rectangle farthest from the nave. I was concerned about being unable to;cllect my own components of the quality you grow in Harrowdown, but I needn't have been. Oh, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's just that the lab came stocked with things I've never even heard of, all perfectly catalogued and stored in the highest quality green glass. I don't know if I have Justarius or my predecessor to thank. I suspect the former, since the jars magically refill themselves. No more plucking posies in a hot field while angry bees sting my head!
Or maybe my favorite room is the library. 1 have not seen one its size since my father's at Castle DiThon. But instead of containing only the occasional tome about magic, this one holds floor-to-ceiling spellbooks, with softly cushioned benches on which to read them. New books appear on the shelf now and then. I even found an entry about Rannoch, the black wizard from my dreams, that I hadn't read before. Unfortunately, it added nothing new to my understanding of him.
I've had the Dream with great regularity here, Mai. I thought it might go away, once 1 took charge of my life again and came to Bastion, but it hasn't, if anything, it comes more frequently and fervently to me here. I confess, Bastion has inspired moments when I could understand Rannoch's sacrifice. I feel I am a part of something bigger than myself, something worth dying for…
Still, I can't shake the thought that there's something else I'm supposed to learn from that part of my Test, some lesson I've not yet been able to understand. I've been trying to screw up the courage to ask Dagamier if there is something about Rannoch in her library. He was, after all, a wizard of the Black Robes, which is what continues to disturb me. We don't enter each other's areas without invitation here, and neither Dagamier nor Ezius have been forthcoming with one. It is my right as high defender to demand entrance, but I don't want to lose whatever goodwill I have engendered by doing so without good reason.
The Dream aside, I am wanting for nothing here, except companionship. Ezius is pleasant enough when he's lucid. But it seems that he's always either scurrying off, muttering about some obscure and unintelligible thing, or stopping to lecture me about some obscure and boring thing. Sometimes, I confess, I'm lonely enough to feign interest.
Dagamier is another story. While she is no longer insolent, there is a darkness in her soul that permeates everything she says and does. Conversations with her frequently leave me lonely and depressed. I have no doubt why she chose to wear the black robes.
Guerrand stopped again briefly to make sure Zagarus was no longer reading over his shoulder. He watched the slow rise and fall of the bird's breast, heard the slight whistle-wheeze of Zagarus at sleep. Reassured, he picked up the quill once more and dipped it into the pot of black ink.
You may be wondering why I'm so lonely with Zagarus here. I can tell you, Mai, that Zagarus is not doing well. I don't know if it's old age, or being away from the sea and other birds, or both. His color is bad, feathers and eyes dull. He scarcely talks to me anymore, especially after I reprimanded him for fishing in the moat around the scrying column.
I must also confess to occasional restlessness. Am I one of those people who is never satisfied with where he is or what he is doing?
Guerrand's head shot up from the page at the distant sound of wild baying. He set the quill down, cocked his head, and listened.
Zagarus's eyes popped open. Sounds like the hell hounds, he observed.
The mage nodded. 'But how can they be so close that we can hear them? Unless…' Guerrand let the word trail as his mind finished the horrifying thought. 'Stay here,' he commanded as he jumped to his feet. The chair flew back and crashed to the floor of the library. Guerrand was through the doorway and down the long hallway to the nave in a matter of heartbeats.
Ezius stood by the column, his pale face etched with concern. 'I've never heard the hounds from inside Bastion,' he remarked soberly.
Just then the panel in the central column opened. Dagamier poked her dark head out anxiously. 'The hell hounds and gargoyles appear to be poised for a fight.'
'How is that possible?' demanded Ezius. 'Control of the hounds is your responsibility, Dagamier!' He looked at Guerrand. 'Can't you maintain the enchantment on your gargoyles?'
Ezius's accusations brought a scowl to Dagamier's white face. 'Not all of Bastion's magical defenses are entirely predictable, Ezius. Gargoyles, if you haven't heard, are chaotic evil creatures. I think it's remarkable that this hasn't happened before in five years.'
'I still say the Council should have anticipated such problems.'
'They did,' cut in Guerrand. 'That's why we're here. If Bastion functioned automatically, there'd be no need for guardians.' Guerrand was already running for the apse and Bastion's entrance when he said, 'Ezius, man the sphere. I'm going out to see what's happening.'
Dashing after him, Dagamier caught Guerrand by the arm and spun him around. 'You can't go charging out there. Maybe you trust the gargoyles to attack only intruders, but the hell hounds will kill anything they can sink their teeth into.'
Dagamier had pulled him into one of the black wing's seven doorways before he was even aware of moving. 'Let's use the observation tower above the black wing,' she said, tapping the wall inside the door. A doorway slid open, revealing a long, narrow flight of stairs.
Another door flew open and they emerged into the windless, dark air above the courtyard on a narrow walkway hidden by the facade. The sounds of snarling, shrieking animals cut them both to the core. The mages clapped hands over their ears to hush the sound, but it did little good. The noise seemed to slice through the flesh and bones of their hands like a sharp pick on its way to their brains.
Apprehension made Dagamier's voice sound like a whisper, though she shouted above the din, 'The gargoyles are gone.'
Guerrand did a swift scan of the nearby pointed gables of the white wing. He searched the smooth, flat ledges of the red and black wings. The hideous, winged creatures who posed as downspouts on a stronghold that never saw rain were indeed gone.
'There!' yelled Dagamier, pointing. Guerrand followed her finger and the sounds to the left, to an area in darkest shadow beyond the fence. Bursts of flame and red-hot eyes revealed the presence, if not the outlines, of the hell hounds. Squinting in the perpetual dimness, Guerrand could make out bent bars in that section of fence, and through them constant but undefined movement. Occasionally the area was lit up by a flash of fire from a hell hound, but this did little to illuminate the situation.
By the time Guerrand realized that Dagamier was casting a spell, she was already done. It was a simple light spell, suspended over the battle. All six of the gargoyles appeared to be battling four to six hell hounds. The entire scene was such a chaotic swirl of limbs, dirt, and fire that it was hard to tell which side, if either, was
winning. The stony gray hide of the gargoyles was largely impervious to the fangs and claws of the hell hounds, and if a gargoyle did get into serious trouble its enormous wings could easily carry it out of danger. But the dark red hell hounds were vicious fighters who would gang together to overwhelm one foe at a time, or disappear into the shadows if hard pressed.
At the corner of his sight, Guerrand saw Dagamier's eyes sink shut. 'What are you planning to do?' he asked.
Her hands began to rise in a swirling motion. 'Slay them before they completely destroy the fence. We'll replace them with a new batch.'
'That would solve the immediate problem, as would putting them to sleep,' agreed Guerrand, 'but it would also leave us with no inner guardians for some time. I have a better idea,' he said. 'Follow my lead.'
'Do I have a choice?' asked Dagamier, but there was no malice in her husky voice. 'We'd better hurry before the light spell goes out.'
Guerrand dashed to the opposite side of the overlook. Below in the courtyard were many of the strangely sculpted topiary plants he had seen on his arrival. When viewed directly, the plant shapes were unidentifiable. But in the oddly angled light of Bastion, they cast very distinct, disturbing shadows against the edifice. While none of these shadows was recognizable, all of them had an eery familiarity, like shapes remembered from nightmares.
Guerrand spread his arms and extended them forward in a sweeping motion. As he did so, the shadows moved away from the trees and lumbered forward. Their motion was graceful and fluid, and they advanced steadily toward the gashed fence.
