Night of the Eye (12 page)

Guerrand picked up the small fragment of mirror behind the washbowl. “I want to be a mage. I want to become apprenticed to a mighty wizard and eventually take the Test at Wayreth.”

What?
It was more an exclamation of startlement than a question.

Guerrand told Zagarus of his meeting with Belize. He described his wonderment at the spells the mage had used so casually, told him of the thrill he’d felt when Belize invited him to Wayreth. Last, he set the mirror on the table and explained its role in capturing Quinn’s killers.

The bird flapped over to the table and pushed the mirror with his foot.
This little thing showed you where the bandits were?

“Easy, now,” admonished Guerrand, extending his hand. “I don’t want it broken.”

Zagarus cocked his feathered brown-black head to the left and closed one eye.
Does it do anything else?

“Frankly, it hadn’t occurred to me that it could,” Guerrand admitted. The young man peered at the mirror closely. “Do you suppose I can use it to see anything I want?”

You’re the mage-in-waiting
, replied Zagarus. His attention was riveted on a beetle crawling across the table toward the mirror. Tentatively, the insect felt its way onto the glass. As it approached the center, Zagarus struck, his head darting down to snatch up the hapless bug.

But instead of striking the glass, as he expected, Zagarus’s beak closed around the beetle and kept on going. He froze, wide-eyed. Zagarus could feel the beetle squirming slightly against his tongue, and so he swallowed the tasty morsel. He could see his eyes reflected clearly in the mirror, which was practically touching his forehead. But he couldn’t see his beak; it was
inside
the mirror!

The curious bird pushed his head forward and completely through the mirror. He looked right and left, up and down. The view was the same: gray and featureless. He could see only a few rods in any direction before even that view was obscured by a thin, dry, multicolored mist.

Without removing his head from the mirror, he called to Guerrand.
Guerrand, can you still see me?

For an answer, Guerrand, a look of horror on his face, grabbed the bird by the wings and hauled his small head from the even smaller mirror. “What have you done, Zagarus?”

Zagarus blinked.
I just pecked at the beetle, and there I was with my head in the mirror
.

Guerrand could scarcely believe what he had seen. The bird’s head looked to have disappeared into the impossibly small looking glass. “Were you really ‘inside’ it, Zagarus? What did it look like in there?”

It’s hard to say
, replied the sea gull.
I
can
tell you that this mirror is a lot bigger on the inside than it looks from out here
. Zag flexed his wings and tilted his head.
I’ll just take another look. Be right back!

“Wait!” cried Guerrand, but he was too late to stop his familiar from wiggling forward to push his neck through the mirror. There was a pause. Zagarus flipped his tail into the air the way Guerrand had seen him do countless times diving for food in the strait. It seemed quite impossible, but the bird’s body, at least four times wider than the mirror, slipped between the edges and
disappeared!

Guerrand lurched forward and stared, breathless, down at the mirror. He was afraid to touch it. All he saw was the reflection of his own eyes, big as shields. But the image in his mind was his last view of Zagarus, wiggling as he disappeared. Guerrand still could not understand how the much larger bird had fit through the tiny mirror, even though he’d seen it happen. Somehow, when it was happening, it made sense; the perspectives and proportions seemed right.

Zagarus had been gone some time, and Guerrand was beginning to get concerned. He called the bird mentally.
Zagarus! Come out of there this minute!

Suddenly the shiny dark head popped straight up through the mirror.
What now?

“Good gods, Zag, you terrified me!”

With a wiggle and a hop, Zagarus popped back out of the mirror and stood on the table. Guerrand shook his head in disbelief.

You’re a mage
, said Zagarus.
How does it work?

“I’m not really a mage, and I don’t know how the mirror works.” Guerrand sat down heavily on the bed. “That pretty much sums up my whole problem, Zag. I’ll never be a mage or know more about such magic if I stay here.”

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I can’t shake the feeling that this is my last chance to decide how I’ll spend the rest of my life,” he said. “If I’m still here when the sun comes up, Cormac will have me. I’ll be married to Ingrid Berwick and become a merchant lord and be miserably responsible forever.”

So what are you waiting for?
demanded Zagarus.
You said before that it was your greatest wish to travel to Wayreth and become a real mage
. He hopped toward the window and onto the sill, where soon the nearly full white moon, Solinari, would be visible.

“It’s not that simple, and you know it. There’s just so
much to consider. What would I tell Cormac?”

That’s simple
, snorted the gull.
Nothing. You tell him nothing. He’d stop you for sure, probably lock you up until the ceremony
.

Guerrand frowned. “He’s not a cruel man.”

“Maybe not, but he’s a desperate one.”

Guerrand’s frown deepened, knowing Zagarus was right. He knew, too, what he had to do. He couldn’t stay for all the reasons he’d told Cormac; he’d stomached all he could of his older brother. Taxing the locals was an accepted way of life for nobles. Enabling Cormac to rob the Berwicks was entirely another thing.

But more important than the reasons Guerrand couldn’t stay was the reason he had to go. This
was
his last chance to change his life. If he didn’t leave to study magic now, then he never would.

“We’re going to leave tonight,” Guerrand said aloud.

Does that ‘we’ include Kirah?

Guerrand gave Zagarus a haunted look. How could he drag Kirah cross-country? Even if he did take her and was lucky enough to be given an apprenticeship, what would he do with her then? Belize had made the point about Ingrid, and it applied to his little sister as well. She would be safer at Castle DiThon.

“No, it doesn’t include Kirah.” Once the words were out, Guerrand felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He and Kirah and Quinn had been a team since they were children. Quinn had broken up the team when he’d left on crusade, and death had made that split permanent. How could he divide its last two members? A memory in Kirah’s own voice supplied the answer to that. “Guilt is an excuse used by people who are afraid to do what they want. I am never afraid to do what I want.”

