Defenders of Magic 01 - Night of the Eye

by Scorpion ZS 256

  A dim light filtered down from high above. Looking up, the apprentice mage caught his breath at the sight of the most intricately pieced pane of stained glass he had ever seen. The narrow chamber felt like a life-size kaleidoscope. At first Guerrand thought it a colorful model of the lacy petals of the wild carrot flower, but the pattern was not that random. In fact, it was somehow familiar.

  "The constellations," supplied Justarius, following his gaze to the colored glass some two stories above them. "See Gilean, there in the middle?" Justarius tried to raise his arm to point, a difficult move in the cramped silo. "He's the book-shaped constellation.

  Gilean is the patriarch of maintaining a balance in the universe. That's why he's between Paladine and the Black Queen. Gilean holds the Book of Tobril, which contains all the knowledge possessed by the gods.

  "Of course, you can see Solinari, of Good magic. By now your magical skills should be developed enough to easily reveal the red moon, Lunitari, to you, as well. We can only hope that you'll never have the sight for the black moon, evil Nuitari."

  "But if I'm to be truly neutral, shouldn't I be able to see both sides, Evil and Good?"

  "Seeing both sides of an issue and viewing the gods are two different things," explained Justarius. "Only mages who wear the black robes can see Nuitari in the night sky." Justarius hitched up his robes, sat down, and slid around a half-circle bench that followed the curve of the far wall. Jerking his head, Justarius indicated Guerrand should follow him. The apprentice quickly complied.

  Guerrand could now see a murky glass ball of enormous proportion cradled between the points of an odd pedestal of antlers. He estimated the diameter of the globe to be nearly the length of his arm.

  "Before the Cataclysm," said Justarius, "crystal balls were to mages what picklocks are to thieves. But, like most things of great value, the Cataclysm reduced nearly all of them to rubble. In the years shortly after my own apprenticeship, I rescued this one from the flower garden of a nymph. She obviously had no idea of its value, calling it her 'gazing ball' She was just as happy to gaze at the steel piece I gave her in exchange."

  "What do you have to do to make it work?" breathed Guerrand, staring wide-eyed into the pastel mists that roiled within the large glass ball.

  "I don't have to do anything this time. You do."

  Guerrand's blue eyes snapped away from the mesmerizing mist. "I know nothing of crystal balls!"

  "But you know everything about your brother Cormac and the castle in which you were raised. That's all the ball requires of you."

  Noting Guerrand's skeptical look, Justarius continued. "To use the ball, simply peer into it with open eyes and concentrate on that which you want to see. It can be a person, place, or thing, but places are usually easier for beginners. With some practice, you'll be able to look for whatever you want."

  Justarius held up two fingers. "Keep in mind several things, Guerrand. The more familiar the sought thing is, the easier it is to locate. It's even more important to remember that the globe feeds on your energy. If you are skeptical or fearful or distracted, it won't respond to you as well as it otherwise might."

  Eager to succeed in Justarius's eyes and learn what he could of his own family, Guerrand closed his eyes briefly to chase away all distractions. Opening them again, he rubbed the orb and stared into its depths. He envisioned Cormac's study as he'd last seen it, floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, the path of worn carpeting from the door to Cormac's cluttered desk, the bright windows that overlooked the sea.

  Gradually, within the mists, Guerrand caught glimpses of the image he sought, hazy at first, but slowly clearing. Anxious, he squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate as he did when spellcasting. Instantly he knew his mistake.

  "You lose the image when you close your eyes," said Justarius, confirming Guerrand's suspicion. "You'll have to start all over."

  Heaving a disheartened sigh, Guerrand chased away his frustration and tried again with open eyes. To his delight, the image of Cormac's study blinked into sight almost instantly. He was getting the hang of it! Unfortunately, the study was empty.

  "I don't understand," muttered Guerrand. "Cormac is almost always holed up in his study."

  "Try focusing on Cormac himself," suggested Justarius. "I think you can do it."

