Night of the Eye (35 page)

Justarius looked displeased as he helped himself to sliced pears. “These gating creations are not new. However, the practice of using test subjects, particularly nonanimals, has been banned by the Red and White Orders. I will have to report this,” he mused.

“Are you’re going to tell the conclave what he’s doing there?” asked Guerrand.

“Yes, are you?” repeated Esme from the doorway. Guerrand looked up, shocked to see her leg expertly splinted. She stood easily with the support of one of Justarius’s elaborate walking sticks.

“You’re healed!” he cried.

“No, but I feel much better, thanks to Justarius’s elixir and Denbigh’s ministrations.” Her eyes were on their master. “Will you, Justarius?” she pressed once more.

“I’ll not address this to the entire conclave of twenty-one just yet. I must first consider how best to raise the issue of these gating experiments to Par-Salian and LaDonna, lest I give Belize the chance to destroy the evidence.”

Justarius sighed heavily. “But it appears I’ll be speaking to them about another issue first,” he said, his grave tone commanding their attention. “Whether you realize it or not, your actions today were a serious breach of your vows to the order.”

“What?” the apprentices cried.

“Breaking into Belize’s home,” explained Justarius, “violated the rule to never raise a hand in magic to one of the Red Robes. You also broke the laws of the city. Worse still, your tryst was just plain naive.”

Justarius peered at them over steepled fingers. “Even the most lenient interpretation of the rules of our order demands that I report your transgressions to the respective heads of the robes.”

Esme’s face was pale as she stammered. “Wh-What will they do?”

Justarius rubbed his face wearily. “Considering that the transgression was against a member of the Council of Three, it’s likely they will vote to suggest the other red representatives evict you both from the order.”

Guerrand found his tongue at last, while Esme merely managed a gasp. “That’s so unfair!” he shouted, fists clenched in rage. “I was just trying to defend myself. Belize is the criminal here, not Esme and me!”

“That is an issue I intend to take up,” Justarius said. “However, it does not change the fact that you and Esme acted improperly, no matter how just your intentions.”

The anger lines in Justarius’s brow eased slightly. “You needn’t look so crestfallen yet. It may be a minor disadvantage that everyone knows there is no love lost between Belize and myself. However, I will speak to the council on your behalf to prevent the Council of Three from voting to bring the issue to the Red Robes.”

“Will that help?” Esme asked, choking back tears.

Justarius stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “I believe Par-Salian will weigh my support heavily. LaDonna’s vote will be determined almost entirely by her mood at that moment.” He frowned. “We know how Belize will vote.”

The archmage tossed back the dregs of his lemon tonic. Dabbing his lips one last time, he dropped the napkin on the table and stood. “Enough said of these events. I’ll be leaving for Wayreth immediately to address Par-Salian. I expect you’re tired from the day’s adventures and will want to retire to your rooms until I return.” It was not a suggestion.

After Justarius left, Esme pulled Guerrand along toward her chamber. She pushed him through the antechamber into her sleeping quarters. He collapsed into the chair, pinning his pouch behind him.

“What are we going to do?” Esme demanded. She began to tidy the room compulsively, snatching a
folded blanket from the cot, then refolding it.

Guerrand gave a listless shrug. “Wait for Justarius to summon us, I guess.”

She threw the blanket on the cot. “You’re not going to give up that easily, are you?”

Giving her a strange look, he removed the pouch from the small of his back and set it on the floor. “It’s not a question of giving up, Esme. We’re guilty. That’s done.”

She smashed a fist into her palm and began pacing with the aid of Justarius’s staff. “I can’t just sit here and wait for our execution!”

Guerrand frowned. “Don’t be melodramatic. The council isn’t going to kill us.”

She crossed her arms and regarded him wryly. “You think Belize is going to let either of us live after we broke into his villa?”

Guerrand looked alarmed. “After what we told him about Belize, Justarius wouldn’t let him kill us.”

“That’s just wishful thinking, Rand,” she said, wagging a finger. “You’re not that naive. Is Justarius going to follow us around and protect us after we’re expelled from the order and no longer his apprentices?”

Guerrand flopped onto the cot, an arm over his eyes. “Gods, I’m sorry I got you into this. I should have listened to Justarius and never told you about my problems.”

“I’m not sorry,” she said kindly. “You didn’t kidnap me. I never do anything I don’t want to do.” Esme set her chin. “Which is why I’m not leaving the order without a fight.”

