Night of the Eye (27 page)

“I see.”

The two men fell silent. “I have difficulty envisioning Cormac hiring a mage to track me down, but it’s possible,” Guerrand said at length, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve wondered, too, if it wasn’t the father of the woman I was to marry. The Berwicks run the biggest shipping line on the Sirrion Sea. I paid passage on one of their ships to Wayreth, and then to Palanthas, before Lyim and I got tossed off.”

“You’re saying this sort of thing has happened before?”

Guerrand nodded. He told Justarius what he’d revealed to Zagarus earlier in the day about the ambush in the hills and the incident in the alley. “I didn’t mention it to you,” he added quickly, “because nothing ever seemed to happen at the villa, and—”

“You were afraid I would throw you out,” supplied Justarius.

Guerrand looked sheepish. “The thought
had
occurred to me.” He paused before whispering, “Will you, Justarius? Ask me to leave, that is?”

The archmage gave Guerrand a sidelong glance. “Young man, you underestimate me if you think me so easily threatened or distressed.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Do you honestly think your brother or this Berwick fellow would go so far as to harm you over this collapsed betrothal?”

“I don’t know Anton Berwick,” said Guerrand, “so I can’t guess at his response.”

Pondering Cormac’s attitudes, he grimaced. “My brother is given to deep, emotional extremes, especially when he’s been drinking. And his wife is definitely the vengeful sort. I could believe that she would suggest this sort of retribution, and he would comply. Cormac probably would regret it when he sobered up, but by then it might be too late.”

Justarius gave a shrug. “We can fashion all manner of guesses, or we can conjure the truth in a heartbeat,” said Justarius, taking a last sip of his lemon water. “Would you like to see what’s happening back at your … Thonvil, is it?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Guerrand, jumping to his feet. He knocked over his chair in his haste.

Frowning slightly, the distinguished mage waved his apprentice forward, around the chair. “Then come with me now. Do exactly as I say, and make no untoward step or gesture. Few have seen the elaborate magical ritual that I am about to reveal to you.”

Scarcely breathing, Guerrand followed Justarius in silent wonder to the narrow velvet curtain Guerrand had assumed covered an alcove or bookshelf. The master’s hands swept back the heavy fabric, revealing a simple, seamless birchwood door. There was no handle, knob, or knocker. Instead, at eye-height hung a recessed carving of a hideous face, very like a gargoyle’s, about
the size of an ogre’s fist. Suddenly the eyes of the carving snapped to life.

While Guerrand watched, Justarius reached into his robe and withdrew three live, wiggling goldfish. The archmage popped the little orange creatures into the door guard’s open, waiting mouth. Chewing noisily, with much slurping and splashing, it gulped one last time, burped loudly, then gave a delicious, sated, though still hideous, grin. The face disappeared entirely from view as the birchwood door slid into a pocket in the left wall, granting the mages passage to whatever lay behind it.

Guerrand took two steps into darkness behind Justarius before the archmage stopped them both. Slowly Guerrand’s eyes adjusted, and he determined that the room was circular and exceedingly small, no wider than three men abreast. Justarius was so close to him that he obscured most of the view.

A dim light filtered down from high above. Looking up, the apprentice mage caught his breath at the sight of the most intricately pieced pane of stained glass he had ever seen. The narrow chamber felt like a life-size kaleidoscope. At first Guerrand thought it a colorful model of the lacy petals of the wild carrot flower, but the pattern was not that random. In fact, it was somehow familiar.

“The constellations,” supplied Justarius, following his gaze to the colored glass some two stories above them. “See Gilean, there in the middle?” Justarius tried to raise his arm to point, a difficult move in the cramped silo. “He’s the book-shaped constellation.
Gilean is the patriarch of maintaining a balance in the universe. That’s why he’s between Paladine and the Black Queen. Gilean holds the Book of Tobril, which contains all the knowledge possessed by the gods.

“Of course, you can see Solinari, of Good magic. By now your magical skills should be developed enough to easily reveal the red moon, Lunitari, to you, as well. We can only hope that you’ll never have the sight for the black moon, evil Nuitari.”

“But if I’m to be truly neutral, shouldn’t I be able to see both sides, Evil and Good?”

