As Guerrand looked on, stone golems were making slabs of the lustrous onyx for the wing's final room. Working tirelessly under the enchantment of the black wizards, the monstrous golems were silent save for the steady thudding of their feet.
Guerrand shifted his gaze back to the center of the site. A smile of pride lit his face. Without a doubt, he mused, Bastion's red wing was the most distinctive for its expert craftsmanship and its simple but practical design. The wing jutted back between the white and black wings, a simple rectangle made of red granite blocks mined by stone giants summoned from the Khalkists. A battalion of these smooth, gray giants, three times the height of a human, were under the direction of stalwart Daewar dwarves. The behemoths carried blocks of granite on their backs or slung between two of them on tremendous tree trunks borne on their shoulders. More Daewar stonemasons, using precision tools, fashioned burnished red blocks that were then put into place upon magical mortar by the stone giants. The wing was a vision of simple elegance, reminding Guerrand of Justarius's villa in Palanthas.
The massive blocks of granite and porcelain and onyx would have stood on their own for centuries. But Bastion was an extraordinary edifice, with an extraordinary purpose. To symbolize the cooperative effort of the magical orders, as well as make the structure impervious to time and nature, Bastion's mortar was being imbued with a portion of the essence of every wizard-Ln-good-standing on Krynn. But the process of adding the magical contributions of a thousand wizards was time-consuming. Guerrand had lost count of the hours he alone had spent over the slurry of mortar, endlessly repeating the phrases and gestures of the incantation. It was spellcasting that left a mage's body exhausted, but the discipline had sharpened Guerrand's mind.
Accelerated by the magic of twenty-one wizards, the project had gone amazingly well, considering the diversity of temperaments of those working on it and the participation of monsters. After six months of planning and three months of construction, the stronghold was only days away from completion. Soon all but the Council of Three would be magically dispatched from the site.
Par-Salian, La Donna, and Justarius would then combine their considerable magical abilities to etch the final magic onto the building itself and send the shell of Bastion to a place between Krynn and the Lost Citadel. Only those three venerable mages would know the secret of Bastion's final location.
Guerrand turned his back on the spectacle outside and rested against the windowsill. "I'll be sorry when Bastion's finished," he said. The wizard colored slightly when he realized how selfish he might sound. "Don't set me wrong," he continued hastily. "I understand it's crucial that we prevent anyone from stepping foot inside the Lost Citadel. I'm as afraid as every other mage is of what the gods of magic would do if we allowed it to happen again."
"You know what would happen," said Esme. "All the mages on Krynn have dedicated a portion of their own magical essence to Bastion. That energy binds the mortar to the blocks, as we wizards have bound ourselves to the Art. The Council of Three warned us that
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if Bastion fails, the energy will be forfeit to Lunitari, Solinari, and Nuitari."
Guerrand dropped onto the bed. "We're a part of history, Esme, of the greatest cooperative magical effort in nearly three hundred fifty years! This is what the builders of the towers of sorcery must have felt. Is it so wrong of me not to want it to end?"
"I've had the same thought," confessed Esme, coloring. "Being a part of this melting pot of skills, this suppression of arrogance and alignment in the defense of our common Art…" Esme shook her head. "We'll not see it again in our lifetime."
Guerrand nodded, thinking that the last time the Conclave had joined together to save their artifacts- their lives-was from the wrath of the Kingpriest. The realization brought to mind again the black wizard Rannoch.
"I'll tell you why the Dream bothers me," Guerrand said, abruptly breaking the gentle spell their musings had wrought. He searched through his clothespress for his best red robe. "I've been trying to figure out why the final segment of my Test put me in the body of the black wizard who cursed the tower in Palanthas. I'm a red wizard," he said, his hands on his hips. "I don't understand what that means."
"I can't answer that either," said Esme. "I can only remind you that the Test exists to weed out those wizards who might be harmful to themselves, to the order, or to innocents. Remember, too, that the Test is meant to teach the mage something about himself." Esme raised a silky brow. "What did Justarius say when you asked him about this after you passed?"
Guerrand wrinkled his lips in distaste. "He told me that the Council designed all three segments of my Test with two goals in mind. First, they wanted to measure the limits of my magical skills. Second, they wanted to demonstrate that no one is all good or bad or even perfectly neutral at all times. Justarius in particular wanted me to see that each new day, each new situation, brings with it choices.
"Historically," Guerrand continued, "the black wizard Rannoch chose to throw himself from the Tower of High Sorcery and curse the place, acts considered in keeping with an evil wizard. I, on the other hand, chose neither to jump nor curse the tower. That particularly day, I followed the path of Good and joined the majority of white and red mages who left peacefully. But in the first two segments of my Test, my solutions were inclined toward Evil and Neutrality, respectively."
"There you have it!" Esme exclaimed, pulling the robe he sought from under a pile of carelessly discarded clothing.
Frowning his distraction, Guerrand slipped an arm into the sleeve she held out to him. "But in today's dream, 1 threw myself-as Rannoch-from the tower!"
"That merely validates Justarius's explanation," Esme returned. "Today you chose the path of Evil. In tomorrow's dream, you might follow the white and red wizards again. The point is, your choices balance out and thus follow the ways of the red order."
Guerrand still looked disturbed, skeptical. Esme's brows drew together with concern. "You're beginning to sound obsessed, and that worries me."
"You think I like dreading sleep, for fear I'll dream?" he demanded hotly.
She gave him a frank but compassionate look, one hand on a slender hip. "I think you worry too much about events you can't affect. Things usually happen юг a reason," she said, recalling a line Justarius liked to use. "even if we never learn that reason."
Guerrand frowned. "Then this is one time when I've got to learn the reason for the memory. I'm certain there's some additional lesson I'm supposed to take from it. What if I miss it?"
"You'll miss the rest of your life," returned Esme, "if you keep agonizing over this." She strapped her pouch on over her red robe and sensible trousers, preparing to leave.
Nodding in concession, Guerrand followed the young woman out the door, to where giants and golems worked among mages to make history.
Chapter One
Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea Five years later…
Gritting his teeth, Guerrand stretched out bis left arm, straining until he thought his shoulder would pop from the socket. It was no use; the juiciest, orange-red rose hips were still a handspan beyond his reach. He would simply have to plow his way through the thorny wild rosebushes that grew on the banks of the Straits of Schallsea. Resigning himself to ruining his homespun red robe, yet thankful for the protection it offered, he held high his small wooden gathering basket and plunged ahead. His sights were locked on his quarry, highlighted against the bright blue of the nearby straits.