Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  Guerrand shivered, remembering the feel of all the air being crushed from his lungs. “I’d say so, too.” Both men sat quietly for several moments. Guerrand poked through the fire with a stick. “Thanks, Lyim.”

  “It was nothing.” The other apprentice clapped Guerrand on the back. “Let’s just hope that whatever that thing was, it doesn’t have any relatives in the area.” With that, Lyim rolled out his blanket, curled into it, and was fast asleep in moments.

  Guerrand knew that sleep would not come to him tonight. He stared into the fire until the sun rose in the east.

  * * * * *

  Walking along the coast of the bay, Guerrand and Lyim made it to the foothills late the next day. The weather was hot. Both mages kept their heavy, coarse robes rolled up in their packs. Though the landscape was barren, seemingly devoid of people, a mage could never be sure when he’d come upon someone who feared magic.

  “The coast here reminds me of where I grew up on Northern Ergoth,” Guerrand remarked. “Few cliffs and dunes, mostly flatlands that roll right into the sea. The waters here are calmer, though, being a bay.”

  “Northern Ergoth …” muttered Lyim. “Isn’t that just a backwater, mostly inhabited by those awful little kender creatures?”

  Guerrand felt himself bristle. “They occupy a small portion of it in the eastern woodlands, yes. The western half is quite civilized. We even have an emperor. Mercadior Redic V is his name.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” said Guerrand. “Why, just last month, someone in my village discovered how to make fire.”

  “All right, all right, I get it!” cried Lyim, laughing. “Sorry.”

  Guerrand nodded. He wasn’t sure why he’d felt so defensive of his homeland—he’d never felt much affinity for it before. Perhaps, he reasoned, it’s because I already feel like such a rube compared to Lyim. It didn’t sit well to be reminded that he came from a “backwater.” The realization reinforced Guerrand’s resolve to study hard and learn his master’s lessons quickly.

  At noon on the second day, the northern foothills turned to mountains. It took the apprentice mages two and one half long, hot days to reach the crest of the second mountain. To their great surprise and relief, the mages looked down upon a wondrous, sprawling city. It was their first view of Palanthas, the city that would be their home, and their classroom, for years to come.

  Guerrand sucked in his breath at the view. Blindingly white against the blue, late-summer sky, the city of mages was laid out like a wheel. Like the spokes of that wheel, eight major thoroughfares radiated in perfectly straight, perfectly spaced lines from a central courtyard. Each road passed through the city wall beneath impressive gates flanked by twin minarets. The city had obviously been constructed over a long period of time, since the central portion within the city gates appeared older. Still, the architect of the newer section beyond the walls had gone to great extremes to match the old in both style and materials, some granite, though mainly extremely expensive and impressive polished white marble. Guerrand had not seen such marble except for the carved plinths at Stonecliff. Well-maintained homes of simpler design continued on into the surrounding hillsides.

  “Did Justarius give you any clue as to where to go?”

  Guerrand shook his head. “He gave me a riddle. He told me that getting to Palanthas and locating his home was a crucial, first step in my training. How about Belize?”

  Lyim frowned his frustration. “Not really. Just before he left the tower he said something like, ‘If you make it to Palanthas—’ ”

  “He said ‘if’?”

  “Maybe he said when, I don’t know. Let me think.” Lyim closed his eyes to concentrate. “What he said was, ‘My house is in Palanthas. If you get that far, knock on the door and wait.’ ”

  “That’s it?”

  Lyim snorted good-naturedly. “Hey, at least it’s not a riddle. Let’s hear your great clue.”

  Guerrand, with an exaggerated, imperious lift of his eyebrows and a mischievous gleam in his eyes, stepped back and recited, “ ‘At morning’s midlife, mark the hour, the eye is the sun, the keyhole’s the tower.’ ”

  “Oh, really useful, that,” guffawed Lyim. “I bet I can bribe someone into leading me to Belize’s place before you figure out that one.”

