Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “In the very second the wizard leaned over to place the key in the lord’s hand, a member of the Black Robes appeared in a window in the upper stories of the tower. While everyone below gaped in horror, the mage shouted, ‘The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day comes when the master of both the past and the present returns with power!’ To everyone’s ultimate horror, the evil mage then leaped out, hurling himself down upon the gates. As the barbs of silver and gold pierced his black robes, he sealed his curse upon the tower. His blood stained the ground, the silver and gold gates instantly withered and twisted and turned to black. The most beautiful tower of white and red faded to gray, then black stone. No one has approached the tower since, so powerful is the Curse.”

  Feeling suddenly chilled on this warm, late-summer day, Guerrand’s eyes traveled back to the black thing fluttering on the gate. The remains of the mage. He’d thought it a bird before. But now it had a much more ghastly and sinister appearance.

  “That was all so long ago. Things have changed. The kingpriest is dead. I would not be afraid of the tower,” boasted Lyim.

  Both Guerrand and Esme looked askance.

  “The pity is, some things haven’t changed much,” Guerrand said, thinking of Cormac. “Mages are still persecuted by those who fear what they don’t understand. We saw that on the ship from Alsip,” he reminded Lyim.

  “Perhaps the prejudice still exists,” conceded Lyim, “but our order’s response to it would be different now.”

  “You think the mages were wrong to retreat?” asked Esme.

  Lyim nodded vigorously. “Never explain, never retreat—those are words that have served me well. I would certainly never throw myself from a tower,” he scoffed. “Better to stay alive to thwart your enemies.”

  Guerrand fell silent. He felt suddenly very weary and alone, despite Esme and Lyim’s presence. Because of it, perhaps. “Esme,” he said faintly, “could you please take me to our master’s home now? I’ve … enjoyed the tour, but I’m anxious to begin my training.”

  “What about me?” chimed in Lyim. “Do you know where Belize resides?”

  With lazy eyes, Esme smiled. She looked first at Guerrand, “I could,” then at Lyim, “I do. But I can’t. Justarius has instructed me to remind you of your clue, Guerrand, but that is all. As for you, Lyim, I’ve not been instructed to help you.”

  “Wait a minute!” Lyim reached out a hand to grasp Esme’s fragile shoulder. Suddenly the air sizzled, tendrils of smoke erupted, and Lyim was thrown backward almost two paces. He landed flat on his back with an ignominious “Whooff!” as the air was knocked from his lungs. His robe flew up to his face, exposing more than just a little length of bare legs.

  Esme looked mildly distressed, and a touch embarrassed, as she considered the stunned mage. Even Guerrand took one limping step backward from her.

  She touched a finger to the metal ring around her arm. “My bracelet is a protective device. I didn’t want it, but Justarius insists that I wear it whenever I travel in the city. You can see how it would deter the unwanted attentions of beggars or suitors.…” Her voice trailed off. Smothering a slight smile, she watched the proud Lyim pull himself to his feet.

  “I really must be off, or Justarius will start to wonder,” she said lightly. “Do you remember your clue, Guerrand? ‘At morning’s midlife, mark the hour, the eye is the sun, the keyhole’s the tower.’ ”

  “Wait!” cried Guerrand, stopping himself at the last second from reaching for her as Lyim had done. Esme was gone, leaving behind a curvaceous puff of rosy smoke.

  “What a spitfire,” sighed Lyim, brushing the dust of the sidewalk from his robes. “I could do without that bracelet, but I do enjoy a challenge.”

  Lyim clapped his hands together, Esme abruptly forgotten. “Now, where do you suppose Belize and Justarius live?”

  Guerrand looked to the bleak tower and said wryly, “I think we can rule out the Tower of High Sorcery.”

  Guerrand was on his knees in the summer dining room of Villa Rosad, Justarius’s palatial home. Though the morning was warm, the mosaic tile felt cold even through the rough weave of his robe. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and splashed onto the colorful squares before him.

  “Thirty-three, thirty-four,” he muttered aloud to help himself focus.

