Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “I didn’t,” snapped Cormac.

  “Excuse me, Lord Cormac,” said a knight named Rees. Guerrand recognized him; he lived in a village northeast of Thonvil. “It is no measure of an enemy’s strength to succeed at seizing his unprotected land, leagues from their manor house, when they are away in Solamnia attending their daughter’s wedding.”

  “Perhaps not, Rees,” growled Cormac, “but it is a measure of my resolve. No one ignores Cormac DiThon and gets away with it. I was still negotiating in good faith with that fat bastard Berwick when he simply announced that all deals were off. He’d already betrothed his bucked-toothed daughter to some pretentious Knight of Solamnia!” Cormac visibly shuddered. “I simply could not let the insult go unchecked.” Guerrand could also guess from Cormac’s sullen expression that Rietta had chewed his ear thoroughly about the Berwicks landing a Solamnic title, while she was stuck with a petty cavalier.

  “In any event,” said Dalric, an old soldier Guerrand knew Cormac despised, “Berwick will almost certainly try to take back his land.”

  “Let him try!” barked Cormac. “Who could that bloated merchant get to fight his battle? Are the sailors from his shipping lines going to tie us in knots? Will his gardeners attack us with pitchforks?” Cormac nearly laughed himself apoplectic. He tossed back a drink.

  None of his advisors raised a lip in humor.

  Cormac finally realized that he was the only one laughing. Scowling, he snorted to a stop. “If you’re so damned concerned, Milford, then take some men to reinforce those already posted at Stonecliff. When Berwick’s sailors come to fight, we’ll bloody their noses. They’ll run back to their little boats, and that will be the last we ever see of them.”

  Milford coughed again, his face red. “Cormac, I feel compelled to point out that it’s unlikely Anton Berwick will lead an attack on the land you’ve seized—it’s worth little, anyway.”

  “Worthless? To him, perhaps!” cried Cormac. “That land was in my family for years! It has the best view of the strait. A fort on that location would command the bay and control all traffic up and down the river. We could make a rich living collecting tolls from that traffic, and I intend to do just that.”

  Milford colored further, highlighting the white scar on his face. “I meant it had little monetary value by itself. What you propose is a different matter entirely.”

  Cormac slammed a hammy fist on the table. “There you have it, then. Berwick won’t waste the money trying to get it back. Stop frowning so, Milford.”

  The weapon master leaned forward, placing his elbow on the table. “We’ve all agreed—” Milford tossed his head to include the other cavaliers at the long table, all of whom looked down at their hands “—Berwick will not tolerate either the insult, after what happened with Quinn and Guerrand, or the placement of a toll on river traffic. He’ll demand retribution. It is our collective opinion that he’ll lead an attack against the village of Thonvil, or, more likely, Castle DiThon itself.”

  Cormac’s eyes turned black with anger. “You’ve all agreed?” He jumped to his feet. “Perhaps you’d all like to join his forces—if you haven’t already!” Cormac’s hands clenched into fists, and he swept an arm across the table, scattering wine-filled glasses to the floor. “All of you be damned!” With that the lord stormed from the room, leaving his council in a cloud of newly raised dust.

  Guerrand’s concentration dissolved with Cormac’s angry departure, and the images in the crystal ball slipped into pastel mist. He couldn’t have watched more, anyway. The apprentice turned worried eyes to Justarius.

  The master’s eyebrows raised appreciatively. “As you say, he is … emotional. But why the frown? Apparently your brother has been too busy to send an assassin after you. In fact, he sounds delighted you’re gone.”

  “The assassin concerns me less than my family,” Guerrand said softly. “I’m afraid Cormac’s obsession with Stonecliff is blinding him to the safety of his family and the people under his protection. I’d hoped that my leaving would force him to abandon his plan to extort tolls from the Berwicks. Clearly he’s going ahead with it in the most disastrous manner possible.”

  Guerrand snapped around suddenly and turned his eyes on Justarius. “Will the globe show me Anton Berwick?”

  “If you can picture him, perhaps.”

  “I’ve only seen him once or twice, but I’ve got to try,” said Guerrand. “I must know if he’s planning to retaliate.”

