Chapter Six
Guerrand took a drink from his waterskin, let the warm liquid run down his face and pool in his collar. He had no idea where to direct his next step on this hot summer afternoon. He'd been wandering for days in the magical Forest of Wayreth, looking for the tower whose position no map revealed. Belize had told him that the tower could 'be found only by those who have been specifically invited.' Guerrand felt foolish now for having assumed that, invited, he'd have no trouble finding it. He'd even allowed the belief to comfort him on the long and tedious voyage from Northern Ergoth to Alsip, the port town nearest the tower.
In reflection, the backbreaking weeks he'd spent as a ship hand to pay for his passage were nothing compared to the days of fear and frustration he'd already spent in search of the Tower of High Sorcery. Wayreth
Forest was thick, tangled, and difficult to traverse, with few discernable paths. The trees and bushes were twisted into weird, creepy shapes, made more frightening by the ever-present, distant sounds of wolves and bears.
Guerrand opened the flap on his leather pack and retrieved the magic mirror. 'Zag,' he called toward the glassy surface. Zagarus had traveled overland from Alsip in the mirror. Guerrand had to call two more times before the sea gull's head popped through the small glass surface.
'No kidding,' snorted Guerrand. 'I'd like you to fly overhead and look for the Tower of High Sorcery. I've been stumbling around for days without a clue.'
Zagarus bobbed his head and hopped out of the mirror. With a loud 'kyeow' the sea gull's white wings spread and he disappeared into the sliver of blue sky between the trees overhead.
Guerrand settled himself against a tree stump and nibbled the last of his provisions while he waited for the gull to return. Before long, Zagarus dropped from the sky and landed on the stump behind him.
'Well? Which way is it?'
Guerrand held up the mirror wordlessly and didn't even watch as the sea gull slipped inside, afraid he might be tempted to follow. He'd already spent two hair-raising nights in the pitch-black woods and was not anxious for a third. Zagarus's news made him downright angry. What was the point of making the damned thing so difficult to find?
Guerrand forced himself to review his options. He had no food left and would have to begin foraging if he didn't find the tower soon. Zagarus was an excellent scout; if the gull said they were nowhere near the tower, Guerrand knew they weren't.
The young man was contemplating finding his way back to the coast to return to Thonvil with his tail between his legs, when he heard a new sound, very faint and melodic. Singing, perhaps? He looked around, trying to fix the direction, and saw a trail he hadn't noticed before.
Not knowing what else to do, Guerrand shouldered his pack and followed the sound to a clearing. To his surprise, he found a crystal fountain, more than a bit incongruous in the forest setting. The crystal carving of a unicorn spouted cool, clear water from its upturned horn. From its mouth came the lilting voice Guerrand had followed through the woods.
Guerrand strode carefully around the fountain, admiring it cautiously. Suddenly the unicorn spoke to him. 'Follow the sun,' it said in its singsong voice.
'Me?' Guerrand jumped back, startled. He circled around again, looking for signs of a spell on the statue.
'Follow the sun,' said the unicorn again.
Guerrand found his voice. 'But the sun moves,' he objected.
The unicorn simply repeated its message a third time.
With no better plan, Guerrand did as the figure bade, until at sundown he literally stumbled into a clearing where twin towers pierced the forest roof. He'd had no clue the towers or the clearing were ahead until he stood at the gold and silver gates, so masterfully crafted they looked as thin as a cobweb.
Though the sky was dark, Guerrand could see that the Tower of High Sorcery actually consisted of two towers of polished black obsidian. The spires were enclosed in a wall-shaped equilateral triangle, with a small guard tower at each point of the triangle. There were no battlements on the obsidian walls. Guerrand presumed wizards had little use for earthly protection.
He felt weak with awe as he strode slowly through the delicate gates, eyes looking everywhere at once. He was only distantly aware that the flagstone courtyard led to a small foretower between the twin columns. A door flew back. Though no one appeared, he instinctively knew he was expected to step inside the foretower.
Sitting in the entry chamber, Guerrand could scarcely believe he was there. He felt like he'd already passed some minor, though important, test. By showing him the way to the tower, the forest itself had deemed him worthy to seek an audience. Now if he could only quell his nerves enough to express his ambitions to the venerable mages to whom he would soon speak.
He wished he could talk over his fears with someone, even Zagarus, but he dared not. If he gave the bird half a chance to speak, Zagarus would undoubtedly push Guerrand to let him out to poke his beak around the Tower of High Sorcery. That was a bad idea, under the best of circumstances.
Guerrand had seen little of the inside of the tower. The foretower in which he waited with three other hopefuls was a simple, dimly lit, circular room. Three doors led from the room at equidistant points in the circle. He sat in a curved row of chairs that faced the door through which he'd arrived, between the two doors whose destinations he could only guess at.
Actually, Guerrand could do better than guess. No one had used the door to his left, but the other two mages with whom he sat had already gone through the door to his right for their interviews with the heads of the orders of magic and returned to their seats; a third was still inside.
Guerrand's sweaty palms unconsciously squeezed the armrests of his chair. He considered the others in the room, too nervous to ask them any questions. Sitting in the darkest shadows between the left and front doors was a man whose gently pointed ears revealed his elven heritage, though his huddled pose made it difficult to determine his years. Guessing the age of long-lived elves was a pretty pointless exercise, anyway.
He looked to the other person in the room, a handsome young human man with perfectly chiseled features, who was sitting two chairs down from Guerrand. Dressed in an elaborate, flowing costume with slashed and puffed sleeves, multicolored breeches, and a cap with a huge feather plume, the flamboyant man had a casual, almost insolent posture. His long legs were sprawled before him, arms folded over his chest, eyes closed in sleep. Guerrand envied both his good looks and relaxed attitude.
Suddenly the man's eyes flew open, and he caught Guerrand staring. Blushing furiously, Guerrand looked away. To his surprise, the other man merely smiled and extended his hand over the chairs that separated them.
'Lyim Rhistadt,' he said in a loud voice, pronouncing the last syllable with an odd, hard
Guerrand cringed at the abrupt noise, but lifted his hand. 'Guerrand DiThon,' he whispered back. Lyim pumped his hand furiously with a firm grip. Guerrand gave in to his curiosity. 'Say, what goes on in there?' he asked the man with a nod toward the door to their right.
Lyim shrugged. 'That's the Hall of Mages. The interview is a snap, really. You meet the Council of Three- they're the heads of the orders-and you declare an ali-'
Suddenly the door in question burst open, and the fourth hopeful mage, a dark-skinned elf, emerged. To everyone's surprise he passed the chairs and fled through the front door with one frightened look over his shoulder.
'Step forward, Guerrand DiThon.'
Guerrand's eyes jerked from the sight of the fleeing mage to the door through which his own name had just
