Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “Please, Kirah, don’t ask any more questions,” he pleaded softly. “For once, just do as I ask and go home.”

  “You’re up to something strange, Guerrand DiThon, and I intend to know what it is.” Kirah locked her spindly arms more tightly around his waist.

  Guerrand laughed, despite himself. “I wish I could stay angry with you. You give me ample opportunity.” He fell serious. “I want to get away from the castle before anyone else overhears us. I’ll tell you then.” With that, Guerrand spurred his roan out of the stable and into the moonlit night, holding fast to the reins.

  Kirah clutched her brother’s waist and snuggled her face into the soft fabric of the tunic on his back. She was delighted with herself, thrilled with the adventure of the moment. Solinari was nearly full, but hidden behind thin clouds that glowed a ghostly blue-black where the bright orb tried to shine through them. The crashing sea and the horse’s hooves created a thrilling rhythm as they galloped away from the darkened castle and across the damp, earthy moor.

  Guerrand abruptly pulled the horse to a dead stop and without preamble announced, “I’m going to find the men who killed Quinn.”

  Kirah gasped. “How?”

  Guerrand reached into the cuff of his gauntlet and a small fragment of mirror simply appeared before him, as if suspended in air.

  “What’s that?” she breathed.

  “Someone in the village gave me this mirror. It can reveal the location of Quinn’s slayers,” he explained vaguely.

  “Someone?” she repeated with a squeal. “Who in Thonvil would have anything magical, let alone a mirror that knows the whereabouts of Quinn’s killers? That just doesn’t make sense, Rand.”

  Guerrand sighed heavily. Obviously Kirah wasn’t going to let him off easily. “He was a mage, a stranger here, but he seemed genuine. His spells were incredible—” Guerrand quieted abruptly. Belize had warned him to tell no one of their discussion about leaving for the Tower of High Sorcery. For Kirah’s sake, he would mention nothing of that. Besides, he knew it would only get her talking again about running away.

  “So what was a mage doing in Thonvil? And why did he give this mirror to you instead of Cormac?”

  “I suspect that he tried, but you know Cormac and magic.” Guerrand found himself thinking again about the argument between Belize and Cormac, about the timing. They hadn’t learned yet of Quinn’s death. Belize and Cormac couldn’t have been speaking about that, then. Kirah’s chatter pulled him away from his musings.

  “How do you know the mirror can do what he says? Maybe this mage is just trying to get you into trouble by sending you on a merry chase.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell Cormac. I couldn’t very well walk up to him and say, ‘See what a mage gave me?’ could I?” Guerrand felt her curious fingers on the mirror. He instinctively jerked it away and gently slipped the palm-sized glass back into the safety of the loose cuff of his left gauntlet.

  “If you want to know the truth, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve let Quinn down.” He thought of his vow to stay near Quinn, broken to prevent a dishonorable brawl before his brother’s bier. He didn’t mention the painful memory to Kirah, even though guilt over it was the reason for his quest. “I owe it to Quinn to personally follow any lead on his killers.”

  “You’ll eventually have to explain to Cormac how you found them, won’t you? Besides, what are you going to do with them? Drag them back to the keep? Kill them?”

  Guerrand snorted. “If Quinn and the cavaliers with him couldn’t fend them off, I hardly think I’d stand a chance against them. No,” he said, “I intend only to retrieve physical evidence of their responsibility for Quinn’s death. I’ll find some way to tell Cormac when the time comes.

  “Now you know everything,” he announced, readjusting himself in the saddle. “Surely you can see why you need to go back. I cast the invisibility spell to slip away unnoticed, thinking it would last until I got to where I was going. I’ve already lost precious time, and I’ve a lot of ground to cover before the sun rises or the men in the mirror move on.”

  Kirah hugged his waist more tightly. “Then we’d better get moving, hadn’t we?”

  Guerrand pushed her hands down. “Kirah, don’t be absurd! I’m not about to gallop across the countryside to spy on some ruffians with a chit of a girl wearing only her night shift. Even you must see how dangerous this is.”

