Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “Thanks a lot,” she gasped, struggling to wiggle out from underneath the heavy man. “Now you’re visible, too.” Grinning, she rolled away and rubbed her wrist with one hand, hanging on to the medallion with the other.

  Brother and sister were both visible now. Guerrand doubted they could outrun the bandits who were fast approaching. This is a nightmare, he found himself thinking. I’m asleep and having a nightmare.

  “Asleep!” he cried aloud. He hadn’t time to warn Kirah. Waiting for the bandits to close the distance a bit more, Guerrand stooped down and scraped at the hard soil. He needed dust! A few quick stabs with his sword loosened enough for his purpose. Dropping the blade, he snatched up a handful and tossed it in the air before him.

  Kirah succumbed first, being the smallest and nearest. Guerrand saw her legs buckle and her eyes sink shut. Looking up, he saw the steps of the two approaching bandits slow noticeably. First, the limping man yawned and sank to the ground near the bandit Guerrand had clubbed unconscious. The dwarf looked in surprise at his fallen companions, then tumbled, rubbery-legged, next to them, fast asleep.

  Guerrand closed his eyes, dropped his face into his hands, and muttered a prayer of thanks to Habbakuk. He knew with certainty in that moment that he could never be a cavalier. He’d heard Quinn speak of the incredible blood-rush brought on by the heat of battle. His brother had said it was thrilling, that nothing compared with it. Looking at the thin trail of blood and the welt rising on the bandit’s scalp, Guerrand was sure he could never learn to enjoy beating someone over the head.

  He couldn’t remember how long the sleep spell was supposed to last, but he knew it couldn’t be long. Guerrand took a loop of strong rope from one of the bandit’s saddles. He started to tie up the one nearest him, then decided he’d make better time with help. Using his toe, he nudged Kirah gently in the ribs. She grumbled in her sleep but didn’t awaken. He shook her shoulder hard; she mumbled for him to go away. Hating what he knew he had to do, Guerrand raised his hand and slapped her pale cheek, hard. Kirah’s eyes blinked open in confusion, and a hand went up to rub her face. Guerrand could see the red imprint of his own fingers.

  “What the—?” Kirah sat up stiffly and looked around at the unconscious men.

  “I’m sorry, Kirah,” said Guerrand, and he was, “but it was the only way to awaken you before the others. I put everyone to sleep with a spell. I’ll tell you about it as we tie up these scoundrels. Hurry, now,” he said, handing her some rope. “I don’t think we want them to wake up before they’re securely bound.”

  “Gods, no.” Kirah shuddered. She snatched up the length of rope and began looping it around one of the men, while Guerrand held him up.

  “Won’t that wake him up?” she asked, worried.

  “No, they’ve got to be roughed up quite a bit before they’ll wake up. That’s why I had to slap you. Or wait for the spell to wear out, which could happen at any time.” He pushed the man’s arms behind his back. After Kirah looped them together, he tied a sturdy knot and sliced the rope.

  They quickly trussed up the other two. Guerrand saddled the bandits’ horses, adding the bags for inspection back at Castle DiThon. Kirah held the horses still, while Guerrand struggled each of the unconscious men onto their stomachs over the horses’ backs. He put the wounded man on one horse, and had the other two share one, leaving the third horse for Kirah. He would collect the roan from the cypress for himself.

  Reviewing their work, Kirah still looked uneasy. “Let’s tie them to the horses, too—just in case they wake up before we get back.”

  Guerrand complied, feeling a little apprehensive himself. The men most certainly would waken before they reached the castle. Anticipating the abuse they would hurl upon waking and finding themselves trussed, Guerrand stuffed some dirty clothing from their saddlebags into each of their mouths for good measure.

  He instructed Kirah to ride in back, to watch them closely. He rode lead, setting a quick pace. Still, as much as he wanted to be rid of these men, for other reasons Guerrand wasn’t anxious to reach the castle.

  “What are you going to tell Cormac?” Kirah called from the back of the line, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Frankly, I don’t know. If we were going to get there before dawn, I’d consider leaving them tied in the courtyard with a note attached to Quinn’s medallion.” He looked to the sky lightening over the strait to the southeast. “Besides it being cowardly, I’m afraid it won’t be possible.