  With joyous shouts, the two mages donned their robes and broke into a run toward the city of mages and their futures. The rugged mountain road gave way to a beautiful tree-lined avenue. Straight as an arrow, it sloped sharply downward, headed directly through a gate topped by minarets. It appeared to end at a palatial estate in the center of the city. Guerrand and Lyim stood at the gate of the outer wall, with a stunning view of the city laid out before them.

  “Home was never like this, eh?” Lyim declared.

  “It still isn’t.” Both apprentices looked at each other, wondering who had spoken.

  A tall, slim young woman stepped forward from behind a tree. She wore a sleeveless, shimmering gown of rose, gathered just beneath her breasts in the classic style. Curly tendrils of shiny golden-red hair ringed her face, its bulk caught up in a coil high on the back of her head. A thick silver arm bracelet in the shape of a snake encircled the flawlessly tanned flesh of her right bicep. Guerrand found himself thinking she was as perfectly beautiful as Lyim.

  “I am Esme. Justarius sent me to introduce one apprentice mage named Guerrand to Palanthas.”

  “How did you know we were here?” asked Lyim.

  The young woman looked amused. “Magic.” She glanced from one gaping man to the next, an exquisitely shaped brow arched in question. “Which of you would be Guerrand?”

  Both apprentices seemed to find their voices at the same time. “Me!” Looking at each other, they laughed.

  Esme, however, did not seem to find them amusing now. Maintaining a solemn expression, she asked, “Shall I be forced to guess? Justarius would be most displeased if I chose incorrectly. He despises tomfoolery.”

  The smile dropped instantly from Guerrand’s face. Pushing back his hood, his head hanging slightly, he stepped forward. “I am Guerrand. Please excuse us if we seem a bit giddy. We’ve traveled long and hard to get here.”

  She seemed to consider that for a moment. “Who is he?” Esme’s auburn head jerked toward the other mage.

  Lyim stepped up boldly, gave his name and a slight bow of his head. “I have come to apprentice with the Master of the Red Robes, Belize himself,” he said proudly. To his surprise, Esme looked less than impressed. Guerrand detected a flash of pity, but the expression was gone in the blink of a long-lashed eye.

  “I see.” Esme turned on a soft-booted heel and without another word set off down the smoothly paved avenue. Guerrand and Lyim glanced at each other again, then trotted after the rosy robe that seemed to float like a windswept cloud above the paving stones.

  Lyim jogged up to her left side. “I am most anxious to get acquainted with my new home and would appreciate the opportunity to tour it with a guide even more lovely than this most beautiful of cities.”

  Esme looked at him out of the corner of one eye. “As you will.” She waved an arm to the left. “We pass through the area known as Nobles’ Hill.” Striking, expensive white marble mansions were nestled into the hillside on the eastern edge of the city just beyond the city wall. Esme led them under the twin minarets. “This is still Nobles’ Hill, but only the wealthier, higher-placed nobles live within the Old City.”

  Knowing that, Guerrand could detect slight differences here; the architecture was even more elaborate, the landscaped lawns longer, columns more intricately carved.

  “Is this where Justarius lives, then?” he asked.

  Esme smiled. “Now, what use would a mage have for living among snobbish nobles?”

  Guerrand reddened. Lyim seized the opportunity. “I couldn’t agree with you more. However, Guerrand here is a nobleman in his own lands and has a hard time understanding the plight of the toiling classes. I myself have tried to help him i
n that regard during our travels.”

  Guerrand sucked in a breath.

  Esme, however, looked bemused. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an occupational consideration, not a class one. I, too, am considered to be of noble birth in my homeland.”

  “Amazing!” said Lyim, trying desperately to recover. “And yet you’re willing to serve as a guide for two hopeful apprentice mages here in Palanthas.”

  Her eyes narrowed angrily. “I am no more a servant than you, sir, and likely your superior at that. I am senior apprentice to Justarius and am preparing to take the Test at the Tower of High Sorcery within the year, which is more than you can say, I’m sure.”

  Guerrand was stunned into silence. Though he’d said nothing, he, too, had assumed Esme was a servant in Justarius’s household.

  Lyim found his voice first. “A female mage?” he cried. “What a wonderful notion.”

