"All I ever wanted was to heal my hand," he said fiercely, his breath a loose rattling sound.

"No matter the price to others," Guerrand said evenly. He looked at the slumped white-robed mage. "How'd you do it, Lyim? Did you feign death in the courtyard, then overtake poor Ezius once you were inside the white wing?"

Lyim shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Never explain, never defend, that's always been my motto." His smile was anything but apologetic.

"We can see how that's held you in good stead," Guerrand said caustically, "by the success you've made of your life. Lyim Rhistadt, brave slayer of innocent women, children, and old men!"

Eyes narrowed, Lyim rolled his fingers, exposing a sharp-tipped metal dart. Flicking his wrist, he expertly fired the barb at Guerrand. The dart shattered Guerrand's protective shell with a loud ping! on its path to the mage's chest. Guerrand dodged to the side in the last heartbeat, and the magical dart's acid tip caught in the flowing right sleeve of his cloak of protection.

Guerrand's hatred flared to new heights. He released the stored-up spell that would magically compel the other mage, then formally declared, "Your actions have made you a renegade, Lyim. Surrender to me and the Conclave will fairly judge your actions."

"I'd end up like Belize." Lyim's eyes shifted as he sensed Guerrand's spell. His anger exploded. "You'll never control me with a geas, Rand, particularly to face the Council. Who are they to judge my actions?"

"They're the peers whose rulings you agreed to uphold when you declared your allegiance to the Red Robes."

"Not anymore," vowed Lyim, his bitterness obvious in the pinched line of his mouth. "Now that I've spent time in both a red and a white robe, I must confess I find both of them confining." He paused, head tilted in thought. "I have pursued magic according to the Council's rules for nearly a decade," Lyim said slowly, as though the truth of that had just occurred to him.

Magic, in all its machinations, has consumed nearly two thirds of my life. And it has failed me at almost every turn."

"You chose your own path, Lyim. Everything," said Guerrand, repeating Lyim's own words, "is a question of choice."

Lyim's eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to speak when the floor shuddered faintly. The quaking was weak at first, then it stopped entirely. Both mages looked at each other suspiciously. Moments later the quaking returned, stronger and of longer duration than before. With the third occurrence, beakers and other glass and ceramic containers on Ezius's shelves rattled.

Lyim reached for the marble slab to steady himself.

"It's not me ' he said, a look of concern crossing his face for the first time since he'd emerged from the portal.

The tremors had grown so strong that it was difficult to stand. Guerrand's first thought was to check the scrying diorama for disturbances on Bastion's plane. He stumbled toward the doorway to the nave, collapsing to his knees when he reached the spot where Dagamier still lay unconscious. Looking out into the nave, he saw that the quakes passed through Bastion like a wave, shaking each wing of the building as they passed and returned.

Books crashed off the shelves, followed by glassware. Looking back toward Ezius's laboratory, Guerrand saw vials, spell components, scrolls, and untold other mystical ingredients smashing together on the floor. Jars were exploding on the shelves, sending smoking fragments of glass and pottery through the air.

Guerrand was unsure whether the white wizard was alive or dead, but while there was a chance to save him Guerrand could not give Ezius up. He dashed back into the wing to save the mage. "No one's safe in here, Lyim," Guerrand said to the wizard. "Help me get Ezius and Dagamier into the nave." Without waiting for an answer, Guerrand grabbed Ezius's robe and dragged the white mage's body toward the doorway.

Lyim, looking about in stunned disbelief, seemed barely to hear him. "What's happening, Rand?"

Guerrand came to the doorway and stopped briefly. "As I feared, the gods of magic are not letting your trespass into the Lost Citadel go unpunished. They're destroying Bastion. We've got to get out into the courtyard before we're crushed."

Energized by adrenalin, the high defender grabbed Dagamier's robe with his free hand and dragged her along with Ezius out into the nave, away from a rapidly building cloud of vapor that choked the white wing. Another tremor drove the struggling Guerrand to his knees as chunks of masonry rained down from the dome roof. With a tremendous crash, the scrying chamber collapsed in a boiling cloud of dust. Rays of white light pierced the rubble, searing outward in every direction. Mercury and sulfur spilled out from under the pile to drain into the tiny moat.

The trembling now was continuous, with no discern- able-pattern. Guerrand heard explosions in each of the wings. Through the open doorway, he saw flashes of lightning zigzagging crazily about the white wing.

"Come on, Lyim, before it's too late!"

Lyim's response was a piercing scream. His tortured howl rose above the tumult, then was lost again in chaos.

Guerrand's attention was drawn away from Lyim's fate as swirling shapes, like speeding, mother-of-pearl clouds, formed from the magical mortar between blocks in the nave. The choking, dust-filled air there filled quickly with these energized clouds, streaking in from all three wings and swooping around like malefic birds. Two rushed at Guerrand, eyes blazing and gaping jaws full of razor teeth. The dust-streaked mage hadn't time to dodge when the first shape crashed into him. The entity of coalesced energy knocked Guerrand sprawling to the floor with a bad gash in his arm. Others surged forward behind the first, but Guerrand dived out of their way as they swooped past to smash holes in the dome and knock out massive sections of wall. The odd, dim light of the courtyard cut through the dusty air in slants.

The stored magical energy of a thousand mages was being unleashed with instruction to destroy. Guerrand had to get the defenders out of the stronghold and into the courtyard, where at least they would stand a chance.

Guerrand looked toward the apse, a tumbled heap of shifting rubble. The high defender crouched between the still forms of the other two sentinels and formed the words of a spell in his mind. It was a dangerous gamble. Safe teleportation required perfect knowledge of the destinadon, and Guerrand had no idea what sort of changes might have occurred outside from the devastation. He willed total concentration until, once again, he experienced the familiar sensation of momentary unreality.

Guerrand nearly cried his relief when he opened his eyes and saw the shadows of the topiaries, though half of them were ripped out by the roots. Blocks from the facade had fallen here, too, but not nearly as many as inside. He chanted and motioned again, and a clear shell, like half of a hollow crystal orb, formed above their heads. It grew into a perfect semicircle and sealed itself against the ground. The shell wasn't high enough for Guerrand to do more than sit, particularly with the prone forms of Ezius and Dagamier, but it was welcome sanctuary. Guerrand turned his attention to the wounds of his fallen comrades.

Four multicolored shapes, ravenous creatures of coalesced smoke and ash, dashed themselves against the barrier. They slashed and gnawed at the clear surface with talons and teeth that grew longer as the entities' fury mounted.

But the creatures scattered when they heard the dome of the nave crash down inside the stronghold. The hammer blow resounded like a huge bass drum even in the courtyard. Guerrand watched as the entire roof of Bastion collapsed. Tons upon tons of elemental- forged stone and masonry rained down inside the walls and outside upon Guerrand's protective sphere. Summoning the very dregs of his magical energy, he strained to maintain the spell and hold up the shield,