Did the ever-present black thumbprint mean the danger Weador said awaited him at Bastion was somehow linked to Nuitari? The god had a representative here at Bastion: Dagamier.

Guerrand's eyes narrowed with suspicion. Ezius was too quiet and befuddled to ever be a threat. But Dagamier… She obviously coveted the position of high defender; the black wizardess had fought against Guerrand's authority from the first moment they'd met. She'd made it easier for Guerrand to take his leave from Bastion by assuming his responsibilities. Had she spent the time arranging his downfall?

He turned back to his shoulder bag, now lying on the floor, and donned the bracelets and rings that carried his protective spells and were capable of shielding him against both physical blows and magical forces. Checking the scrying schedule, he determined that it was Dagamier's shift in the sphere.

Guerrand covered the distance to the nave in a matter of heartbeats. He passed through the door and approached the white column that housed the scrying diorama, willing himself to remain calm. Still, he didn't hesitate to briskly call her name across the moat from where he knew the door to be. "Dagamier! It's Guerrand. Open the sphere, please."

After a brief pause, the door slid open as requested. Dagamier stepped up to stand in the small archway, her cheeks dimpled in a smile that set her green eyes slantwise. Her body looked slim and salamander- smooth in the snug-fitting black silk robe that clung to every curve.

"You're back." The smile gave way to her usual studied mask of indifference. "I trust things are well again in Thonberg with Bertram?"

A muscle leaped in Guerrand's jaw. "Bram has things under control again in Thonvil."

"Fine." Dagamier made to return to the scrying sphere.

"Form the bridge, Dagamier," Guerrand commanded. "I would have a report of events since I left."

She frowned at the unusual request. "Can't it wait until Ezius's turn at the sphere? There's too little room, as you must realize-"

"No."

Dagamier searched his face and must have seen that he would brook no defiance today. Shrugging, as if Guerrand's authority still meant little to her, Dagamier touched a tapered finger to the button that activated the bridge, calling it forth.

Guerrand crossed the crystal bridge and joined her in the narrow column. The darkened room, the real heart of Bastion, was austere and functional. Dagamier was already seated again before the faintly glowing diorama of Bastion and its perimeter.

Guerrand pressed his back to the wall away from Dagamier, to keep from touching the black-robed wiz- ardess. "Please tell me of your activities, both unusual and mundane, since I left."

Dagamier kept her eyes fixed on the model. "That's an odd request. I took my turns at the sphere, which were doubled, I might add, by your absence. I slept, studied, drilled for defense, and conducted experiments in my apartments. The usual things."

"Nothing else of interest occurred, either inside or outside Bastion?"

She gave him a fleeting glance, her lips pursed. "That depends on if you consider conversing with Ezius interesting," she said coolly, returning her glance to the diorama. "However, the demiplane has been as quiet as a tomb since you left."

The younger woman abruptly leaned away from the subject of her gaze and crossed her arms. "Why don't you just tell me what's got you so edgy?"

Guerrand watched Dagamier's reaction closely as he said, "Someone I have reason to trust said that great danger awaited me at Bastion."

"So naturally you thought of me." She returned her gaze to the model, betraying neither concern nor offense.

He watched her expression. "I'm thinking of invoking my right as high defender to search both yours and Ezius's apartments, Dagamier."

To Guerrand's great surprise, the black wizard gave her trademark shrug. "Go ahead and check my apartments if you must. That is your right. While you're in the white wing," she continued, nonplused, "please remind Ezius to arrive on time for his next shift. Maybe it was the change in schedule while you were gone that threw him off, but he forgot to show up for a few of his turns here."

"Did he?" asked Guerrand. 'That's unusual. Ezius is usually very punctual and reliable."

Dagamier looked unconcerned. "He came immediately when I reminded him. If you ask me, he forgot because he's become preoccupied with the body of that wizard friend of yours who 'dropped by' just before vou left with your nephew."

"Ezius told me he was going to arrange for proper disposal of the body," said Guerrand, frowning. "I thought he would have done so by now."

Dagamier could only look at Guerrand.

The high defender's mouth drew into a pinched, worried line. "Have you noticed anything else odd about Ezius since I've been gone?"

The black wizard returned her gaze to the model. "He's kept to his apartments when he wasn't scrying." She chuckled suddenly. "There is one thing, though it's more funny than odd. You remember how long it took you to keep him from calling you Rind, after that cobbler he once knew?" Guerrand nodded. "Well, Ezius may have got your name straight now, but he's taken to mixing mine up. He keeps calling me Esme," Dagamier tbe

said, her eyes still on the sphere. "I've never even known anyone by that name."

Guerrand's blood froze in his veins. He slowly lifted his head to stare at her pale, chiseled profile before whispering hoarsely, "Are you sure about that name?"

"Yes," she said. "It was unusual enough to remember." Dagamier shifted her eyes to look at him quizzically.

Without speaking, Guerrand whirled on his heel in the small chamber, meant only for one. The door raised, the bridge formed across the small moat, and he walked across it, oblivious to the plant fronds in his path. His heels pounded across the cold marble floor on his way to the white wing.

The door to the wing was closed, as usual. Guerrand grasped the heavy brass ring that hung from the griffon's-head knocker and slammed it against the door. When no response came, Guerrand tried again, waiting with increasing impatience.

"Ezius!" he howled to the roof, legs spread, arms and fists stiff at his sides. "I demand that you open this door at once!"

The white door remained closed.

Guerrand didn't hesitate to call forth the spell given only to the high defender. He placed his right hand against the door. With his fingers arranged very precisely, he muttered, "Lenithis kor." The air around his hand flared bright yellow, and the door shuddered beneath an ear-numbing boom.

But still it did not open.

No legitimate power in Bastion could have prevented the spell from giving the high defender access to any area in the stronghold. Undaunted, Guerrand prepared to break down the door to the white wing.

The white-robed mage's head shot up. Loud banging at the far end of the wide-open wing briefly broke his concentration. Recognizing Rand's voice, he willed himself not to panic. So, the high defender had returned… What did it matter? The mage had prepared for this possibility and put up protections to prevent, or at the very least significantly slow, anyone who tried to enter the white wing. It would take some time for Guerrand to break through the door, and there were still additional safёguaгds beyond it.

The thought considerably calmed the mage. He stood next to a white marble table that held the corpse of Lyim Rhistadt. The table was part of a small work space in the section designated as the wing's laboratory. Though there were no walls to delineate rooms here, the purpose and boundaries of each area were clear, designated by function: bookshelves plainly marked off the library, thick carpets lent warmth to the small living space, tables and countertops in neat rows filled the work area.