  Three days. He’d been counting the number of differently shaped and colored tiles in this octagonal section of star-shaped mosaic for three days. Guerrand supposed he should consider it a blessing that Justarius hadn’t told him to count every tile in the room, which was covered, floor, walls, and ceiling with the cool little ceramic pieces. It was the most pleasant room in the villa on a hot, late summer day in the month of Sirrimont.

  Today, however, the room seemed anything but pleasant. Guerrand’s knees throbbed; his lower back ached; his neck muscles burned. He could scarcely see to count through the sweat that dripped in his eyes and ran down his face. Sighing, he brushed the wet hair back from his forehead and tried to remember where he’d left off.

  “Thirty-three, thirty-four …”

  Guerrand heard the irregular rustle of a robe sweeping across the tiled floor and knew without looking who approached. When the sound stopped, he felt the weight of a thick hem brush his left arm. Neck held rigid, Guerrand looked out of the corner of his eyes and caught sight of a sweaty-cold metal tankard being lowered.

  “Here, Guerrand.” Justarius’s robust voice echoed against the hard surfaces in the room. “I believe you need this more than I.”

  Guerrand sank back on his haunches and wiped his brow with the cuff of one sleeve. Accepting the tankard, the apprentice took a long sip of the sweetened lemon verbena water. “Thank you, master.”

  “How many times must I tell you to call me Justarius? Or sir, if you’re so very uncomfortable with my name.” He clapped the apprentice on the back. “Master makes me sound old and crotchety. That isn’t how you regard me, is it?” Guerrand couldn’t see the smile on Justarius’s face.

  “Oh, no, sir!” exclaimed the apprentice, flustered.

  “You’re so serious, Guerrand,” said Justarius, dragging his crippled left leg behind him as he made for a chair. With a sigh, he eased himself into the straight-backed wooden seat and loosened the starched white ruff he wore at the neck of his red robe. “You must learn to find the joy in life where you can. The gods know, there is little enough of it in this world.”

  Guerrand took another sip of the lemon herbal tonic. “If I’m overly serious, sir,” he said, “it’s only because I wish to apply myself to study and learn all that I can as quickly as possible. I feel that I’ve lost precious time and have much to make up for.”

  “I applaud your determination, but what’s your hurry? By declaring loyalty to the Red Robes, you’ve pledged your lifetime to the study of magic.”

  Guerrand shifted uncomfortably. “It’s just that, in going to Wayreth to find a master, I had to leave behind someone who needs me, and—”

  Justarius’s open, friendly face hardened instantly, and his hand went self-consciously to rub his left leg. “We’ve all had to give up things for magic, Guerrand.”

  Guerrand nodded quickly at Justarius’s serious tone. “Yes, I’m certain that’s true.” He had wondered about Justarius’s limp. Esme had told him the archmage had suffered the injury during his Test, when spectral foes magically tore his left leg. According to her, Justarius had been very proud of his physical abilities and was forced to choose between prowess and magic. Guerrand had to admit that fear of failure, and not just concern for Kirah, drove him in his studies.

  “Perhaps I’m a little worried th-that, well …” he stuttered, wondering how much he should reveal. “The truth is, I’ve failed at a previous apprenticeship.”

  Justarius looked momentarily startled. “To which mage were you previously apprenticed? At Wayreth you told us that you’d had no master.”

  Guerrand shook his dark, shaggy head vigorously. “No mage. He was a cav
alier—I was training to be a cavalier. For nearly ten years.” He could feel his cheeks grow crimson with shame.

  To Guerrand’s surprise, Justarius threw back his head and laughed. “Was it your wish to become a cavalier?”

  “Not for a heartbeat.”

  “Then I would say you succeeded admirably in your apprenticeship, if you were able to put off your master for nearly ten years and still remain his student.”

  “My brother paid him to remain so.”

  Justarius arched a brow. “Should I expect your brother to pay me similarly?”

