Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

Before even he knew what was happening, Guerrand swept the plate and tankards from the table in rage. The heavy marble plate cracked along a vein and fell into pieces. Fragments flew into the lily pond, scattering the large orange fish. The tankards bounced to a stop, the liquid inside splashing everywhere.

  Guerrand’s hand flew to his mouth. He could scarcely believe what he’d done. It was so unlike him to succumb to anger. The sheepish apprentice stooped to collect the pieces of the broken plate, glad no one had witnessed his passionate display. Guerrand’s fingers met with the cool, jagged shapes. Almost out of habit, his eyes sank shut, and he visualized each piece by gingerly tracing its edges.

  Guerrand’s eyes flew open. Something inside him had changed. His mind felt clear, refreshed. He was ready to return to counting tiles. Jumping to his feet, Guerrand raced from the peristyle. This time he was certain he would see the two ladies instead of the lamp.

  The gilt-edged porcelain teacup and saucer lifted in scant, jerky motions from the top of the crowded desk. The delicate cup chattered against the saucer. Hearing it, Guerrand squeezed his eyes shut more tightly against distraction and grasped the small leather loop that was the material component for the spell that would lift the cup. He held the loop, had already spoken the magical words. The hitch had to be in his memorization of the spell.

  Guerrand forced his mind to focus on the mathematical equation, visualized the pattern in his mind, followed by the mental picture of a floating cup. He could almost hear a cosmic ping as all elements of the spell came together. When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t surprised to see the cup and saucer floating smoothly above the table for the first time. He was, however, delighted.

  “Look, Zag! I’ve finally done it!”

  Perched on the sill of Guerrand’s small room in the villa, the sea gull lazily opened one beady eye. Congratulations. You’ve managed to lift a teacup, something you’ve been able to do with your hands since you were in short pants, I’ll wager.

  Guerrand frowned and snatched the cup from the air to press his lips to the golden rim. “That’s not the point,” he said after taking a sip. “Justarius says the levitate spell can be one of the most useful in a mage’s repertoire.”

  Zagarus opened both eyes. It’s good to know that if you ever lose both arms, the bird said wryly, you’ll still be able to take tea.

  “I don’t know why I ever let you out of that mirror,” said Guerrand with a good-natured chuckle. “It seems you’re always either making fun of me or causing trouble.” Guerrand set aside the teacup and saucer. “What does it look like in there, anyway?”

  In the mirror? repeated Zagarus dully. Like a foggy cave, only without walls. I’ve made it a little nicer, taken in some twigs and such for a nest.

  Belize’s tiny mirror had turned out to be more useful to Guerrand than even that venerable mage could have anticipated. Zagarus had made it his home, claiming it was quite comfortable, warm, and dry. It also made a perfect hiding place for the familiar when he didn’t want to be seen or disturbed.

  “Can you look out of it and see me?” asked Guerrand.

  Afraid I’m spying on you, eh? Zagarus scratched beneath his wing with his beak. You needn’t worry. There’s just a flat, shimmery wall, like a mirror that’s lost its silver. At best I see fuzzy outlines moving around. Most of the time you have the mirror in a sack or pocket or drawer, so I can’t see even that much.

  “That’s it? Is there weather or light or sound?”

  Zagarus blinked, thinking. It is surprisingly noisy at times, like someone walking or talking in the back of the, well, cave. I’ve thought about exploring, but—

  “Don’t,” said Guerrand firmly. “I don’t need you poking around in there and getting us both into trouble. We have no idea what’s in there. In fact, if you hear any more noise, we’ll keep you out entirely.”

  I’ve been going in and out of it for months and nothing has happened, said Zagarus. I think it’s safe enough.

  “Perhaps you could go back in now,” suggested Guerrand curtly, “or fly down to the harbor and eat and visit with friends. I really do need to concentrate.”

  It was more important than ever that Guerrand be able to study quietly. The concept of visualization was slowly coming to him. It had been nearly two months since Justarius had first explained the discipline that, with perseverance, would one day allow him to tailor his own spells. Late that same night—near early morning—he’d finally made the change from seeing only the “lamp” to the “ladies,” as Esme had likened it.