  “You might also learn if Berwick has sent anyone after you,” suggested Justarius.

  Guerrand wrapped his arms around the cool crystal globe and bade his mind recall the brief glimpses of Anton Berwick he’d gotten across the dim mourning chamber on the day of Quinn’s viewing: short and round, balding, a scarlet tunic edged in green, leggings bagging at the knees.

  Guerrand looked between his outstretched arms as a fuzzy image began to form. He could scarcely see the face, but from the general body shape, Guerrand knew it was Berwick. The squat merchant stood with a tall, armored man whose upper lip bore the unmistakable mustache of a Knight of Solamnia. Though Guerrand could see little more in the mists, their voices were clear.

  “The plans are moving apace, sir,” said the knight to Berwick. “Notices have been posted in all the ports in which your ships dock. Within a fortnight, we can expect mercenaries to begin arriving. After a short training period, we’ll be in a position to lure the DiThons into defending the land they’ve pilfered, then we’ll attack their castle while it’s lightly defended.”

  “When will your comrades be arriving from Solamnia?”

  “Any day now,” said the knight.

  Guerrand, his worst fear confirmed, had heard enough. He let the image in the crystal ball lapse, scarcely able to believe the danger in which Cormac had so blithely placed his family. And all for pride and money. Cormac had but a handful of cavaliers to defend against hired men-at-arms and who knew how many knights? Chances were, it would be a slaughter.

  Kirah … Visions of his little sister came unbidden to mind. His arms were still on the ball. Guerrand turned his head slightly and looked into the shimmering globe. He saw his scrappy sister huddled among the pillows on the window seat in her room. She’d never looked so forlorn. In her hand, she clutched a twisted scrap of parchment.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My sister,” gulped Guerrand. “She’s the one I promised I’d return for.”

  “What’s that she’s holding?”

  Guerrand knew, without seeing his own script, that it must be the note he’d left her on the night of his departure for the Tower of High Sorcery. He stared, unblinking, at her crystal-clear image, wishing he could touch her for a moment and reassure her.

  “Justarius, I’ve got to go back and warn them of the Berwick’s plans,” Guerrand said softly, his eyes focused on Kirah’s image.

  “Look away from the crystal ball, Guerrand,” his master said gently, lifting the apprentice’s arms from its surface. “You’re suffering mental strain from having watched too long. I told you it draws its power from the viewer, especially a novice. For your own sake, you must look away now or risk losing your mind to the globe.”

  Reluctantly, Guerrand let his arms be pulled from the cool, leaded glass globe. He felt a physical pain when the image of Kirah disappeared. Guerrand dug his fists into his eyes. “Thank you, I didn’t realize.”

  He turned bleary eyes on his master. “This doesn’t change my need to warn them. I must ask you for a short recess from my studies—a month, perhaps. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but surely you can understand.”

  Justarius rubbed his own face wearily. Guerrand could see that he was carefully weighing his response. “I understand the desire, but I cannot grant your request.”

  “What?”

  Justarius didn’t blink. “You recall when first I selected you to be my apprentice?” Guerrand nodded grudgingly. “I informed you when you accepted my offer to join the Order of the Red Robes that
you were pledging yourself to magic, and magic alone. Magic will not tolerate distractions in the minds of its wielders, particularly during the critical apprentice years.”

  Guerrand’s anger flared. “You mean you won’t tolerate it! You can’t stand the thought that I am loyal to anyone but you!”

  Justarius’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “If you think that, then you have much to learn about me, and even more about the commitment you made to magic. I am but a facilitator for learning the Art, Guerrand. I gain no personal prestige, no additional power for teaching you. I do it for magic, to increase its presence in our world, because my loyalty is to magic.”

  “You may forbid me to return and warn my family,” said Guerrand, “but you can’t stop me from doing it.”

  “I’ve forbidden you nothing, Guerrand,” the archmage said evenly. “Your apprenticeship is not a prison sentence. You still have free will. But I can, and I would, stop you from returning here. If you choose to leave, your spot would be immediately and irrevocably filled.”

  “How can you ask me to forsake my family?” Guerrand demanded, his body shaking with frustration.

