“Lyim Rhistadt,” he said in a loud voice, pronouncing the last syllable with an odd, hard sch sound.
Guerrand cringed at the abrupt noise, but lifted his hand. “Guerrand DiThon,” he whispered back. Lyim pumped his hand furiously with a firm grip. Guerrand gave in to his curiosity. “Say, what goes on in there?” he asked the man with a nod toward the door to their right.
Lyim shrugged. “That’s the Hall of Mages. The interview is a snap, really. You meet the Council of Three—they’re the heads of the orders—and you declare an ali—”
Suddenly the door in question burst open, and the fourth hopeful mage, a dark-skinned elf, emerged. To everyone’s surprise he passed the chairs and fled through the front door with one frightened look over his shoulder.
“Step forward, Guerrand DiThon.”
Guerrand’s eyes jerked from the sight of the fleeing mage to the door through which his own name had just been called. With a nervous glance at Lyim, Guerrand drew in a deep breath and pushed himself from his seat. He could feel beads of sweat springing from his forehead. “It’s a snap,” Lyim called after him again, though Guerrand could barely hear over the pounding of his heart.
Stepping through the doorway, Guerrand stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. He suspected it, too, was round, like the foretower, though much, much larger, since the walls and ceiling were beyond his sight, obscured in shadow. The room was lit by a pale white light, cold, cheerless, and yet there were no torches or candles. Guerrand stopped without intending to and shivered.
He could see no one, and yet he knew he was not alone. The Council of Three were there, Lyim had told him. Guerrand waited, too frightened to call to them, even had he known their names.
“Be seated,” a voice said at long last. Puzzled, Guerrand looked around and was surprised to find that a heavy, carved, oaken chair stood beside him. He slipped into it quickly, as if it could conceal him.
“You wish to become a mage.”
It was not a question, and yet Guerrand felt compelled to answer the unseen man’s soft, aged voice. “Yes. It has always been my heart’s desire.”
“I sense other desires there,” put in another voice from the darkness, a woman’s sultry tones that made Guerrand long to see its owner.
He squinted into the darkness. “Would it be too impertinent to ask that I be allowed to see those who question me?”
“Impertinent, yes,” said yet another man’s voice, younger and robust with unspoken humor. “But not unreasonable.”
Abruptly those present in the chamber revealed themselves. Guerrand was certain the light had not increased or crept farther into the shadows, and yet he could now see a semicircle of mostly empty chairs; a quick count revealed twenty-one. Seated in the very center, in a great throne of carved stone, was an extremely distinguished though frail-looking man. He had piercing blue eyes and long, gray-white hair, beard, and mustache that nearly matched his white robe.
Following Guerrand’s eyes, the old man said, “I am Par-Salian of the White Robes, Head of the Conclave of Wizards. This enchanting creature,” he said with a nod to the woman in black seated at his right, “is LaDonna, Mistress of the Black Robes.”
Guerrand’s eyes fixed on the striking woman whose iron-gray hair was woven into an intricate braid coiled about her head. Her beauty and age defied definition; Guerrand wondered if both were magically altered.
“I need no illusions to embellish my looks or diminish my age,” LaDonna said abruptly. Guerrand jumped, blushing.
A small smile at Guerrand’s embarrassment further creased Par-Salian’s weathered face. With his eyes, he directed the young man’s gaze to the man seated on his left. “I would have you meet the Master of the Red Robes, but he is unavailable, locked in study in his laboratory. Serving in his stead today is Justarius of the Red Robes.”
The dark-haired man with neat mustache and beard resting on his white ruff nodded at Guerrand, who returned the gesture. Guerrand judged him to be in his late thirties, though he knew with a mage he could be off by decades.
“We are today’s Council of Three,” Par-Salian explained. “We convene at the Tower of Wayreth primarily to conduct these interviews, devise Tests, and deal with everyday problems of the orders that do not require the attention of the full conclave of twenty-one members, seven from each order.”
Par-Salian brushed a wisp of white hair from his eyes. “The day has been a long one,” he said with an edge of tired impatience in his voice. “Declare an alignment, young man, and let us draw today’s interviews to a close.”