  The pace of his study had accelerated rapidly from that moment on. He still was not casting very many new spells, however. Due partly to the season, early autumn, Justarius had him cutting, drying, and measuring herbs and other components. He knew the name of every hillside weed and root and vegetable.

  Hanging from his ceiling were drying clumps of sumac berries, poison oak leaves, and licorice root. Lining the narrow shelf that circled the room were marble apothecary bowls of split dried peas, red rose petals, powdered herring scales, and talc. On his small wooden study desk were liquid-filled glass beakers of grasshoppers and slugs, owl feathers in wine, the tongue of a snake, and the heart of a hen. Under his rope-and-straw bed were stored bags of colored sand, coarse sea salt, ground mica, powdered sulfur and garlic, and powdered rhubarb leaf. Lying about were various sticks of beeswax and pine tar, crystal rods, animal horns, magnets, and scrolls.

  Being a magic-user certainly is a messy job, remarked Zagarus. I remember when there used to be room for a bird to sit down in here. Do you really need all this horrid-looking stuff?

  “Horrid-looking stuff?” Guerrand snorted. “That’s rich, coming from a creature who will, I’ve seen with my own eyes, eat an old dead fish off the beach!”

  Zagarus lifted his yellow beak imperiously. That’s different.

  Guerrand rolled his eyes. “To answer your question, I don’t use all of these spell components now, but Justarius says I’ll need them eventually. Many mages simply buy what they need from alchemists and apothecaries, but Justarius says that, aside from the exorbitant cost, a mage can never be quite sure of the quality of what he’s buying.”

  Justarius says, Justarius says, mimicked the bird. I don’t think in all the years you were a squire I ever heard you say ‘Milford says.’

  “That’s because I never once cared what he said.” Guerrand was absorbed in crumbling dried violets into a bowl. “Oh, Milford was a decent enough fellow, probably a good teacher, too. I simply was never very interested in the proper way to stab another man with a lance.”

  It could be useful some day, Zagarus replied. Suddenly, he craned his neck to look over his wing and out the window. Do you hear that? The festival has begun.

  Guerrand strode over to the window. He could hear chimes ringing all over the city of Palanthas. Neighbors in nearby villas in the surrounding hills were ringing bells of their own. Brightly colored pennants fluttered all over the plaza, visible even from Villa Rosad beyond the old city wall.

  “Yes, I guess you’re right,” Guerrand said mildly, returning to his study desk. Jabbing his quill into a dark inkpot, he began to carefully scratch a few notes next to the levitate entry in his open spellbook.

  Held loop, recited mathematical and verbal equations, with little success. Repeated pattern, adding somatic visualization; teacup and saucer rose with the steadiness of a suspended bucket. Again, the key seems to be visualization. Dated Boreadai, the twelfth day of Hiddumont in the year AC—

  Guerrand’s writing hand was abruptly pushed across the spellbook as Zagarus’s great weight descended on his right shoulder.

  “What do you think you’re doing, you great oaf?” the apprentice demanded angrily. “You nearly ruined my entry!” Pushing the bird unceremoniously from his shoulder, he snatched up a pinch of clean white sand from a bowl and sprinkled it over the ink to aid in drying. “Lucky for you, the quill was nearly dry.”

  I want to go to the Festival of Knights.
>
  “So go!”

  Don’t you want to?

  “Not particularly.”

  Why not? Because you’re afraid you’ll run into Esme? Or worse still, that you’ll see her and she’ll be with Lyim?

  Guerrand scowled at the bird. “What are you now, a mind reader?”

  I’m right, aren’t I?

  “No!” Guerrand brushed away the sand. “And even if you were, it’s a big city. It’s very unlikely that I’d run into anyone I know.”

  Zagarus flew back to the sill. So, what’s stopping you from going? You used to enjoy the village festivals in Thonvil, as I recall. You’re becoming a regular recluse here. And whether you admit it or not, you’ve been avoiding Esme like the plague.

  Guerrand snatched up the quill again. “I have not!”

  She’s asked you to accompany her to the library and a dozen other places, and you’ve said no every time. Yet you gad about frequently with that rascal, Lyim.