  Esme’s honey-colored eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Are you too bigoted to believe that LaDonna, the woman you both surely met at Wayreth, is the mistress of the Order of Black Robes?” Then, in a gesture both apprentices were beginning to expect, Esme lifted her chin and stormed away from them.

  Guerrand could see from his expression that Lyim was considering going after her, likely to explain his position in some way that would only get him further into trouble. Guerrand laid a firm hand on his friend’s arm. “I’d let it drop if I were you, Lyim. We both seem to have trouble saying the right thing to her. Perhaps we’d be wiser to listen more and talk less.”

  Frowning, Lyim shrugged. “I’ve tried everything else,” he agreed. The gaze he locked on Esme’s swaying back was half irritation, half admiration. “I tell you truthfully, Guerrand, I am not accustomed to such opinionated, standoffish maids.” He gave a devilish grin. “She’s a spicy challenge, that one. What was her name again?”

  “Esme,” Guerrand supplied quietly. Considering Lyim’s good looks, he was quite certain his friend was indeed more used to fending off women than pursuing them. For some reason he couldn’t explain, Guerrand felt his mood sink as once more he was forced to follow Lyim in pursuit of Esme.

  * * * * *

  The rest of the tour went a little better. After allowing the starving apprentices to stop and purchase hot pasties from a street vendor, Esme led them to the Central Plaza before the palace of the lord of Palanthas. The square, though meticulously landscaped with hedges and perennial flowers, was not unlike others of its kind. It was more remarkable for the buildings that flanked it. To the north on a small rise nearer the bay stood the palace Guerrand and Lyim had first noticed from the mountains above the city.

  Guerrand could hardly compare the palace to Castle DiThon. It was like contrasting a rose with a dandelion. Though of a comparable size—at least one hundred rods wide—the masonry was a work of art. Whereas DiThon’s walls were rough-cut stones, all approximately the same size, linked by crumbling mortar, the marble stones in the walls of the palace were obviously cut with careful precision. Each fit perfectly next to its neighbor, without gaps or fill.

  Esme took note of his wondrous examination. “Dwarven made,” she offered. “From buildings to brooms, no other race pays such attention to detail in its craftsmanship.”

  The palace rose up more than four stories. Its gracefully vaulted roof doubled that height and was capped off by a delicate-looking turret room and spire.

  “The owner must be obscenely wealthy,” observed Lyim.

  “Amothus, lord of Palanthas, resides there, as have the lords of Palanthas for centuries. Its upkeep is the responsibility of the city.”

  “What does a ‘lord of Palanthas’ do to deserve to live in such splendor?” asked Lyim.

  “He and the city senate rule Palanthas. During public events, festivals, emergencies, he speaks to the citizenry from that velvet-draped balcony facing the plaza on the third floor.”

  Esme gave them a few moments to gaze before directing their attention to an ancient building on the southern edge of the plaza. “That is the Great Library of Palanthas. If you are wise and study hard, it will be as much your home as the residence of your respective masters—once you’re able to find them.” One side of her lip pulled up into a smug smile.

  The library was an immense, relatively simple building of marble. A short, wide, half circle of steps led to a glass-paned entryway in the center. Lengthy annexes jutted back from the square on both ends.

  Esme pointed a slender finger to the left wing. “That’s the only section open to the public. The rest is the private library of Astinus, who, as even you two neophytes must know, is the ageless chronicler of Krynn’s history. He is most unforgiving of intrusion, so do us all a favor and remember to use the smaller entrance on the east wing.”

  Lyim’s attention had already been diverted to the far right of the plaza. “What is that?” he gasped.

  “That, my good apprentices, is what is left of one of the Towers of High Sorcery.” Rocking back on her heels, Esme shivered. “Hideous, isn’t it?”

  Guerrand thought that, and about one hundred other ugly words. Amidst the shimmering white radiance of buildings stood a single tower of black marble. It fairly radiated a feeling of foreboding. Minarets to match those of the city gates must once have adorned the sides of the central tower like miniature flames. They were now crumbled and caved in, like empty eye sockets. The main tower was surrounded by a similarly black fence. Something fluttered like a huge bird from the fence’s gate.

  “What happened to it?” breathed Guerrand.