  Guerrand nodded once and then tried to summon a mental picture of his brother. He was surprised to realize that, despite having lived his entire life with him, he could recall few details of Cormac's face. When he remembered their encounters in recent years, Guerrand saw his own feet, or the bottom of a port glass. It had probably been years since Guerrand had been able to meet his brother's gaze. Was Cormac's nose long or short? Eyes close- or wide-set? Guerrand had no answers. In the end, he focused his thoughts on memories of Cormac's size and stance, of his disapproving stare, of the clothing he was prone to wear.

  The memory was apparently enough. With a sizzling electrical snap, Cormac's visage parted the mists, and he leaped into view inside the crystal ball. He was seated at the head of the table in Castle DiThon's seldom-used council room. A thick layer of dust coated the tabletop, except where lines had recently been traced.

  Gradually Guerrand could see whose fingers and elbows had sliced through the dust. Gathered around the long table were Cormac's council of cavaliers, all the important warriors who served the lord, including Guerrand's old weapon master, Milford. While Guerrand watched, his brother leaned forward in his chair and thumped the table. A cloud of dust puffed into the air around his fist.

  "Didn't I say I could take the land like that—" he snapped his fingers "—from those pompous merchants?" He pushed back his chair and stood. "I didn't need either of my brothers—the one who was foolish enough to get himself killed, or the coward who ran away. I didn't need to further taint my family's bloodlines, either. My only regret is that I didn't think of it sooner." Cormac sat again and leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and slapped his boots up on the table in a gesture of supreme confidence and satisfaction.

  "In fact, the day Guerrand ran away like a thief in the night was very likely the best in the DiThon family history!" Watching, Guerrand winced. "I hereby decree that day a half year ago as a local holiday!"

  Milford coughed uncomfortably, his scar pulling at his cheek. "I would advise you, sir, not to get too complacent about the seizure of Berwick land."

  "Don't be ridiculous!" barked Cormac, leaning forward again with the disapproving eyes that Guerrand remembered too well. Cormac looked drunk, his nose red, his movements slow. "We snatched that land from right under their noses. They're merchants, not warriors. We needn't fear anyone we can best so easily."

  "Too easily, if you ask me," said Milford under his breath.

  "I didn't," snapped Cormac.

  "Excuse me, Lord Cormac," said a knight named Rees. Guerrand recognized him; he lived in a village northeast of Thonvil. "It is no measure of an enemy's strength to succeed at seizing his unprotected land, leagues from their manor house, when they are away in Solamnia attending their daughter's wedding."

  "Perhaps not, Rees," growled Cormac, "but it is a measure of my resolve. No one ignores Cormac DiThon and gets away with it. I was still negotiating in good faith with that fat bastard Berwick when he simply announced that all deals were off. He'd already betrothed his bucked-toothed daughter to some pretentious Knight of Solamnia!" Cormac visibly shuddered. "I simply could not let the insult go unchecked." Guerrand could also guess from Cormac's sullen expression that Rietta had chewed his ear thoroughly about the Berwicks landing a Solamnic title, while she was stuck with a petty cavalier.

  "In any event," said Dalric, an old soldier Guerrand knew Cormac despised, "Berwick will almost certainly try to take back his land."

  "Let him try!" barked Cormac. "Who could that bloated merchant get to fight his battle? Are the sailors from his shipping lines going to tie us in knots? Will his gardeners attack us with pitchforks?" Cormac nearly laughed himself apoplectic. He tossed back a
drink.

  None of his advisors raised a Up in humor.

  Cormac finally realized that he was the only one laughing. Scowling, he snorted to a stop. "If you're so damned concerned, Milford, then take some men to reinforce those already posted at Stonecliff. When Berwick's sailors come to fight, we'll bloody their noses. They'll run back to their little boats, and that will be the last we ever see of them."

  Milford coughed again, his face red. "Cormac, I feel compelled to point out that it's unlikely Anton Berwick will lead an attack on the land you've seized—it's worth little, anyway."

  "Worthless? To him, perhaps!" cried Cormac. "That land was in my family for years! It has the best view of the strait. A fort on that location would command the bay and control all traffic up and down the river. We could make a rich living collecting tolls from that traffic, and I intend to do just that."

