Belize shook his bald head in disbelief. He could scarcely accept that it had been only two years since he’d come into possession of the millennium-old spellbook of Harz-Takta the Senseless. It had lain undisturbed in the submerged ruins of blasphemous Itzan Klertal. No mortal could have recovered it, including Belize. Even the fiend Belize had enslaved to perform the task barely escaped with its sanity, such as that was. Belize had feared so many possibilities: the book might have been destroyed along with the city, or disintegrated over the centuries; maybe it never existed at all; perhaps even its horrific master was only a rumor. But the creature had returned with the tome, as commanded. And then the real work had begun.
At first Belize had been unable to even open the book. Neutralizing the magical seals had taken three weeks, and that was only the first hurdle. The book had opened to reveal a magical script that was completely unknown to modern scholars. That mind-twisting grammar, for it was not truly a language, had to be deciphered and then painstakingly translated.
The writings told of an ancient place Belize had heard of long ago, in the history lessons of his apprenticeship. The Lost Citadel was the first bastion of magical knowledge. In PC 2645, at the end of the Second Dragon War, the dragons had returned to Krynn against their queen’s vow and were ravaging the land. Three wild mages summoned potent magic and commanded the ground to swallow the dragons for all time. The dragons were defeated, but the magic ran amuck and thousands died. The three mages, fearful for their lives, called upon the gods for help. Solinari, Lunitari, and Nuitari heard their cries. They seized the tower in which the mages stood and moved it beyond the circles of the universe, where the gods could teach the three mages the foundations of wizardry in peace. The tower became known as the Lost Citadel.
For one hundred years, the gods trained their disciples in the ways of magic. At last, the three mages returned to Krynn to lead other wild mages out of hiding. They constructed five bastions in remote regions to shelter all mages from the hostile world; these became known as the Towers of High Sorcery. The gods then closed the way to the Lost Citadel, believing the knowledge it harbored was too powerful to fall into the hands of ordinary mages or mortals.
In the centuries since then, the role of magic in the world had changed greatly. Not the least of these changes was that three of the five Towers of High Sorcery had been abandoned or decimated during the Cataclysm. Only one, Wayreth, was inhabitable. The stories of the Lost Citadel had slipped away into the category of legend among mages, much like dragons had to the population of Krynn.
Except to Harz-Takta the Senseless. One thousand years before, he had devised and recorded in his spellbook a means of entering the Lost Citadel. The brilliance of the mind that formulated the process was astounding. According to Harz-Takta, more than a dozen magical portals existed across the face of Krynn for the primary purpose of interplanar travel. Harz-Takta searched for a secondary purpose and claimed to find it. His writings proposed that, during a Night of the Eye, just one of these portals, a different one each time, would gain the caster entry into the Lost Citadel when combined with the appropriate spell.
Even Belize had doubted it would work until he broke through the conceptual barrier of standard magical thought. The process was so nonconventional, even counter-rational, that it required relearning a tremendous amount of what Belize had been taught and what most mages simply took for granted. Harz-Takta posited a completely alternate view of reality, one unrelated to the known senses. Step by step, for almost two years, Belize had tested those hypotheses, and so far, they seemed wholly valid.
Belize had no way of knowing what had happened to Harz-Takta. His writings stopped just prior to his attempt to pass through a portal during the triple eclipse on a Night of the Eye one thousand years before. History had recorded nothing of the outcome. A pessimist, or even a realist, would have assumed that he’d failed.
But Belize had grasped Harz-Takta’s brilliance, and now he would follow in that great man’s footsteps. He risked everything, but would gain a universe. When Belize entered the Lost Citadel he would have the knowledge of the gods. For two years he had worked with only that goal in mind. To hone his gating skills—the ability to pass from one place to another by way of an extradimensional gate—he secured a spellbook on the subject by the great wizard Fistandantilus.
Next he searched the continents for maps or other clues to the whereabouts of the ancient magical portals referenced by Harz-Takta. Then he’d spent a year reviewing lunar probabilities to determine which of the portals was most likely to open a gate to the Lost Citadel during the next Night of the Eye, which was then a half year away.
That led him, just a month before, to the plinths known as Stonecliff. He’d quickly determined the current owner, a merchant named Berwick, and offered to buy the land to ensure that he could carry out his research there whenever he wished. Unfortunately, the man would not sell to him, having promised the land as part of a dowry to a titled lord to the west. That lout, Cormac DiThon, had proven even more intractable. First, he’d rejected a ridiculously generous offer of money for the land, when it was obvious from the shabby state of his castle that his fortunes were severely diminished. What was worse, the man was a terrible bigot about mages. Though he knew nothing of Belize’s intentions, the lord viciously vowed to tear down the plinths, which were reputed to be magical in nature, just to spite all mages. Then he’d thrown Belize out.
The Abyss had no fury like a mage scorned. An answer, and an image, came immediately to mind with a spell cast on the nobleman that revealed what his surface thoughts had been during their encounter. If the land was to be exchanged as part of a marriage, the marriage had to be prevented. It was simple work for Belize to track down the bridegroom and arrange for his death within minutes of Belize’s confrontation with the lord. The wedding had been stopped.