“What do you have in mind?” he asked, sitting up.

She seized his hands in both of hers, eyes pleading. “Let’s go back to Belize’s lab right now. We could get those spellbooks before he realizes we’re on to him and destroys the evidence. Justarius will be able to read the spell language and have the proof he needs to persuade Par-Salian and LaDonna of Belize’s guilt. Then Belize will be the one expelled from the Order of Red
Robes, not us.”

Guerrand’s brow creased. “I don’t see how Belize’s guilt or innocence will change the fact that we broke into his villa.”

Esme dropped his hands. “Of course it will!” she snapped, her frustration mounting. “In the first place, we wouldn’t have gone there if he weren’t trying to kill you—”

“You sound awfully sure about his guilt in that.”

“Aren’t you?”

He gave a nod.

Esme looked smug. “In the second place,” she continued, “if Belize is expelled before the Council of Three discusses our situation, then we have nothing to fear. Justarius will undoubtedly take his place on the council, and Par-Salian will vote with him. That’s two votes out of three, which is all we need!” Warming quickly to the idea, Esme could scarcely contain her excitement.

“It would be like playing double or nothing in a game of bones,” said Guerrand, shaking his head. “It’s just too risky, and not at all like the level-headed Esme I know.”

“What’s so wrong about taking charge of your life?” she demanded.

“Until recently, I would have said ‘nothing.’ Now I’m not so sure.” Guerrand’s dark eyes were focused on a faraway place. “I’ve lived most of my life doing what others wanted, and the only one I hurt was myself. But since I left Castle DiThon to study magic, it seems I’ve done nothing
but
hurt people. I deserted Kirah and reneged on a promise so that I could follow magic, and now my family and castle are under siege. I allowed Lyim to go to Ergoth and fight my battles, so that I could continue as Justarius’s apprentice.”

Guerrand buried his head in his hands as the list of his transgressions mounted. “Last, but not least, it’s my
fault that we both stand to be expelled.” He gave Esme a dark, bitter stare. “You tell me what good has come of indulging my selfish ambitions?”

Esme sat next to him and squeezed his hand. “I know it’s difficult now to think of anything good, but not long ago you said you’d never been happier.”

He snatched his hand back. “That was before everything went wrong!”

Esme moved away to stare out her small window. “I know what it’s like to have everything go wrong.” She said nothing more for many moments. Guerrand just waited.

“It pains me even now to think of those days, when I thought it important to prove that a mere girl could follow in the great Melar’s footsteps.” Esme gave a sad, humorless smile.

She looked away from the window, at Guerrand. “My father had magical ambitions only for my brothers. Each, in his turn, rejected magic, afraid to tell Father that he had caused them to hate, not love, it. My father disowned them, leaving them without money or connections or training. No one would even speak to them on the streets of Fangoth for fear of suffering a wizard’s wrath.”

Esme brushed the bangs from her eyes. “Left without sons, my father’s eyes at last turned to me. I was thrilled by the attention and studied hard to satisfy him.” She sighed deeply. “It wasn’t long before I understood why my brothers had all fled. The great Melar was never satisfied.”

Esme moved to stare silently out the window again. “The difference between my brothers and me was that I stayed with Father because I had grown to love magic. To impress him, or escape him—I don’t know which—I suggested I was ready to declare an alignment to properly begin training for the Test. ‘You’re a girl!’ he’d thundered. ‘You’ll be fortunate if you’re ever ready to take the Test.’ ”

A tear rolled down Esme’s cheek, and she dashed it away. “I knew that he was just afraid to lose control of me. What he didn’t know was that he already had. I slipped away that night and traveled to Wayreth. I never sent word.” Her thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “He had ways of finding me if he cared to know where I went.”

Esme fiercely wiped away the last of her tears. “So, you see, if I’m expelled, I’ve nowhere to go. I can’t return to Fangoth. My father would know I’ve failed, as he’d predicted.” She pounded a fist on the sill. “I couldn’t abide that, Rand!”

“You wouldn’t have to go home,” Guerrand said, standing close behind her. His arms went about her shoulders, and she let him pull her back against his chest. “We could start again someplace else. Together.”

“I would always know the truth,” she whispered so softly he couldn’t be sure he heard her. A huge, shuddering sigh racked her body, as if she were resigning herself to her fate. She turned suddenly in Guerrand’s embrace, gave a trembling smile, and pressed tear-streaked lips to his cheek. “Thank you.”

