Night of the Eye (19 page)

The smile dropped instantly from Guerrand’s face. Pushing back his hood, his head hanging slightly, he stepped forward. “I am Guerrand. Please excuse us if we seem a bit giddy. We’ve traveled long and hard to get here.”

She seemed to consider that for a moment. “Who is he?” Esme’s auburn head jerked toward the other mage.

Lyim stepped up boldly, gave his name and a slight bow of his head. “I have come to apprentice with the Master of the Red Robes, Belize himself,” he said
proudly. To his surprise, Esme looked less than impressed. Guerrand detected a flash of pity, but the expression was gone in the blink of a long-lashed eye.

“I see.” Esme turned on a soft-booted heel and without another word set off down the smoothly paved avenue. Guerrand and Lyim glanced at each other again, then trotted after the rosy robe that seemed to float like a windswept cloud above the paving stones.

Lyim jogged up to her left side. “I am most anxious to get acquainted with my new home and would appreciate the opportunity to tour it with a guide even more lovely than this most beautiful of cities.”

Esme looked at him out of the corner of one eye. “As you will.” She waved an arm to the left. “We pass through the area known as Nobles’ Hill.” Striking, expensive white marble mansions were nestled into the hillside on the eastern edge of the city just beyond the city wall. Esme led them under the twin minarets. “This is still Nobles’ Hill, but only the wealthier, higher-placed nobles live within the Old City.”

Knowing that, Guerrand could detect slight differences here; the architecture was even more elaborate, the landscaped lawns longer, columns more intricately carved.

“Is this where Justarius lives, then?” he asked.

Esme smiled. “Now, what use would a mage have for living among snobbish nobles?”

Guerrand reddened. Lyim seized the opportunity. “I couldn’t agree with you more. However, Guerrand here is a nobleman in his own lands and has a hard time understanding the plight of the toiling classes. I myself have tried to help him in that regard during our travels.”

Guerrand sucked in a breath.

Esme, however, looked bemused. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an occupational consideration, not a class one. I, too, am considered to be of noble birth in my homeland.”

“Amazing!” said Lyim, trying desperately to recover. “And yet you’re willing to serve as a guide for two hopeful apprentice mages here in Palanthas.”

Her eyes narrowed angrily. “I am no more a servant than you, sir, and likely your superior at that. I am senior apprentice to Justarius and am preparing to take the Test at the Tower of High Sorcery within the year, which is more than you can say, I’m sure.”

Guerrand was stunned into silence. Though he’d said nothing, he, too, had assumed Esme was a servant in Justarius’s household.

Lyim found his voice first. “A female mage?” he cried. “What a wonderful notion.”

Esme’s honey-colored eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Are you too bigoted to believe that LaDonna, the woman you both surely met at Wayreth, is the mistress of the Order of Black Robes?” Then, in a gesture both apprentices were beginning to expect, Esme lifted her chin and stormed away from them.

Guerrand could see from his expression that Lyim was considering going after her, likely to explain his position in some way that would only get him further into trouble. Guerrand laid a firm hand on his friend’s arm. “I’d let it drop if I were you, Lyim. We both seem to have trouble saying the right thing to her. Perhaps we’d be wiser to listen more and talk less.”

Frowning, Lyim shrugged. “I’ve tried everything else,” he agreed. The gaze he locked on Esme’s swaying back was half irritation, half admiration. “I tell you truthfully, Guerrand, I am not accustomed to such opinionated, standoffish maids.” He gave a devilish grin. “She’s a spicy challenge, that one. What was her name again?”

“Esme,” Guerrand supplied quietly. Considering Lyim’s good looks, he was quite certain his friend was indeed more used to fending off women than pursuing them. For some reason he couldn’t explain, Guerrand
felt his mood sink as once more he was forced to follow Lyim in pursuit of Esme.

* * * * *

The rest of the tour went a little better. After allowing the starving apprentices to stop and purchase hot pasties from a street vendor, Esme led them to the Central Plaza before the palace of the lord of Palanthas. The square, though meticulously landscaped with hedges and perennial flowers, was not unlike others of its kind. It was more remarkable for the buildings that flanked it. To the north on a small rise nearer the bay stood the palace Guerrand and Lyim had first noticed from the mountains above the city.

Guerrand could hardly compare the palace to Castle DiThon. It was like contrasting a rose with a dandelion. Though of a comparable size—at least one hundred rods wide—the masonry was a work of art. Whereas DiThon’s walls were rough-cut stones, all approximately the same size, linked by crumbling mortar, the marble stones in the walls of the palace were obviously cut with careful precision. Each fit perfectly next to its neighbor, without gaps or fill.

Esme took note of his wondrous examination. “Dwarven made,” she offered. “From buildings to brooms, no other race pays such attention to detail in its craftsmanship.”

The palace rose up more than four stories. Its gracefully vaulted roof doubled that height and was capped off by a delicate-looking turret room and spire.

“The owner must be obscenely wealthy,” observed Lyim.

“Amothus, lord of Palanthas, resides there, as have the lords of Palanthas for centuries. Its upkeep is the responsibility of the city.”

“What does a ‘lord of Palanthas’ do to deserve to live
in such splendor?” asked Lyim.

“He and the city senate rule Palanthas. During public events, festivals, emergencies, he speaks to the citizenry from that velvet-draped balcony facing the plaza on the third floor.”

