Night of the Eye (13 page)

Guerrand strode carefully around the fountain, admiring it cautiously. Suddenly the unicorn spoke to him. “Follow the sun,” it said in its singsong voice.

“Me?” Guerrand jumped back, startled. He circled around again, looking for signs of a spell on the statue.

“Follow the sun,” said the unicorn again.

Guerrand found his voice. “But the sun moves,” he objected.

The unicorn simply repeated its message a third time.

With no better plan, Guerrand did as the figure bade, until at sundown he literally stumbled into a clearing where twin towers pierced the forest roof. He’d had no clue the towers or the clearing were ahead until he stood at the gold and silver gates, so masterfully crafted they looked as thin as a cobweb.

Though the sky was dark, Guerrand could see that the Tower of High Sorcery actually consisted of two towers of polished black obsidian. The spires were enclosed in a wall-shaped equilateral triangle, with a small guard tower at each point of the triangle. There
were no battlements on the obsidian walls. Guerrand presumed wizards had little use for earthly protection.

He felt weak with awe as he strode slowly through the delicate gates, eyes looking everywhere at once. He was only distantly aware that the flagstone courtyard led to a small foretower between the twin columns. A door flew back. Though no one appeared, he instinctively knew he was expected to step inside the foretower.

Sitting in the entry chamber, Guerrand could scarcely believe he was there. He felt like he’d already passed some minor, though important, test. By showing him the way to the tower, the forest itself had deemed him worthy to seek an audience. Now if he could only quell his nerves enough to express his ambitions to the venerable mages to whom he would soon speak.

He wished he could talk over his fears with someone, even Zagarus, but he dared not. If he gave the bird half a chance to speak, Zagarus would undoubtedly push Guerrand to let him out to poke his beak around the Tower of High Sorcery. That was a bad idea, under the best of circumstances.

Guerrand had seen little of the inside of the tower. The foretower in which he waited with three other hopefuls was a simple, dimly lit, circular room. Three doors led from the room at equidistant points in the circle. He sat in a curved row of chairs that faced the door through which he’d arrived, between the two doors whose destinations he could only guess at.

Actually, Guerrand could do better than guess. No one had used the door to his left, but the other two mages with whom he sat had already gone through the door to his right for their interviews with the heads of the orders of magic and returned to their seats; a third was still inside.

Guerrand’s sweaty palms unconsciously squeezed the armrests of his chair. He considered the others in
the room, too nervous to ask them any questions. Sitting in the darkest shadows between the left and front doors was a man whose gently pointed ears revealed his elven heritage, though his huddled pose made it difficult to determine his years. Guessing the age of long-lived elves was a pretty pointless exercise, anyway.

He looked to the other person in the room, a handsome young human man with perfectly chiseled features, who was sitting two chairs down from Guerrand. Dressed in an elaborate, flowing costume with slashed and puffed sleeves, multicolored breeches, and a cap with a huge feather plume, the flamboyant man had a casual, almost insolent posture. His long legs were sprawled before him, arms folded over his chest, eyes closed in sleep. Guerrand envied both his good looks and relaxed attitude.

Suddenly the man’s eyes flew open, and he caught Guerrand staring. Blushing furiously, Guerrand looked away. To his surprise, the other man merely smiled and extended his hand over the chairs that separated them.

“Lyim Rhistadt,” he said in a loud voice, pronouncing the last syllable with an odd, hard
sch
sound.

Guerrand cringed at the abrupt noise, but lifted his hand. “Guerrand DiThon,” he whispered back. Lyim pumped his hand furiously with a firm grip. Guerrand gave in to his curiosity. “Say, what goes on in there?” he asked the man with a nod toward the door to their right.

Lyim shrugged. “That’s the Hall of Mages. The interview is a snap, really. You meet the Council of Three—they’re the heads of the orders—and you declare an ali—”

Suddenly the door in question burst open, and the fourth hopeful mage, a dark-skinned elf, emerged. To everyone’s surprise he passed the chairs and fled through the front door with one frightened look over
his shoulder.

“Step forward, Guerrand DiThon.”

Guerrand’s eyes jerked from the sight of the fleeing mage to the door through which his own name had just been called. With a nervous glance at Lyim, Guerrand drew in a deep breath and pushed himself from his seat. He could feel beads of sweat springing from his forehead. “It’s a snap,” Lyim called after him again, though Guerrand could barely hear over the pounding of his heart.