Guerrand shook his head quickly. “I’ve chosen no alignment.”
“Then why did you come here today?” demanded LaDonna with an peevish frown.
“I came to begin my training as a mage. Frankly, I did not know what that entailed.”
“Your master didn’t tell you before he sent you? What color robe did he wear?”
“I’ve had no master,” Guerrand explained, feeling more and more like an ignorant rube. “A mage came to me recently and encouraged me to come to Wayreth and seek a master who could teach me.” Guerrand tapped his chin in thought. “He wore a red robe, come to think of it.”
“You’ve had no master?” repeated Justarius. “Each of us has probed your mind and found within it enough talent and skill to have brought you before us. Are you saying no master instructed you in magic?”
“No, sir. All that I’ve learned has come from books I found in my father’s library.”
“Interesting,” muttered Justarius.
Guerrand was both embarrassed and desperate to persuade them he could quickly overcome his deficiencies. “If you would be kind enough to explain the different philosophies of the disciplines, I would happily and swiftly choose one.”
The three revered mages exchanged surprised looks. “This is most unusual,” said Par-Salian. Justarius leaned to whisper something in his ear, and the old mage shrugged. “You are right, Justarius. If it brings even one more mage to our dwindling ranks, the time is well spent.” Par-Salian looked directly at Guerrand. “We will make an exception. Listen closely. I’ll not repeat what you already should know.”
“Yes … yes, thank you,” Guerrand said, his head bobbing eagerly. He leaned forward in his chair.
“Wizards of the White Robes,” began Par-Salian, “embrace the cause of Good, and we use our magic to further the predominance of Good in the world. We believe that a world in which there are only good deeds and thoughts would benefit all races and end much suffering.”
LaDonna leaned back in her chair indolently. “Wizards of the Black Robes,” she said in her husky voice, “believe the darker side that all creatures possess is their most productive. Therefore, we believe that magic should be pursued without ethical or moral restraints. It is beyond such considerations.”
Justarius sat forward in his chair, his left leg stretched out and twisted awkwardly, as if it pained him. “We mages of the Red Robes recognize that elements of both Good and Evil—”
“We prefer the nonpejorative term ‘dark side,’ ” interrupted LaDonna.
Justarius nodded in respect to the black-robed woman’s request, but under his mustache his lip curled up in a slight smirk. “Both Good and Evil exist in all creatures. We believe that to try to eliminate one or the other is not only futile, but an undesirable goal. It is when these two opposing elements are balanced in an individual—or in a society—that life has the richness we all seek. Wizards of the Red Robes use their magic to encourage and maintain that balance.”
“Realize this, too,” added Par-Salian, “before you make your decision. Every wizard, no matter the color of his robe, vows his primary allegiance to magic. All wizards are brothers in their order. All orders are brothers in the power. Though we may disagree on method, particularly during important conclaves, the places of High Wizardry, such as this tower, are held in common among us. No sorcery will be suffered here in anger against fellow wizards.” Par-Salian shifted a
bushy white brow.
Guerrand pondered all that they had said, conscious not to take too much time in his evaluation. Finally, he said, with a nod to Par-Salian and LaDonna, “With all due respect to your disciplines, I believe the philosophy of the Red Robes, as outlined by Justarius, most closely aligns with my own outlook on life.”
“You are certain?” asked Par-Salian. “Are you prepared to declare loyalty to that order?”
Guerrand nodded solemnly. Clearing his throat, he said with great formality, “I, Guerrand DiThon, do hereby pledge my loyalty to the Order of the Red Robes.” He was rewarded with a warm smile from Justarius.
“That is done.” Par-Salian’s ringed fingers slapped the arm of his stone chair in satisfaction. “There is one last piece of business to conclude today’s interviews.” The door behind Guerrand flew open abruptly, and the same disembodied voice that had called Guerrand forth from the foretower drew in the two young mages still waiting there.
“Welcome once more,” said the white-haired wizard as the other young mages seated themselves next to Guerrand. “Our last bit of business is to ascertain or assign masters so that you may all begin your apprenticeships.
