"My brother paid him to remain so."
Justarius arched a brow. "Should I expect your brother to pay me similarly?"
It was Guerrand's turn to laugh. Realizing it might sound disrespectful, he stopped, though with great difficulty. "No, sir. If my brother learned I had apprenticed myself to a mage, he'd, well... I don't know what he'd do, but it wouldn't be pleasant for me." Guerrand's mind flashed to a campfire in the foothills north of Palanthas, where he and Lyim had been attacked by the invisible creature. "He'd be more inclined to pay someone to kill me than anything else."
"That bad, eh?" Justarius gave Guerrand a sympathetic look and shook his head. "Who would have thought that such prejudice against magic would still exist so long after the persecution by the kingpriest? Well," he sighed, "I suppose there will always be ignorance. It's as important to maintaining the balance between Good and Evil as anything else."
Justarius looked to the star pattern on the tile before Guerrand. "How is your counting coming?"
The apprentice bit his lip and screwed up his courage. "Sir," he began, "I know an apprentice is not supposed to question his master's instructions, but I've counted these tiles for three days now, and I always come up with the same number of blue, red, and yellow pieces. I'm not sure what answer I'm expected to arrive at."
"And you can't see how any of this has anything to do with learning new spells, am I right?"
Guerrand's face brightened. Justarius did understand how he felt!
"I will tell you what my master told me when I did the tile exercise and asked the same question."
"Your master gave you this same exercise during your apprenticeship?"
"Of course. As Merick had been subjected to it by his master, and so on. In a proper apprenticeship you inherit long-held traditions, as in any family. This particular tradition is always held in this very room." Seeing Guerrand's confusion, Justarius briefly explained, "I inherited Villa Rosad upon my master's untimely death some years ago, but that's another story." He looked frustrated at having strayed from the topic. "Would you like to hear the explanation or not?"
Guerrand nodded eagerly and leaned forward.
"You will know the answer to the latter when you understand the former."
Guerrand could not keep his expression from deflating.
"How many green tiles are there?"
The question startled Guerrand. "One hundred thirty-three."
"Red?"
"Two hundred ten."
"Yellow?"
"Thirty-five, if you count the ones that have faded or worn down to beige."
Justarius nodded his approval, which sent a wave of happiness fluttering in Guerrand's chest.
"Now, close your eyes."
Guerrand slammed his eyes shut before thinking.
"Now, tell me how many of the two hundred ten red pieces are triangular-shaped? Keep your eyes closed!" Justarius barked, seeing Guerrand's lids flutter in confusion.
Not knowing what else to do, Guerrand squeezed his eyes tighter, leaned forward again, and pressed the tips of his fingers to the mosaic. How could he possibly tell the difference between colors with his eyes shut? Think, he prompted himself. Red formed the center of the star, before the points jutted out. Using the tips of his fingers to find cracks, he tried to determine the outline of the star. He even managed to find some triangular pieces, but he gave it up before long, unable to remember which tiles he'd already counted. Guerrand's fingers curled into a frustrated fist.
"Have you determined yet what relevance this exercise has for spellcasting?"
Guerrand chanced opening his eyes to met Justarius's. His master's were dark, patient, nonjudgmental. "I presume you're trying to teach me to memorize."
Justarius wagged a finger and shook his head. "Unh-unh, but you're close. I'm trying to get you to visualize."
Guerrand's expression told Justarius that the apprentice saw little distinction between the two.
"Guerrand," he murmured, "the difference is as wide as an ocean! Your understanding of it will determine whether you'll progress beyond the simple spells that can be cast by anyone who can read, like the ones you knew when you came here."
Justarius thrust the tip of his walking stick to the center of the star. "Most masters will tell you that memorization is everything—Belize would say that. They're all wrong. Or at least only partially right. It is true that anyone who is able to memorize the right combination of words, gestures, and materials can cast a spell. Your brother who loathes magic could do it, if he chose to."