Stepping through the doorway, Guerrand stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. He suspected it, too, was round, like the foretower, though much, much larger, since the walls and ceiling were beyond his sight, obscured in shadow. The room was lit by a pale white light, cold, cheerless, and yet there were no torches or candles. Guerrand stopped without intending to and shivered.

He could see no one, and yet he knew he was not alone. The Council of Three were there, Lyim had told him. Guerrand waited, too frightened to call to them, even had he known their names.

“Be seated,” a voice said at long last. Puzzled, Guerrand looked around and was surprised to find that a heavy, carved, oaken chair stood beside him. He slipped into it quickly, as if it could conceal him.

“You wish to become a mage.”

It was not a question, and yet Guerrand felt compelled to answer the unseen man’s soft, aged voice. “Yes. It has always been my heart’s desire.”

“I sense other desires there,” put in another voice from the darkness, a woman’s sultry tones that made Guerrand long to see its owner.

He squinted into the darkness. “Would it be too impertinent to ask that I be allowed to see those who question me?”

“Impertinent, yes,” said yet another man’s voice,
younger and robust with unspoken humor. “But not unreasonable.”

Abruptly those present in the chamber revealed themselves. Guerrand was certain the light had not increased or crept farther into the shadows, and yet he could now see a semicircle of mostly empty chairs; a quick count revealed twenty-one. Seated in the very center, in a great throne of carved stone, was an extremely distinguished though frail-looking man. He had piercing blue eyes and long, gray-white hair, beard, and mustache that nearly matched his white robe.

Following Guerrand’s eyes, the old man said, “I am Par-Salian of the White Robes, Head of the Conclave of Wizards. This enchanting creature,” he said with a nod to the woman in black seated at his right, “is LaDonna, Mistress of the Black Robes.”

Guerrand’s eyes fixed on the striking woman whose iron-gray hair was woven into an intricate braid coiled about her head. Her beauty and age defied definition; Guerrand wondered if both were magically altered.

“I need no illusions to embellish my looks or diminish my age,” LaDonna said abruptly. Guerrand jumped, blushing.

A small smile at Guerrand’s embarrassment further creased Par-Salian’s weathered face. With his eyes, he directed the young man’s gaze to the man seated on his left. “I would have you meet the Master of the Red Robes, but he is unavailable, locked in study in his laboratory. Serving in his stead today is Justarius of the Red Robes.”

The dark-haired man with neat mustache and beard resting on his white ruff nodded at Guerrand, who returned the gesture. Guerrand judged him to be in his late thirties, though he knew with a mage he could be off by decades.

“We are today’s Council of Three,” Par-Salian explained. “We convene at the Tower of Wayreth primarily
to conduct these interviews, devise Tests, and deal with everyday problems of the orders that do not require the attention of the full conclave of twenty-one members, seven from each order.”

Par-Salian brushed a wisp of white hair from his eyes. “The day has been a long one,” he said with an edge of tired impatience in his voice. “Declare an alignment, young man, and let us draw today’s interviews to a close.”

Guerrand shook his head quickly. “I’ve chosen no alignment.”

“Then why did you come here today?” demanded LaDonna with an peevish frown.

“I came to begin my training as a mage. Frankly, I did not know what that entailed.”

“Your master didn’t tell you before he sent you? What color robe did he wear?”

“I’ve had no master,” Guerrand explained, feeling more and more like an ignorant rube. “A mage came to me recently and encouraged me to come to Wayreth and seek a master who could teach me.” Guerrand tapped his chin in thought. “He wore a red robe, come to think of it.”

“You’ve had no master?” repeated Justarius. “Each of us has probed your mind and found within it enough talent and skill to have brought you before us. Are you saying no master instructed you in magic?”

“No, sir. All that I’ve learned has come from books I found in my father’s library.”

“Interesting,” muttered Justarius.

Guerrand was both embarrassed and desperate to persuade them he could quickly overcome his deficiencies. “If you would be kind enough to explain the different philosophies of the disciplines, I would happily and swiftly choose one.”

