'Youre ally shouldn’t eat chervil you know. Were short on it. Besides I’m not quite sure what it will do to a sylph. Could grow warts for all I know.'
Dorigar, being a gnome, was more than a little unusual-looking himself, thought Guerrand. His skin was as brown as aged wood. Vibrant violet eyes, a bulbous nose, and strong white teeth poked through the mussed and curling hair that otherwise obscured his face. His clothing sense made Guerrand's coarse red robe seem like the height of fashion. His favorite, and current, ensemble consisted of an orange-and-green pair of trousers woven with the stripes running horizontally and worn with the pockets pulled out, and a soiled yellow tunic under a hot, brown leather vest, heavily stained with vegetable dyes. Tools and notebooks and other gizmos dangled from all manner of straps and handles attached to his stocky three-foot frame.
Guerrand chuckled at the odd little gnome, then turned his attention to the reason for his return to the cottage. His breath instantly caught in his throat at the sylph's fragile beauty. She appeared as a small, extremely slender and sinuous human woman in a diaphanous gown through which jutted enormous dragonfly wings. They were the most vibrant iridescent purple-green, and veined like a dried leaf. Her hair reminded him of vaguely ordered seaweed, woven with delicate meadow flowers and variegated vines.
Guerrand stepped forward. 'Thank you, Dorigar. I'm here now and can take the message myself.'
'Well its about time,' huffed Dorigar. 'I thought she- might eat my entire crop before you arrived.'
As the annoyed and colorful gnome stomped past Guerrand, the mage patted his assistant on the back good-naturedly. 'Don't forget to take your medicine,' he advised.
'Allrightbutldontseethatitchangesanything,' said Dorigar, blowing out an exasperated breath that fanned his frizzy hair, briefly exposing his frowning face. 'Ifyouaskmeyoushouldtaketheherbstospeedupy- ourears.' Dorigar continued to mutter to himself as he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
The sylph calmly continued to pluck the soft green chervil leaves, either unable or unwilling to understand the fast-speaking gnome. Guerrand had to clear his throat several times before the enchanting creature looked up, strings of chervil hanging from her mouth. 'You have a message for me?' he asked.
Wings fluttering to lift her several feet above the garden, the sylph approached Guerrand. She looked him over, then shrugged, as if she found him wanting. The sylph reached delicate, marble-pale fingers into her revealing little robe, extracted a delicate parchment scroll bound with a pressed dollop of beeswax, and held it toward him.
Guerrand turned the scroll over and recognized the crescent-moon-in-a-cup imprint in the wax from a ring Justarius wore. 'How did you come by this?'
Her voice was as lilting and evanescent as the wind. 'I am returning a favor to Justarius.' With that, she lifted her wings, as fine as spiderwebs, and slipped away like mist into the thick canopy of trees beyond the rectangular herb garden.
'Wait!' Guerrand cried, knowing as he did that the elusive creature would wait for no one. He looked again at the scroll, tapping it thoughtfully as he went back inside the homey cottage. Now that he had the missive in his hands, Guerrand was more puzzled than ever. What did Justarius want with him after so many silent years?
He set the scroll on the table. Dropping a handful of the rose hips into a mug, the mage covered them with hot water from the simmering kettle in the hearth. He sipped the brew unsteeped, staring at the scroll pensively.
Aren't you going to open it?
Guerrand's head shot up, and his gaze went to the open window. He hadn't even heard Zagarus's return. He set the mug down and looked into the flames. 'Eventually.'
You're afraid.
Scowling, Guerrand snatched up the scroll and broke the wax seal with a flick of his thumbnail. The curled parchment tumbled open. Guerrand blinked in confusion when he saw only an intricate, symmetrical pattern inked there. He had been expecting words, not magical symbols. These symbols meant nothing to him, although they stirred a distant memory.
