his voice caught "-and nowhere to go."
"That's not true!" cried Guerrand. "You can go with me-" he glanced at the young woman, who nodded "-with us. I owe you so much, Lyim."
"Then I'll take your hand as payment." Lyim gave an eerie, humorless laugh at Guerrand's stunned expression. "Ah, Rand, will you ever conquer your ever-ready sense of guilt?"
Justarius sliced through the awkward silence. "Lyim needs more aid than you can give him now. The choice, of course, is his."
"What are you offering me?" Lyim asked. The snake that was his hand hissed again in the dark shadows of the broken pillars.
"What I would offer any aspiring mage," Justarius said simply. "A chamber at Wayreth to rest and heal until you can secure a new master. That is one of the tower's primary functions, a benefit of belonging to a guild, if you will."
"Can you restore my hand?"
Justarius bowed his dark head. "That I cannot promise. I have no personal knowledge of the forces that caused the mutation. But I'd try to help you find someone who does."
Lyim looked to his fellow apprentices, locked in embrace, and closed his eyes for a long moment. "I would speak with Guerrand and Esme alone," he said, tucking his snake-head into the bell of his cuff selfconsciously. Justarius stepped away and concerned himself with the contents of Belize's ironbound chest.
Guerrand faced his friend, unsure how to deal with a blusterless Lyim. He reached out to clasp the man's shoulder, then drew back clumsily. "Lyim, I'm sorry. It's gratitude, not pity I feel-" Guerrand cursed himself for his awkward drivel. "This is coming out all wrong!"
"Forget it," Lyim said gruffly, struggling to regain his old bravado. "Never explain, never defend, that's what I always say."
Esme overcame her own revulsion to loop a hand through Lyim's good arm, but he pulled away in embarrassment. "Justarius is a good man," she tried to reassure him. "If he says he'll help you, he will."