  “Didn’t you make that choice when you left for the tower?” When Guerrand winced, Justarius added more gently, “I ask you only to remain loyal to magic, and your study of it.”

  “But it’s the same thing!” cried Guerrand, his fingers gripping the table edge. “I swore an oath to Kirah—if ever she needed me—I would know it and return.”

  Justarius heaved a sigh. “Only you can decide which vow is more important to you. In your guilty deliberations, I suggest you consider these things, as well. Would Cormac believe you if you returned with news that, through magical means, you’ve learned of a surprise raid by the Berwicks? He has already heard of that possibility proposed by his own advisors and rejected it. Would he listen more closely to you, after the way you left?”

  “He’s not mad about that.” Guerrand looked defensive. “You heard him—he’s almost happy that I left.”

  “Only because he believes he’s got his coveted land anyway. I suspect that your brother’s ire would quickly return once he remembered that your departure necessitated its seizure. Under any circumstances, he would not welcome your magical assistance.”

  Guerrand frowned his frustration. “Are you trying to dissuade me from going?”

  “We have all had to make sacrifices for our art, Guerrand.” Justarius gave his apprentice’s arm a reassuring pat. “Lest you think you are casting your family to the wolves, realize, too, that the gods have plans that we mortals may never know or understand.”

  “Are you saying that it doesn’t really matter what we decide, the gods will do as they like with us?”

  “Not at all,” said Justarius, with a single shake of his dark head. “I’ve said I believe in free will. But I also believe that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the outcome is in our favor, sometimes against. Frequently we never see the result at all.” He stood and pulled Guerrand to his feet. “Right now, we are seeing the result of too much to think about all at once. Go rest, and I’ll have Denbigh send some food to your room.”

  As Guerrand shuffled, numb, through the birchwood door, he heard Justarius mumble behind him, “That leaves one other question unanswered, the one we initially sought. If neither your brother nor Berwick has sent someone after you, then who rigged the joust? More important, why?”

  Guerrand stopped in Justarius’s study and turned, surprised that he had forgotten all about that. “Do you suspect someone?”

  Justarius calmly swallowed the last of his lemon tonic. “I suspect everyone and I suspect no one. Which is why, for your own safety, you mustn’t tell a soul that we suspect someone wants you harmed.”

  That’s easy, Guerrand thought as he left the room. I understand little enough to tell.

  * * * * *

  Dispirited, Guerrand toed a seashell lodged in the fieldstone-and-dirt quay. He’d taken Justarius’s advice, returned to his room, and tried to eat the roast groundhog and fresh pomegranate Denbigh had brought him on a tray. Though it had smelled delicious, Guerrand found he had as little appetite as answers to his dilemma. And so he’d wandered down to the waterfront to watch the ships come and go, as he often had back in Northern Ergoth.

  When Guerrand pondered the choices before him, his chest felt as if a huge cord encircled it and was being pulled ever tighter, until he could scarcely breathe. There was no answer that allowed him to emerge whole. If he left to warn his family, he was again sacrificing his desires—his future—to his family, when only Kirah seemed to care for his wishes. It had taken him a score of years to summon the courage to escape that intolerable situation. Justarius would never take him back, and it was most unlikely he would secure another master, let alone one as respected as the archmage.

  Just then, a familiar-looking sea gull skidded across the dirt road with a harsh, deep “kyeow.”

  “Oh, hello, Zagarus,” Guerrand said lifelessly.

  And a cheery hello to you, too, said the bird, springing on webbed, yellow-green feet to Guerrand’s side. Is Justarius working you too hard?

  “If only that were the problem. I could just stay up later, work a little harder. No,” he said with a rueful shake of his shaggy head, “it’s not that simple.”

  Tell me about it. Maybe I can think of a solution. He ruffled up his chest feathers. I am, after all, a hooded, black-backed Ergothian sea gull, the largest, most strikingly beautiful and intelligent of all seabirds.

  In no mood for the gull’s ego or humor, Guerrand nevertheless noted drolly the addition of the word “intelligent” to Zagarus’s favorite description of himself. Still, he knew the bird would want to know if Kirah were in danger, and so he told Zagarus of the visions in the crystal ball and the choice he had to make.

