"But tomorrow may be too late," Bram cried. He refused to be put off so easily. "Can't you make an exception this once?" he pleaded, impulsively touching the man's arm.
Blue light crackled around the bent figure, gathered near his shoulder, and arced to Bram's hand. The young man yelped and yanked back his smoking fingers, as surprised as if a bucket of cold water had been splashed in his face. He had just suffered from what he was sure was a small demonstration of the mage's ability. If he wished to get any information here, he would have to use his wits.
A vision of the tuatha coin sprang to mind, and he fished about in the folds of his waistband to retrieve it. "I'm afraid I've started out on the wrong foot here," he began again in his most conciliatory tones. "I don't know if it matters, or warrants an exception to the rules, but I was given a faerie coin and instructed to hand it to Par-Salian by way of intra-"
"A faerie coin?" the man repeated over a hunched shoulder. "Why didn't you say so earlier?" He let the broom handle drop to the slate floor with a loud, ringing sound, while he stepped over to the book on the stand near the front door. Squinting in the dim light, the man flipped back the heavy cover, sending dust flying, and began leafing through pages. He came to one in particular and traced an ash-colored finger down a column of words. Abruptly he tapped the page and mumbled, "Ayup. Faerie coins are right here under, 'Reasons to disturb Par-Salian, Head of the Conclave, Master of the White Robes.' "
The man slammed the heavy book shut. When he looked at Bram again, the smile on his face made it obvious his attitude toward the young nobleman had changed. 'The name's Delestrius, and I'm the warden on duty. Come along, then," he said, stepping over the broom on his way to the door through which Bram had seen him enter the foretower. Delighted with his new treatment, Bram hopped over the broom handle and followed the hastily retreating man through the door.
The old man in the white robe scurried like a mouse up a staircase immediately inside the door, allowing Bram not a glance about him as he hurried along behind. It was even darker here than in the foretower. There were no torches, no candles, no magical lights of any kind on the stairs, or even the landings that he presumed led to rooms he couldn't see. There were no decorations of any kind, neither tapestries nor carpets to warm the steps.
Delestrius departed the stairway on the second landing and entered a narrow hallway. A window at the far end allowed in a sliver of light, but not enough to illuminate anything near Bram and his guide. They walked, the man surefooted, Bram tentatively, in the hallway that felt as if it curved. Bram bumped into Delestrius, who had stopped before a doorway. The nobleman didn't feel the burning sensation he had the last time he touched the mage. Delestrius knocked at the unmarked door.
"Enter, Delestrius," said a voice as strong and clear as if its owner were not speaking through a thick, wooden door. It swung open without Bram's guide touching it. Bram followed Delestrius into a room that was nicely lit by a low-burning fire in the hearth against the left wall. The light radiated in warm yellow rays, striking shelves of books bound in white leather, silver runes glinting upon their spines. The golden light led Bram's eyes to a white-haired man seated behind an elaborate desk, one leg lifted casually to rest upon its cluttered surface.
"You know I would not for the world disturb you after hours, Master," Bram's guide said with an obsequiousness the young man wouldn't have thought him capable of, "if it were not of the utmost-"
"You know I trust your judgment, Delestrius," interrupted the white-haired mage. Setting down a feathered quill, he raised kindly, tired blue eyes to Bram.
It took many long seconds before Bram realized the look was a question. "I was given a faerie coin and instructed to place it only in the hands of Par-Salian," he blurted.
"A faerie coin?" repeated the old man with interest.
Are you Par-Salian?"
Delestrius gasped and slapped the back of Bram's head. "I was told I would suffer death if I gave the coin:o anyone else," Bram explained defensively, rubbing his skull.
The white-haired man behind the desk said, "Your reticence is understandable, under such circumstances. I should have introduced myself." He stood, walked around the desk, and extended a hand that winked with the facets of many precious gems. "Par-Salian, Head of the Conclave, Master of the White Robes, Keeper of the Key, and so on, and so on," he said with a self-deprecating formality.
The young man's work-reddened hand shook the mage's soft, warm one. "Bram DiThon," he said simply.
Par-Salian's eyes lit noticeably with interest at the surname, but before he could form a question, both men heard Bram's guide muttering, "Shouldn't have to introduce the greatest mage alive."
Par-Salian smoothed his snowy moustache with two fingers, hiding a slight smirk. "That will be all, Delestrius. Thank you."
Frowning, the man bobbed his head and backed through the door, leaving Bram and Par-Salian in the silence of the crackling fire.
Bram waited, red-faced, while the white-haired mage slowly shuffled to a chair by the hearth. He motioned Bram to join him. Par-Salian held out his soft, wrinkled palm, leaving no question as to what he wished. Bram rubbed the carved surface of the wafer- thin magical coin one last time, then placed it in the man's waiting hand. Par-Salian had just enough time to validate Bram's claim before the coin disappeared like snow into water.
"I'm always sorry to see them vanish so quickly," the wizard said wistfully. "I receive them with the half- decade infrequency of the three moons' eclipsing. The tuatha dundarael rarely give them away."
Par-Salian's ice-blue eyes pierced Bram for some moments. "I sense no magical training in you. What would cause the tuatha to favor you with their coin?"
he asked bluntly.
Bram shrugged. "They said I had 'high moral standards.' " He repeated Thistledown's exact words without hubris, mindful of the tuatha's admonishment about pride.
"That's interesting," remarked the wizard. He continued to study Bram's face. "I sense in you a great deal of natural talent for the Art. Is that why you've come here, to find a master with whom to apprentice?"
Bram shook his head to the question for the second time that day. "No, sir. I've come because some sort of plague, for lack of a better word, has struck my village in Northern Ergoth. I am neither doctor nor mage, but I suspect the cause may be magical in nature."
"So you're looking for a mage to find a cure," finished Par-Salian. "I appreciate your dilemma, young man, but Wayreth is the seat of magical learning, not a wizard market."
Bram frowned. "I wasn't looking for just any mage," he said. "I haven't the money to pay one anyway. I was hoping to find my uncle, whom I understand came here seeking a master nearly a decade ago."
Par-Salian's expression darkened with disapproval. "Neither are we an alumni association."
"I understand that," Bram said quickly, "but if I told vou my uncle's name, maybe you'd recognize it and would know if he is even still alive. I'll leave at once, without further question, if the name is unfamiliar," he promised.
Par-Salian waved a distracted hand, signaling Bram to proceed.
"My uncle is Guerrand DiThon."
The wizard leaned back and tapped his whiskered chin. "Yes, I recognize the name," he said at length. "I also begin to understand why the faerie folk might have given you a coin."
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"You know of him?" Bram exclaimed. "Then can you tell me where he is now? "