Night of the Eye (38 page)

Taking the last swig from the bottle Nivi had tearfully
sent to keep him warm, Lyim turned bleary eyes skyward to the white and red moons, remembering distantly that the black one would align with them tonight. Strange, he thought, that I should learn this song on a Night of the Eye. Art
did
imitate life. Lyim’s voice rose again in the chill night air:

Lyim certainly was three sheets to the wind, and it felt marvelous. He had certainly earned such indulgence. Unlike the song, though, his harbor was no longer port wine, but Hillfort. He would soon sign upon another rocking ship, where there would be no wine at all until Palanthas.

The prospect threatened to depress him, so he cast it aside. Instead, he threw back his head to bellow out another verse, but a flash of unnatural light farther down the coast, up where the moors turned into cliffs, made him pause.

A trick of the wine? Of the aligning moons? Lyim shook his head and blinked fiercely. The lights remained. Curiosity, and a willingness to postpone the start of the dreaded sea voyage, brought Lyim to veer left from the shore. It took only minutes to cross the heath to where the hills began. He scrabbled, loose-jointed, up the rolling slope, closing on the odd, colorful flashes. The frigid breeze that rose instantly, inexplicably, went unnoticed in the warmth of drunkenness.

In the peculiar brightness of the moons, Lyim could make out several moving figures farther up the hill, near what looked to be a pair of enormous, rectangular boulders. He squinted, but his vision would not clear sufficiently, forcing him to creep closer. Lyim hid
behind a trampled shrub, unsure if he was approaching magical friends or foes.

The apprentice was close enough now to hear heated conversation. “… dispatched the invisible stalker after you and that wretched apprentice Par-Salian saddled me with.”

“So you
have
been trying to kill me.…”

The voices were familiar, yet incongruous here. As if in a dream, Lyim peered around the shrub. What he saw turned the wine in his veins to ice and sobered him instantly.

Belize stood guard over Guerrand, who was trapped inside a bizarre cage of tentacles. The scene was too unexpected, too shocking, to believe. What were they doing here … and together? Was it possible Belize had learned of the trip made on Guerrand’s account and was exacting punishment? The reasoning was too ridiculous, and yet it was the only connection he could draw between his master and his friend. Something warned Lyim to listen just a little longer before stepping forward to demand an explanation.

The apprentice’s horror mounted as Belize revealed that he’d arranged the death of Guerrand’s brother. Lyim still could make no sense of these events, could find no cause for Belize’s actions. But he could no longer deny Belize’s opinion of him, which made it easy to decide where his own loyalty lay.

Events on the hillside only spiraled further out of control. Lyim watched Guerrand abruptly slash through the tentacles and escape his cage. Charging at Belize with his sword, Guerrand was stopped when his weapon turned into a branch of wood. A massive, interposing hand rose up before his friend, and still no useful idea came to Lyim’s mind. Then, in an even more bizarre turn of events, a bird smashed into Belize, but it was Guerrand who inexplicably crumpled to the ground, holding his side.

The impetuous apprentice believed any spell would be better than this peculiar indecisiveness. Needing no components for the one that came to mind, Lyim muttered,
“Boli sular,”
and held his breath against Belize’s reaction.

* * * * *

Guerrand held his ribs and fought against the horrible burning in his right side. The pain spread through his chest and did not stop until it reached his right shoulder. He knew the torment he felt was an exact reflection of Zagarus’s injury, so he twisted around painfully until he could see where Zag had fallen to earth. Guerrand’s familiar lay in a crumpled heap, but his wings fluttered fitfully as he struggled to right himself. After a few awkward attempts, the gull simply fell back and lay still. Guerrand looked inward, expecting an emptiness of the soul. He sighed in relief; Zag lived. The bond—the inexplicable presence—he’d felt since conjuring the familiar was still there.

Then Guerrand noticed the small statuette of Esme, lying on the ground next to the sea gull. She was away from Belize, safe at least for the moment.

The ache in Guerrand’s side was beginning to throb so that it took all his reserves to turn and look back toward the plinths. The gigantic hand still stood between him and Belize. Lying prone, the apprentice got glimpses of Belize poring over his trunk again.