His eyes, so near her own, went wide. “For what?”

“For … saying that,” Esme said simply. She stirred in the embrace, and Guerrand reluctantly let her go. Grimacing, she lowered herself gingerly onto her cot, dragging her left leg up to rest. “Justarius’s elixir seems to be wearing off. I’d ask him for more, but he’s likely left for Wayreth, and I hate to ask Denbigh. Do you have any more of those herbs that helped me in the lab?”

Guerrand knelt by her solicitously. “You took all I had, but there are more in my chamber.” He jumped to his feet. “It’ll take me a few moments to mix them.”

Esme looked at him sweetly. “Would you mind?”

Guerrand hastened to the door, happy to help ease her suffering. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said. She smiled her appreciation as he disappeared into the antechamber.

Guerrand dashed through the formal dining area that bridged their rooms. It took him ten minutes to collect and crush a sufficient amount of dried peppermint and meadowsweet and steep it in oil of cloves.

Vial in hand, Guerrand dashed toward the door. On impulse, he checked his appearance in his looking glass, then wished he hadn’t. He looked like he’d been dragged through a knothole, but he hadn’t time even to change. Esme was in pain and waiting for his herbs.

Slicking a moistened hand over his mop of dark hair, Guerrand hastened back through the dining room. He forced his steps and breathing to slow in the antechamber. A sense of propriety suggested he knock at the door to her sleeping chamber. There was no answer. He waited and knocked again. When still there was no response, he poked his head through the curtain that hung in the doorway.

“Esme?” he whispered, wondering if she had fallen asleep after the day’s travails. What he found in the sleeping chamber nearly made him drop the vial he carried.

“Zagarus!”

The familiar was strutting back and forth on Esme’s cot. Guerrand saw his own pack at the bird’s feet, the flap open. The young woman herself was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Esme?” the apprentice demanded, his fingers growing cold about the vial of herbs when he saw the fragment of mirror on the chest by the cot.

She’s gone! She stepped into the mirror!
Zag pointed his beak at the glistening glass.

I flew to her window, looking for you so that I could slip into my nest in the mirror. Esme saw me but was busy stuffing her pack with components. Suddenly, she slung the pack over her shoulder and said, “I don’t know if you can understand me, but tell Rand I’ll be back in the time it takes to leap from the mirror, grab the spellbooks, and jump back here.” Those were her exact words
. Zagarus heaved a sigh of relief at having got through it all.
What did she mean, Rand?

“It means she went back to Belize’s,” Guerrand said numbly. He snatched up the mirror and felt the jagged edges press his flesh.

What are we going to do?

Guerrand sank down next to the bird and considered the question. He wasn’t so much angry at Esme as anxious. “Wait for her to return,” he said at last. “If everything goes well, she should be able to return in under ten minutes. She could be back any moment, then.” He remembered her splinted limb with a frustrated sigh. “I’ll give her a little more time for her leg.”

Guerrand let twenty minutes pass before he allowed the fear to pound at his temples. Where
was
she? He looked futilely at the mirror and closed his eyes. Something was wrong. He would not let his mind conjure possibilities. Only one thing was clear: he had to go and find her.

“Come on, Zag,” he said, mirror in hand as he raced back to his room. Guerrand snatched up herbs and other items he used for his best spells and added them to the spellbook he placed in his pack.

The apprentice glanced once more around his chamber and spied his swordbelt with sword and dagger, long unused, hanging from a wall peg. Whether due to a premonition or the memory of Belize’s monstrosities, Guerrand pulled it down and buckled it around his waist.

Guerrand set the mirror on his desk, then waved Zagarus into the glass first. Stretching his arms above his head as if swan-diving into the Strait of Ergoth, Guerrand slipped into the shiny surface of the magical mirror.

* * * * *

A heartbeat later in the foggy mirror world, Guerrand envisioned the looking glass in Belize’s laboratory and stepped through it. Instantly he sensed an unnatural stillness, like the calm after a violent thunderstorm. Holding
his breath, Guerrand walked around the shelves. His booted feet crunched over glass. The floor was covered with shattered beakers, colored preserving liquids, and assorted organ components. The shelves that had so recently been neatly stacked were now bare, swept clean. The stench was worse than he’d remembered.