Guerrand was puzzled. He'd expected anger and questions, but not disbelief. "Because they match the description we got from the men who brought Quinn
in," Guerrand said, more reasonably than he felt. "Call them back to identify these men. Check their bags—I'm sure you'll find more of Quinn's things."
With a nod of his head, Cormac instructed Milford to do just that. In moments the warrior's massive hands were filled with a standing-bowl bearing the DiThon crest and a book of poems and reflections with Quinn's name inked on the flyleaf.
Milford beamed at Guerrand with wide-eyed wonder. "Congratulations, young squire. You obviously perform better under pressure than you do in the training room. I'm sure the presiding cavaliers will want to discuss it, but I suspect this will qualify you for immediate knighthood. And on the eve of your wedding!" He turned to address Cormac. "What do you think, Lord DiThon?"
Cormac's smile was unnaturally tight. "I think we could not have hoped for more. Good work, Guerrand."
With that, Cormac began to fire orders. First, he told Kirah to get into the keep and dress properly; knowing his tone too well, Kirah scampered away with a pitying glance at Guerrand. Next he instructed several men-at-arms to take the still gagged and squirming bandits into the dungeon, where they would be questioned momentarily.
Then Cormac's angry eyes locked on to Guerrand, who swallowed hard under the scrutiny, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'll speak to you shortly in my study, Guerrand," his brother said crisply. "I would like to privately discuss just what your unexpected actions mean to me."
Chapter Five
"You made me look like a fool before all my servants, Guerrand." Cormac's voice was low, threatening.
"So that's what made you so angry in the courtyard." Guerrand still wore his sword, hoping a martial appearance might soften his brother's fury. He stood, rather than sat, to get the full benefit from the prop.
"Of course," said Cormac. "My men and I—seasoned cavaliers, all—have been searching for these bandits for days. You and a string bean of a girl—"
"That string bean is our sister."
"Half sister." Cormac glowered at Guerrand's interruption. "You ride into the courtyard with them all trussed up, as if it were as easy as... as... magic." Cormac's eyes widened in sudden understanding. "You used magic somehow, didn't you?"
Guerrand flinched at the accusation. Not that he hadn't expected it, but it came sooner than he hoped.
"You look like you were dressed for battle, but I'll wager..." Cormac bounded to his feet and prodded Guerrand in the ribs. A look that mixed satisfaction with disgust crossed his face. "You're not even wearing armor under that tunic, as I suspected. You never had any intention of fighting."
Cormac shook his head and paced across the room. "It all makes sense now. The bandit I questioned said you threw dirt at them, and then they fell unconscious."
Guerrand was incredulous. "Quinn's killers have been found, and you're more concerned about how I did it?" He shook his head in disbelief.
Cormac drained a goblet of wine in one gulp, then held the glass up to Guerrand in a mock toast. "Congratulations," he said, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What dark sorcerer's spell did you use to find and bring them here, Guerrand?"
"What does it matter?" asked Guerrand. "Isn't it enough that magic accomplished what ordinary measures could not?"
"Any good cavalier could have done the same thing! You could have called on those skills, instead of the evil secrets of magic."
Guerrand sneered. "We both know I'm not a good cavalier. Besides, you said yourself, well-trained knights already tried to defeat those bandits and failed.
"I've really tried to understand your hatred of magic, Cormac," he continued softly after a pause, "and now I finally do. It came to me suddenly that you're no different than me or anyone else. Behind your bluster, you're afraid of what you don't understand."
"I'm not afraid of anything!"
Guerrand arched one brow. "You don't sound fearless."
Cormac whirled on him. "How dare you? You know nothing of fear! Have you watched men die on your sword in battle? Have you struggled to maintain the lifestyle expected of a lord with more debt than income? No, you haven't." He thumped his chest. "I have. And because I've struggled for this family—for you—your life has been easy."
"Maybe I haven't killed a man, or even tried to understand your struggles," said Guerrand, "but neither do you know what my life has been like."