  Guerrand rubbed his tired eyes, sighing. “Truthfully, I’m hoping Cormac will be so overjoyed at having Quinn’s killers delivered to him that he won’t think to ask many questions.”

  Riding in weary silence, both brother and sister knew that was as unlikely as stopping the sun from rising behind them.

  * * * * *

  The courtyard was filled with gawkers as the scraggly, unlikely quintet filed in. Guerrand glared at Kirah, who was waving happily to the crowd, obviously thrilled by the attention. She’s not the one who’s going to have to answer for all this, he grumbled to himself.

  The absurdity of the situation struck him. He should have been rejoicing like Kirah. But all he could think about was having to face Cormac’s anger and his questions. Guerrand began to resent his older brother’s attitudes in a way he never had before. Belize had said something about choosing which path his life would follow. Guerrand felt as if he were walking someone else’s path, and could find no forks in the road.

  Just then, Cormac stormed into the courtyard with Milford at his side. “Guerrand, Kirah!” he bellowed, taking in Kirah’s attire in particular. “What’s the meaning of this?” Cormac unpinned the dark plaid cloak drawn around his shoulders and tossed it over the girl.

  “We captured Quinn’s killers!” Kirah burbled before Guerrand could form an answer.

  “You what?” Cormac looked stricken with apoplexy; his fleshy face instantly turned a hideous purple-red.

  “Look!” Kirah held up Quinn’s medallion eagerly.

  Cormac nearly yanked the chain from her hands and turned it over in his thick fingers. “It’s Quinn’s, all right.” His glare traveled from the bound-and-gagged men to Guerrand. “How do you know they didn’t simply acquire it from his real killers?”

  Guerrand was puzzled. He’d expected anger and questions, but not disbelief. “Because they match the description we got from the men who brought Quinn in,” Guerrand said, more reasonably than he felt. “Call them back to identify these men. Check their bags—I’m sure you’ll find more of Quinn’s things.”

  With a nod of his head, Cormac instructed Milford to do just that. In moments the warrior’s massive hands were filled with a standing-bowl bearing the DiThon crest and a book of poems and reflections with Quinn’s name inked on the flyleaf.

  Milford beamed at Guerrand with wide-eyed wonder. “Congratulations, young squire. You obviously perform better under pressure than you do in the training room. I’m sure the presiding cavaliers will want to discuss it, but I suspect this will qualify you for immediate knighthood. And on the eve of your wedding!” He turned to address Cormac. “What do you think, Lord DiThon?”

  Cormac’s smile was unnaturally tight. “I think we could not have hoped for more. Good work, Guerrand.”

  With that, Cormac began to fire orders. First, he told Kirah to get into the keep and dress properly; knowing his tone too well, Kirah scampered away with a pitying glance at Guerrand. Next he instructed several men-at-arms to take the still gagged and squirming bandits into the dungeon, where they would be questioned momentarily.

  Then Cormac’s angry eyes locked on to Guerrand, who swallowed hard under the scrutiny, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll speak to you shortly in my study, Guerrand,” his brother said crisply. “I would like to privately discuss just what your unexpected actions mean to me.”

  “You made me look like a fool before all my servants, Guerrand.” Cormac’s voice was low, threatening.

  “So that’s what made y
ou so angry in the courtyard.” Guerrand still wore his sword, hoping a martial appearance might soften his brother’s fury. He stood, rather than sat, to get the full benefit from the prop.

  “Of course,” said Cormac. “My men and I—seasoned cavaliers, all—have been searching for these bandits for days. You and a string bean of a girl—”

  “That string bean is our sister.”

  “Half sister.” Cormac glowered at Guerrand’s interruption. “You ride into the courtyard with them all trussed up, as if it were as easy as … as … magic.” Cormac’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “You used magic somehow, didn’t you?”

  Guerrand flinched at the accusation. Not that he hadn’t expected it, but it came sooner than he hoped.