Until the brother with illusions of wizardry, the one who’d been deemed unacceptable, was substituted. Belize learned that the wedding was back on, which meant the land would still revert to the impoverished lord. Belize’s first thought had been to simply kill the second groom. Then he remembered the stoning he’d witnessed in the village and the young man’s sympathy for magic. This obvious conflict between the lord and his younger brother provided Belize with a way to prevent the marriage without further bloodshed. He was, after all, still a mage of Neutrality.
And it had worked; the young man ran away before his wedding like a thief in the night. With the transfer of land stopped, Belize had forgotten entirely about the wretched Ergothian lord and his family. Until the scene in the Hall of Mages. If only he’d remembered the young mage while he still had a chance to claim him as an apprentice, he would have had control over him.
Belize felt himself tensing up again. He had difficulty now determining which part of this foolishness angered him more—that he’d arrived at the Hall of Mages late, or that he’d gone there at all. The latter had caused him to be saddled with an apprentice he neither knew nor wanted. He cursed himself for letting the eager young man’s flattery go to his head. Belize had accepted him before he had time to recall why the other young man seemed familiar.
And now, the young mage who could possibly discover his secret was in the hands of his greatest rival, Justarius. What was worse, Belize himself had supplied the rube with the tool to do so. He’d given Guerrand DiThon a portion of his magical mirror, the one he’d created from notes in Harz-Takta’s tome, to persuade the young man of his authenticity. Back then, it had seemed an expedient and safe thing to do—he’d been so sure the varlet would die!
I should have killed him—killed the whole family—when I had the chance, instead of simply sending him away! I left too much to chance. Belize squeezed a vial of silica until the thin glass shattered in his hand. Beads of red blood mingled with the grains of beige sand.
The pain in his hand began to throb enough to penetrate his cloud of rage. Spying an untouched, dusty, half-filled bottle of dandelion spirits,
he removed the cork, rubbed the lip clean, and took a long swallow to ease the pain. The pale yellow wine had a calming affect and narrowed his mental vision until he could think clearly again. The Master of the Order of Red Mages rinsed the sand from the cut and bound it with a scrap of cloth.
What has this development changed, really? he asked himself. All he’d wanted was to get the knave out of Thonvil so that the wedding could not take place, and that had happened. For now, the portal was safe.
There was still the question of what Cormac had told his brother about their visit. Did he know Belize wanted Stonecliff? Belize thought that unlikely, since Guerrand had asked him what he and Cormac had fought about. He waved that concern away.
The fool still had his mirror, though. Belize couldn’t openly make a move against Justarius’s apprentice without drawing suspicion to himself. What’s more, now that Guerrand wore the red robes, an unprovoked attack would be a violation of his vows. For the time being, those vows still meant something to Belize. Besides, he didn’t need Guerrand dead—although the idea had appeal—just too far away to interfere.
Maybe Guerrand left the mirror behind, Belize told himself. He couldn’t inquire about it directly, for fear of bringing attention to it. Belize discounted using the mirror to scry for fear of being noticed, which would definitely draw attention to the mirror’s abilities. If only there was some way he could keep an undetected eye on Guerrand DiThon, to ascertain whether the apprentice was snooping into things Belize wanted left alone.
Suddenly, the Red Mage slapped his forehead. I’ve been so caught up in anger that I forgot the obvious! I can learn in an instant if the apprentice left the mirror behind, or if he carries it with him. Belize could find out exactly where the apprentice was. He tattooed every one of his possessions with an invisible sigil of his own devising that allowed him to track their whereabouts. It wasn’t that he was particularly possessive or territorial. In fact, it was well known that he didn’t even bother to magically protect his villa in Palanthas like most powerful mages did.
No, Belize wasn’t possessive. But he was vindictive. He did not trap his home, because the tattoos allowed him to track down unwitting thieves and kill them personally. It was so much more satisfying than coming home to the charred remains of some thief caught in the act.
Belize was certain the young apprentice must still be in or near the Tower of Wayreth. He vaguely recalled Justarius informing him before leaving for Palanthas that their two apprentices had decided to travel north together.
Still, he wanted to be sure. Belize paced between the rows of standing shelves that filled the back half of his laboratory. His collection of magical equipment and components was immense, but he knew precisely where to find everything. He quickly retrieved a large, shallow pewter bowl and an urn of extremely fine sand. Working quickly with practiced gestures, he filled the bowl with clear wine, then sprinkled several pinches of sand across the surface. As Belize moved his hands in a slow circle above the bowl, blowing gently on the liquid, the floating sand swirled and coalesced into an outline. The mage recognized the coastline west of the Wayreth. Slowly, more details appeared inland: the forest edge, the location of the tower, the crude road leading south from it.
Satisfied with the map, Belize turned his hands palm up and held them still. A tiny, glowing orange point of light appeared in the center of the map, marking the mirror’s location. It was approximately halfway between the Tower of Wayreth and the port city of Alsip. This was only a rough divination; Belize could eventually pinpoint the item very precisely by repeating the process with increasing detail each time. But for his current needs, this was sufficient.