  You’re right. It’s not simple. What do you think you’ll do?

  Guerrand sighed. “I wish I knew.”

  Say, Zagarus said suddenly. I could fly back and tell—

  “Who? Cormac?” scoffed Guerrand.

  No, the sea gull said, annoyed at the interruption. I could tell Kirah. She’d believe me.

  “And who would believe her? Besides, you know the rules regarding separation of familiar and master. You can’t possibly fly fast enough to get there and return within a week, which is the longest we could survive a separation.”

  The gull reluctantly nodded his black-and-white head.

  Angry, frustrated, Guerrand kicked a shell he’d worked loose, and it flew into the hull of an upturned fishing boat.

  “Guerrand!” The apprentice mage’s head snapped up at the familiar voice. He nodded a silent, edgy greeting to Lyim. Zagarus squawked a hasty retreat.

  “What a surprise to find you at the waterfront,” said the other apprentice. “I thought you preferred the solitude of your tiny room in the hills.”

  “You’d be surprised to learn that I come to the quay frequently for the familiar sound and scent of the sea. Not—” Guerrand smirked as he continued “—for the clamor of bawdy barmaids and the smell of stale ale.”

  Lyim shrugged good-naturedly. “To each his own familiarity.” He nodded toward where the shell had struck the boat. “And why is Palanthas’s most composed apprentice so agitated today? Could this anger be residual from the Knight’s Jest?”

  Guerrand waved the question away. “Truth to tell, that fiasco had nearly slipped my mind.”

  Lyim touched a hand gingerly to his posterior. “Would that I could forget it.” He jerked his head toward the Lonely Mermaid Tavern. “I was just about to speed the process with the aid of the aforementioned ale. Care to join me?”

  Guerrand shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ve too much to ponder to confuse things with ale.”

  Lyim squinted closely at his friend. “You aren’t still angry with me, are you, Guerrand? Look, I have no idea what came over me on that field, truly I don’t.” Lyim pulled off his feathered cap. “I’ve been asleep these hours
since Belize took me back to Villa Nova. You’ll be happy to know I received quite a tongue-lashing from him upon waking, too.”

  “That doesn’t make me happy, Lyim.”

  The other apprentice, staring out to sea, appeared not to hear him. “I’ve tried since to sort through it, Guerrand, but still it makes little sense to me. Frankly, it seems more dreamlike than real.” He shook his head as if to send the confused images away on the salty sea breeze.

  Guerrand considered his friend with mixed feelings. He could answer a part of Lyim’s confusion with one simple sentence: someone cast a spell on you. But he remembered Justarius’s warnings to tell no one. Though Guerrand trusted Lyim, answering his question would only raise more complicated ones. He didn’t know what to say, so Guerrand said nothing.

  The two friends stood in an awkward, guilty silence. Lyim took a shuffling step toward the tavern. Both men looked over suddenly at the sound of three boisterous sailors, dressed in baggy trousers and sleeveless tunics, striding down the quay. One sailor, older than his companions, held a roll of parchment. The others, both young and fresh-faced, hustled along at his side, trying to get a look at the document in his hand. The sailors came to a stop at a nearby lantern post by the busiest pier on the waterfront. Pushing back his eager cronies, the first sailor held the parchment up and secured it with square nails, top and bottom, to the rough beam.

  One of the young sailors whistled shrilly. “Four steel pieces a day for mercenary work in Northern Ergoth! How hard can it be to squash some local lord there? Nothing but kender and dark-skinned peasants, I hear tell. A fortnight’s easy work, and you’re fifty steel richer!”

  His head was slapped by the other youth. “That’s fifty-six steel, you moron!”

  The older sailor who’d posted the notice added, “I hear the Berwicks are prompt payers, too.” He thumped his chest. “I’m going to sign on. Can’t make that kind of money at sea.” With that, the three men scurried off toward the Lonely Mermaid, still talking about the notice.

  With a sharp ache in his chest, Guerrand watched them go. He wondered darkly, distantly, if they would be the ones to slay his family.