Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “The tower is an important part of our heritage as wizards,” said Justarius, noting Guerrand’s reaction. “However hideous it looks, however grim the stories surrounding its downfall, it is a constant reminder to us all how precarious is our position among nonmages. We must be ever-vigilant not to abuse our powers in the eyes of others. It is vital, not only for the survival of the orders, but more importantly to maintain the delicate balance between Good and Evil.”

  “Frankly, in my little corner of the globe, I never thought of the world as locked in any sort of eternal struggle,” admitted Guerrand. “If I had, I might have concluded that the best world is one entirely dominated by Good.”

  Justarius looked deeply puzzled. “Then why did you declare allegiance to the Red Robes, instead of the White?”

  “I listened carefully to all three descriptions of the orders given at the tower,” said Guerrand, then paused. He looked at Justarius with concern. “Can I be frank, without retribution?”

  Guerrand’s master frowned. “I expect nothing less from my apprentices.”

  “Since you’ve asked, I thought Par-Salian’s definition of the philosophy of the White Robes too simplistic and idealistic to be possible. Simply telling everyone they should be good doesn’t make it happen.”

  Guerrand drew in a breath. “As for LaDonna’s explanation of the Black Robes … it sounded like a rationalization for them to do whatever they want, the consequences be damned. That’s just immoral.”

  Justarius lifted one brow. “So you chose the Red Robes by default?”

  “No!” cried Guerrand. “I—I liked what you said about the importance of maintaining a balance between Good and Evil. I confess I didn’t entirely understand it,” he admitted sheepishly, “but at least I didn’t disagree with it. Besides,” the apprentice blurted, “I admired you.”

  Justarius overlooked the admission and frowned. “I see we’ve neglected a critical part of your education.”

  He stopped and pointed to the twisted, black Tower of High Sorcery. “Look there, and you will see the clearest example of what happens when the balance is upset and one force or another gains the upper hand.”

  Guerrand shook his head. “Now I really don’t understand. From all accounts, the kingpriest was evil. Wouldn’t the outcome have been different if he had been good?”

  “Historians have labeled him evil since the Cataclysm.” Justarius stroked his pointed beard. “But in his time, he was, with the exception of the insightful elves, considered by all to epitomize the qualities of goodness.”

  They were walking slowly, still some distance from the city’s inner circle, where the festivities appeared to be centered. Droves of people, grinning broadly in anticipation, were passing them up on the roadway. “Are you certain you want to hear this lecture now?”

  “If you’ll recall, I was not the one so keen to come to the festival in the first place,” jibed Guerrand.

  “Then, for my sake, let us sit while I give you the shortened version.” Justarius gestured them toward some golden bales of hay stacked along the roadside for seats during the festival’s many parades.

  “We use that title, ‘kingpriest,’ ” he began, once settled, “as if there has been only one. But centuries of humans held the title, and corrupted the office, before the ego of the last to hold it brought on the Cataclysm.

  “Nearly five hundred years before that great catastrophe, the city of Istar reigned as the center of commerce and art. As time went on, the citizens began to believe their own publicity too well. Claiming also to be the moral center, they went on to build a temple and install a kingpriest who would proclaim the glory of righteous Istar. The next logical step for such arrogance was to repress the opinions, independence, and talent of those who did not agree. The elves, with their artistic temperaments and infinite wisdom, withdrew from the world of arrogant humans.

  “Conditions dissolved rapidly,” Justarius continued, “particularly without the temperance of the elves. A kingpriest declared that the rampant evil in the world was an affront to both gods and mortals. A list of evil acts was created, and the punishment for violation was swift. High on the list of evil acts was the execution of magic, but I think you know the story from there.”

  The venerable mage winced suddenly and rubbed his withered leg. “The point is, Guerrand, these people thought they had a clear grasp of what was Good. They believed fervently that a world where their interpretation of Good prevailed would be best. Among the greatest misconceptions of this assumption is that everyone must agree upon what is good for mankind. But how can everyone agree, when two men can seldom concur about what is good for dinner?