  Milford colored further, highlighting the white scar on his face. "I meant it had little monetary value by itself. What you propose is a different matter entirely."

  Cormac slammed a hammy fist on the table. "There you have it, then. Berwick won't waste the money trying to get it back. Stop frowning so, Milford."

  The weapon master leaned forward, placing his elbow on the table. "We've all agreed—" Milford tossed his head to include the other cavaliers at the long table, all of whom looked down at their hands "—Berwick will not tolerate either the insult, after what happened with Quinn and Guerrand, or the placement of a toll on river traffic. He'll demand retribution. It is our collective opinion that he'll lead an attack against the village of Thonvil, or, more likely, Castle DiThon itself."

  Cormac's eyes turned black with anger. "You've all agreed?" He jumped to his feet. "Perhaps you'd all like to join his forces—if you haven't already!" Cormac's hands clenched into fists, and he swept an arm across the table, scattering wine-filled glasses to the floor. "All of you be damned!" With that the lord stormed from the room, leaving his council in a cloud of newly raised dust.

  Guerrand's concentration dissolved with Cormac's angry departure, and the images in the crystal ball slipped into pastel mist. He couldn't have watched more, anyway. The apprentice turned worried eyes to Justarius.

  The master's eyebrows raised appreciatively. "As you say, he is ... emotional. But why the frown? Apparently your brother has been too busy to send an assassin after you. In fact, he sounds delighted you're gone."

  "The assassin concerns me less than my family," Guerrand said softly. "I'm afraid Cormac's obsession with Stonecliff is blinding him to the safety of his family and the people under his protection. I'd hoped that my leaving would force him to abandon his plan to extort tolls from the Berwicks. Clearly he's going ahead with it in the most disastrous manner possible."

  Guerrand snapped around suddenly and turned his eyes on Justarius. "Will the globe show me Anton Berwick?"

  "If you can picture him, perhaps."

  "I've only seen him once or twice, but I've got to try," said Guerrand. "I must know if he's planning to retaliate."

  "You might also learn if Berwick has sent anyone after you," suggested Justarius.

  Guerrand wrapped his arms around the cool crystal globe and bade his mind recall the brief glimpses of Anton Berwick he'd gotten across the dim mourning chamber on the day of Quinn's viewing: short and round, balding, a scarlet tunic edged in green, leggings bagging at the knees.

  Guerrand looked between his outstretched arms as a fuzzy image began to form. He could scarcely see the face, but from the general body shape, Guerrand knew it was Berwick. The squat merchant stood with a tail, armored man whose upper lip bore the unmistakable mustache of a Knight of Solamnia. Though Guerrand could see little more in the mists, their voices were clear.

  "The plans are moving apace, sir," said the knight to Berwick. "Notices have been posted in all the ports in which your ships dock. Within a fortnight, we can expect mercenaries to begin arriving. After a short training period, we'll be in a position to lure the DiThons into defending the land they've pilfered, then we'll attack their castle while it's lightly defended."

  "When will your comrades be arriving from Solamnia?"

  "Any day now," said the knight.

  Guerrand, his worst fear confirmed, had heard enough. He let the image in the crystal ball lapse, scarcely able to believe the danger in which Cormac had so blithely placed his family. And all for pride and money. Cormac had but a handful of cavaliers to defend against hired men-at-arms and who knew how many knights? Chances were, it would be a slaughter.

  Kirah... Visions of his little sister came unbidden to mind. His arms were still on the ball. Guerrand turned his head slightly and looked into the shimmering globe. He saw his scrappy sister huddled among the pillows on the window seat in her room. She'd never looked so forlorn. In her hand, she clutched a twisted scrap of parchment.

  "Who's that?"

  "My sister," gulped Guerrand. "She's the one I promised I'd return for."

  "What's that she's holding?"

  Guerrand knew, without seeing his own script, that

  it must be the note he'd left her on the night of his departure for the Tower of High Sorcery. He stared, unblinking, at her crystal-clear image, wishing he could touch her for a moment and reassure her.