  “Which is why you need me along,” Kirah said brightly. “Besides, what difference does it make what I’m wearing if we’re invisible? I could be stark naked for all anyone would know! I won’t need weapons since you don’t intend to fight them, though that makes me wonder why you’re all decked out with your best weapons. Still, you obviously need my eyes. I notice details better than you. I won’t take no for an answer. You know I won’t.”

  “This is blackmail.”

  “For your own good. Now, kick this horse into a gallop and don’t waste any more of our time.”

  “Don’t push your luck by getting imperious, Kirah,” Guerrand said stiffly. “I don’t think you realize how furious I am with you.”

  “You know you can’t stay mad at me, Rand. We always forgive each other.”

  Kirah was right about that. They had only each other. “Against my better judgment, I’ll let you come along. Just remember, keep quiet and, for once, do what I say, when I say it.”

  Kirah could scarcely contain her pleasure at the victory. “Just think. This may be our last adventure before you’re an old married man.”

  “I don’t like adventure,” Guerrand snapped.

  They rode east, following the coast. Though the moonlight was bright when it broke through the clouds, neither horse, man, nor girl cast a shadow. Clouds of dirt kicked up by invisible hooves revealed their course across the moor.

  Before long Guerrand sighted his destination in the distance, could feel the ground beneath them rising, marking the end of flat DiThon land and the beginning of sloping Berwick land. In the blue light of the nearly full moon two ancient, carved pillars dominated the night sky. Stonecliff. They seemed to hang upon the cliff face, like joint figureheads on a ship.

  The young mage had been here only twice in his memory, many years ago, before the property had been sold to Anton Berwick. It would belong to the DiThons again in just four days. Three now, he corrected himself with another glance at Solinari.

  Guerrand knew from rumor that most people were uneasy when near the two stone pillars perched in the clearing at the top of the bluff. Everyone believed it was a magical place. Perhaps because of that, Guerrand found the spot intriguing. The plinths were massive and tall, carved with images of grinning and sneering faces and symbols whose meaning no one seemed to know. Superstitious folk thought the symbols were missives to evil gods, and Cormac in particular reviled the carved columns as an affront to all decent deities. But Guerrand sensed their potency was untainted by human emotion or ambition; Stonecliff’s power was of Krynn itself, natural and uncorrupted.

  Sensing Guerrand’s thoughts, Kirah said softly, “You know Cormac is going to tear down the pillars once he gets his hands on the land again.”

  “How do you know that?” he snapped.

  “How do I know anything? By listening in tunnels,” she said simply. “It’s the truth, Rand. I heard him tell Rietta. It makes sense, given his hatred of magic. Besides, I’ll bet he’s doing it to make room for the fortress.”

  “What fortress?”

  “The one he’s going to build as a tollbooth to tax the ships that travel to Hillfort on the river just beyond Stonecliff, the new boundary between Berwick and DiThon land.”

  “But most of those are Berwick’s ships! Cormac would be taxing the very person who gave him the land!”

  “And your father-in-law,” Kirah added smugly. “Despicable, isn’t it?”

  Guerrand shook his head slowly. “I can scarcely believe it, even of Cormac.”

  “Ask him!”

  The young man clapped
his hands to his ears. “I will, but I can’t think about that now, Kirah. Right now I have to think about Quinn’s killers.”

  “Do you know where these men are?” she asked. “I couldn’t see anything in the mirror.”

  Guerrand knew exactly where they were. He’d been studying the mirror constantly for the half day he’d had it. He now pondered the irony of the men’s location. “Up there.” Though Kirah couldn’t see him point, his meaning was obvious.

  “They’re hiding out at Stonecliff?” she gasped.

  For an answer, Guerrand pulled out the mirror and held it over his shoulder for Kirah to examine. Though the outline of the mirror was invisible, the image it projected hovered in midair before her face. Kirah could see one of the men leaning against a carved pillar three times his height. All three men were seated between the twin columns, a small fire burning at their feet.