Esme gave them a few moments to gaze before directing their attention to an ancient building on the southern edge of the plaza. “That is the Great Library of Palanthas. If you are wise and study hard, it will be as much your home as the residence of your respective masters—once you’re able to find them.” One side of her lip pulled up into a smug smile.

The library was an immense, relatively simple building of marble. A short, wide, half circle of steps led to a glass-paned entryway in the center. Lengthy annexes jutted back from the square on both ends.

Esme pointed a slender finger to the left wing. “That’s the only section open to the public. The rest is the private library of Astinus, who, as even you two neophytes must know, is the ageless chronicler of Krynn’s history. He is most unforgiving of intrusion, so do us all a favor and remember to use the smaller entrance on the east wing.”

Lyim’s attention had already been diverted to the far right of the plaza. “What is
that
?” he gasped.

“That, my good apprentices, is what is left of one of the Towers of High Sorcery.” Rocking back on her heels, Esme shivered. “Hideous, isn’t it?”

Guerrand thought that, and about one hundred other ugly words. Amidst the shimmering white radiance of buildings stood a single tower of black marble. It fairly radiated a feeling of foreboding. Minarets to match those of the city gates must once have adorned the sides of the central tower like miniature flames. They were now crumbled and caved in, like empty eye sockets. The main tower was surrounded by a similarly black fence. Something fluttered like a huge bird from
the fence’s gate.

“What happened to it?” breathed Guerrand.

“I’ve already lost precious study time to this tour,” sighed Esme, at last explaining her demeanor. “It may as well include a history lesson. It’s not a story any mage likes to tell—or to hear. But it is necessary to understand the place of magic in the world today. You do, of course, know what caused the Cataclysm.”

“Of course!” said Lyim. “As the power of mages grew and threatened to overshadow that of priests, the gods became jealous of mortal wizards. The wizards were too proud of their might to curb it themselves, as the gods demanded, so the gods nearly destroyed the world, completely disrupting the study and progress of magic, and withdrawing power from their priests, as well, to hinder the world’s recovery as much as possible.”

Esme frowned. “Many believe that. Let me try to repeat what I was told by Astinus himself, shortly after I came to Palanthas.” She drew a deep breath, then took a seat on the steps of the palace, indicating with a wave of her hand that Guerrand and Lyim should do the same.

“During the Age of Might, nearly three hundred fifty years ago, the kingpriest of Istar became suspicious of everything. He gave his fears a name: magic-users. He didn’t understand their powers—more vast than anything we can even imagine now—and he felt threatened.

“Already striving to purge the world of what he considered to be all but followers of Good, the kingpriest’s fear of mages was further fueled by the fact that they allowed among their ranks representatives of all three powers in the universe—the White, Red, and Black Robes. The kingpriest did not understand what the orders knew best—as Astinus put it, ‘The universe swings in a balance between Good, Neutral, and Evil; to disturb the balance is to invite destruction.’

“So he used his most powerful weapon—his ability
to mesmerize and incite the populace. The people rose against the most obvious manifestations of the power of mages—their towers. There were five once, you know. Here were taken the Tests, which dark rumors said were evil. The heads of the orders—all mages—sought to explain that these were centers of learning, where they kept the most valuable spellbooks and devices. But the stories of strange rituals persisted and grew, until, for only the second time in the history of the orders of magic, all three orders of robes convened to protect their own.”

“When was the first time?” interrupted Lyim.

“To create the dragon orbs,” said Esme, then quickly amended herself. “Actually, there was another time, when the orders were established at the Lost Citadel. But that information will all be part of your studies,” she said offhandedly.

“Anyway, the mages voted to destroy two of their own towers, rather than let ignorant mobs overrun them and unleash magic they couldn’t control or understand. However, the destruction of the towers in Daltigoth and Goodlund caused such devastation, it served only to further frighten the kingpriest.”

“He got what he wanted!” exclaimed Lyim. “What did he expect them to do?”

“He wanted their tower in his own city of Istar, as well as the one here in heavily populated Palanthas. He cared not at all what happened in far-off Wayreth, and so he gave them the choice to leave the others intact and withdraw to Wayreth quietly.”

“If these mages were so powerful the kingpriest was afraid of them, why didn’t they fight him?” asked Guerrand.

“You’ll know the answer to that when you have a better understanding of what casting a spell drains from a mage. Suffice it to say, the mages, despite their reputation, could not condone destroying their own
people.”

“So,” Lyim interrupted, “if they did as you say, why is this tower of sorcery in ruins? The Cataclysm?”

“That can’t be,” answered Guerrand, shaking his head. “If that were true, other buildings in Palanthas would have been similarly destroyed.”

“You’re right, Guerrand, the tower fell to its current state prior to the Cataclysm, though not long before,” said Esme.

Her soft face darkened. “To truly understand the horror of the day it happened, one should hear Astinus tell the story of what is now known as the Curse. He was there; he saw it happen.” Esme looked across the plaza to the library, as if, through the walls, she could see the chronicler at his desk.

She shook her head. “The day the mages were to leave the tower, they realized they had far more books and scrolls than they could carry or store in one tower. The masters of each order brought them to Astinus, knowing he alone could guard their secrets.

“The last act in Palanthas of the head of all orders was the ceremony to close the tower’s slender gates of gold. The people had gathered to watch the Wizard of the White Robes hand the silver key to the lord of Palanthas. The citizenry was as eager as the man who was then lord to explore the legendary halls of the mages.

“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.”