"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."
Justarius overlooked the admission and frowned. "I see we've neglected a critical part of your education."
He stopped and pointed to the twisted, black Tower of High Sorcery. "Look there, and you will see the clearest example of what happens when the balance is upset and one force or another gains the upper hand."
Guerrand shook his head. "Now I really don't understand. From all accounts, the kingpriest was evil. Wouldn't the outcome have been different if he had been good?"
"Historians have labeled him evil since the Cataclysm." Justarius stroked his pointed beard. "But in his time, he was, with the exception of the insightful elves, considered by all to epitomize the qualities of goodness."
They were walking slowly, still some distance from the city's inner circle, where the festivities appeared to be centered. Droves of people, grinning broadly in anticipation, were passing them up on the roadway.
"Are you certain you want to hear this lecture now?"
"If you'll recall, I was not the one so keen to come to the festival in the first place," jibed Guerrand.
"Then, for my sake, let us sit while I give you the shortened version." Justarius gestured them toward some golden bales of hay stacked along the roadside for seats during the festival's many parades.
"We use that title, 'kingpriest'," he began, once settled, "as if there has been only one. But centuries of humans held the title, and corrupted the office, before the ego of the last to hold it brought on the Cataclysm.
"Nearly five hundred years before that great catastrophe, the city of Istar reigned as the center of commerce and art. As time went on, the citizens began to believe their own publicity too well. Claiming also to be the moral center, they went on to build a temple and install a kingpriest who would proclaim the glory of righteous Istar. The next logical step for such arrogance was to repress the opinions, independence, and talent of those who did not agree. The elves, with their artistic temperaments and infinite wisdom, withdrew from the world of arrogant humans.
"Conditions dissolved rapidly," Justarius continued, "particularly without the temperance of the elves. A kingpriest declared that the rampant evil in the world was an affront to both gods and mortals. A list of evil acts was created, and the punishment for violation was swift. High on the list of evil acts was the execution of magic, but I think you know the story from there."