The archmage used both hands to shift his crippled leg. "But if you wish to rise above those who practice magic by rote, you must have more than a cursory understanding of how magic works. Let me give you an example: You can mindlessly repeat the words of a ballad, or you can truly hear their meaning. You must have a passion for that understanding, not just for the power such magic can provide. Only then can you tap into the extradimensional source of energy from which true magic springs."
Guerrand's head was starting to reel, yet he was fascinated. Justarius looked into his eyes and judged that he could take still more.
"The proper performance of magic—even one spell—is as taxing to the mind as rowing a longship alone would be to the body. Illogical mathematics, alchemical chemistry, structured linguistics... The mage must use these disciplines to shape specific, twisted mental patterns that are so complicated and alien to normal thought that they defy the conventional process of memorization. Confounding this further, he must account for subtle changes like seasons, time of day, planetary motions, position of the moons, that sort of thing. Rote memorization cannot accommodate these changes. But a passionate understanding of the workings of magic, achieved through the use of visualization, can. The reward after years of study—the advantage of this discipline—is the ability to combine disparate elements to create new spells."
"I had no idea it was so complicated," said Guerrand faintly.
Standing with difficulty, Justarius scratched his head. "I must be slipping in my advancing age," he said, backing away one faltering step. "I can see I've given you almost too much to think about."
"I will think about it—all of it," Guerrand promised. "Passion for the magic, not the power," he repeated solemnly.
"That's the key," nodded Justarius. "And now I've turned you all somber again. Think about it for a while if you must, then go row a longship or something to balance out your mind and body." With that, Justarius limped toward the archway of the summer dining room. Suddenly he snapped his fingers, stopped, and turned.
"One last thing, Guerrand," said the mage. "Please instruct your familiar to not treat the villa like the bottom of a bird cage. Denbigh has been complaining."
Guerrand's eyes went wide. How did Justarius know about Zagarus? Sea gulls circled and strutted about the villa constantly, and he'd been extremely careful not to single Zagarus out in any way. In fact, Zag spent most of his time in the mirror, except when Guerrand let him out in the confines of his room. Zagarus would then fly out the window to feed.
"How did you know?"
Justarius had been watching with amusement as Guerrand deliberated. "If a mage wishes for a long life, there is very little that happens in his home about which he is unaware," he said, idly twisting the plain gold band around his right index finger. "You would be wise to remember that."
Noting Guerrand's expression of shame, the mage added, "Buck up, lad. I'm not criticizing. You were right to not tell me about your bird. A mage should protect the identity of his familiar, since it makes him vulnerable. Frankly, I was impressed that you were able to master the spell that summons a familiar in the first place. It reaffirms my initial opinion of you."
Justarius turned again to the archway, dragging his left leg behind him. "Before you get too full of yourself, just remember the droppings, or Denbigh will have both our heads."
Guerrand chuckled, managing at last to find the humor in the situation. But then he remembered
his promise to Justarius. He stared more intently than ever at the mosaic star, noticing and noting details he'd not seen before. He was just about to close his eyes to see how well he could visualize the colorful image in his head, when he heard another set of footsteps, light and even, in the doorway behind him.
"You'll have to forgive our master. He always forgets food," Guerrand heard Esme say. "Justarius lives on lemon water alone and thinks everyone else can, as well. I brought you a bit of cheese, cured pig, and an apricot fresh from the garden." The young woman came around to stand beside his kneeling form.
"Ah, the tile exercise," she said sympathetically, taking note of his posture and closed eyes.
Guerrand slowly opened one eye, then the other to regard her. "How long did it take you?"
The smooth, flawless skin of her cheeks flushed. "One day. But it took me five to find the villa," she added quickly.
Guerrand smiled gratefully at the nod to his ego. He'd managed to stumble upon Justarius's unmarked home in a day and a half. It had taken him a while to realize that the references to "eye" and "keyhole" in the riddle were setting up a straight line. When the "eye" of the sun was placed to the "keyhole" of the tower—the summit of the Tower of High Sorcery—the eye would be looking where the tower's shadow fell. The trick was following the tower's shadow as it moved across the city until the right time — midmorning, "morning's midlife."