  Guerrand’s brows knit together in a dark, angry line over his eyes. “You never did tell me how well you could hear inside that mirror, did you? From now on I’ll remember to leave it in my room.”

  With that angry retort, Guerrand turned his back on Zagarus, pointedly ignoring the bird. Zag merely remained silent, waiting.

  His silence only annoyed his master. “Look, Zag,” Guerrand said at last, whirling around, “you know full well that I came to Palanthas to study, not to dance attendance on some flighty, fickle girl whose head gets turned by every other apprentice—” Where had that bitter nonsense come from? Guerrand asked himself. That didn’t describe Esme at all.

  He held his breath a moment, then let it out slowly. “If you must know the truth, I suspect that Cormac—or possibly the Berwicks—have sent someone after me to, well, I don’t think they’ve come to fetch me.” Guerrand turned back to his desk, though he really didn’t feel like studying anymore.

  “Remember that thing that attacked us in the mountains north of Palanthas? I know, you were in the mirror when it happened and missed all the excitement, but I told you all about it.” Zagarus’s feathered head nodded.

  “Before that, there were those pirates.…” Guerrand tapped his chin in thought. “I know there are pirates everywhere, but in the mouth of the Bay of Branchala? Even Captain Aldous said it was odd, that he’d never seen pirates so brazen. We were on a Berwick ship; it’s not inconceivable someone could have found me.”

  That’s it? That’s why you think someone is after you?

  Guerrand shook his head vigorously. “No. One day, Lyim and I went to the library, then to the marketplace to price components, and—”

  I don’t remember that.

  Guerrand scratched his head. “I never told you about it. You must have been in the mirror, or you were free, scouring the waterfront. Lyim and I were leaving a dyed-goods stall; I remember it because the proprietor seemed to be staring at me strangely, almost fearfully. We weren’t ten paces out of his stall when we were jumped by a pair of sailors. I remembered enough of my cavalier training to drive one off with my dagger. Lyim reacted quickly enough to frighten away the other with a spell, and we escaped into the throng of people.

  Guerrand shook his head. “Ever since that day, though, I get the distinct feeling someone—or something—is watching me whenever I leave the villa. I’m not overly concerned for myself, nor for Lyim. He’d probably like the intrigue, if I told him what I suspect.”

  Guerrand paused momentarily as he fiddled with the quill. “But I can’t take that chance around Esme.”

  What are you going to do about it?

  “What can I do? Just be observant, and be careful, until the day when I can magically determine who’s after me.”

  Have you told Justarius?

  “I can’t run to Justarius every time I see someone in the shadows,” said Guerrand. “I also don’t want him to think I’m more trouble than I’m worth. And since I’m fairly certain no one is in danger at Villa Rosad, I don’t see any real need to tell him.”

  Guerrand set the quill down. “Besides, I left Cormac’s home to get control of my own life. I can take care of this myself.”

  A sharp rap drew their attention to Justarius standing in the doorway. His calm expression suggested he’d not heard their conversation. The mage glanced around the room. “Hello, Guerrand. Zagarus,” he added with a nod. “I came to tell you that you’re going to the festival now.”

  Guerrand raised his hands plaintively from his notes. “Oh, Justarius, I was just beginning to make some progress here. I’d really rather stay—”

  “No,” the mage interrupted, “you’re coming to the festival. No one is allowed to miss it, another tradition here at Villa Rosad. Rest assured, your notes will still be on your desk when you return.”

  Seeing there was no recourse, with a sigh Guerrand closed his notebook, wiped the quill clean, then stood obediently.

  “Esme has gone ahead,” explained the older mage, “but you and I will have a fine—or at least interesting—time. You’ll see.”

  * * * * *

  Master and apprentice walked through the cool marble vestibule and into the terraced gardens that enhanced the entrance to Villa Rosad. The view from the winding mountain road that connected Justarius’s home with the city below was deceptive. Nestled into the scrubby hillside, the villa looked narrow, not much wider than a primitive cottage. The similarity ended there.