  It was Guerrand’s turn to laugh. Realizing it might sound disrespectful, he stopped, though with great difficulty. “No, sir. If my brother learned I had apprenticed myself to a mage, he’d, well … I don’t know what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be pleasant for me.” Guerrand’s mind flashed to a campfire in the foothills north of Palanthas, where he and Lyim had been attacked by the invisible creature. “He’d be more inclined to pay someone to kill me than anything else.”

  “That bad, eh?” Justarius gave Guerrand a sympathetic look and shook his head. “Who would have thought that such prejudice against magic would still exist so long after the persecution by the kingpriest? Well,” he sighed, “I suppose there will always be ignorance. It’s as important to maintaining the balance between Good and Evil as anything else.”

  Justarius looked to the star pattern on the tile before Guerrand. “How is your counting coming?”

  The apprentice bit his lip and screwed up his courage. “Sir,” he began, “I know an apprentice is not supposed to question his master’s instructions, but I’ve counted these tiles for three days now, and I always come up with the same number of blue, red, and yellow pieces. I’m not sure what answer I’m expected to arrive at.”

  “And you can’t see how any of this has anything to do with learning new spells, am I right?”

  Guerrand’s face brightened. Justarius did understand how he felt!

  “I will tell you what my master told me when I did the tile exercise and asked the same question.”

  “Your master gave you this same exercise during your apprenticeship?”

  “Of course. As Merick had been subjected to it by his master, and so on. In a proper apprenticeship you inherit long-held traditions, as in any family. This particular tradition is always held in this very room.” Seeing Guerrand’s confusion, Justarius briefly explained, “I inherited Villa Rosad upon my master’s untimely death some years ago, but that’s another story.” He looked frustrated at having strayed from the topic. “Would you like to hear the explanation or not?”

  Guerrand nodded eagerly and leaned forward.

  “You will know the answer to the latter when you understand the former.”

  Guerrand could not keep his expression from deflating.

  “How many green tiles are there?”

  The question startled Guerrand. “One hundred thirty-three.”

  “Red?”

  “Two hundred ten.”

  “Yellow?”

  “Thirty-five, if you count the ones that have faded or worn down to beige.”

  Justarius nodded his approval, which sent a wave of happiness fluttering in Guerrand’s chest.

  “Now, close your eyes.”

  Guerrand slammed his eyes shut before thinking.

  “Now, tell me how many of the two hundred ten red pieces are triangular-shaped? Keep your eyes closed!” Justarius barked, seeing Guerrand’s lids flutter in confusion.

  Not knowing what else to do, Guerrand squeezed his eyes tighter, leaned forward again, and pressed the tips of his fingers to the mosaic. How could he possibly tell the difference between colors with his eyes shut? Think, he prompted himself. Red formed the center of the star, before the points jutted out. Using the tips of his fingers to find cracks, he tried to determine the outline of the star. He even managed to find some triangular pieces, but he gave it up before long, unable to remember which tiles he’d already counted. Guerrand’s fingers curled into a frustrated fist.

  “Have you determined yet what relevance this exercise has for spellcasting?”

  Guerrand chanced opening his eyes to met Justarius’s. His master’s were dark, patient, nonjudgmental. “I presume you’re trying to teach me to memorize.”

  Justarius wagged a finger and shook his head. “Unh-unh, but you’re close. I’m trying to get you to visualize.”

  Guerrand’s expression told Justarius that the apprentice saw little distinction between the two.

  “Guerrand,” he murmured, “the difference is as wide as an ocean! Your understanding of it will determine whether you’ll progress beyond the simple spells that can be cast by anyone who can read, like the ones you knew when you came here.”

  Justarius thrust the tip of his walking stick to the center of the star. “Most masters will tell you that memorization is everything—Belize would say that. They’re all wrong. Or at least only partially right. It is true that anyone who is able to memorize the right combination of words, gestures, and materials can cast a spell. Your brother who loathes magic could do it, if he chose to.”

  The archmage used both hands to shift his crippled leg. “But if you wish to rise above those who practice magic by rote, you must have more than a cursory understanding of how magic works. Let me give you an example: You can mindlessly repeat the words of a ballad, or you can truly hear their meaning. You must have a passion for that understanding, not just for the power such magic can provide. Only then can you tap into the extradimensional source of energy from which true magic springs.”