  “I’ve already lost precious study time to this tour,” sighed Esme, at last explaining her demeanor. “It may as well include a history lesson. It’s not a story any mage likes to tell—or to hear. But it is necessary to understand the place of magic in the world today. You do, of course, know what caused the Cataclysm.”

  “Of course!” said Lyim. “As the power of mages grew and threatened to overshadow that of priests, the gods became jealous of mortal wizards. The wizards were too proud of their might to curb it themselves, as the gods demanded, so the gods nearly destroyed the world, completely disrupting the study and progress of magic, and withdrawing power from their priests, as well, to hinder the world’s recovery as much as possible.”

  Esme frowned. “Many believe that. Let me try to repeat what I was told by Astinus himself, shortly after I came to Palanthas.” She drew a deep breath, then took a seat on the steps of the palace, indicating with a wave of her hand that Guerrand and Lyim should do the same.

  “During the Age of Might, nearly three hundred fifty years ago, the kingpriest of Istar became suspicious of everything. He gave his fears a name: magic-users. He didn’t understand their powers—more vast than anything we can even imagine now—and he felt threatened.

  “Already striving to purge the world of what he considered to be all but followers of Good, the kingpriest’s fear of mages was further fueled by the fact that they allowed among their ranks representatives of all three powers in the universe—the White, Red, and Black Robes. The kingpriest did not understand what the orders knew best—as Astinus put it, ‘The universe swings in a balance between Good, Neutral, and Evil; to disturb the balance is to invite destruction.’

  “So he used his most powerful weapon—his ability to mesmerize and incite the populace. The people rose against the most obvious manifestations of the power of mages—their towers. There were five once, you know. Here were taken the Tests, which dark rumors said were evil. The heads of the orders—all mages—sought to explain that these were centers of learning, where they kept the most valuable spellbooks and devices. But the stories of strange rituals persisted and grew, until, for only the second time in the history of the orders of magic, all three orders of robes convened to protect their own.”

  “When was the first time?” interrupted Lyim.

  “To create the dragon orbs,” said Esme, then quickly amended herself. “Actually, there was another time, when the orders were established at the Lo
st Citadel. But that information will all be part of your studies,” she said offhandedly.

  “Anyway, the mages voted to destroy two of their own towers, rather than let ignorant mobs overrun them and unleash magic they couldn’t control or understand. However, the destruction of the towers in Daltigoth and Goodlund caused such devastation, it served only to further frighten the kingpriest.”

  “He got what he wanted!” exclaimed Lyim. “What did he expect them to do?”

  “He wanted their tower in his own city of Istar, as well as the one here in heavily populated Palanthas. He cared not at all what happened in far-off Wayreth, and so he gave them the choice to leave the others intact and withdraw to Wayreth quietly.”

  “If these mages were so powerful the kingpriest was afraid of them, why didn’t they fight him?” asked Guerrand.

  “You’ll know the answer to that when you have a better understanding of what casting a spell drains from a mage. Suffice it to say, the mages, despite their reputation, could not condone destroying their own people.”

  “So,” Lyim interrupted, “if they did as you say, why is this tower of sorcery in ruins? The Cataclysm?”

  “That can’t be,” answered Guerrand, shaking his head. “If that were true, other buildings in Palanthas would have been similarly destroyed.”

  “You’re right, Guerrand, the tower fell to its current state prior to the Cataclysm, though not long before,” said Esme.

  Her soft face darkened. “To truly understand the horror of the day it happened, one should hear Astinus tell the story of what is now known as the Curse. He was there; he saw it happen.” Esme looked across the plaza to the library, as if, through the walls, she could see the chronicler at his desk.

  She shook her head. “The day the mages were to leave the tower, they realized they had far more books and scrolls than they could carry or store in one tower. The masters of each order brought them to Astinus, knowing he alone could guard their secrets.

  “The last act in Palanthas of the head of all orders was the ceremony to close the tower’s slender gates of gold. The people had gathered to watch the Wizard of the White Robes hand the silver key to the lord of Palanthas. The citizenry was as eager as the man who was then lord to explore the legendary halls of the mages.