Guerrand squeezed his eyes shut. It was even more difficult to take her advice now, when she was the one who would be most hurt by it. And yet he knew now he had to leave. In recent days he had witnessed
respect for him fading in his sister’s eyes. Guerrand only hoped anger wouldn’t prevent her from being proud of him for following his dream.

He could no more tell her he was leaving than he could Cormac. A note to both would have to do. After fumbling in one of his trunks for several moments, Guerrand pulled out a writing case containing several quills, some ink, and parchment.

With a hand that shook, he began to pen:
Dear Cormac …

Guerrand looked at the words and stopped, pushing the parchment aside. Cormac was not his dear anything. He started again on another piece:
Cormac …

Guerrand tapped the end of the quill against his lips, searching his mind for words to explain to Cormac why he was leaving. When it came to him that Cormac would know the answer, that there was nothing else he could tell his elder brother, Guerrand pulled the candlestick on his desk closer. He held the piece of parchment above the flames. It danced briefly in the rising heat until the fire caught it, curled it, and shriveled it to ash.

Blowing the ash of the already forgotten missive from his desk, he pulled forth another piece and quickly scrawled:

My Dearest Kirah
,

There’s no easy way to tell you this, but here it is. I’ve gone. You know why. As usual, you were right all along. Where I’m going, you can’t follow. I promise I’ll send for you when my future has some pattern to it. Please know this, too: you’ll always be in my thoughts. If ever you need me, I’ll know, and I will find a way to come back
.

Your faithful brother,
Rand

Guerrand rolled the parchment tightly, sealed it with
a gob of wax from his candle, and then stared at it before getting on his knees to lift the air grate from the wall behind his desk. Pushing it to the side, he set the letter in the tunnel beyond. Kirah might not find it immediately, he thought, but within a day or two, when they’ve searched everywhere for me, she’s certain to crawl through here looking for some clue.

Guerrand set the grate back in place. Remember, Kirah, he prayed, it was you who said we can never stay mad at each other.

Zagarus had returned to the sill, reading Guerrand’s tormented thoughts.
I’ll meet you at Stonecliff after I’ve fed
, he said, waiting for a response.

For a long moment, Guerrand could not reply, his voice trapped by teeth clenched to hold back tears. “Yes, all right, I’ll be there,” he managed at last, needing to hear the finality of the words. Zagarus sprang from the ledge and took wing into the dark night sky.

Wordlessly, Guerrand packed one small bag, in which he included the beginnings of a spellbook, collected his sword and dagger, and slipped out of Castle DiThon. He did not look back at the cold stone walls before he headed west over the moors for Stonecliff, where he’d meet Zagarus. Together, they would continue on to the port town of Lusid and the ship that would take them south to Wayreth and a new life.

Guerrand took a drink from his waterskin, let the warm liquid
run down his face and pool in his collar. He had no idea where to direct his next step on this hot summer afternoon. He’d been wandering for days in the magical Forest of Wayreth, looking for the tower whose position no map revealed. Belize had told him that the tower could “be found only by those who have been specifically invited.” Guerrand felt foolish now for having assumed that, invited, he’d have no trouble finding it. He’d even allowed the belief to comfort him on the long and tedious voyage from Northern Ergoth to Alsip, the port town nearest the tower.

In reflection, the backbreaking weeks he’d spent as a ship hand to pay for his passage were nothing compared to the days of fear and frustration he’d already spent in search of the Tower of High Sorcery. Wayreth
Forest was thick, tangled, and difficult to traverse, with few discernable paths. The trees and bushes were twisted into weird, creepy shapes, made more frightening by the ever-present, distant sounds of wolves and bears.

Guerrand opened the flap on his leather pack and retrieved the magic mirror. “Zag,” he called toward the glassy surface. Zagarus had traveled overland from Alsip in the mirror. Guerrand had to call two more times before the sea gull’s head popped through the small glass surface.

Yes?
Zagarus craned his neck around.
Say, there’s no tower here
.

“No kidding,” snorted Guerrand. “I’d like you to fly overhead and look for the Tower of High Sorcery. I’ve been stumbling around for days without a clue.”

Zagarus bobbed his head and hopped out of the mirror. With a loud “kyeow” the sea gull’s white wings spread and he disappeared into the sliver of blue sky between the trees overhead.

Guerrand settled himself against a tree stump and nibbled the last of his provisions while he waited for the gull to return. Before long, Zagarus dropped from the sky and landed on the stump behind him.

“Well? Which way is it?”

I’m sorry, Guerrand. I flew far and wide, but all I saw was a few mountains and more trees. Can I get back into the mirror now? This forest is eerie
.

Guerrand held up the mirror wordlessly and didn’t even watch as the sea gull slipped inside, afraid he might be tempted to follow. He’d already spent two hair-raising nights in the pitch-black woods and was not anxious for a third. Zagarus’s news made him downright angry. What was the point of making the damned thing so difficult to find?

Guerrand forced himself to review his options. He had no food left and would have to begin foraging if he
didn’t find the tower soon. Zagarus was an excellent scout; if the gull said they were nowhere near the tower, Guerrand knew they weren’t.

The young man was contemplating finding his way back to the coast to return to Thonvil with his tail between his legs, when he heard a new sound, very faint and melodic. Singing, perhaps? He looked around, trying to fix the direction, and saw a trail he hadn’t noticed before.

Not knowing what else to do, Guerrand shouldered his pack and followed the sound to a clearing. To his surprise, he found a crystal fountain, more than a bit incongruous in the forest setting. The crystal carving of a unicorn spouted cool, clear water from its upturned horn. From its mouth came the lilting voice Guerrand had followed through the woods.