  Justarius’s gaze turned toward the blackened tower. “That,” he concluded, “is why there will always be—why there must be—strife between Evil and Good. To maintain the neutral balance.”

  Climbing stiffly to his feet, Justarius wriggled his nose as the scent of roasted meat wafted past. He looked toward the nearby stall of a food vendor and smacked his lips. “Enough somber talk on such a festive day,” he announced. “This talk of dinner has made me hungry.” Justarius forged ahead through the crowd, undaunted by his severe limp.

  Behind him, Guerrand weaved and dodged through the streams of people, trying to keep up with his master. As Justarius had promised, the trip was proving worthwhile. They hadn’t even made it to the heart of the festival yet. Guerrand reflected that if the rest of the day was even half as interesting, it would surely be a fair to remember.

  The tall mage’s head was clearly visible, always bouncing, just two arm-lengths ahead in the press of people. Try as he might, Guerrand could not catch up to him, even when Justarius stopped at a stall to purchase roasted venison. Is he trying to lose me in the crowd? the apprentice wondered in irritation. Is this part of some new lesson or test?

  Suddenly the trees lining the avenue were gone, and the mob spilled into Palanthas’s Central Plaza, the heart of the festival. Guerrand momentarily forgot his annoyance as he gaped in wonder at the sea of multicolored awnings, fluttering pennants, and flapping banners. A forest of feathers in every color of the rainbow waved above a field of wool. Solamnic knights, the patrons of this festival, sat in gleaming armor atop their horses all around the plaza, adding a martial atmosphere to the scene.

  A group of young boys pushed past Guerrand, shouting and laughing with enjoyment. They carried small wooden swords and shields, which they swung with abandon, bashing companions and bystanders alike. Guerrand dodged to the side as a man in baggy trousers thumped past on towering stilts, all the while juggling a trio of gleaming, spinning scimitars above the crowd.

  Guerrand advanced warily into the churning mass, stretching his neck this way and that, trying to see everything at once. Shop fronts were open with the usual wares for sale. In addition, merchants from far-flung lands had arrived and set up tents around the perimeter of the central plaza. Exotic rugs, furs, and wall tapestries were piled high on makeshift tables. Men hawked containers of powdered spice they pledged would polish floors, cure the common cold, and properly spice a ham loaf. One merchant had an entire tent filled with a vast selection of ready-made windows comprised of multicolored shards of glass welded together with beads of cooled lead.

  The Festival of Knights was a far bigger event than the little country fairs he was used to. Guerrand realized that he hadn’t blinked for some time and his mouth was hanging open. He slammed it shut, feeling self-conscious. Don’t act like such a rube, he thought angrily.

  The apprentice started. Where was Justarius? Guerrand looked around frantically but saw no sign of his mentor’s black hair and white ruff among the thousands of heads moving to and fro.

  “Guerrand! Guerrand, come here, lad!”

  The young apprentice’s head shot up at the sound of his mentor’s voice, but he could not sight Justarius anywhere in the impossibly packed throng.

  “Over here, Guerrand!”

  Guerrand followed the sound of Justarius’s voice
and finally caught sight of him just beyond where several old men played draughts on an upended barrel, oblivious to the noise and press of bodies around them. Justarius waved Guerrand toward him, where a thick line of people stood with their backs to Guerrand, apparently watching something. Every now and then the crowd hissed, cheered, and hollered. Guerrand at last squeezed his way to Justarius’s side.

  “You really must try to keep up if you intend not to get lost,” chided Justarius. “You’ve missed the most humorous exhibition, though I suppose they’ll have another when they find two more contestants.”

  Bouncing from side to side for a clearer view, Guerrand stood at the southern edge of the Central Plaza. A rectangular swath, thirty by fifty paces, of the neatly manicured lawn had been covered with a knee-high layer of moist, golden sand. Stomping about in a fluster on tall, scrawny legs were two of the largest birds Guerrand had ever seen. Their wide, flat bodies were covered with coarse black feathers. Tiny heads capped off ridiculously long, featherless necks. Overall, the birds stood taller than a man. Their wings, being very small, were useless for flying. On their backs were equestrian saddles, modified somewhat to fit the birds’ odd anatomy.