The young man stood, his face glowing. "Since Father died, I've toed the line—" he poked his brother's beefy shoulder "—your line—as best I could for the sake of family honor, because that's what Father taught me I must do. And I've been at your mercy because you held the purse strings, such as they are. I've even given up pursuing the one thing I always wanted, the only thing I've ever been good at."
Guerrand's expression was beyond bitter. "I've learned a valuable lesson this morning, Cormac— maybe the most important thing I've ever understood." He stood straight and tall before his brother for the first time. "Now that Quinn's dead, I'm the only male DiThon with a sense of family honor—or any honor at all." Guerrand unbuckled his sword belt and threw it on the floor.
Cormac's eyes narrowed in barely contained anger. "I will overlook your impudent remarks because soon our differences will no longer matter. You'll be living at one of Berwick's lavish estates, and I'll still be here, scraping along as best I can. I feel certain that one day, perhaps when you have children of your own, you will understand the sacrifices I've made on your behalf.
"And now, we'll speak no more in anger," Cormac announced with forced brightness. "So that we may peaceably draw to a close the years we have lived together, I forgive you the night's indiscretion. In an oddly convenient twist, you've provided the Council of Cavaliers with an excuse to knight you. In a matter of days you'll be married, and all this magic nonsense will be behind you." Cormac poured more of the ruby-colored wine into his glass, then splashed some into another snifter. Turning with a strained smile, he held out the second glass to his half brother.
Guerrand stared at it for a moment. Cormac nudged the glass closer to Guerrand's face, until the crimson wine was all that the youth could see.
"Take it, Guerrand. Let's drink a toast to your impending wedding—and knighthood." When Guerrand hesitated, Cormac pressed the wine on him one last time. "Drink this, you'll feel better."
Guerrand came to life and slapped away the glass and with it the patronizing suggestion. The crystal crashed to the floor and shattered, splashing Cormac's boots with the blood-red liquid. "You'll forgive me?" Guerrand shrieked. "You haven't heard a thing I've said! Well, hear this. I won't feel better just because you say so. I'll no longer do anything just because you say so." Guerrand snatched up his sword and stomped toward the door, kicking the broken glass from his path. "I'm done with bowing and scraping for some misplaced sense of duty."
"Wh-What do you mean?"
Hearing the fear and desperation in Cormac's voice, Guerrand howled with laughter. Poor, pathetic, deluded Cormac. As if the return of some rocky land could restore all that he'd lost through incompetence. "I'm not sure what I mean, Brother." Giving the door a satisfying slam in Cormac's red face, Guerrand strode down the corridor toward his room.
He was whistling.
Something darted out of the shadows and grabbed the young man's hand, startling him. "Rand!" he heard his nephew's voice cry softly. "Kirah says you captured Quinn's killers. I knew you were a better cavalier than my father said."
Guerrand gave Bram a warm smile. "You're half right, Bram. It's true we captured the rotters, but I'll forever be a lousy cavalier."
How a couple could produce such different children as Bram and Honora was beyond Guerrand's comprehension. He was just glad they had. He had long suspected Bram had a bit of magical talent in the area of herbs, so he'd intentionally stayed away from him, for Bram's own sake. He knew that Cormac and Rietta saw more simil
arities to Guerrand in Bram than they liked, and he did not wish to make the boy's life harder. The boy ... Guerrand realized with a start that Bram was nearly the age Quinn had been when he'd left on crusade. Just a half decade younger than Guerrand, Bram was closer in age to his uncle than Guerrand was to his own brother Cormac. The gulf seemed much wider, somehow.
Bram was puzzled by his uncle's obtuse answer. "Then how did you and Kirah catch them?"
"It's a long story better told when we're both older." Guerrand found himself hugging his nephew's already broad shoulders fiercely, which surprised them both. He realized now that he'd spoken incorrectly about being the only male DiThon with a sense of honor. He only hoped Bram would be able to hold on to his. "You're a good person, Bram. Remember to always do what you know in your heart is right."
This strangely timed advice confused Bram even more. He looked at the older man oddly as they separated, then strode down the hallway toward the staircase. "I'll remember, Rand," he called just before disappearing from sight.