Just then, an unaccountable scream of rage burst from Belize. Guerrand saw the archmage frantically clawing at his face. When Belize pulled back his hands, his eyes were entirely black, like olives, lifeless and unseeing.

“Who dares blind me?” Belize roared, turning slowly as if he could yet see.

Guerrand was confused. Who, indeed, had cast a
blindness spell on Belize?

Snarling his frustration, the archmage resigned himself to the consequences of the simplest spell he could use to restore his sight. He knew the radius of the dispelling magic would remove all of his ongoing enchantments, but he cast it quickly anyway. A bright light he could not yet see grew to burn the darkness from his eyes. In a blink, the small shaft of radiance flew away from the archmage and struck the gigantic magical palm; the hand dissipated into swirling smoke and then was gone. The light raced on, over the empty cage of tentacles, sending them slithering without a trace back into the ground.

But the magical dispel was not finished yet. The bright shaft switched directions and streaked nearby to where the statuette of Esme lay. The figure shifted, then grew instantly, until the woman herself lay upon the hillside. She remained deathly still, as if yet a figurine, then blessedly coughed and convulsed and stirred to life. Shaking her head to clear it, Esme struggled to her knees and looked about in confusion.

“Esme,” hissed Guerrand. “Over here!”

Spotting Guerrand, the young woman, hindered by her splinted leg, pulled herself slowly to his side. She touched his whiskered cheek tenderly, a weak, relieved smile her only greeting. “What happened to Zagarus, and how did I get away from Belize?”

“You couldn’t see anything as a statue?” Esme’s head shook. “Zag saved both our lives. He swooped on Belize and yanked you from the mage’s neck to distract him from killing me.” Guerrand winced as he shifted his wounded side. “It worked pretty well, too, except Belize hit Zag with a magic missile—and me, since we’re linked. I’m afraid my right arm is pretty useless.”

Esme looked fretfully from Guerrand’s arm to the still sea gull. “He’s not—”

“No, just unconscious. Zag doesn’t deal well with
pain.”

“Belize is trying to open a gate that will let him into the Lost Citadel,” she told Guerrand without preamble. Tearing two wide strips from the hem of her tunic, she hastily wrapped Zag’s right side and wing. “I don’t think we can kill a mage of his ability, but perhaps we can delay him until the convergence is past.”

Guerrand frowned. “There seems to be another mage—”

“Digas ne vimi!”

Both apprentices looked up in fear at the sound of Belize uttering another incantation. But his spell was not for them. The archmage’s red-robed arms were stretched wide in the direction of the sea. A strangled gasp reached their ears from the other side of the plinths.

Guerrand and Esme both dragged themselves to their feet in time to see Lyim Rhistadt being yanked by some invisible force from a copse of shrubs.

“How did
he
get here?” asked Esme.

Guerrand shook his head, gaze never leaving Lyim. “It’s a long story.”

Suspended ten feet above the ground, Belize’s apprentice kicked and writhed against some monstrous, invisible grip. Despite his struggles, Lyim was lifted higher still, then floated helplessly toward Belize.

“Y-You’re crushing me,” rasped Lyim. The apprentice’s ribs contracted perceptibly beneath the invisible grip, making it nearly impossible for him to draw a new breath. The young mage hovered just above his master. Belize regarded his apprentice with an expression more triumphant than surprised.

“It seems I have a wealth of visitors tonight.” The archmage’s eyes narrowed to malicious slits. “You, of all people, should have known better than to strike against me.”

“I’ve revered you all my life!” Lyim gasped, struggling
for air. “You’re the greatest, most powerful mage to ever have lived. Why risk your position as Master of the Red Order?”

“The regard of lesser humans is
this
—” Belize spat viciously “—compared to gaining the magical knowledge of the gods.”

With that, Belize checked the positions of the moons and hastily turned to plunge his hands into the ironbound chest. Slowly, as if lifting something of great value and fragility, he drew forth a swirling sphere of flame. The ball writhed between his fingers, twisting, flickering, uncontained by anything save Belize’s will. With intense concentration the mage turned and extended his arms so that the ball of energy hovered between the stone pillars.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Esme. “He’s preparing his portal.”

