What plane is he on? Zagarus snorted.

I breathed a sigh of relief so loud even Ezius xvould have noticed if he hadn't already departed through an arched, immense white doorway to the right of the nave. I'd realized the mumbling mage wasn't being intentionally abrasive, he as simply befuddled.

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Reading over his master's shoulder, Zagarus pecked gently at Guerrand's hand until he set his quill down upon the desk in the library of the red wing.

"What is it, Zag?"

Make sure you tell Maladorigar that Ezius isn't just befuddled, he's a real stick-in-the-mud.

Guerrand didn't entirely agree with the gull's assessment, so he ignored it and picked up the quill again. But the bird wasn't ready to be silent yet.

Is it just me, or does Dagamier remind you of LaDonna?

Guerrand screwed up his face in thought as he tried to envision both women side by side. "I suppose I see a little resemblance," he agreed at last, "but I'm not sure it isn't just because they're both women and both mages."

Esme was a woman and a mage, Zagarus pointed out, and Dagamier doesn't remind me the least bit of her.

Guerrand felt himself tense at the mention of Esme. Would it ever stop hurting? And why was Zagarus, who knew how much the subject pained his master, poking a wing in the wound? Guerrand closed his eyes tightly and willed patience. "What I meant was, LaDonna and Dagamier are both dark-haired women who wear the black robes."

I suppose. With that, Zagarus closed his beady eyes in reluctant concession, ruffled his wings into a comfortable position, and dropped off to sleep on the desk next to Guerrand.

The mage gratefully returned to the safety of his letter to the gnome back in Harrowdown.

With the introductions out of the way, there was nothing keeping me from exploring the red wing.

Maladorigar, I can't begin to describe how comfortable and carefully considered the red wing is. There is a sense of Justarius's own subtle dignity to the magic that maintains my apartments-no talking teapots or crazed brooms and

their ridiculous like here.

The wing's six rooms are set in a rectangle, all of them more warmly inviting than the last, fust one is large enough to make our house in Harrowdown look like a shack. I'm sorry, that was less than thoughtful, since you're still living there.

Anyway, the first room on the right off the circular nave is a large, practical storeroom. All I have to do is set whatever I wish stored just inside the doorway, and the next time I return it's been put in its proper place upon the shelves.

Across the hall from the storeroom is the daily living area, where I cook and eat my meals. It's stocked with enough pans and platters and is of sufficient size to feed a visiting troop of nobles and all their retainers. There's a huge fireplace that burns constantly and is far larger than I need to prepare the simple gruels I am capable of cooking. I surely miss your herbal stews.

Next to this area is my sleeping chamber. I spend little time upon the soft feather tick, yet enough to know that I far prefer it to my straw bed in Harrowdown.

The sleeping chamber leads directly into a room that I suspect was modified by Justarius for my benefit. Or should I ›ay Zagarus's? I don't remember it from the original floor plan. All of nature that is absent from Bastion is painted here in murals that cover the floor, walls, and ceiling. Blue sea to the left, green fields to the right, and in the middle is an elaborate pool someone (which is why 1 suspect justarius) went to a great deal of trouble to make look like the seashore near Thonvil. Live heather and pampas grass abound. Real water Jbuts the blue sea mural on the left edge, giving the scene the infinite look of the horizon line between water and sea. Zagarus in particular feels quite at home here.

My favorite room, though, is the laboratory. It's by far the biggest, taking up the entire short end of the rectangle farthest from the nave. I was concerned about being unable to;cllect my own components of the quality you grow in

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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

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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.