  Guerrand’s head was starting to reel, yet he was fascinated. Justarius looked into his eyes and judged that he could take still more.

  “The proper performance of magic—even one spell—is as taxing to the mind as rowing a longship alone would be to the body. Illogical mathematics, alchemical chemistry, structured linguistics … The mage must use these disciplines to shape specific, twisted mental patterns that are so complicated and alien to normal thought that they defy the conventional process of memorization. Confounding this further, he must account for subtle changes like seasons, time of day, planetary motions, position of the moons, that sort of thing. Rote memorization cannot accommodate these changes. But a passionate understanding of the workings of magic, achieved through the use of visualization, can. The reward after years of study—the advantage of this discipline—is the ability to combine disparate elements to create new spells.”

  “I had no idea it was so complicated,” said Guerrand faintly.

  Standing with difficulty, Justarius scratched his head. “I must be slipping in my advancing age,” he said, backing away one faltering step. “I can see I’ve given you almost too much to think about.”

  “I will think about it—all of it,” Guerrand promised. “Passion for the magic, not the power,” he repeated solemnly.

  “That’s the key,” nodded Justarius. “And now I’ve turned you all somber again. Think about it for a while if you must, then go row a longship or something to balance out your mind and body.” With that, Justarius limped toward the archway of the summer dining room. Suddenly he snapped his fingers, stopped, and turned.

  “One last thing, Guerrand,” said the mage. “Please instruct your familiar to not treat the villa like the bottom of a bird cage. Denbigh has been complaining.”

  Guerrand’s eyes went wide. How did Justarius know about Zagarus? Sea gulls circled and strutted about the villa constantly, and he’d been extremely careful not to single Zagarus out in any way. In fact, Zag spent most of his time in the mirror, except when Guerrand let him out in the confines of his room. Zagarus would then fly out the window to feed.

  “How did you know?”

  Justarius had been watching with amusement as Guerrand deliberated. “If a mage wishes for a long life, there is very little that happens in his home about which he is unaware,” he said, idly twisting the plain gold band around his right index finger. “You would b
e wise to remember that.”

  Noting Guerrand’s expression of shame, the mage added, “Buck up, lad. I’m not criticizing. You were right to not tell me about your bird. A mage should protect the identity of his familiar, since it makes him vulnerable. Frankly, I was impressed that you were able to master the spell that summons a familiar in the first place. It reaffirms my initial opinion of you.”

  Justarius turned again to the archway, dragging his left leg behind him. “Before you get too full of yourself, just remember the droppings, or Denbigh will have both our heads.”

  Guerrand chuckled, managing at last to find the humor in the situation. But then he remembered his promise to Justarius. He stared more intently than ever at the mosaic star, noticing and noting details he’d not seen before. He was just about to close his eyes to see how well he could visualize the colorful image in his head, when he heard another set of footsteps, light and even, in the doorway behind him.

  “You’ll have to forgive our master. He always forgets food,” Guerrand heard Esme say. “Justarius lives on lemon water alone and thinks everyone else can, as well. I brought you a bit of cheese, cured pig, and an apricot fresh from the garden.” The young woman came around to stand beside his kneeling form.

  “Ah, the tile exercise,” she said sympathetically, taking note of his posture and closed eyes.

  Guerrand slowly opened one eye, then the other to regard her. “How long did it take you?”

  The smooth, flawless skin of her cheeks flushed. “One day. But it took me five to find the villa,” she added quickly.

  Guerrand smiled gratefully at the nod to his ego. He’d managed to stumble upon Justarius’s unmarked home in a day and a half. It had taken him a while to realize that the references to “eye” and “keyhole” in the riddle were setting up a straight line. When the “eye” of the sun was placed to the “keyhole” of the tower—the summit of the Tower of High Sorcery—the eye would be looking where the tower’s shadow fell. The trick was following the tower’s shadow as it moved across the city until the right time—midmorning, “morning’s midlife.”