Guerrand wasted no time taking his nephew's arm and leading him, droopy-eyed, through the archway to tbe CDedusa plague
the sleeping chamber. His foot caught the strap of a scroll case Bram had set on the floor near the door when Guerrand had begun to pour the wine. Curious, Guerrand started to lift the case when Bram's eyes sparked briefly to life.
"I almost forgot," he said groggily. "The scroll in the case is for you. From Justarius."
Nodding, Guerrand toed the case to the side and helped Bram to the feather tick. The young man was asleep before his head hit Guerrand's goose-down pillow.
Chapter Twelve
Guerrand regarded his sleeping nephew with a twinge of remorse. He'd hated to cast the spell, but Bram was in as much need of rest as Guerrand required time to think. There had to be some way to help Thonvil without abandoning his responsibilities here in Bastion. The mage snatched up the round leather tube from Justarius on his way to the library.
Guerrand settled himself behind the dark walnut desk to think. Someone was deliberately trying to connect him with the spread of Thonvil's odd plague. Guerrand had no question who that was, since he had no greater enemy than Lyim Rhistadt. The symptoms Bram had described sounded too much like Lyim's affliction to be a coincidence. This plague was revenge, pure and simple, for Guerrand's refusal to grant Lyim entrance to Bastion to cure his mutated arm.
But what an odd and evil revenge, thought Guerrand. There were too many differences between the plague and Lyim's mutation for them to be exactly the same, not to mention the convoluted way Lyim's hand was altered. The similarity reminded Guerrand too painfully of the source of the unease he'd been feeling since he'd turned Lyim away in the mercury.
Though he felt great pity for Lyim's suffering, Guerrand had no question that he had done right to forbid Lyim entrance to the stronghold. No mortal cause was worth opening the very door Bastion had been created to block. He had pledged his life to preventing a breach. He would compromise that for no one.
Still, even Guerrand's unflagging commitment to Bastion wouldn't allow him to dismiss responsibility for the plague in Thonvil. What about Kirah and the rest of his family? He couldn't stay blithely in Bastion while his nephew went back to Thonvil to suffer a hideous death. They had just found each other again. Bram had grown into a well-spoken man who reminded Guerrand not a little of himself in many respects. They held in common wavy brown hair, a slightly flattened nose, wide dark eyes, and high cheekbones. Bram seemed as determined and self- assured as Guerrand's brother Quinn had been, tempered by Guerrand's own reflective nature.
As impossible as it was for him to doom Bram, it further prayed on Guerrand's mind that the consequences of this plague reached far beyond his family and the village. What would prevent the sickness (тот spreading to the rest of Northern Ergoth, to the rest of the world? The end of life on Krynn simply couldn't be of lesser concern to the Council of Three than that Bastion be short a defender for a matter of days.
Guerrand had once told Kirah that he'd been wrong not to come to the family's aid, instead sending Lyim in his place. Nearly ten years later Thonvil was still paying for the misjudgment that had put Lyim on Stone- cliff during Belize's attempt to enter the Lost Citadel. Guerrand could not compound the mistake by repeating it. Justarius would just have to see that stopping the spread of this magical plague was as important to the defense of magic as Guerrand's presence at Bastion. The high defender's hopes were high in that regard, considering the exception the Council had made by letting Bram into Bastion.
The thought reminded Guerrand of the scroll case from Justarius. It was unusual to receive such a formal missive from the Master of the Red Robes. He pried up the snap on the end of the tube and shook out two curled pieces of parchment inside. They fluttered to the floor. He scooped up the first and unfurled it, recognizing the large, flowing script at once.
Guerrand,
Par-Salian and I have met with your nephew and find him to be of sound character. We have considered both his tale of a magical plague and your history of requests to return and help your family. Once before you were given a choice between your magic and your family, and we both know the outcome of that unfortunate incident. Therefore, Par-Salian and I have agreed to grant you a short leave-of-absence, if you will, to deal with this situation back in Northern Ergoth, if it is your judgment as high defender that Bastion is secure. Since the teleport spell does not function between planes, I have imbued this scroll zoith the ability to transport both you and your nephew to wherever you require on the Prune Material Plane, thus saving your spell energy for more dire events. Good luck.
– Justarius
Guerrand leaned back among the cushions, stunned. Both he and Justarius had come a long way in their thinking since Guerrand's days as an apprentice in Palanthas.
The mage tossed the curled parchment onto the dark surface of his desk. He had much to do before he could depart for Thonvil. First, he must leave explicit instructions with Dagamier and Ezius. Dagamier would undoubtedly remind Guerrand she'd run the place long before he came along, but the high defender was ever careful to establish his authority with the ambitious black wizardess. Once Bastion was as secure as he could make it in his absence, Guerrand would be free to consider the components and spellbooks he should take back with him to Thonvil.
Reaching into a desk drawer, the mage snatched up quill and parchment and began to scratch a list of instructions for Dagamier and Ezius. He was on his second page when he heard the baying of the hounds. Guerrand snapped alert. The three defenders had responded in drills to the simulated sound of the hounds, to condition themselves to be ever ready against attack. But the high defender had ordered no drill today.
Guerrand jumped to his feet and raced out the door of the library. He ran into his nephew as Bram staggered into the hallway, blinking away sleep.
"What's going on?"
"Either the stronghold's guardians are fighting again, or something is trying to enter Bastion's plane." Guerrand didn't stop as he tore down the hallway, headed for the scrying sphere in the nave, Bram at his heels.
Dagamier was at her turn at the watch, standing anxiously in the small doorway of the column, which had activated the bridge to form over the moat. She was speaking agitatedly with the white-haired Ezius when Guerrand ran up to them.
"Are the gargoyles and hounds at it again?" the high defender asked hopefully.
Dagamier's expression was tight, her lips pinched. "No. Something else is just beyond the fence, stirring up the hounds."
"But how can that be?" demanded Guerrand, hands on his hips, his expression horrified. "How did something get this close to Bastion without detection in the sphere?"
Dagamier looked pointedly at Ezius. "I'm sure I don't know."
"I swear I didn't take my eyes from the diorama for a heartbeat!" breathed Ezius. "Nothing registered in the perimeter until the hounds started baying!"
Guerrand frowned his annoyance. "This is no time for recriminations. We'll use drill two, but this isn't a practice." Dagamier and Ezius exchanged glances. "Quickly now!" thundered Guerrand.
Dagamier seemed about to protest, since drill two dictated she remain at watch in the sphere, but she nodded reluctantly. In accordance with the strategy, Ezius raced off to the white wing to gather components before positioning himself on the watch walk outside Bastion's white wing.