  “You look like you were dressed for battle, but I’ll wager …” Cormac bounded to his feet and prodded Guerrand in the ribs. A look that mixed satisfaction with disgust crossed his face. “You’re not even wearing armor under that tunic, as I suspected. You never had any intention of fighting.”

  Cormac shook his head and paced across the room. “It all makes sense now. The bandit I questioned said you threw dirt at them, and then they fell unconscious.”

  Guerrand was incredulous. “Quinn’s killers have been found, and you’re more concerned about how I did it?” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Cormac drained a goblet of wine in one gulp, then held the glass up to Guerrand in a mock toast. “Congratulations,” he said, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What dark sorcerer’s spell did you use to find and bring them here, Guerrand?”

  “What does it matter?” asked Guerrand. “Isn’t it enough that magic accomplished what ordinary measures could not?”

  “Any good cavalier could have done the same thing! You could have called on those skills, instead of the evil secrets of magic.”

  Guerrand sneered. “We both know I’m not a good cavalier. Besides, you said yourself, well-trained knights already tried to defeat those bandits and failed.

  “I’ve really tried to understand your hatred of magic, Cormac,” he continued softly after a pause, “and now I finally do. It came to me suddenly that you’re no different than me or anyone else. Behind your bluster, you’re afraid of what you don’t understand.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything!”

  Guerrand arched one brow. “You don’t sound fearless.”

  Cormac whirled on him. “How dare you? You know nothing of fear! Have you watched men die on your sword in battle? Have you struggled to maintain the lifestyle expected of a lord with more debt than income? No, you haven’t.” He thumped his chest. “I have. And because I’ve struggled for this family—for you—your life has been easy.”

  “Maybe I haven’t killed a man, or even tried to understand your struggles,” said Guerrand, “but neither do you know what my life has been like.”

  The young man stood, his face glowing. “Since Father died, I’ve toed the line—” he poked his brother’s beefy shoulder “—your line—as best I could for the sake of family honor, because that’s what Father taught me I must do. And I’ve been at your mercy because you held the purse strings, such as they are. I’ve even given up pursuing the one thing I always wanted, the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

  Guerrand’s expression was beyond bitter. “I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning, Cormac—maybe the most important thing I’ve ever understood.” He stood straight and tall before his brother for the first time. “Now that Quinn’s dead, I’m the only male DiThon with a sense of family honor—or any honor at all.” Guerrand unbuckled his sword belt and threw it on the floor.

  Cormac’s eyes narrowed in barely contained anger. “I will overlook your impudent remarks because soon our differences will no longer matter. You’ll be living at one of Berwick’s lavish estates, and I’ll still be here, scraping along as best I can. I feel certain that one day, perhaps when you have children of your own, you will understand the sacrifices I’ve made on your behalf.

  “And now, we’ll speak no more in anger,” Cormac announced with forced brightness. “So that we may peaceably draw to a close the years we have lived together, I forgive you the night’s indiscretion. In an oddly convenient twist, you’ve provided the Council of Cavaliers with an excuse to knight you. In a matter of days you’ll be married, and all this magic nonsense will be behind you.” Cormac poured more of the ruby-colored wine into his glass, then splashed some into another snifter. Turning with a strained smile, he held out the second glass to his half brother.

  Guerrand stared at it for a moment. Cormac nudged the glass closer to Guerrand’s face, until the crimson wine was all that the youth could see.

  “Take it, Guerrand. Let’s drink a toast to your impending wedding—and knighthood.” When Guerrand hesitated, Cormac pressed the wine on him one last time. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”

  Guerrand came to life and slapped away the glass and with it the patronizing suggestion. The crystal crashed to the floor and shattered, splashing Cormac’s boots with the blood-red liquid. “You’ll forgive me?” Guerrand shrieked. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said! Well, hear this. I won’t feel better just because you say so. I’ll no longer do anything just because you say so.” Guerrand snatched up his sword and stomped toward the door, kicking the broken glass from his path. “I’m done with bowing and scraping for some misplaced sense of duty.”

  “Wh-What do you mean?”