  “What are they?” the apprentice gulped. “The result of a wizard’s misfired spell?”

  Justarius’s eyebrows shot up, as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Quite possibly that was the origin of austritches. They live on open plains, like those in southern Kharolis. They can’t get off the ground with those great, thick bodies and insignificant wings, so they’re used as pack animals.”

  “What are they doing here?”

  “The Knights’ Jest. Watch.” Justarius nodded his head toward the bird opposite them. A rotund, red-faced man overdressed in red-trimmed forest-green togs put a hammered metal bucket on his head, stuffing the handle under the rolls of his chin. A square had been cut in the front for visibility in the mockery of a knight’s helm. After a thickly padded cuirass was buckled around his torso, he was handed a shield. Guerrand laughed when he saw that it bore the arms of a chicken rampant over crossed drumsticks. The long, thin neck of his austritch had been decorated with a strip of green cloth.

  At the near end of the rectangular field of sand was a slight, wiry young man, similarly attired in a bucket, his austritch draped in royal blue. His arms consisted of a runny nose quartered with an onion. Each of the men was helped onto the back of a bird by a young man in matching livery, though they looked more like jesters than squires. Bearing the unaccustomed burdens, both birds pranced and fidgeted, their enormous feet sinking into the soft sand.

  As the two squires handed their respective knights long brooms in place of lances, sections of the crowd were being whipped into a frenzy by retainers. Half of the crowd had been assigned to cheer for the fat man in blue; Guerrand’s section was to root for the wiry youth in green.

  “The Knights’ Jest is the most anticipated event of the festival,” explained Justarius, yelling to be heard above the crowd. “It’s probably the only place you’ll ever see the Knights of Solamnia allowing others to make sport of them without there being trouble. Of course, most of them detest it—won’t even watch—but at least they don’t stop the event.”

  Guerrand looked around and could see no true knights in attendance. “Then why did they start it, or continue to allow it at their festival?”

  “They didn’t start it, actually.” Justarius laughed as one of the austritches lurched, nearly toppling the portly green knight from his saddle. “Years ago, even before my time, it was called the Knights’ Joust, an actual demonstration of skills, a real tournament. Over the years, it simply evolved into today’s event, with the modified name. Attendance soared, until it is now the most popular event at the festival, more popular than the demonstrations the true knights continue to give. Demand makes it nearly impossible for them to stop it without spoiling the festival, or at least increasing their reputation as an unbearably stuffy bunch. And so they tolerate it. Knowing the knights, I dare say most of them simply refuse to acknowledge that it still goes on.”

  Justarius suddenly broke off speaking, pointing toward the arena. “Look, the jest is starting up again.” Guerrand could hear bets being placed between the spectators around him.

  Having settled the contestants upon the prancing birds, the attendants jumped back and cried, “Let the tournament begin!”

  The two hapless men dug their heels into their birds’ ribs, trying desperately to get them to move forward—or in any direction at all. The slight boy’s austritch finally began to half hop, half walk in a circle, causing his section to cheer wildly. He nudged the bird in the ribs more confidently and tugged on the blue banner about its long neck. Reluctantly the bird stumbled forward in the sand.

  For his part, the older man was having considerably more trouble getting his overburdened austritch to move. Its skinny legs bowed, and it stumbled and staggered around, sinking in the sandy field. The green knight’s crowd went wild with laughter, but he was not amused. Ignoring the catcalls and boos from the crowd, the man in green waited for his lighter opponent to come to him.

  Seeing his adversary give up the struggle, egged on by the crowd’s support, the youth flushed with confidence and exhilaration. The blue knight nudged his bird to within a length of his opponent’s bird, confident that his foe was helpless.