“Seeing both sides of an issue and viewing the gods are two different things,” explained Justarius. “Only mages who wear the black robes can see Nuitari in the night sky.” Justarius hitched up his robes, sat down, and slid around a half-circle bench that followed the curve of the far wall. Jerking his head, Justarius indicated Guerrand should follow him. The apprentice quickly complied.

Guerrand could now see a murky glass ball of enormous proportion cradled between the points of an odd pedestal of antlers. He estimated the diameter of the globe to be nearly the length of his arm.

“Before the Cataclysm,” said Justarius, “crystal balls were to mages what picklocks are to thieves. But, like most things of great value, the Cataclysm reduced nearly all of them to rubble. In the years shortly after my own apprenticeship, I rescued this one from the flower garden of a nymph. She obviously had no idea of its value, calling it her ‘gazing ball.’ She was just as happy to gaze at the steel piece I gave her in exchange.”

“What do you have to do to make it work?” breathed Guerrand, staring wide-eyed into the pastel mists that roiled within the large glass ball.

“
I
don’t have to do anything this time. You do.”

Guerrand’s blue eyes snapped away from the mesmerizing mist. “I know nothing of crystal balls!”

“But you know everything about your brother Cormac and the castle in which you were raised. That’s all the ball requires of you.”

Noting Guerrand’s skeptical look, Justarius continued. “To use the ball, simply peer into it with open eyes and concentrate on that which you want to see. It can be a person, place, or thing, but places are usually easier for beginners. With some practice, you’ll be able to look for whatever you want.”

Justarius held up two fingers. “Keep in mind several things, Guerrand. The more familiar the sought thing is, the easier it is to locate. It’s even more important to remember that the globe feeds on your energy. If you are skeptical or fearful or distracted, it won’t respond to you as well as it otherwise might.”

Eager to succeed in Justarius’s eyes and learn what he could of his own family, Guerrand closed his eyes briefly to chase away all distractions. Opening them again, he rubbed the orb and stared into its depths. He envisioned Cormac’s study as he’d last seen it, floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, the path of worn carpeting from the door to Cormac’s cluttered desk, the bright windows that overlooked the sea.

Gradually, within the mists, Guerrand caught glimpses of the image he sought, hazy at first, but slowly clearing. Anxious, he squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate as he did when spellcasting. Instantly he knew his mistake.

“You lose the image when you close your eyes,” said Justarius, confirming Guerrand’s suspicion. “You’ll have to start all over.”

Heaving a disheartened sigh, Guerrand chased away his frustration and tried again with open eyes. To his delight, the image of Cormac’s study blinked into sight almost instantly. He was getting the hang of it! Unfortunately, the study was empty.

“I don’t understand,” muttered Guerrand. “Cormac
is almost always holed up in his study.”

“Try focusing on Cormac himself,” suggested Justarius. “I think you can do it.”

Guerrand nodded once and then tried to summon a mental picture of his brother. He was surprised to realize that, despite having lived his entire life with him, he could recall few details of Cormac’s face. When he remembered their encounters in recent years, Guerrand saw his own feet, or the bottom of a port glass. It had probably been years since Guerrand had been able to meet his brother’s gaze. Was Cormac’s nose long or short? Eyes close- or wide-set? Guerrand had no answers. In the end, he focused his thoughts on memories of Cormac’s size and stance, of his disapproving stare, of the clothing he was prone to wear.

The memory was apparently enough. With a sizzling electrical snap, Cormac’s visage parted the mists, and he leaped into view inside the crystal ball. He was seated at the head of the table in Castle DiThon’s seldom-used council room. A thick layer of dust coated the tabletop, except where lines had recently been traced.

Gradually Guerrand could see whose fingers and elbows had sliced through the dust. Gathered around the long table were Cormac’s council of cavaliers, all the important warriors who served the lord, including Guerrand’s old weapon master, Milford. While Guerrand watched, his brother leaned forward in his chair and thumped the table. A cloud of dust puffed into the air around his fist.