  Kirah looked away from the mirror, toward the pillars on the hill that ended at a cliff above the sea. She saw firelight flickering between the carved columns. Guerrand was right.

  “They sure match the description given by the men who brought Quinn’s body back,” she whispered. “Awfully gutsy of them to camp so near our home.”

  “They may have no idea who they murdered,” said Guerrand, “or that anyone who cares lives nearby.”

  “With a magic mirror,” giggled Kirah.

  “Sshhh!” Guerrand hissed. “For the gods’ sake, Kirah, this is no joke. These men killed a fit, heavily armed cavalier and wounded two others. They won’t hesitate to do the same to a slip of a girl and a barely competent warrior. They can’t see us, but they’ll be able to hear us soon, so say nothing, do nothing from here on out.”

  “Yes, Guerrand,” she muttered meekly, properly chastised.

  Guerrand, fearing the horse’s labored breathing would draw the bandits’ attention, reined the creature in on the far side of a cypress tree, some twenty rods from the stone pillars. The horse would become visible as soon as Guerrand moved away from it, but the young mage hoped the branches of the cypress would hide the roan. Now, if he could only similarly stash Kirah. Guerrand slid down quietly and looped the reins around a low branch.

  “Kirah,” he whispered softly, “I need you to stay here and keep the horse still. You’ll both become visible, but you’ll be in deep shadow under the cypress.”

  “You’re not going to leave me behind that easily,” she said. Guerrand winced. “How am I going to keep a horse quiet—clap a hand over its mouth? It’s going to make noise, whether I’m with it or not. You need my eyes up there,” she insisted, pointing toward the fire. But then she decided to soften her approach. “I promise I’ll be quiet and careful.”

  Knowing this was neither the time nor the place to argue, Guerrand whispered firmly, “See that you do.”

  He could hear her slide off the horse, felt her hand groping for his. “You won’t be sorry.”

  “I already am.” He searched with one hand for the shield he’d lashed to the horse’s saddle, then thought better of it. He was already wearing his sword, and the metal shield would be cumbersome to carry. He didn’t intend to engage the men in battle anyway.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” whispered Kirah, straining at his side to be off.

  “I’ve been watching them closely in the mirror since I got it, but I’ve not seen them holding anything of Quinn’s so far. I want to search their packs.” Holding her hand firmly in his, Guerrand led her up the grassy hillside. It was difficult to remember that they didn’t have to crouch to keep from being seen. His footfalls sounded as loud as thunder to his own ears.

  They came to the crest of the hill, well within earshot of the three men. Guerrand could scarcely hear them talking for the hammering of his heart. He had Kirah firmly by the wrist and could feel her own pulse beat rapid-fire under his fingers. Though still invisible, he could not resist the urge to crouch behind a boulder to observe, peering left, while Kirah leaned right.

  The men were dirty and poorly dressed, with the look of old soldiers about them. They wore odd and mismatched pieces of armor that bore patches of rust. One of the men was missing an ear; another limped noticeably; the third was a dwarf with a tremendous beard tied into numerous tiny braids.

  There had to be something of Quinn’s here, reasoned Guerrand. He heard a horse whinny nearby. His heart stopped, and then flooded with relief when he spotted three horses illuminated by moonlight, grazing on the far side of the pillars. Their saddlebags lay on the ground near them. Apparently these bandits were too confident to worry about security. Guerrand tugged Kirah’s hand and pulled her away from the camp to circle quietly to the other side.

  The horses’ backs were bare, stripped down for the night. Guerrand’s eyes fell on the bags, several paces from the mounts.

  “Pick a bag and start searching through it,” he whispered. “Quiet now, we don’t want to startle the horses. As it is, they’ll be able to smell us, so we’ll have to move quickly.” Kirah started to scamper away. Guerrand’s hand reached out at the last second and yanked her back. “Remember, you can’t go farther than about four paces from me, or you’ll become visible.”

  “Then hurry up,” Kirah hissed impatiently. They moved up to the horses, more quickly than Guerrand liked, but Kirah could not be restrained.