  He didn’t even see the long broom that swept out with all the power of the fat man’s weight … until it connected with the left side of the bucket on his head. The stunned young man was easily knocked from his austritch like a bird from a clothesline. He stumbled to his feet, spitting out mouthfuls of sand as the audience roared. Scowling, the contestant who’d once smelled victory ripped the bucket from his head and stomped into the fickle crowd.

  The fat man slid from his austritch and was beginning to strut when the master of the jest leaped forward to thrust his arm skyward, announcing him the winner.

  The crowd seemed unsure whether the entertainment was over or not and was beginning to thin. Guerrand, only mildly amused by the antics of the Knights’ Jest, had already turned his back on the field. The apprentice was looking around for interesting fair food, when he heard the master of the jest behind him. “Here we have an interesting contestant, the great mage Belize!”

  Surprised, Guerrand spun around to look to the far side of the arena. Belize’s shiny pate and elegant red robe were now visible in the wake of the thinning crowd. To Guerrand’s surprise, he could see that the mage was regarding him as well. He’d not seen Lyim’s master since his arrival in Palanthas, not since the interview in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. No, he’s not looking at me, realized Guerrand. He seems to be looking through me, as if I weren’t here. The young apprentice shivered, despite the heat of the day.

  “Come now, Belize,” the unwitting barker called to Belize over the noise of the crowd. “Have you no sense of Huma? Get it? Huma … humor?”

  Belize abruptly looked away from Guerrand. His coal-black eyes locked, in a piercing, bone-chilling stare, on to the barker who’d called his name.

  “That fellow is lucky Belize didn’t change him into a snake … or worse,” chuckled Justarius under his breath to Guerrand.

  “Yes, uh, well,” said the barker, anxiously casting his glance about for another familiar, if less intimidating, face in the crowd. He didn’t have to look far.

  “I’ll fight in the name of Belize, the greatest mage to ever have lived.”

  Guerrand knew the voice without seeing the face: Lyim.

  The flamboyant apprentice wore his favorite purple padded-and-slashed doublet, puffed-out breeches, striped hose, and enormous feathered cap. He strode forward across the sand, bowing to the quickly returning crowd. Standing to their cheers, he settled his dark hair, with its thick overbraid, upon his shoulders. Lyim’s handsome face was alight with pleasure at being the center of attention. He called to many of the spectators by name, inquiring as to their health. There were more than a few swoo
ning maidens in the crowd. Guerrand found himself chuckling at Lyim’s antics, then cheering him on.

  “Have we no one courageous enough to challenge this would-be knight?” bellowed the barker through cupped hands. But no one stepped forward to confront the strutting youth.

  “I see one who would meet the challenge!” cried Lyim. His laughing eyes locked on to Guerrand. “The apprentice of the great Justarius!”

  Speechless, Guerrand merely shook his head, his lips opening and closing in silent denial. Before he knew what was happening, hands from all around pushed him forward, through the first line of spectators and onto the sandy field.

  “I-I don’t wish to play,” he heard himself mumble ineffectually as he turned, preparing to scramble back into the crowd. The spectators would have none of it and blocked his passage. Peering over their heads, Guerrand looked helplessly toward Justarius. That venerable mage simply lifted his red-cloaked shoulders in a shrug that seemed to say, “Make the best of it, lad—it’s only sport.”

  Just minutes ago, Guerrand had felt like a nameless face in the crowd. Now, the world seemed to be closing in on him. The noise inside his head was thunderous. He desperately searched his mind for a way to escape the attention. Unlike Lyim, he hated being at the center of things. His reluctance had nothing to do with fear of losing, but everything to do with looking ridiculous before a cast of thousands.

  “It would appear that the apprentice of the house of Justarius fears the house of Belize!” taunted Lyim, drawing both cheers and boos from the crowd.

  The hot sun slashed through the cloud cover and rained down upon a section of the crowd, drawing Guerrand’s eyes. They widened, and his heart skipped two beats.

  Esme. Her flawless face seemed to hold both pity and disgust. He knew in that instant he would chance looking ridiculous to escape appearing cowardly before Esme. Gritting his teeth, Guerrand tore his gaze away from her loveliness and stomped toward Lyim.