Is it wise to use it after so long? asked the gull. I mean, you need a familiar destination point, and we've been away from Wayreth for a long time. Even there, things must change.

Guerrand waved away the concern. "Justarius himself recommended we use it. He must have removed any magical wards on Wayreth that would prevent us from entering."

Guerrand returned some time later from the cottage with his old leather pack filled and strung from shoulder to hip. Digging around in the bag, he pulled from it a familiar, hand-sized fragment of dusty glass and set it on the dirt path. The mage smiled ruefully up at his familiar and extended his arm as a perch for the gull. "Justarius awaits us."

With the heavy old gull on his arm, Guerrand felt a long-forgotten sense of deja vu as he stepped upon the surface of the magical glass and slipped into the

extradimensional mirror world.

As Guerrand suspected, Justarius had left a glowing trail in the mirror world that bypassed any protective wards and led them directly to a man-sized looking glass right inside the Hall of Mages. The room had not changed one jot since Guerrand's first audience here. It was a vast, round chamber carved of obsidian; the far walls and ceiling were beyond his sight, obscured in shadow. As usual, there were no torches or candles, yet the room was lit by a pale white light, cold, cheerless, without warmth.

Shivering in the dampness, Guerrand remembered with a bittersweet twinge his friend and fellow apprentice Lyim Rhistadt's first bit of advice to him, when tbe CDC USA plague

they both were waiting outside in the foretower to be assigned masters: "It's a snap." He had been so afraid then. Now he felt only cold.

This time Guerrand was not surprised by the sudden appearance of the heavy oaken chair behind him in the otherwise empty room. He slipped into it and waited, fingers drumming the intricately carved armrests, anxiously at first, then with growing impatience.

"Be at ease, Guerrand," he heard at long last. He still could not see a face, but he recognized the slight quiver of age in Par-Salian's voice.

"We're delighted you responded to Justarius's missive." The years had not dulled LaDonna's sultry voice.

The members of the Council of Three chose that moment to reveal themselves. The light had not increased or crept farther into the shadows, and yet Guerrand could now see the semicircle of twenty-one seats, all but three empty. He had sat in one of those seats briefly, during the Conclave to discuss the building of Bastion.

Seated in the very center, in a great chair of carved stone, was the extremely distinguished, though frail- looking, head of the Conclave of Wizards. Age had not dulled Par-Salian's piercing blue eyes; the long, gray- white hair, beard, and mustache that nearly matched his white robe had not grown an inch.

LaDonna, too, looked as if not a day had passed since Guerrand's first audience. The Mistress of the Black Robes was seated to her superior's right. She was a striking woman whose iron-gray hair was woven into an intricate braid coiled about her patrician head. Her beauty and age still defied definition.

"You're looking well, Guerrand."

Guerrand's eyes shifted at last to the speaker whose voice, robust with unspoken humor, he knew so well.

Justarius alone seemed to have aged. There was more salt than pepper now in the mustache and the shoulder-length hair that was simply parted down the middle. New, tiny lines pulled at the corners of his mouth and the narrows between his dark eyes. His usual neck ruff was a crisp and clean white, in contrast to the red linen robe below it.

"I am well," the former apprentice said stiffly.

The three revered mages exchanged surprised looks. Par-Salian brushed a wisp of white hair from his watery old eyes. "The Council has summoned you, Guerrand, to offer you a position of some importance."

"I'm happy enough where I am."

Justarius's eyebrows narrowed in a familiar gesture of irritation. "I see you've compounded your impertinent tendency to jump to conclusions. You would do well to listen and not waste our time."

Though words welled in his throat, Guerrand had the wits to press his lips into a tight line.

"Let us not mince words, Guerrand," began Par-Salian. "Bastion's representative from the Red Robes has abruptly resigned, and we are in need of an immediate replacement. The Council has raised your name as a possibility to fill that position."

Guerrand could not keep the shock from registering on his face. His mouth dropped open. None of his musings regarding the nature of the summons had included Bastion. He couldn't speak, which was fortunate, because there was still more to hear.

"Since its completion," continued Par-Salian, "Bastion has been run democratically by three occupants, a representative from each order, but that doesn't seem to have worked. Somehow even the most trivial issues degenerate into a two-against-one brawl. These conflicts divert the mages' attention from their real purpose in the stronghold: to be ever vigilant against intruders seeking the Lost Citadel."

Par-Salian leaned forward on his chair, elbow propped on the right armrest. "To prevent this from continuing, the Council has voted to create the position of high defender. The model is this very Council. 1 am the head of the Council of Three, as would the high defender be to the occupants of Bastion."

Par-Salian paused for effect. "Justarius has recommended you for that position."

"So I would be in charge of two mages who've been there for some time?" Guerrand asked.

Par-Salian nodded, but held up a blue-veined hand for Guerrand to allow him to finish. "You must also know that the work is lonely and tedious, requiring constant vigilance for something that is likely never to happen."

Guerrand squinted one eye suspiciously. "Why did the previous mage resign?"

"Vilar… was unstable," Justarius said, picking his words carefully. "Bastion is very isolated, particularly if you don't get along with its other occupants." The red mage sighed. "He was not the first, but the second to resign; Ezius of the White Robes is the only original representative. You will be the fifth sentinel and the first high defender… should you accept the position."

Overwhelmed, Guerrand ran a hand through his mop of dark hair. "1-1 can't give you an answer right now. 1 need time to go home and think, and-"

"There isn't time for a trip," interrupted LaDonna a bit peevishly. "Surely you can understand the need to fill this position immediately. You have until sunrise to decide."

"Your old room in the north tower has been prepared for your comfort," Justarius added more kindly. "Of course, Zagarus is welcome. I'll take you there now."

Guerrand stood weakly, holding fast to the arm of the chair. He nodded briskly to Par-Salian and LaDonna, then walked from the Hall of Mages at Justarius's side. The red archmage seemed to be limping more than Guerrand remembered, favoring the leg that had been twisted by his own Test. Their footsteps, Justarius's irregular, echoed against the cold, circular walls. The two mages crossed the small foretower where once Guerrand had waited with other hopeful apprentices, then entered the north tower.

Both men knew there was no need for Justarius to show Guerrand the way to the sleeping chamber some five levels above Par-Salian's study. He'd stayed there for several days before and after his Test, then during the planning of Bastion. Guerrand couldn't decide if Justarius was acting as jailor or host now. Neither spoke as they climbed the narrow flights of stairs to the sixth level. The exercise brought warmth to feet that had grown cold in the foreboding ceremonial hall.