Night of the Eye (23 page)

“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.

“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.