  Guerrand knelt by the first bag. Biting the fingers of his right glove, he pulled it off and quickly tossed back the bag’s heavy flap. He rummaged almost blindly, pulling out tattered clothing, gloves, cheap jewelry, and a few goblets and other trinkets. They would become invisible only if he tucked them into his clothing, so he held them up to the moonlight for inspection. If any of the items had been Quinn’s, there was no marking to prove it. Discouraged, he moved on to the second bag, nearer Kirah.

  Hearing noise and smelling human sweat, the horses began to get nervous. Their snorts turned to loud whickers. Guerrand looked anxiously to the men at the firepit between the pillars. They were oblivious so far.

  Guerrand looked back to the bag beneath him in time to see a large medallion dangling from a shiny gold chain above the pack Kirah was searching. Though he could not see her, he could tell from the pause that she was peering at it, obviously having trouble placing it.

  Sucking in a quick breath, Guerrand knew instantly why it seemed familiar. Quinn had been given the medal by Milford, who had loved Quinn dearly, to mark the day he had officially progressed from squire to cavalier. Quinn had been inordinately proud of the piece, polishing it as regularly as his armor.

  Like a river of fire, a rush of rage replaced the numbness Guerrand had felt since Quinn’s death. Somehow the futility of his brother’s death was made real by seeing Quinn’s property in their possession, in a way that seeing his dead body had not. Quinn loved that medallion, would have wanted it on his journey to Habbakuk.

  “That’s Quinn’s!” Guerrand whispered hoarsely. He reached out angrily to snatch it from the air.

  What he did was bump the invisible Kirah, knocking her over. “Hey!” she cried without thinking. They both dropped the medallion. The horses whinnied and pawed the air. Guerrand looked anxiously toward the firepit. The men had noticed. The earless one stood and peered through the gloom in their direction.

  “Must be animals rummaging for food in our packs,” both Guerrand and Kirah heard him say. The man pulled up the waist of his trousers and began heading their way.

  “Come on, Kirah,” Guerrand whispered frantically standing to a crouch. “We’ve got to go, now!”

  The man was halfway to them.

  Guerrand couldn’t see Kirah, but she was on her hands and knees, looking for the medal. “One second. I’ve got to get Quinn’s medallion.” She struggled to push the heavy pack aside and look beneath, but it wasn’t there. Suddenly the shiny gold coin simultaneously caught the moonlight and her eye in some low scrub between the packs and the horses. “I see it!” she whispered. “The thing really flew.”

  “Kirah, no!” he gasped, hea
ring the words too late to stop her or even run nearer. Suddenly, the young girl in the ratty shift blinked into view, as if a light had been turned on her. She, too, instantly knew her mistake; she’d stepped too far from Guerrand.

  “It ain’t no animal! It’s a girl!” brother and sister heard the bandit say. He closed rapidly on Kirah.

  Blinking in the light like a cornered deer, Kirah looked left and right for escape. Now clutching the medal in her hand, she darted toward the darkness behind the horses. Anticipating that, the man launched himself in a flying tackle, grabbed her skinny ankles, and dropped her to the ground before him. The maneuver knocked the wind from both of them.

  Guerrand felt like he was watching a dream, a very bad dream. Kirah was kicking the man as he tried to pin her to the ground. Guerrand had to do something. His hands went to his sword, but then froze. How could he fight three men, experienced killers, without even a shield for protection? He was invisible for the moment, but Guerrand knew that as soon as he attacked, the fragile spell would be broken and he would appear. It would be suicide for him, and then they would certainly kill Kirah as well.

  Yet what else could he do? Guerrand was already walking toward the man who struggled with Kirah before he was conscious of his own resolve to fight. Guerrand glided forward, noiselessly sliding the heavy, well-oiled sword from its scabbard. Silent, invisible, he stood above the man who was on his knees above Kirah and swung the heavy pommel down onto the man’s head. It hit with a low thunk. The bandit swayed, stunned, but was still conscious. Surprised, Guerrand struck again, harder this time. The sword handle hit with a loud crack, and the bandit collapsed immediately, landing on top of Kirah.