"Can you give me your secrets for understanding the memorization versus visualization riddle?"
Esme smiled ruefully. "None that would really help you. I liken it to that parlor game, where you're shown a picture and asked whether you see the oil lamp or the two ladies in profile. One day the clouds seem to open up and you simply stop seeing the lamp and start seeing the ladies." She shrugged. "Or whichever way it's supposed to be."
Sighing, Guerrand took a spiritless bite of the cheese. "I fear I'll always see the lamp."
'Justarius would not have chosen you if you weren't capable of seeing both."
Guerrand studied her beautiful, guileless face for a moment and realized she spoke truthfully. "Tell me about yourself, Esme," he prompted.
"Shouldn't you still be counting tiles?"
"If I count one more ceramic square my head will explode!" Guerrand stood and lifted the tray of food she'd brought him. "I need a break," he announced. "Will you join me for lunch in the peristyle, the atrium—I don't care if we talk in the kitchen fireplace! I've got to get away from these tiles."
Laughing, Esme looped her hand through Guerrand's arm as they passed through the doorway. Villa Rosad was laid out in a rectangle, with all rooms overlooking the large open-air garden the Palanthians called a peristyle. Instantly, the feeling of closed-in coolness gave way to the warmth of the summer day in the courtyard. A colonnade of unblemished white marble entirely ringed the formal garden in the center of the villa. Through the pillars, over planters of vibrant orange and yellow wallflowers and minty lotus vine, came the sound of running water, adding to the tranquility of the setting. The air smelled moist, refreshingly green. Moss crawled between cracks in the worn-smooth paving stones beneath their feet.
Guerrand went to his favorite table, a cool, circular piece of green-veined marble supported at equidistant points by three white marble statues of lions. Tucking his long legs beneath the table, Guerrand bumped his knee against the maned head of one of the leonine figures.
"Watch out," he admonished Esme with a mischievous smile as she sat down opposite him. "The lions bite." He rubbed his knee for effect.
"It's good to see you smiling," the lovely young woman said kindly. "I believe that's one of the first smiles I've seen in the months since you arrived."
"I guess I'm out of practice," Guerrand said distantly, staring at the stream of water spewing from the mouth of a pale cherub fountain in the fishpond. "There wasn't much laughter in the castle where I grew up, at least not in the last ten years or so."
"A castle? That doesn't sound like such a bad place to grow up."
Her tone made him aware of how he'd sounded, and he was ashamed. "I never meant to imply ... What I mean is, it was a comfortable enough place, just not very happy. No one in it was very happy." Especially now, after I backed out of Cormac's plans.
"You, neither?"
"Me, especially."
"And you're happier here?"
Guerrand's gaze penetrated Esme's golden eyes. "I can honestly say that I've never been happier in my life. I'm thrilled with my tiny cell of a room. I love hunkering over thick, dusty tomes in the library, and I delight in arguing with the bizarre ascetics who run it." He paused, reflecting. "But I'm happiest when I'm bent over the same ceramic tiles I've counted for days and I begin to understand why I'm doing it."
She smiled her agreement. "It's a marvelous feeling, succeeding at something everyone always told you you'd never be able to do."
Guerrand sat back, startled. "Did Justarius tell you that?"
Esme looked equally puzzled. "Why would I need Justarius to tell me my own life?"
"I don't understand—"
Esme frowned and began nibbling a nail. "What's to understand? Like most men, my father's ambitions for me began with marriage and ended with babies. Becoming a mage was a worthy enough goal, but only for his sons."
"So did they?"
"Become mages? No..." Esme looked as if she were about to explain, then thought better of it and shook her head. "No, they didn't."
Guerrand took a bite of cheese. "At least your father didn't believe that mages should be wiped from the face of the land."
Esme gave an unladylike snort. "My life might have been easier if he had." Looking at him, she asked, "I presume from your tone that your father didn't approve of mages?"
"No, it's my elder brother who thinks mages are the lowest form of life." He sank his teeth into a fuzzy apricot and swallowed a bite before continuing. "As for my father, I suspect from his library that he had more than a passing interest in magic. But it doesn't really matter now. He's been dead for ten years."