The three revered mages exchanged surprised looks. “This is most unusual,” said Par-Salian. Justarius
leaned to whisper something in his ear, and the old mage shrugged. “You are right, Justarius. If it brings even one more mage to our dwindling ranks, the time is well spent.” Par-Salian looked directly at Guerrand. “We will make an exception. Listen closely. I’ll not repeat what you already should know.”

“Yes … yes, thank you,” Guerrand said, his head bobbing eagerly. He leaned forward in his chair.

“Wizards of the White Robes,” began Par-Salian, “embrace the cause of Good, and we use our magic to further the predominance of Good in the world. We believe that a world in which there are only good deeds and thoughts would benefit all races and end much suffering.”

LaDonna leaned back in her chair indolently. “Wizards of the Black Robes,” she said in her husky voice, “believe the darker side that all creatures possess is their most productive. Therefore, we believe that magic should be pursued without ethical or moral restraints. It is beyond such considerations.”

Justarius sat forward in his chair, his left leg stretched out and twisted awkwardly, as if it pained him. “We mages of the Red Robes recognize that elements of both Good and Evil—”

“We prefer the nonpejorative term ‘dark side,’ ” interrupted LaDonna.

Justarius nodded in respect to the black-robed woman’s request, but under his mustache his lip curled up in a slight smirk. “Both Good and Evil exist in all creatures. We believe that to try to eliminate one or the other is not only futile, but an undesirable goal. It is when these two opposing elements are balanced in an individual—or in a society—that life has the richness we all seek. Wizards of the Red Robes use their magic to encourage and maintain that balance.”

“Realize this, too,” added Par-Salian, “before you make your decision. Every wizard, no matter the color
of his robe, vows his primary allegiance to magic. All wizards are brothers in their order. All orders are brothers in the power. Though we may disagree on method, particularly during important conclaves, the places of High Wizardry, such as this tower, are held in common among us. No sorcery will be suffered here in anger against fellow wizards.” Par-Salian shifted a bushy white brow.

Guerrand pondered all that they had said, conscious not to take too much time in his evaluation. Finally, he said, with a nod to Par-Salian and LaDonna, “With all due respect to your disciplines, I believe the philosophy of the Red Robes, as outlined by Justarius, most closely aligns with my own outlook on life.”

“You are certain?” asked Par-Salian. “Are you prepared to declare loyalty to that order?”

Guerrand nodded solemnly. Clearing his throat, he said with great formality, “I, Guerrand DiThon, do hereby pledge my loyalty to the Order of the Red Robes.” He was rewarded with a warm smile from Justarius.

“That is done.” Par-Salian’s ringed fingers slapped the arm of his stone chair in satisfaction. “There is one last piece of business to conclude today’s interviews.” The door behind Guerrand flew open abruptly, and the same disembodied voice that had called Guerrand forth from the foretower drew in the two young mages still waiting there.

“Welcome once more,” said the white-haired wizard as the other young mages seated themselves next to Guerrand. “Our last bit of business is to ascertain or assign masters so that you may all begin your apprenticeships.

“Stand, Nieulorr of Swansea Valley,” called the head of the conclave. The shrouded elf slid gracefully from the chair, almond-shaped eyes fixed on the elderly mage. “You have declared your allegiance to the White
Robes. Have you a master, or are you in need of placement with a suitable archmage? The council has a number of approved wizards who are currently without apprentices.”

“With respect, Great One,” the elf said humbly, “I have regarded Karst Karstior of Frenost, of the White Robes, as a mentor for nearly two decades. He has kindly agreed to accept me as his apprentice.”

“Karst Karstior,” repeated Par-Salian, tapping his chin as he pondered. “Ah, yes. I remember. He is a good mage and a better person.” The head of the conclave nodded decisively. “I approve.” Par-Salian withdrew a coarse, white robe from the shadows behind his chair and held it toward the slender elf. “Return to your village and begin your apprenticeship. We look forward to adjudicating at your Test in the future.”

The elf nodded, took the white robe in his thin-boned fingers, and quickly fled the scrutiny of the powerful wizards in the Hall of Mages.

Justarius’s eyes demanded Guerrand’s attention. “Guerrand DiThon, as representative of your chosen order, I give to you a novitiate’s red robe.” Guerrand stood and approached the circle of chairs, nodded reverently, and accepted the rough-spun garment. “You’ve already stated that you’ve had no master but books. Have you considered to whom you might apprentice yourself?”