Guerrand nodded, equally concerned with the bluing pallor of Lyim’s complexion. If they could distract Belize, he might forget Lyim in his irritation.…

“I have an idea that’s certain to infuriate Belize,” Guerrand said. “How’s your shield spell?”

She grinned at the prospect. “Good as ever.”

“Fine. It’ll take me a few moments to prepare my spell. If you’ll just get the dried peas from my pouch …” he said with a nod toward his useless arm. Esme slipped the peas into his hand, and Guerrand closed his eyes, struggling to recall the exact symbols of the seldom-used spell he sought.

Waiting with the words of her own spell at the ready, Esme watched Belize anxiously as the flickering globe he’d placed between the plinths flared angrily and swelled to twice its previous size. Its eerie light shimmered on the carved surfaces of the plinths.

Next, Belize drew a succession of vials and containers from the chest, tossing each into the swirling inferno while muttering arcane phrases and gesturing
in the air. The fiery globe grew steadily larger until its blue tongues licked against the gray stones. Its shape began to change, to flatten and stretch into an oval.

“Estivas nom,”
Guerrand pronounced at last to Esme’s relief. A wall of fog, heavy and thick, appeared out of thin air and positioned itself between the archmage and the moons. Esme hastily called forth the invisible shield.

Belize whirled on them in a flash, his face as dark as a thundercloud. “Dispel the fog at once,” he demanded.

“Do it yourself if you’re so desperate to see the moons align,” Guerrand jeered.

“I’ll not waste time or energy on a spell. But I
will
send your friend through the unfinished portal.” The invisible grip shook Lyim like a rag doll. “You’ve seen what happens then.”

“Rand, don’t do it—” Lyim gasped with great effort.

Guerrand and Esme exchanged a horrified glance. She gave a slight nod, and Guerrand immediately tossed the last of his peas into the air, summoning a gust of wind that blew the fog over the strait.

Belize threw back his balding head and roared with laughter. “Gullible rubes!” He raised his arm, and Lyim was yanked as if on a leash to the swirling ball of fire between the plinths. Belize plunged his apprentice’s arm, right up to the shoulder, through the wall of whirling hues. Lyim screamed, struggling with the last of his strength to twist away, but the grip was unrelenting. Eyes bulging, he kicked and thrashed vainly against the invisible forces that held him and worked tortures on his arm.

Guerrand covered his ears, but still he heard the hideous scream, seeming to rise from Lyim’s soul. The unbroken wail cut through the night, cut through Guerrand’s nerves until he was searching his mind frantically for some spell that would help Lyim.

Then the torture was over. Suddenly released from
the invisible grip, Lyim staggered back from the portal and collapsed unconscious from the torment he’d endured.

Both Guerrand and Esme looked at their friend’s arm and gasped. The sleeve was shredded, revealing an appendage that was no longer an arm. Instead of flesh, the limb was a writhing thing covered in scales of brown, red, and gold, patterned symmetrically in rings and swirls. And at the end of the limb, where a hand should have been, was the head of a snake, its eyes inky black and malevolent. The hideous creature hissed and flicked its tongue.

Belize looked at the snake arm in relief. “These portals frequently contain the undead remains of centuries of unsuccessful adventurers,” he explained conversationally. “They jump like starving fleas upon the first fresh traveler they meet. Your friend generously cleared the path for me.”

Belize chuckled, a cruel, mirthless sound that lasted only a moment before he telekinetically flung aside Lyim’s limp body to reach one last time into his ironbound chest. He pulled forth a thin, fragile book, opened it, and held it up to compare its drawing to the positions of the three moons above.

Following the mage’s gaze, Guerrand could see that the “eye” seemed perfectly aligned: black shadowy circle, red, then yellow-white moons. At that precise moment, the swirling mass Belize had created between the plinths yawned open with an unbearable purplish light. The marble pillars seemed to throb in the portal’s radiance. The effect spread swiftly outward until the entire plateau wavered and shifted like the deck of a ship. A column of twisting, intertwined white, red, and black light shot skyward and split into three cords, linking the carved marble pillars to each of the moons.