“Didn’t I say I could take the land like that—” he snapped his fingers “—from those pompous merchants?” He pushed back his chair and stood. “I didn’t need either of my brothers—the one who was foolish enough to get himself killed, or the coward who ran away. I didn’t need to further taint my family’s bloodlines, either. My only regret is that I didn’t think of it sooner.” Cormac sat again and leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and
slapped his boots up on the table in a gesture of supreme confidence and satisfaction.

“In fact, the day Guerrand ran away like a thief in the night was very likely the best in the DiThon family history!” Watching, Guerrand winced. “I hereby decree that day a half year ago as a local holiday!”

Milford coughed uncomfortably, his scar pulling at his cheek. “I would advise you, sir, not to get too complacent about the seizure of Berwick land.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” barked Cormac, leaning forward again with the disapproving eyes that Guerrand remembered too well. Cormac looked drunk, his nose red, his movements slow. “We snatched that land from right under their noses. They’re merchants, not warriors. We needn’t fear anyone we can best so easily.”

“Too easily, if you ask me,” said Milford under his breath.

“I didn’t,” snapped Cormac.

“Excuse me, Lord Cormac,” said a knight named Rees. Guerrand recognized him; he lived in a village northeast of Thonvil. “It is no measure of an enemy’s strength to succeed at seizing his unprotected land, leagues from their manor house, when they are away in Solamnia attending their daughter’s wedding.”

“Perhaps not, Rees,” growled Cormac, “but it is a measure of my resolve. No one ignores Cormac DiThon and gets away with it. I was still negotiating in good faith with that fat bastard Berwick when he simply announced that all deals were off. He’d already betrothed his bucked-toothed daughter to some pretentious Knight of Solamnia!” Cormac visibly shuddered. “I simply could not let the insult go unchecked.” Guerrand could also guess from Cormac’s sullen expression that Rietta had chewed his ear thoroughly about the Berwicks landing a Solamnic title, while she was stuck with a petty cavalier.

“In any event,” said Dalric, an old soldier Guerrand
knew Cormac despised, “Berwick will almost certainly try to take back his land.”

“Let him try!” barked Cormac. “Who could that bloated merchant get to fight his battle? Are the sailors from his shipping lines going to tie us in knots? Will his gardeners attack us with pitchforks?” Cormac nearly laughed himself apoplectic. He tossed back a drink.

None of his advisors raised a lip in humor.

Cormac finally realized that he was the only one laughing. Scowling, he snorted to a stop. “If you’re so damned concerned, Milford, then take some men to reinforce those already posted at Stonecliff. When Berwick’s sailors come to fight, we’ll bloody their noses. They’ll run back to their little boats, and that will be the last we ever see of them.”

Milford coughed again, his face red. “Cormac, I feel compelled to point out that it’s unlikely Anton Berwick will lead an attack on the land you’ve seized—it’s worth little, anyway.”

“Worthless? To him, perhaps!” cried Cormac. “That land was in my family for years! It has the best view of the strait. A fort on that location would command the bay and control all traffic up and down the river. We could make a rich living collecting tolls from that traffic, and I intend to do just that.”

Milford colored further, highlighting the white scar on his face. “I meant it had little monetary value by itself. What you propose is a different matter entirely.”

Cormac slammed a hammy fist on the table. “There you have it, then. Berwick won’t waste the money trying to get it back. Stop frowning so, Milford.”

The weapon master leaned forward, placing his elbow on the table. “We’ve all agreed—” Milford tossed his head to include the other cavaliers at the long table, all of whom looked down at their hands “—Berwick will not tolerate either the insult, after what happened with Quinn and Guerrand, or the placement of a toll on river
traffic. He’ll demand retribution. It is our collective opinion that he’ll lead an attack against the village of Thonvil, or, more likely, Castle DiThon itself.”

Cormac’s eyes turned black with anger. “You’ve all agreed?” He jumped to his feet. “Perhaps you’d all like to join his forces—if you haven’t already!” Cormac’s hands clenched into fists, and he swept an arm across the table, scattering wine-filled glasses to the floor. “All of you be damned!” With that the lord stormed from the room, leaving his council in a cloud of newly raised dust.

Guerrand’s concentration dissolved with Cormac’s angry departure, and the images in the crystal ball slipped into pastel mist. He couldn’t have watched more, anyway. The apprentice turned worried eyes to Justarius.