Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “I was the one who explained away our robes,” sniffed Lyim.

  “Yes,” agreed Guerrand, “and now we have to remember the details of that lie. Which god was it?”

  “Gilean, one of the old gods.” Lyim chuckled, ignoring the implied criticism in Guerrand’s tone. “I’ll take that as a thank-you.”

  Bent over a crate, Guerrand peered under his arm at Lyim. “Let’s just hurry and get these things loaded.”

  They made short work of the task, filling sixteen crates. Guerrand called to the mate, who showed the young men where to put the crates on the deck. It was long, tedious work, and even patient Guerrand thought he might lose his mind by the time Guthrie released them for the night, with a reminder to report for duty just before sunup.

  Lyim wasted no time heading for the light and mirth of the Laughing Lynx Inn, a rambling structure of weathered stone, with wooden cross braces bleached gray by many seasons exposed to the sea. Guerrand begged off, saying he needed to stretch his legs before retiring.

  The second he saw Lyim’s back disappear into the Laughing Lynx, Guerrand hastened down the shore to a rocky jut of land. Sitting on a boulder, he flipped open the pack.

  What on Krynn are you doing, Guerrand? He could hear Zagarus’s angry thoughts directly inside his head. Let me out of here!

  Though he knew no one else could hear the sea gull, he couldn’t resist the temptation to hiss, “Ssshhh!” He carefully withdrew the mirror, glaring into the glassy surface. There, he could see the shadow-shrouded image of his familiar.

  Zagarus sprang forth with a squawk, nearly crashing into Guerrand’s face. Before the bird could speak, Guerrand said wearily, “Don’t ask. All you need to know is that I found the tower and have a master—”

  I figured that, since we’re not dead.

  “And we’re traveling with another mage, so we’ll have to be careful. No one can know you’re my familiar.”

  The more things change, the more they stay the same, said Zagarus. Including that I need to eat. How many days was I in there?

  Guerrand shook his head. “I’m not sure. Two, maybe? I’m sorry it was so long, but it couldn’t be helped.”

  No wonder I’m starving! With that, Zagarus lifted his wings and soared seaward to find food.

  “Stay close!” called Guerrand, knowing it was unnecessary. Zagarus understood the rules better than anyone. Guerrand thought that was strange, when he was on the threshold of learning a whole new set of rules himself.

  Nineteen days out of Alsip, in the narrows known as the Gates of Paladine, at the mouth of the Bay of Branchala, the Ingrid was besieged by pirates. If that weren’t bad enough, Lyim saved the entire crew by casting a web spell and trapping the flailing and frightened pirates aboard their own ship, before they could board the Ingrid.

  That was why Guerrand and Lyim spent the evening of the twentieth day out of Alsip in the wastelands of the Palanthas Plains. Without a map, Guerrand couldn’t be sure how far Palanthas lay to the south, but he suspected it was at least fifteen leagues, two very long days’ walk.

  “We’re lucky they didn’t set us adrift in a skiff without water or food, or, worse still, make us walk the plank with the pirates,” said Guerrand, trying to warm himself before the fire. His robes and trousers were soaked, and the night was unseasonably cool.

  “Instead, they put us ashore with neither food nor water,” snorted Lyim. “Some thanks for saving their miserable lives!”

  “I suspect they felt they were showing their appreciation by not killing us.”

  “You think I was wrong to cast the spell, don’t you?”

  “Wrong?” Guerrand had to think for a moment about that. “No,” he concluded, “I don’t believe you were wrong to save everyone before there was bloodshed.” In fact, Guerrand admired Lyim’s facility with magic. He felt awkward in comparison. “I, however, might have chosen a less flamboyant way of doing it.”

  Lyim was nonplussed, proud, in fact. “That’s because I believe anything worth doing is worth doing with flair.” He stood and thumped his chest. “If you ask me, it’s just as well that we got kicked off the ship. The work! The confinement! I thought I might lose my mind. I much prefer to have my time my own, my feet planted firmly on the ground, not some rocking ship.” Both knew Lyim had spent some green moments on stormy days aboard ship, though Guerrand was kind enough not to mention it to the proud apprentice.

