Guerrand raised his hands helplessly. "I'm no physicker. What makes you think 1 can help?"

"Because there's evidence that the sickness has a magical cause. I believe only magic-your magic-can cure it."

Looking skeptical, Guerrand swallowed a mouthful of wine. "You think because a particularly virulent strain of influenza withstands your bugbane or meadowsweet that it must be magical in nature?" He looked at Bram intently. "Tell me more about this illness."

Bram rubbed his face wearily, took another deep breath, then recalled to his uncle the stages he'd witnessed old Nahamkin go through before his hideous death on the third day as a snake-limbed, black-eyed creature of stone.

Bram took a deep breath before he plunged ahead.

Before the victim dies, the snakes hiss your name, Uncle. It is no rumor, for I have heard them myself."

Guerrand paled, and he shook his head in mute disbelief. The glass he was holding shook so violently that green wine splashed over his hand. Cursing, he instinctively jerked his hand back, dropping the glass. It crashed to the marble tabletop and shattered. The mage picked up the shards and mopped up the spilled wine with a rag. "You think I'm responsible for this sickness."

"1 never believed the uncle I knew could have caused it," Bram said slowly, still watching Guerrand closely.

But I think there can be no doubt that magic-that you-are somehow involved."

Guerrand nodded vaguely, his eyes focused on some tbe CDe usa Plague

distant memory. "I knew a man once whose hand changed into a snake, but the other symptoms are not familiar. His hand was altered after being thrust through a dimensional portal, not by some contagious disease. No other limbs mutated, and he didn't die from the change."

Bram took up the glass he'd left by the chair and threw back the contents, waiting for the bum. "You'll return with me, then, to stop this pestilence?"

Lost in his own thoughts, Guerrand jumped. "It's just not that simple, Bram," he said, shaking his head sadly. "After all that you went through to find me, you must have some understanding now of my responsibilities at Bastion. I can't just come and go as I please."

"Not even for one day?" pressed Bram. "Surely your comrades could handle things here for one day," he suggested reasonably.

"Dagamier, Ezius, and I are not equals," Guerrand explained. "When I agreed to become Bastion's fifth sentinel, the Council of Three appointed me high defender. That makes me responsible for everything that happens here. It's inadvisable, if not impossible, for me to leave under any circumstances. I gave up my freedom to do so when I agreed to take this position. Abandoning my post, even briefly, could mean destruction on a scale you can't even imagine. Bastion is imbued with the magical essence of every mage on Krynn. If it fails, every one of them is diminished by it. I can't take that responsibility lightly."

Despite his words, Guerrand was obviously struggling to find some concession. He gripped Bram's hand. "I promise you, Bram, I'll use all my skills to discover what I can about this sickness. It's the best I can do."

Bram sighed heavily. He didn't like quarrels as a rule, didn't have the energy to spend on them. Still, he couldn't help saying, "I just thought that the Uncle Rand I remembered would want to know about his family and would have at least tried to return to help. But I can see he's moved beyond that now."

Bram pushed himself up by the knees. "You'll excuse my rudeness, then, but I've already wasted too much time pursuing this avenue. I'll be out of your way if you'll signal Justarius or Par-Salian and tell them I won't be needing a full day here. Do you think they'd know a way to send me back to Thonvil that's faster than walking?" Bram's last sentence was lost within a yawn, and Guerrand made him repeat it.

Looking sad and frustrated, the mage stuttered toward saying something reassuring, then gave up. "You look exhausted, Bram," he observed abruptly. "How long has it been since you've slept?"

Bram shrugged, beyond caring. "It's hard to say. My sense of time is totally twisted. Since before I left home. At any rate, it doesn't matter."

"You'll need your wits about you more than ever when you return. I insist that you stay long enough to close your eyes," said the mage, cannily adding, "I could use the time to check into a few things that may help you against this disease."

Bram only looked more resolute.

"1 can arrange to have you sent directly to Thonvil," the mage offered, sweetening the pot, though his arms were crossed firmly, "but I refuse to do it until you've rested, at least briefly."

Bram shook his head, which suddenly felt heavy as stone. "I've got to get back," he mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open. He distantly wondered if he wasn't under some spell, so suddenly did the sleepiness descend. Bram hadn't the strength to resist.

Guerrand wasted no time taking his nephew's arm and leading him, droopy-eyed, through the archway to tbe CDedusa plague

the sleeping chamber. His foot caught the strap of a scroll case Bram had set on the floor near the door when Guerrand had begun to pour the wine. Curious, Guerrand started to lift the case when Bram's eyes sparked briefly to life.

"I almost forgot," he said groggily. "The scroll in the case is for you. From Justarius."

Nodding, Guerrand toed the case to the side and helped Bram to the feather tick. The young man was asleep before his head hit Guerrand's goose-down pillow.

Chapter Twelve

Guerrand regarded his sleeping nephew with a twinge of remorse. He'd hated to cast the spell, but Bram was in as much need of rest as Guerrand required time to think. There had to be some way to help Thonvil without abandoning his responsibilities here in Bastion. The mage snatched up the round leather tube from Justarius on his way to the library.

Guerrand settled himself behind the dark walnut desk to think. Someone was deliberately trying to connect him with the spread of Thonvil's odd plague. Guerrand had no question who that was, since he had no greater enemy than Lyim Rhistadt. The symptoms Bram had described sounded too much like Lyim's affliction to be a coincidence. This plague was revenge, pure and simple, for Guerrand's refusal to grant Lyim entrance to Bastion to cure his mutated arm.

But what an odd and evil revenge, thought Guerrand. There were too many differences between the plague and Lyim's mutation for them to be exactly the same, not to mention the convoluted way Lyim's hand was altered. The similarity reminded Guerrand too painfully of the source of the unease he'd been feeling since he'd turned Lyim away in the mercury.

Though he felt great pity for Lyim's suffering, Guerrand had no question that he had done right to forbid Lyim entrance to the stronghold. No mortal cause was worth opening the very door Bastion had been created to block. He had pledged his life to preventing a breach. He would compromise that for no one.

Still, even Guerrand's unflagging commitment to Bastion wouldn't allow him to dismiss responsibility for the plague in Thonvil. What about Kirah and the rest of his family? He couldn't stay blithely in Bastion while his nephew went back to Thonvil to suffer a hideous death. They had just found each other again. Bram had grown into a well-spoken man who reminded Guerrand not a little of himself in many respects. They held in common wavy brown hair, a slightly flattened nose, wide dark eyes, and high cheekbones. Bram seemed as determined and self- assured as Guerrand's brother Quinn had been, tempered by Guerrand's own reflective nature.

As impossible as it was for him to doom Bram, it further prayed on Guerrand's mind that the consequences of this plague reached far beyond his family and the village. What would prevent the sickness (тот spreading to the rest of Northern Ergoth, to the rest of the world? The end of life on Krynn simply couldn't be of lesser concern to the Council of Three than that Bastion be short a defender for a matter of days.