  "Justarius, I've got to go back and warn them of the Berwick's plans," Guerrand said softly, his eyes focused on Kirah's image.

  "Look away from the crystal ball, Guerrand," his master said gently, lifting the apprentice's arms from its surface. "You're suffering mental strain from having watched too long. I told you it draws its power from the viewer, especially a novice. For your own sake, you must look away now or risk losing your mind to the globe."

  Reluctantly, Guerrand let his arms be pulled from the cool, leaded glass globe. He felt a physical pain when the image of Kirah disappeared. Guerrand dug his fists into his eyes. "Thank you, I didn't realize."

  He turned bleary eyes on his master. "This doesn't change my need to warn them. I must ask you for a short recess from my studies—a month, perhaps. I know it's a great deal to ask, but surely you can understand."

  Justarius rubbed his own face wearily. Guerrand could see that he was carefully weighing his response. "I understand the desire, but I cannot grant your request."

  "What?"

  Justarius didn't blink. "You recall when first I selected you to be my apprentice?" Guerrand nodded grudgingly. "I informed you when you accepted my offer to join the Order of the Red Robes that you were pledging yourself to magic, and magic alone. Magic will not tolerate distractions in the minds of its wielders, particularly during the critical apprentice years."

  Guerrand's anger flared. "You mean you won't tolerate it! You can't stand the thought that I am loyal to anyone but you!"

  Justarius's eyes narrowed just slightly. "If you think that, then you have much to learn about me, and even more about the commitment you made to magic. I am but a facilitator for learning the Art, Guerrand. I gain no personal prestige, no additional power for teaching you. I do it for magic, to increase its presence in our world, because my loyalty is to magic."

  "You may forbid me to return and warn my family," said Guerrand, "but you can't stop me from doing it."

  "I've forbidden you nothing, Guerrand," the archmage said evenly. "Your apprenticeship is not a prison sentence. You still have free will. But I can, and I would, stop you from returning here. If you choose to leave, your spot would be immediately and irrevocably filled."

  "How can you ask me to forsake my family?" Guerrand demanded, his body shaking with frustration.

  "Didn't you make that choice when you left for the tower?" When Guerrand winced, Justarius added more gently, "I ask you only to remain loyal to magic, and your study of it."

  "But it's the same thing!" cried Guerrand, his fingers gripping the table edge. "I swore an oath to Kirah—if ever she needed me—I would know it and return."

  Justarius heaved a sigh. "Only you can decide which vow is more important
to you. In your guilty deliberations, I suggest you consider these things, as well. Would Cormac believe you if you returned with news that, through magical means, you've learned of a surprise raid by the Berwicks? He has already heard of that possibility proposed by his own advisors and rejected it. Would he listen more closely to you, after the way you left?"

  "He's not mad about that." Guerrand looked defensive. "You heard him—he's almost happy that I left."

  "Only because he believes he's got his coveted land anyway. I suspect that your brother's ire would quickly return once he remembered that your departure necessitated its seizure. Under any circumstances, he would not welcome your magical assistance."

  Guerrand frowned his frustration. "Are you trying to dissuade me from going?"

  "We have all had to make sacrifices for our art, Guerrand." Justarius gave his apprentice's arm a reassuring pat. "Lest you think you are casting your family to the wolves, realize, too, that the gods have plans that we mortals may never know or understand."

  "Are you saying that it doesn't really matter what we decide, the gods will do as they like with us?"

  "Not at all," said Justarius, with a single shake of his dark head. "I've said I believe in free will. But I also believe that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the outcome is in our favor, sometimes against. Frequently we never see the result at all." He stood and pulled Guerrand to his feet. "Right now, we are seeing the result of too much to think about all at once. Go rest, and I'll have Denbigh send some food to your room."

  As Guerrand shuffled, numb, through the birch-wood door, he heard Justarius mumble behind him, "That leaves one other question unanswered, the one we initially sought. If neither your brother nor Berwick has sent someone after you, then who rigged the joust? More important, why?"

  Guerrand stopped in Justarius's study and turned, surprised that he had forgotten all about that. "Do you suspect someone?"