  He, too, had suffered from the hard life of a sailor. He feared that several newfound muscles would ache until his last living day. But secretly, he’d welcomed the backbreaking labor. It gave him the opportunity to think. In the evening he’d wait on the bow of the ship for Zagarus, one of dozens of gulls who would hitch rides on the gunwales there. Late at night, when he was finally allowed to retire, he’d read in secret from his spellbook and take notes by moonlight. Despite his servitude, he felt more in control of his life than he ever had at Castle DiThon. In short, he felt like a new person.

  He looked like a new person, too. His uncombed hair was longer, and he’d let his beard grow coarse to avoid recognition. Despite his fears, he’d seen no picture of himself from Castle DiThon on the Berwick’s ship.

  Thinking of the castle always brought one regretful subject to mind: Kirah. Guerrand was consumed with guilt. He missed her desperately. The memory of her wan little face increased his resolve to complete his apprenticeship in record time so that he could send for her. He only hoped she would forgive him. Perhaps he would send her another note, once he got settled in Palanthas.

  “Ignorant and fearful,” Lyim continued his tirade, “the whole rotten lot of them. What intelligent folk would do work of any sort when there’s magic, I ask you?”

  His words reminded Guerrand of the conversation he’d had at the silversmith’s with Lyim’s new master, the mage Belize.

  “You and Belize seem well suited as teacher and pupil,” remarked Guerrand, snugging his damp robe around his knees to dry it before the fire. Secretly, Guerrand was grateful to the fates who’d seen fit to delay Belize so that Justarius could offer him a position first. He’d felt an instant kinship with the second-ranked mage; their temperaments, as well as their philosophies about the role of magic in the world, seemed to be in sync. The only thing Belize had ever made Guerrand feel was uncomfortable. His behavior at the Tower of High Sorcery had been particularly unsettling.

  “Master Belize and I are well suited because having him as my teacher has been my goal since the moment I cast my first cantrip.” Lyim stooped to stir the fire with a bent branch.

  “Did he … recruit you, too?”

  Lyim gave Guerrand a strange look. “That’s an odd way of putting it. I guess you could say that, in a manner of speaking. I’ve read and memorized everything Master of the Red Robes Belize ever wrote, all twenty-three volumes.”

  “And you’ve got them all? Wherever did you find them?”

  “I’ve never actually owned them, no.” Lyim dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “As I’ve said, my homeland in the eastern Plains of Dust bordered the lands of the Silvanesti elves. Elves are far more open about magic than most humans.” He chuckled. “Actually, they like magic quite a lot more than they like humans. I worked long and hard to befriend, then bribe, a particularly unscrupulous elf into lending me the tomes from the library in his city. I transcribed some of the more interesting passages into my spellbook. Through them Belize taught me that magic is power, and power is … well,” Lyim explained, shrugging, “power is everything.”

  Lyim sat back down. “Where did you learn enough magic to qualify as an apprentice?”

  Guerrand shrugged. “My father’s library was filled to the brim with books, some predating the Cataclysm.”

  “Your father’s library?” scoffed Lyim, his nose elevated. “Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, eh?”

  Guerrand gave a wintry laugh. “More title than substance. Anyway,” he said, anxious to change the subject, “when I was quite young, I f
ound some books with interesting symbols. I read them over and over, and before I knew it, I’d performed my first cantrip—I made my little sister’s hair glow as if it were on fire.”

  “These books predated the Cataclysm, you say?” Lyim whistled. “Would I like to get my hands on some of those. I bet they contain some long-forgotten spells.”

  Guerrand eyes widened. “I never thought of that. They just seemed old and dusty to me.” He pulled up his pack to serve as a pillow. “It sounds like we couldn’t have taken more different paths to the same place. We must both utter a prayer of thanks to Habbakuk or whatever luck allowed us to survive the trip through Wayreth, as well as being accepted by the highest mages in our order.”

  Lyim’s eyes turned dark in the firelight. “I don’t believe in luck.” His voice was brittle. “I’ve earned everything I’ve ever achieved. By myself. Despite the fates, you might say. And I’ve only just begun.”