Guerrand hastened toward his room. The hand he placed on the latch was shaking. By the time he got inside, the anger that had held him up before Cormac had burned away like fuel oil. He felt weak-kneed and wanted only to collapse; he would have if his armor had not been still spread across his bed, where he had left it the night before.
Guerrand slipped off his gauntlets. He shook the left one gently, letting the shard of magical glass slide onto a free space on the bed. His fingers met with the cool, smooth surface of Belize's mirror. For reasons he didn't quite understand, he avoided looking into the glass, placing the shard behind the washing bowl on his table.
He quickly cleared the bed and pulled off his tunic, breeches, and boots. Then Guerrand sank into the down quilt on his bed. His exhaustion was less of the body than of the mind, and yet the body was beyond tired, too, having skulked around and ridden on horseback all night. He half suspected Cormac would come pound on the door and try to continue the argument. Perhaps his elder brother was trying out some new-found wisdom. Guerrand thought it more likely that Cormac didn't know what to do and was discussing Guerrand's "abominable behavior" with Rietta, who would likely arrive any moment to set him straight.
The problem is, he thought, unable to stifle a groggy yawn, I'm no longer sure which way is straight.
*****
"Kyeow!" You look like something out of the Abyss!
Guerrand's eyes flew open. Propping himself up on one elbow, he squinted toward the tall, narrow window that overlooked the strait. Guerrand held a hand up to shield his eyes from the orange light he knew meant it was early evening; he'd slept the day away. His familiar stood on the sill, as if outlined by fire.
"Oh, hello, Zagarus." Guerrand rubbed the sleep from his eyes, more than a little surprised that Cormac had left him alone all day.
The black-backed sea gull leaped from the sill in one bound and strode across the room on his sticklike yellow legs. Hopping onto the bed, he took one step across the feather tick and, with a webbed foot, kicked Guerrand in the ribs.
"Oww!" cried Guerrand as he rolled away, more startled than hurt by the rubbery little foot. He glared at the sea gull. "What in Habbakuk's name is the matter with you?"
That, said the sea gull with an imperious tilt to his beak, is for having the biggest adventure since I've been your familiar and not telling me about it. He looked almost petulant, with his wings folded before him. I had to hear it from those preposterous pelicans who live out on Full Moon Point. It was humiliating!
"Let me assure you, my evening wasn't fun either." For Zagarus's sake, he swallowed a smile. "I'm sorry, Zag. I didn't tell you last night because I intended only to get proof that these men were Quinn's killers. Besides, I was afraid you'd tell Kirah and you'd both want to come along."
So you took Kirah!
"That wasn't my idea. She was spying and followed me to the stable. I either had to leave her on the moor or take her along to keep her quiet." Guerrand swung his legs out of bed and sat up, rubbing his neck. "I should have left her, too, because she almost got us killed!"
Zagarus's wings lifted in a shrug. Sounds to me like you should thank her. Now you're going to be a knight after all, just as you'd agreed.
"I don't want to be a knight!" Guerrand said furiously. He was tired of living a lie. The lie would just continue in a different place, with different people. He snatched up Ingrid's silver necklace from the small table on which it lay and squeezed it as if to crush it. "And I don't want to be married to Ingrid Berwick."
What do you want? Zagarus asked, his voice unnaturally soft inside the human's head.
The question surprised Guerrand. In recent years he'd spent more time thinking about what he didn't want. He sucked in a breath. Had he used Cormac's hatred of magic as an excuse to protect himself from failing? Guerrand had long ago convinced himself it wasn't his fault he'd not been allowed to study as a mage. And if he never tried, he'd never fail.
Guerrand picked up the small fragment of mirror behind the washbowl. "I want to be a mage. I want to become apprenticed to a mighty wizard and eventually take the Test at Wayreth."
What? It was more an exclamation of startlement than a question.
Guerrand told Zagarus of his meeting with Belize. He described his wonderment at the spells the mage had used so casually, told him of the thrill he'd felt when Belize invited him to Wayreth. Last, he set the mirror on the table and explained its role in capturing Quinn's killers.
