"Enter, Delestrius," said a voice as strong and clear as if its owner were not speaking through a thick, wooden door. It swung open without Bram's guide touching it. Bram followed Delestrius into a room that was nicely lit by a low-burning fire in the hearth against the left wall. The light radiated in warm yellow rays, striking shelves of books bound in white leather, silver runes glinting upon their spines. The golden light led Bram's eyes to a white-haired man seated behind an elaborate desk, one leg lifted casually to rest upon its cluttered surface.

"You know I would not for the world disturb you after hours, Master," Bram's guide said with an obsequiousness the young man wouldn't have thought him capable of, "if it were not of the utmost-"

"You know I trust your judgment, Delestrius," interrupted the white-haired mage. Setting down a feathered quill, he raised kindly, tired blue eyes to Bram.

It took many long seconds before Bram realized the look was a question. "I was given a faerie coin and instructed to place it only in the hands of Par-Salian," he blurted.

"A faerie coin?" repeated the old man with interest.

Are you Par-Salian?"

Delestrius gasped and slapped the back of Bram's head. "I was told I would suffer death if I gave the coin:o anyone else," Bram explained defensively, rubbing his skull.

The white-haired man behind the desk said, "Your reticence is understandable, under such circumstances. I should have introduced myself." He stood, walked around the desk, and extended a hand that winked with the facets of many precious gems. "Par-Salian, Head of the Conclave, Master of the White Robes, Keeper of the Key, and so on, and so on," he said with a self-deprecating formality.

The young man's work-reddened hand shook the mage's soft, warm one. "Bram DiThon," he said simply.

Par-Salian's eyes lit noticeably with interest at the surname, but before he could form a question, both men heard Bram's guide muttering, "Shouldn't have to introduce the greatest mage alive."

Par-Salian smoothed his snowy moustache with two fingers, hiding a slight smirk. "That will be all, Delestrius. Thank you."

Frowning, the man bobbed his head and backed through the door, leaving Bram and Par-Salian in the silence of the crackling fire.

Bram waited, red-faced, while the white-haired mage slowly shuffled to a chair by the hearth. He motioned Bram to join him. Par-Salian held out his soft, wrinkled palm, leaving no question as to what he wished. Bram rubbed the carved surface of the wafer- thin magical coin one last time, then placed it in the man's waiting hand. Par-Salian had just enough time to validate Bram's claim before the coin disappeared like snow into water.

"I'm always sorry to see them vanish so quickly," the wizard said wistfully. "I receive them with the half- decade infrequency of the three moons' eclipsing. The tuatha dundarael rarely give them away."

Par-Salian's ice-blue eyes pierced Bram for some moments. "I sense no magical training in you. What would cause the tuatha to favor you with their coin?"

he asked bluntly.

Bram shrugged. "They said I had 'high moral standards.' " He repeated Thistledown's exact words without hubris, mindful of the tuatha's admonishment about pride.

"That's interesting," remarked the wizard. He continued to study Bram's face. "I sense in you a great deal of natural talent for the Art. Is that why you've come here, to find a master with whom to apprentice?"

Bram shook his head to the question for the second time that day. "No, sir. I've come because some sort of plague, for lack of a better word, has struck my village in Northern Ergoth. I am neither doctor nor mage, but I suspect the cause may be magical in nature."

"So you're looking for a mage to find a cure," finished Par-Salian. "I appreciate your dilemma, young man, but Wayreth is the seat of magical learning, not a wizard market."

Bram frowned. "I wasn't looking for just any mage," he said. "I haven't the money to pay one anyway. I was hoping to find my uncle, whom I understand came here seeking a master nearly a decade ago."

Par-Salian's expression darkened with disapproval. "Neither are we an alumni association."

"I understand that," Bram said quickly, "but if I told vou my uncle's name, maybe you'd recognize it and would know if he is even still alive. I'll leave at once, without further question, if the name is unfamiliar," he promised.

Par-Salian waved a distracted hand, signaling Bram to proceed.

"My uncle is Guerrand DiThon."

The wizard leaned back and tapped his whiskered chin. "Yes, I recognize the name," he said at length. "I also begin to understand why the faerie folk might have given you a coin."

tbe CDC USA РЦРК

"You know of him?" Bram exclaimed. "Then can you tell me where he is now? "

Par-Salian winced slightly. "That is a bit more complicated." He stood and walked toward the door, the hem of his white robe whispering across the stone floor. "Please wait here, while I confer with a colleague."

Bram quickly grew restless with waiting, and he began looking around the room. The bookshelves he'd spotted from the door were to his left. The white leather spines looked butter-yellow in the glow of the fire. Something about the silver-etched lettering drew his finger to trace the unreadable words. He could almost feel the magic radiating from the tomes, but when he tried to lift one, he couldn't move it from the shelf, as if it were affixed there.

He spied a plate of cookies on Par-Salian's desk and was reminded how long it had been since he'd eaten his last rubbery carrot. He lifted one from the plate. It was light as a feather between his fingers, and smelled of almond. The cookie crumbled in his mouth, tasting of butter and sugar of a quality not used in Thonvil in some time.

The door swung open abruptly, and in stepped Par- Salian. Behind him was a younger-looking, robust man in a red robe topped off by a white neck ruff. The second mage dragged his left leg in a manner that suggested it was crippled. Both regarded the young man spewing cookie crumbs with amusement.

"I'm sorry," mumbled Bram over the mouthful of half-chewed biscuit. "I was just so hungry…"

"Never mind," said Par-Salian. "If I had my manners about me I would have realized you hadn't eaten for some time and offered you refreshment."

Smiling gratefully, Bram gulped down the last of the cookie and wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

Par-Salian nodded toward his red-robed companion.

"Justarius, Master of the Red Robes, this is Brom DiThon."

"Bram," the nobleman quickly corrected.

Justarius limped forward slowly, considering Bram's face. "I can see the resemblance in the hair and the cheekbones," he said at length. "Guerrand had more of the timid rabbit look about him when he first came to the Tower of High Sorcery and became my apprentice."

"Can you tell me the whereabouts of my uncle, sir?" Bram asked, feeling the weight of time press. "It's urgent that I find him right away."

Justarius lowered himself into one of the chairs by the hearth, stretching out his game leg. "What would you have your uncle do if you found him?"

"As I was telling Par-Salian," Bram began, nodding toward the venerable white-robed mage, "a strange, magical disease has struck our village. There are some who think Guerrand may be responsible for it, since he first brought magic to the village." Bram was suddenly conscious that the remark might offend the wizards. 'Whatever has caused it," he added hastily, "I hope he will return with me and use his skills to cure the disease before it kills everyone I know and care about, including my family. Guerrand's family."

The mages exchanged looks. "So you could be spreading this disease by leaving," observed Justarius over -teepled fingertips.