  Guerrand held up a hand. “I meant no offense, Lyim—”

  “I know what you meant,” said Lyim, his jaw tightening. “I’ve seen the attitude all my life.” He screwed up his face, as if imitating someone. “Rule number one: Without exception, nobles are better than common folk.” He ticked the concept off on a finger. “Rule number two: A man of modest means has made nothing of himself—he’s lazy and hasn’t used his skills to advance his lot. But if that same man is successful, he was simply lucky.”

  Guerrand fell silent. He could not dispute that what Lyim said was true. He had witnessed Lyim’s rule number one. Why were Cormac and Rietta, by birthright, permitted to live in the luxury of the privileged class, while far more productive people, like Wilor the silversmith, were simply common workmen? Looking at Lyim’s angry face, Guerrand realized that some men harbored greater burdens than a wicked sister-in-law’s tongue.

  “Well,” Lyim finished, angrily grinding a smoldering ash outside the fire circle under his boot, “I intend to be the luckiest man ever to live.” With that, he stomped into a small ring of trees beyond the firelight.

  Lyim had been gone only a few minutes, when Guerrand heard a rustling noise in the trees. He looked up, expecting to see Lyim returning from the darkness in an improved mood. But there was no one, nothing. Guerrand shrugged off the sound, attributing it to a small animal.

  Moments later, he heard the sound again. It was definitely something moving through the underbrush, beyond the reach of the fire’s light. Guerrand stood and kept the flames between himself and the noise. The light shone annoyingly in his eyes, and he could see no shapes or movement that did not belong in the woods.

  “Lyim, is that you?” he called, trying to appear brave, but succeeding only in turning paler than a mushroom. No reply came to reassure him.

  Then Guerrand heard the sound again, behind him this time. He spun around and saw his pack, which he had been using as a pillow just moments before, rising roughly through the air, its flap opening and the whole thing bulging and moving as though someone was rummaging inside. The sight made his jaw drop, but an instant later it clenched tight in anger. If a stupid little cantrip was Lyim’s idea of a joke … Everything of value that Guerrand owned was in that pack, including his spellbook and the magical mirror containing Zagarus. He scooped a large piece of flaming wood from the fire and stepped menacingly toward the strange scene.

  “Lyim, just stop right now,” Guerrand called. “You’re going way too far this time.” But the invisible intruder paid no heed, continuing instead to rifle Guerrand’s pack.

  Growing angrier by the second, the young mage prodded the stick toward where he suspected Lyim was standing. But the weak thrust was struck aside. The force of the blow surprised Guerrand. The torch had nearly been knocked from his hand. Guerrand knew the rules of this spell. If Lyim were invisible, the blow would have made him visible again.

  An icy chill ran up Guerrand’s spine. “Who are you? What are you?” he bellowed. There was no response. Fear squeezed his heart. Where in the Abyss was Lyim, and why wasn’t he coming out of the woods?

  With all his strength behind it, Guerrand swung the flaming log. It traveled through the air with a thick, whooshing sound before cracking into something solid. Sparks showered the area and Guerrand’s pack tumbled to the ground. Still completely unsure what he was fighting, but reassured that it was physical, Guerrand swung the burning club again. This time his blow swished harmlessly through the air.

  Guerrand gasped suddenly, unable to breathe. The air spun around him, raising clouds of dirt. His body was being squeezed, as if the air itself were pressing in so tightly that it might crush him. The brand dropped to the ground and rolled away while the young mage kicked and struggled against the invisible foe.

  Just as suddenly, Guerrand was released. He collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Scurrying away, he saw small whirlwinds of dust weaving toward him.

  “Lyim!” Guerrand yelled toward the thicket, and still there was no answer. Touching his fingers together tip-to-tip, Guerrand mumbled the words of a spell. The air about him shimmered, and then he rolled quickly to the left. As he moved, he appeared to split in half, leaving an exact image of himself in his wake. Then both Guerrands split again, creating four, and again, until there were eight Guerrands crouching around the fire. Each was identical to the original. Each one moved in exactly the same manner. There was no way for an observer to tell which, if any of them, was the real Guerrand and which were magical duplicates.