  Hearing the fear and desperation in Cormac’s voice, Guerrand howled with laughter. Poor, pathetic, deluded Cormac. As if the return of some rocky land could restore all that he’d lost through incompetence. “I’m not sure what I mean, Brother.” Giving the door a satisfying slam in Cormac’s red face, Guerrand strode down the corridor toward his room.

  He was whistling.

  Something darted out of the shadows and grabbed the young man’s hand, startling him. “Rand!” he heard his nephew’s voice cry softly. “Kirah says you captured Quinn’s killers. I knew you were a better cavalier than my father said.”

  Guerrand gave Bram a warm smile. “You’re half right, Bram. It’s true we captured the rotters, but I’ll forever be a lousy cavalier.”

  How a couple could produce such different children as Bram and Honora was beyond Guerrand’s comprehension. He was just glad they had. He had long suspected Bram had a bit of magical talent in the area of herbs, so he’d intentionally stayed away from him, for Bram’s own sake. He knew that Cormac and Rietta saw more similarities to Guerrand in Bram than they liked, and he did not wish to make the boy’s life harder. The boy … Guerrand realized with a start that Bram was nearly the age Quinn had been when he’d left on crusade. Just a half decade younger than Guerrand, Bram was closer in age to his uncle than Guerrand was to his own brother Cormac. The gulf seemed much wider, somehow.

  Bram was puzzled by his uncle’s obtuse answer. “Then how did you and Kirah catch them?”

  “It’s a long story better told when we’re both older.” Guerrand found himself hugging his nephew’s already broad shoulders fiercely, which surprised them both. He realized now that he’d spoken incorrectly about being the only male DiThon with a sense of honor. He only hoped Bram would be able to hold on to his. “You’re a good person, Bram. Remember to always do what you know in your heart is right.”

  This strangely timed advice confused Bram even more. He looked at the older man oddly as they separated, then strode down the hallway toward the staircase. “I’ll remember, Rand,” he called just before disappearing from sight.

  Guerrand hastened toward his room. The hand he placed on the latch was shaking. By the time he got inside, the anger that had held him up before Cormac had burned away like fuel oil. He felt weak-kneed and wanted only to collapse; he would have if his armor had not been still spread across his bed, where he had left it the night before.

  Guerrand slipped off his gauntlets. He shook the left one gently, letting the shard of magical glass slide on
to a free space on the bed. His fingers met with the cool, smooth surface of Belize’s mirror. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, he avoided looking into the glass, placing the shard behind the washing bowl on his table.

  He quickly cleared the bed and pulled off his tunic, breeches, and boots. Then Guerrand sank into the down quilt on his bed. His exhaustion was less of the body than of the mind, and yet the body was beyond tired, too, having skulked around and ridden on horseback all night. He half suspected Cormac would come pound on the door and try to continue the argument. Perhaps his elder brother was trying out some newfound wisdom. Guerrand thought it more likely that Cormac didn’t know what to do and was discussing Guerrand’s “abominable behavior” with Rietta, who would likely arrive any moment to set him straight.

  The problem is, he thought, unable to stifle a groggy yawn, I’m no longer sure which way is straight.

  * * * * *

  “Kyeow!” You look like something out of the Abyss!

  Guerrand’s eyes flew open. Propping himself up on one elbow, he squinted toward the tall, narrow window that overlooked the strait. Guerrand held a hand up to shield his eyes from the orange light he knew meant it was early evening; he’d slept the day away. His familiar stood on the sill, as if outlined by fire.

  “Oh, hello, Zagarus.” Guerrand rubbed the sleep from his eyes, more than a little surprised that Cormac had left him alone all day.

  The black-backed sea gull leaped from the sill in one bound and strode across the room on his sticklike yellow legs. Hopping onto the bed, he took one step across the feather tick and, with a webbed foot, kicked Guerrand in the ribs.

  “Oww!” cried Guerrand as he rolled away, more startled than hurt by the rubbery little foot. He glared at the sea gull. “What in Habbakuk’s name is the matter with you?”

  That, said the sea gull with an imperious tilt to his beak, is for having the biggest adventure since I’ve been your familiar and not telling me about it. He looked almost petulant, with his wings folded before him. I had to hear it from those preposterous pelicans who live out on Full Moon Point. It was humiliating!