Esme's fine eyebrows raised. "About the time people stopped smiling in your castle."
Guerrand smirked with dark humor. "Kirah and I spent a fair amount of time laughing behind the backs of Cormac and his nasty wife. Does that count as smiling?"
"Kirah?" A strange look came across Esme's face. "It depends on who she is. If she's a pet, then no. However, if she's a sweetheart, or a wife perhaps?"
Guerrand threw back his dark head and laughed out loud. "A wife?" He snickered. "It's hard to imagine Kirah ever being a wife, which is a pronouncement she'd be happy to hear. Pet would come a lot closer to describing her...."
Esme's gaze was stony.
"She's my kid sister," Guerrand chortled at last, ducking from the square of cheese she threw at him for teasing her. "You'd like her, I'm certain. In an odd sort of way, you remind me of her. You're both blond. She's willful, independent, impulsive, and despises it when someone underestimates her because she's a girl. She's a scrappy little thing who looks more ragamuffin than ladylike—or even human—most of the time."
"Are you implying I don't look like a lady?"
Esme was baiting him, and he knew it. The look he gave her was so deadly serious she couldn't look away. He said the first thing that came to mind. "I think you're the most beautiful lady I've ever seen in my life." Abruptly he wished he could bite off his tongue.
When at last Esme was able to tear her gaze away, her cheeks were flushed. She tried to think of something witty, something kind to say in return, but her thoughts refused to settle. "I think I would like your sister Kirah quite a lot, Rand," she managed at last.
Just then, Justarius's disconcerting manservant approached them from the kitchens. Even after several months, Guerrand could scarcely suppress a shudder at the sight of the hideous owlbear. The name was appropriate enough for the nearly eight-foot-tall creature that looked like a cross between a giant owl and a bear. Denbigh had a thick coat of ocher-colored fea
thers and fur. The eyes above his sharp, ivory beak were red-rimmed and heavy-lidded. Around his neck hung a string of shrunken skulls separated by threaded fangs.
Denbigh reached a sharp claw toward Esme. She calmly took the tankard the manservant offered her. "Thank you, Denbigh. How did you know I needed a drink?"
"Denbigh not," snarled the owlbear in a voice that sounded like a nail on ice. "Orders."
"Well, thank you just the same," Esme said, unfazed. She leaned back in her chair and sipped her drink.
Seeing the claw reach for his own tankard on the table, Guerrand quickly put his hand over the top. "Don't worry, Denbigh. I have enough."
"Denbigh not worry," he snapped. The owlbear shuffled away, looking horribly out of place in the perfectly manicured garden. Guerrand shuddered again, watching him depart for the kitchens.
"You still don't feel comfortable around Denbigh, do you?"
"No, I must confess I don't. The servants I'm accustomed to don't have fur or snap at you."
Esme shrugged. "Considering that owlbears aren't known for their courteous natures, Denbigh does pretty well, I think."
"What kind of name is that for an owlbear, anyway?"
"It's the name given to every manservant who's ever worked here. I suspect Denbigh's owlbear name would be pretty unpronounceable to us anyway."
Guerrand frowned. "Why doesn't Justarius hire something, well, a little more human-looking?"
"Three reasons, I think. Believe it or not, Denbigh runs the villa quite efficiently If he were more pleasant to look at, all of the other mages would try to buy him away I think you can guess the third reason, after doing the tile exercise. Justarius doesn't judge something's worth by the outer package; he visualizes the inner owlbear."
"Frankly, I can't see that the inside of an owlbear looks any better than the outside," said Guerrand with a playful grin, "but I know what you mean."
"Speaking of judging the inside of a person," said Esme, artlessly twirling her tankard between her hands, "how well do you know Lyim Rhistadt?"
"Lyim?" Guerrand repeated stupidly, startled by the abrupt change in subject. "Not well. Well enough. Why?"
Defenders of Magic 01 - Night of the Eye Page 15