“Stand, Nieulorr of Swansea Valley,” called the head of the conclave. The shrouded elf slid gracefully from the chair, almond-shaped eyes fixed on the elderly mage. “You have declared your allegiance to the White Robes. Have you a master, or are you in need of placement with a suitable archmage? The council has a number of approved wizards who are currently without apprentices.”
“With respect, Great One,” the elf said humbly, “I have regarded Karst Karstior of Frenost, of the White Robes, as a mentor for nearly two decades. He has kindly agreed to accept me as his apprentice.”
“Karst Karstior,” repeated Par-Salian, tapping his chin as he pondered. “Ah, yes. I remember. He is a good mage and a better person.” The head of the conclave nodded decisively. “I approve.” Par-Salian withdrew a coarse, white robe from the shadows behind his chair and held it toward the slender elf. “Return to your village and begin your apprenticeship. We look forward to adjudicating at your Test in the future.”
The elf nodded, took the white robe in his thin-boned fingers, and quickly fled the scrutiny of the powerful wizards in the Hall of Mages.
Justarius’s eyes demanded Guerrand’s attention. “Guerrand DiThon, as representative of your chosen order, I give to you a novitiate’s red robe.” Guerrand stood and approached the circle of chairs, nodded reverently, and accepted the rough-spun garment. “You’ve already stated that you’ve had no master but books. Have you considered to whom you might apprentice yourself?”
Guerrand’s thoughts flew to the wizard in Northern Ergoth. “No,” muttered Guerrand. “I’ve known only one mage, the one who suggested I come here, but he seemed uninterested in taking an apprentice. I would ask if you have any suggestions.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Justarius, considering Guerrand closely. “I already have one apprentice under my tutelage, but my home is large and my patience considerably larger. I would be willing to take on another who seems determined to overcome ignorance to realize his talent.”
“Thank you.” Guerrand smiled awkwardly at the half compliment. When one reached Justarius’s level of skill, Guerrand supposed diplomacy was a secondary concern. Besides, of the mages he’d met—and that now numbered a mere four—Guerrand felt most comfortable with this mage of the Red Robes. He could scarcely believe the second-ranking mage of his order would consider him. “I am honored, master, and humbly accept the position.”
“Good,” approved Par-Salian. “You are a fortunate young man,” he said, wagging a finger at Guerrand. “You two may speak afterward about—”
Suddenly a door banged in the shadows behind the semicircle of chairs. There was much bustling and shuffling, and a voice said, “I am sorry to be late again. I got involved in research and the time slipped away from me, I fear.”
A muscle in Par-Salian’s jaw twitched. “Well enough, today, but you would do well to remember your duty to your order in the future. As it turned out, we scarcely missed you. Justarius has done a fine job in your stead.”
Par-Salian’s warning was not lost on anyone in the Hall of Mages. Guerrand had frozen at the familiar voice coming from the darkness. He gasped as the mage himself emerged. Belize! He was the Master of the Red Robes. Considering their last conversation, Guerrand could not decide whether he should call attention to himself or pretend to not recognize the man. In the end, it wasn’t his decision to make.
Justarius leaped from his chair beside Par-Salian, stumbling over his own left leg. Scowling, Guerrand’s master dragged the limb back next to his other, the first outward sign that Justarius had a game leg. He waved Belize toward the seat, in deference to his rank. Belize lowered himself into the warmed seat with a baleful look at his substitute. “The Great One is too kind,” said Justarius. “I did little enough, though I found a new and challenging apprentice.”
Belize’s shiny pate shifted up almost grudgingly, and he squinted toward the two remaining mage hopefuls. His dark eyes lingered on Guerrand, probing for placement.
Feeling like a bug in a web, Guerrand felt forced to said, “Good day, master.” He cursed his quivering voice. “It seems I must thank you for encouraging me to come here.”
Justarius looked from Belize to Guerrand. “You two are acquainted?” Guerrand alone nodded. “Well, then, Belize, since you knew of Guerrand first, perhaps you wish to take him as a student.”
Belize merely looked puzzled, obviously still trying to place Guerrand. “I’m not looking for an apprentice—”
“How long has it been since you’ve had one, Belize?” cut in Par-Salian. “Twenty years?”