The star-shaped mosaic pattern in the summer dining room of Villa Rosad… These symbols reminded Guerrand of the configurations of colorful tiles Justarius required all of his apprentices to memorize through visualization to heighten their awareness of magical patterns.
What does Justarius have to say? asked Zagarus.
'That's going to take me a few minutes to figure out.' Guerrand moved the clutter of spellbooks, notes, and pots of dried and fermented components to the floor. He lit his biggest tallow candle, as thick and long as his forearm, and used it to pin the top of the curling scroll to the coarsely planed table. Staring at the odd symbols, he racked his brain to recall the key to Justar- ius's tile exercise. He'd conjured few spells more complicated than cantrips for a long time, and he'd had no need to create his own as Justarius had taught him. He was simply out of practice.
Guerrand's eyes were dry and red from smoke, and the candle had burned by half before he began to make sense of the missive. The spiral pattern was far more complex than it had appeared at first, consisting of not one but eight intertwined paths. Woven through the spirals was a series of recurring symbols, elongated ovoids, that repeated an intricate pattern.
He leaned back in the stool and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Outside the open window was darkness. Guerrand wrapped a hand around the mug of his long-forgotten tea; it was well past cold.
If it's proving so difficult, why don't you just get rid of the note? The gull was settled in his nest in the far corner of the room, his small eyes closed.
Guerrand sat motionless for several moments. Abruptly he jumped to his feet and kicked back his stool, sending it crashing to the dirt floor. 'Perhaps you're right, Zag.' With that, Guerrand snatched up the scroll on his way to the open hearth and tossed the odd message into the flames.
Zagarus's beady orbs popped open in surprise as his master then jumped back behind the meager protection of the table and watched the missive burn. Smoke from the scroll roiled out of the hearth and formed the face of the Master of the Red Robes, Justarius, in a wavering, gray image. Excited, Guerrand came around the table to face the foggy image.
Ah, Guerrand. If you're hearing this, you were able to recognize that fire would release the magical bonds. I must apologize for putting you through yet another test so long after your apprenticeship, but I had to be sure that you alone received the details of this missive. 1 also had to be sure that years of life among the simple folk hadn't robbed you of your wits.
Guerrand ground his teeth against the presumption, particularly since it was so close to the truth. 'How could you be sure that someone else didn't just toss it in the fire?' he demanded of the smoke, but the image didn't respond to his question. The mage had to remind himself that Justarius wasn't really here, just his magically recorded message.
Random placement in a fire wouldn't have released the message, Justarius's image was saying. The archmage had obviously anticipated his former apprentice's question. Guerrand vowed to keep his mouth shut and listen before he missed any more of Justarius's words.
The purpose of this missive is to inform you that the Council of Three requests your presence at Wayreth immediately. We wish to discuss with you a most urgent situation. Use your mirror to speed travel. All questions will be answered when you arrive. With that, the smokey visage of Justarius broke into wavering tendrils and stretched toward the hole in the thatch.
Guerrand jumped when the door behind him abruptly banged open. Dorigar stomped into the small house, slamming the door closed. 'I don't suppose you've made anything to eat.'
'No.' Guerrand noted vaguely that the gnome had remembered to take the magical concoction the wizard prepared each morning to slow his assistant's speech to an understandable rate.
Dorigar marched up to a butcher's block and retrieved a device from beneath it. Several gleaming blades extended at divergent angles, mounted alongside measuring rods and depth gauges and mesh hand guards. With this doodad, Dorigar commenced slicing leeks into a kettle. Adding carrots and other herbs, he filled the pot with water. Last, Dorigar used an iron poker to hang the pot from a ring above the fire, stoked to furnace proportions.
Guerrand quickly grew annoyed by the gnome's happy scurrying. The cottage seemed to grow a degree hotter with each beat of the wizard's heart. He jumped to his feet and rushed out into the night to lean against a linden tree. Drawing gulps of cool summer air, Guerrand listened to the distant lowing of cows, the ringing of bells