  The horde of small whirlwinds paused momentarily, unsure which enemy to attack. Then they chose one, apparently at random. Again the air smashed in, swirling and crushing, until the first counterfeit Guerrand disappeared without a sound, taking with it the whirlwinds of dust.

  Frantically, the seven remaining images scanned the area, trying to locate the invisible creature. When a stick snapped, all heads turned toward it, but not soon enough. A second image was crushed and destroyed before Guerrand could reach it.

  The six images would last until they were destroyed, but Guerrand knew that was only a matter of time. Eventually this thing would get lucky and attack the real Guerrand. He had a dagger to fight it with, but Guerrand doubted he could survive getting close to his assailant again.

  A third image was being pinned and squeezed. All five of the others turned toward the scene and pointed. Guerrand mentally prepared to cast another spell. Unable to actually see his foe, he was taking a big chance. Again he shouted the memorized words that triggered a magical release.

  “Sula vigis dolibix!” Two tiny, glowing arrows appeared next to each image’s outstretched finger and streaked toward the assumed target. Simultaneously the arrows disappeared in a burst of light, and a sound, like air being forced through a long tube, reverberated around the campfire. A hit! Guerrand rejoiced that the creature could be hurt, though he had run out of ideas about how to attack it.

  A fourth image was crumbling when, to his utter relief, Guerrand noticed the robed figure of the other apprentice standing at the edge of the woods. “Lyim!” he cried.

  The other mage held up his hand for silence. He’d ripped a small square of cloth from the hem of his robe. Lyim tossed it onto the ground. There it flopped and writhed before a stream of rats burst forth and rushed toward where the fourth image of Guerrand had disappeared. The rats’ tiny eyes glowed red in the firelight as they swarmed forward. Guerrand couldn’t begin to count them; dozens rushed into the light, and still more poured out from the thrashing cloth, until there might have been hundreds charging ahead.

  The rats found the invisible creature as surely as Guerrand’s magical missiles had. They ran into it, up it, around it, defining its outline. The creature was tall, not quite twice Guerrand’s height, and vaguely human shaped. As the rats sank their teeth into its invisible flesh, if it was flesh, the creature’s haunting wail filled the night, drowning out the raucous squeaking of the rodents. Rats were crushed and squeezed and pulped, flung into the fire or away into the shadows, but still more streamed
out, until the scene was a seething mound of biting rats. Guerrand stepped back, aghast. Aside from his simple magical missile spell, which was clean and brief, he had never seen violent magic turned loose against a living thing. The ground was thick with the crushed and lifeless bodies of rats, and still the mound thrashed and squirmed beneath them. Rat corpses hissed and sizzled in the fire, while maimed rats dragged their wounded bodies around in circles or attacked each other.

  Finally the heaving mound was still. As the invisible thing’s struggles ceased, the heap collapsed, as if the enemy beneath had suddenly slipped away. Their foe destroyed, the surviving rats turned and streamed back toward the cloth square, disappearing beneath it and returning to whatever magical stuff they had been summoned from. The bodies of the dead rats crumbled into dust and then were gone. As the last rat disappeared, so did the bit of cloth.

  Lyim surveyed the scene with a look of incredible satisfaction on his face. “Now, which of you should I be addressing …? I bet you’re, oh, that one right there. Am I right?”

  Guerrand realized he was still surrounded by several images of himself. “Wrong.” With a mental command, the extra Guerrands disappeared. He plunked down by the fire and peered through his pack. Everything seemed to be there. Most importantly, the mirror that contained Zagarus was still safe beneath Guerrand’s spare socks.

  “What was that thing, anyway?” he asked when Lyim strode over to join him.

  “I’m not exactly sure.” Lyim examined the torn hem of his robe. “I felt bad about the way I stormed off, so I was on my way back when I heard you call out. By the time I got to the edge of the woods, it looked like an invisible bear or something was squeezing the life out of you. I couldn’t figure out what was going on, so I hunkered down and watched for just a moment, trying to get some idea of how to help.”

  Lyim snapped his fingers. “That image trick was a good idea, by the way. I’d say it saved your life while I was working up the rat spell.”