The bird flapped over to the table and pushed the mirror with his foot. This little thing showed you where the bandits were?
"Easy, now," admonished Guerrand, extending his hand. "I don't want it broken."
Zagarus cocked his feathered brown-black head to the left and closed one eye. Does it do anything else?
"Frankly, it hadn't occurred to me that it could," Guerrand admitted. The young man peered at the mirror closely. "Do you suppose I can use it to see anything I want?"
You're the mage-in-waiting, replied Zagarus. His attention was riveted on a beetle crawling across the table toward the mirror. Tentatively, the insect felt its way onto the glass. As it approached the center, Zagarus struck, his head darting down to snatch up the hapless bug.
But instead of striking the glass, as he expected, Zagarus's beak closed around the beetle and kept on going. He froze, wide-eyed. Zagarus could feel the beetle squirming slightly against his tongue, and so he swallowed the tasty morsel. He could see his eyes reflected clearly in the mirror, which was practically touching his forehead. But he couldn't see his beak; it was inside the mirror!
The curious bird pushed his head forward and completely through the mirror. He looked right and left, up and down. The view was the same: gray and featureless. He could see only a few rods in any direction before even that view was obscured by a thin, dry, multicolored mist.
Without removing his head from the mirror, he called to Guerrand. Guerrand, can you still see me?
For an answer, Guerrand, a look of horror on his face, grabbed the bird by the wings and hauled his small head from the even smaller mirror. "What have you done, Zagarus?"
Zagarus blinked. I just pecked at the beetle, and there I was with my head in the mirror.
Guerrand could scarcely believe what he had seen. The bird's head looked to have disappeared into the impossibly small looking glass. "Were you really 'inside' it, Zagarus? What did it look like in there?"
It's hard to say, replied the sea gull. I can tell you that this mirror is a lot bigger on the inside than it looks from out here. Zag flexed his wings and tilted his head. I'll just take another look. Be right back!
"Wait!" cried Guerrand, but he was too late to stop his familiar from wiggling forward to push his neck through the mirror. There was a pause. Zagarus flipped his tail into the air the way Guerrand had seen him do countless times diving for food in the strait. It seemed quite impossible, but the bird's body, at least four times wider than the mirror, slipped between the e
dges and disappeared!
Guerrand lurched forward and stared, breathless, down at the mirror. He was afraid to touch it. All he saw was the reflection of his own eyes, big as shields. But the image in his mind was his last view of Zagarus, wiggling as he disappeared. Guerrand still could not understand how the much larger bird had fit through the tiny mirror, even though he'd seen it happen. Somehow, when it was happening, it made sense; the perspectives and proportions seemed right.
Zagarus had been gone some time, and Guerrand was beginning to get concerned. He called the bird mentally. Zagarus! Come out of there this minute!
Suddenly the shiny dark head popped straight up through the mirror. What now?
"Good gods, Zag, you terrified me!"
With a wiggle and a hop, Zagarus popped back out of the mirror and stood on the table. Guerrand shook his head in disbelief.
You're a mage, said Zagarus. How does it work?
"I'm not really a mage, and I don't know how the mirror works." Guerrand sat down heavily on the bed. "That pretty much sums up my whole problem, Zag. I'll never be a mage or know more about such magic if I stay here."
He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I can't shake the feeling that this is my last chance to decide how I'll spend the rest of my life," he said. "If I'm still here when the sun comes up, Cormac will have me. I'll be married to Ingrid Berwick and become a merchant lord and be miserably responsible forever."
So what are you waiting for? demanded Zagarus. You said before that it was your greatest wish to travel to Wayreth and become a real mage. He hopped toward the window and onto the sill, where soon the nearly full white moon, Solinari, would be visible.
"It's not that simple, and you know it. There's just so much to consider. What would I tell Cormac?"
That's simple, snorted the gull. Nothing. You tell him nothing. He'd stop you for sure, probably lock you up until the ceremony.
Guerrand frowned. "He's not a cruel man."
Defenders of Magic 01 - Night of the Eye Page 8