Belize leaned back, satisfied, feeling as if he were in control of things again. That realization gave him another idea. He reached for the massive, brown leather book on the shelf behind him and leafed gingerly through the fragile pages until he found the spell entry he sought.
“Burning incense and horn carved into a crescent shape,” he mumbled aloud. He needed both items to cast the spell, and he found them near each other on a shelf. With the components tucked inside his robe, Belize continued reading the spell notes, following along with a red-tipped fingernail.
Once given a task, this creature from the elemental plane of air is relentless. It pursues its assigned duty until it either fulfills its summoner’s command or is defeated and driven back to its home plane. It is a faultless tracker, able to detect any trail less than a day old or follow directions that take it hundreds or even thousands of leagues away. It is invisible, noiseless, scentless.
Perfect. Belize gingerly closed the spellbook. He would return to Wayreth to be nearer the apprentice when he cast the spell. He would need to leave the sanctity of the tower to summon the invisible stalker. Belize would instruct the creature to do what it must to retrieve the mirror in Guerrand’s possession. If that meant it had to kill him, fine. Traveling with Guerrand, his own apprentice—was Lyim his name?—would come under suspicion, not Belize. It all fell into place.
Belize was feeling downright joyous as he prepared to travel through the mirror and return briefly to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. Abruptly his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he’d eaten nothing this day and had drunk only dandelion spirits. The spell allowed him one day to send the stalker after its quarry. There was plenty of time, then, for dinner before he summoned the relentless creature to terrorize the apprentices.
“Get ourselves to Palanthas?” growled Lyim, glaring across the courtyard at the closed door of the foretower. He and Guerrand had been escorted outside the tower’s gold and silver entry gates. “What does that mean? We’ve already found our way here, which was no small task. Where’s the reward for that?”
Just then, the door of the foretower opened again. A dwarf, dragging a charred body by the armpits, crossed the flagstone courtyard of the tower complex and elbowed past Guerrand and Lyim to get through the gates.
Startled, the two apprentices jumped back and watched as the dwarf turned left and followed the outer wall to the north. Just past the small guard tower on the northernmost point of the triangle, the dwarf dropped the dead mage, who’d obviously failed his Test, within the shelter of the trees. Dusting off his hands, the dwarf snatched a shovel propped against a trunk and began to dig at a furious pace, sending earth flying to twice his height.
“The reward was that we were allowed to live to find the Tower of High Sorcery,” Guerrand said quietly. Shivering, he watched the ignominious burial. He deliberately looked away; his glance fell on the trail the dead mage’s heels had left in the dirt. “I suspect that our apprenticeships will simply be a warm-up for the Test. Let’s just hope we don’t suffer the same fate when we return to take ours.”
Having just spent a fortnight making his way to Wayreth, Guerrand was neither surprised nor disturbed by the order to travel to Palanthas. With such a short deadline—a scant month—he wasn’t going to waste any time. To determine the time, Guerrand looked toward the sun above the twin towers that comprised Wayreth. It was early afternoon, though he didn’t know the day, had no idea how long he’d actually been in the tower.
The newly appointed apprentice adjusted his pack more comfortably on his left shoulder and set off, tripping over the hem of his unfamiliar, coarsely spun red robe. Red-faced, accustomed to the ease of the trousers he still wore beneath the robe, Guerrand hitched up the heavy garment with one hand and took smaller strides to the south, following the eastern wall.
“Where are you going?” demanded Lyim, jogging after him, his own pack slapping his back.
“To Palanthas, of course.”
“I know that! But how are you going to get there? Do you have a map? A ring of teleportation, perhaps?”
Guerrand laughed. “No, I haven’t either of those things. I traveled most of the way here by ship. While on board, I got a look at the captain’s map. If I remember correctly, Palanthas is far to the north, above Solamnia.”
“Then why are w
e walking south?”
The two novice mages came to the southern corner of the triangle. The forest rose up like a tall, green wall. “I don’t know why you are, but I intend to retrace my steps to Alsip.” Guerrand angled off slightly to the southwest and entered the line of trees, where the canopy was highest. “From there,” he continued, “I hope to take a ship all the way to Palanthas.”
“Then I’ll accompany you,” announced Lyim, quickening his steps to match Guerrand’s pace. The path allowed only single-file travel. The grass was ankle deep and thick with dew that quickly soaked the hems of their robes. “We can travel together and watch each other’s backs. You know what they say—two heads are better than one.”
“Is that what they say?” Guerrand asked archly, tossing a half grin over his shoulder. Truthfully, he welcomed the plan, thinking it might be good to have company. Besides, it would seem foolhardy to traverse wilderness and over seas to the same city and not travel together.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Lyim. “Do you mind if I sing? It will help to pass the time.” Without waiting for an answer, he began to sing in a voice that was deep and clear, his song the sounds of the forest itself:
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.
Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,
The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders
With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.
Night of the Eye Page 11