Guerrand felt his chest tightening. He had no wish to study under the frightening mage. It was obvious their encounter had meant little to Belize, since the mage didn’t even remember him. Yet Guerrand could think of no way to voice his objections without insulting the master of his order.
“I’ve done my duty to magic and its advancement,” snapped Belize. “I’ve lost count of the spellbooks I’ve written so that scores of young mages have ready reference works.”
Beside Guerrand, Lyim jumped to his feet. “Excuse me, but I am one of the scores of mages who’ve read those books,” he said boldly, his eyes scanning the council and resting on Belize’s ruddy, pock-marked face. “You have been my mentor. It is because of you that I wish to become a mage.”
Belize brightened at this break in what was beginning to sound like an inquisition. “Is that so?”
Lyim’s handsome face was earnest. “Yes.” He closed his eyes as if summoning courage. “I never thought to have this chance, and it makes me bold. If ever you would take an apprentice, I would ask that you consider me.”
“Lyim Rhistadt has an excellent natural talent,” prompted Justarius.
Belize’s eyes traveled from Justarius above him, to Par-Salian seated to his right, then to Lyim’s hopeful face. “Yes, yes, all right,” he muttered irritably. “Am I right in assuming this concludes today’s business?” Par-Salian nodded. “Good,” said Belize. He squinted one last time at Guerrand, then shook his head.
Standing, he addressed Lyim over his shoulder as he walked into the darkness again. “Justarius will give you a robe and fill you in on the traditional initiation challenge to apprentices of the Red Robes. I can scarcely remember it.” With that indifferent line, Belize was gone, leaving two relieved apprentices in his wake.
With a wave of his arm, Belize swept the beakers and vials off his laboratory table onto the slate-gray floor. The enraged mage didn’t hear the glass shatter, didn’t even feel the combustible preservative liquid splash the hem of his crimson robe, where it began to eat through the expensive brocade. Hen hearts bounced at his feet like fish out of water. Powdered diamond flew up in a sparkling cloud. Had he noticed the loss of components that had taken years to collect, Belize still wouldn’t have
cared. He was too furious at circumstances that had caused him to be doubly duped. The hue of his pocked face surpassed the color of his crimson robe, all the way past the shady ring of stubble that surrounded his head.
Something about the lanky apprentice in the Hall of Mages at Wayreth Tower had nagged at Belize, unsettled him. Seeking supernatural guidance, the mage, upon returning to his domed villa in Palanthas, had immediately cast a vision spell. The spell finally revealed to him what his memory had been unable to conjure. Justarius’s new apprentice was the brother of that wretched Ergothian who intended to tear down the magical pillars, thereby sealing a portal he didn’t even know existed. The bigoted bastard! The red mage pushed another beaker to the floor.
Belize had scarcely looked at the boy the few times he’d spoken to him; this Guerrand was just a piece in a much bigger puzzle. Besides, he’d sent the young man on his way to the tower, certain the youth was so inept and bucolic that he’d either die from the rigors of shipboard life, or be killed shortly after by wild animals in Wayreth Forest. Either fate mattered little to Belize. His only purpose in speaking to Guerrand had been to remove the youth from his environment so that the wedding between the two families, which would place Stonecliff in the local lord’s hands, would not occur.
Belize had thought that arranging the death of the first brother, the strapping young cavalier, would be sufficient to prevent Stonecliff from reverting to the hands of a magic-hating oaf. The possibility that the magical portal would be torn down was so grave that Belize might have called in the Conclave to prevent it, had he not had very specific and secret plans for the plinths of Stonecliff himself.
Belize’s gaze fell on his spellbook, open to the page he’d been studying when he’d recalled the appointment at the Hall of Mages in Wayreth. Remember the goal, he told himself now. The rest is incidental. He only wished the Night of the Eye, when the three moons—white Solinari, red Lunitari, and black Nuitari—were to align was sooner than five months hence. Magic would be at its most powerful that night, and Belize would need every jot of power conceivable. He had already waited over two years for this singular event, which happened only once every half decade.
Night of the Eye Page 10