  The facade of the building was supported by two twenty-foot statues intricately carved of rose marble. The statue to the right of the double door was a curvaceous woman dressed in the same type of soft-flowing gown Esme favored. The left statue was of a well-defined man, muscles bulging under his artfully draped toga. Both statues had regal, aquiline features and wore jewel-studded crowns. As Guerrand watched, the perfectly formed lips of the woman moved.

  “Are you going to the Festival of Knights, Justarius?”

  Justarius turned around with a salute and flourish at the sound of the statue’s high-pitched monotone. “Yes, Mitild, I thought we might. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Mitild’s marble eyes shifted in their hard sockets. “Yes, the garden is quite perfect now. I prefer the autumn flowers, chrysanthemums and sedum.”

  “I do wish we could go to the festival,” said the male statue wistfully, his tone deeper, yet still mechanical. “It sounds so fascinating from up here.”

  “Now, Harlin,” said Justarius in a stern voice, “I’ve offered you and Mitild your freedom more times than either of us can remember.”

  “Thirty-seven,” supplied Harlin. “We couldn’t possibly go free, Justarius. You know you’d be lost without us guarding the villa.”

  “Yes, that’s true enough,” the mage agreed kindly.

  “Besides, what would we do with our freedom?” said Mitild in that high, hard-edged voice. “Walk through the city, frightening children?”

  “Couldn’t you go live with other stone giants?” Guerrand suggested innocently. Suddenly he could feel the hot stares of two sets of cold marble eyes.

  “Harlin and I are not stone giants,” Mitild said icily. “Justarius’s master, Merick, brought some of those here a century or so ago. An ignorant, ugly bunch.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Guerrand quickly, flushing hotly. “I just assumed—”

  “Why, because we’re as tall as buildings and made of marble?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Let up on the boy,” admonished Justarius. “It was a logical assumption. He lacks your broad experience of stone giants, after all.” The statues seemed mildly pacified.

  Mitild’s eyelids narrowed as she peered intently at Justarius. “Oh, would you look at that? Please hold this, Harlin,” she said with a quick glance to the cornice above her. To Guerrand’s amazement, the perfectly sculpted male took one arduous step into the tiny doorway between the two statues. He twisted slightly, revealing a perfectly flat back, since only his front had been carved. Harlin reached up with his
smoothly crafted left arm to support the portion of the roof above Mitild’s crowned head.

  With the sluggish grace and grinding noises one would expect from moving marble, Mitild lifted the hem of her gown and stepped slowly down the stairs toward Justarius. Towering more than three times the height of the unperturbed mage, the giant statue reached down with her enormous, pale hand and tugged at the ever-present white ruff around the mage’s throat. “Who would straighten your attire whenever you leave the villa?”

  “Certainly no one could do it as well as you, Mitild. It’s become crystal clear to me that I could not run Villa Rosad without you, so wipe the thought from your heads,” Justarius said firmly, pleased at the slight smiles his words brought to the lips of the statues. “And now, good day.”

  With that, the mage grasped Guerrand by the elbow and propelled him through the garden. They could still hear the statues’ cries of farewell from below on the winding road that led through the kettles to the valley in which Palanthas sat.

  Finally out of earshot, Guerrand ventured to ask, “If they’re not stone giants, what are they?”

  Justarius shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he confessed. “Never have been able to figure it out. Mitild and Harlin came with Villa Rosad. They do a superb job screening and scaring off intruders. In exchange, I must spend a few minutes every now and then making them feel indispensable. It’s a small enough price to pay.”

  “They certainly frightened me sufficiently when I arrived for the first time.” Guerrand recalled clearly the day he had followed the tower’s shadow to Justarius’s villa. “I was so thrilled at having found the place that I strolled straight in as if I owned it—until a pair of marble hands as big as my torso picked me up by the shoulders and made me introduce myself.”

  Justarius laughed. “And they had orders to give you the hospitable treatment!”

  Despite having changed into a summer-weight robe of light linen, Guerrand was perspiring heavily by the time they reached the bottom of the hill. Justarius’s road fed into one of the spokes leading to the city’s southwest gate. Master and apprentice passed under the twin, golden minarets that soared above each gate in the Old City Wall. The Tower of High Sorcery loomed to the left, commanding their attention. As usual, Guerrand shuddered.