Par-Salian winced slightly. "That is a bit more complicated." He stood and walked toward the door, the hem of his white robe whispering across the stone floor. "Please wait here, while I confer with a colleague."
Bram quickly grew restless with waiting, and he began looking around the room. The bookshelves he'd spotted from the door were to his left. The white leather spines looked butter-yellow in the glow of the fire. Something about the silver-etched lettering drew his finger to trace the unreadable words. He could almost feel the magic radiating from the tomes, but when he tried to lift one, he couldn't move it from the shelf, as if it were affixed there.
He spied a plate of cookies on Par-Salian's desk and was reminded how long it had been since he'd eaten his last rubbery carrot. He lifted one from the plate. It was light as a feather between his fingers, and smelled of almond. The cookie crumbled in his mouth, tasting of butter and sugar of a quality not used in Thonvil in some time.
The door swung open abruptly, and in stepped Par- Salian. Behind him was a younger-looking, robust man in a red robe topped off by a white neck ruff. The second mage dragged his left leg in a manner that suggested it was crippled. Both regarded the young man spewing cookie crumbs with amusement.
"I'm sorry," mumbled Bram over the mouthful of half-chewed biscuit. "I was just so hungry…"
"Never mind," said Par-Salian. "If I had my manners about me I would have realized you hadn't eaten for some time and offered you refreshment."
Smiling gratefully, Bram gulped down the last of the cookie and wiped his mouth on a sleeve.
Par-Salian nodded toward his red-robed companion.
"Justarius, Master of the Red Robes, this is Brom DiThon."
"Bram," the nobleman quickly corrected.
Justarius limped forward slowly, considering Bram's face. "I can see the resemblance in the hair and the cheekbones," he said at length. "Guerrand had more of the timid rabbit look about him when he first came to the Tower of High Sorcery and became my apprentice."
"Can you tell me the whereabouts of my uncle, sir?" Bram asked, feeling the weight of time press. "It's urgent that I find him right away."
Justarius lowered himself into one of the chairs by the hearth, stretching out his game leg. "What would you have your uncle do if you found him?"
"As I was telling Par-Salian," Bram began, nodding toward the venerable white-robed mage, "a strange, magical disease has struck our village. There are some who think Guerrand may be responsible for it, since he first brought magic to the village." Bram was suddenly conscious that the remark might offend the wizards. 'Whatever has caused it," he added hastily, "I hope he will return with me and use his skills to cure the disease before it kills everyone I know and care about, including my family. Guerrand's family."
The mages exchanged looks. "So you could be spreading this disease by leaving," observed Justarius over -teepled fingertips.
"I could," Bram agreed reluctantly, "but frankly I doubt it. I've been gone long enough that I would have exhibited the first symptom of a fever by now if I were carrying the sickness." Still sensing Justarius's disapproval, he added grimly, "What would you have me do, ust wait there for everyone, including me, to die?"
None of that matters here," Par-Salian interrupted iismissively. "The tower is protected from such things. The gates would have closed to prevent you from entering if you were carrying a deadly disease."
"So, will you tell me where my uncle is?"
The mages sat, very still, exchanging glances.
"It may not be important to you that a small village of people are dying while we speak," Bram said, unable to hide his frustration, "but those people mean everything to me. They're depending on me to help them; Guerrand is the only chance I have to find a cure."
Bram put a hand over his mouth briefly and willed a measure of calm. "I apologize for my bluntness," he said. "If you don't know where my uncle is, just say so, and I'll be out the front door as soon as I can find it again. But if you do know, tell me, and I'll leave just as quickly to look for him."
"You can't," Justarius said.
Bram's dark head cocked. "Is he dead?"
"I didn't say that." Justarius rubbed his face wearily "In an odd way that would actually make him easier for you to find."
Sensing that Bram was on the brink of snapping, Justarius struggled for a less cryptic explanation. "You have put us in an odd position, Bram."
"I'm in a bit of a bind myself," the nobleman said.
Justarius pursed his lips. "We're not unsympathetic to your plight. However, your uncle holds a position of great importance to the Council of Mages, and to the future of magic, for that matter. By necessity, his location and actual duties are a closely guarded secret." Par- Salian nodded from behind his desk across the room.
"So," Bram said slowly, trying to take in the news, "am I just supposed to go on my way?"
Par-Salian stepped around his desk to close the gap between the three. "We're not sure what we expect you to do," he admitted. "Frankly, most mages are loners. We've not had a family member come looking for anyone in Guerrand's position before."
But Bram would not be so easily put off. "Well, you have now."
"This is not, however, the first time Guerrand has had problems with his family," put in Justarius. "The last such episode led to the catastrophic event that necessitated the creation of Guerrand's current position."
"I don't understand," Bram said, shaking his head.
Justarius waved the subject away. "It is a long and complicated story, and one 1 don't think you'd like us to take the time to explain now. But please understand that our hesitation stems only from the fact that there are many who would pay dearly for the secret of Guerrand's location."
Bram gasped. "Are you suggesting I'm a spy?"
Justarius shrugged. "You may be and not even know it. It's not inconceivable that you've been bewitched by a mage who wishes to learn the secret."
"But I haven't!" cried the young man, yet his tone was more protest than persuasive.
"There is a way for us to determine that for ourselves, if you are willing," suggested Par-Salian.
Bram's glance was hard. "Let's do it."
Par-Salian raised his arms, white sleeves fluttering like the wings of a swan, and before Bram knew what was happening, all three were gone from the study.
The nobleman blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was with the mages in a small, dark, hexagonal room. No fire burned but the flame of a single golden candle. At the edges of his vision, Bram could make out a few long tables, an iron-bound chest, and behind him a chair.
"Where are we? Is Guerrand here?"
"Sadly, for you, no. We're in my laboratory atop the north tower." Par-Salian reached into a pocket in his zold-trimmed robe and withdrew a handful of sparkling powder. Arcing his arm, he drew a perfect circle of
glowing silver onto the stone floor.
"Step into the circle, Bram," he commanded, his voice grave, eyes on the sphere.
Bram hesitated, instinctively resisting both the pull of Par-Salian's tone and the aura of the magical circle. The area of magic began to sing to him in a chorus of voices that rose from the depths of the floor it encompassed.
"Heed the song, Bram," Justarius said. "It will not lead you astray."
Bram relinquished his will and stepped slowly into the circle, hands twitching expectantly at his sides. Par- Salian opened a chest and pulled out an enormous, rough-cut crystal that he and Justarius suspended in midair between them. The two powerful mages began to swing the gem above his head in ever-widening circles.