Defenders of Magic 01 - Night of the Eye

by Scorpion ZS 256

  "I was just wondering," she said. "You two seem to spend a fair amount of your free time together, yet you seem so different."

  "I'll grant you we're opposites," he said, leaning back to ponder. "At first our friendship was based on convenience; we were two apprentices headed for Palanthas. But I've come to admire Lyim. He has a great deal of natural talent. And he seems to draw excitement to him, like a moth to a flame."

  Esme nodded her agreement. "I'll admit he's intriguing. Lyim has an air of reckless danger about him."

  Did he detect more than a casual interest in her voice? Guerrand felt his chest tighten. What difference does it make if Esme is interested in Lyim, he scolded himself. I've got but one thing to do here in Palanthas, and that's learn magic. I can't allow myself to be distracted.

  Suddenly, both Esme and Guerrand's heads shot up as they heard Denbigh's long claws scraping over the paving stones toward them again. Behind the shuffling, vicious-looking owlbear was the very apprentice mage of whom they'd been speaking.

  Guerrand felt his mood dip further. Lyim was impeccably dressed in an outfit Guerrand had not seen before. Lyim reminded him of a strutting peacock, a comparison he'd bet Lyim would enjoy.

  The other apprentice had traded his enveloping robe for a crimson velvet cape that splashed over his shoulders and flowed to the floor like a waterfall of blood. Beneath the cape was a black and crimson tunic heavily embroidered with thick silver and gold threads. The tunic was gathered into the waistband of lacquered black leather trousers. They were, in turn, tucked into calf-high cuffed leather boots that had been inlaid with bright crimson-dyed leather in the shape of two, great, stretching dragons.

  "Understated, but I like it," pronounced Guerrand with a smirk. Lyim looked more like a dashing cavalier than a typically dowdy mage.

  "Good day, fellow apprentices." Bowing, Lyim swept the feathered cap from his wavy, shoulder-length dark hair, displaying a fashionable thick braid down the back. He preened and spun in a circle for their benefit. "It's a far cry from those dreadful burlap robes I must wear at Belize's when studying." Blinking, he finally noticed Esme and Guerrand in the plain garb they were required to wear at Villa Rosad. "It looks perfectly fine for you, Guerrand," he managed without a blush. "As for Esme, she would look enchanting in a barrel."

  "Thank you... I think," said Esme with a frown.

  "That costume must have cost a fortune," murmured Guerrand, his eyes taking in the detail and craftsmanship. There was no note of envy in his voice; Guerrand knew better than to try to compete with Lyim—or anyone—in the category of haute couture.

  "Spoken like the noble who would know," said Lyim, still preening. At last he pulled out a chair and carefully lowered himself into it so as not to crease anything. He leaned forward abruptly on his elbow. "Actually, it cost me not one steel piece," he whispered conspiratorially. "It's amazing what shopkeepers are willing to give you when you mention that you're apprentice to the Master of the Red Robes. You should try it," he said, nodding his head at both of them. "Justarius isn't as important, of course, but I'd wager you'd get something."

  Guerrand shook his head. Lyim's tactics might have amused him, if it didn't remind him so painfully of the way Rietta did business. He should have been indignant at Lyim's own form of extortion, yet he wasn't. It was difficult to explain, but there was a difference in intent between Lyim and Rietta.

  If the flamboyant apprentice was unaware of the insult he'd leveled against their master, Esme wasn't. Guerrand could see her bristling, forming a scathing reply. Suddenly, her expression softened and she looked at Lyim with exaggerated pleasantness.

  "Speaking of the great Belize," she said, "how are your lessons progressing, Lyim? Learn how to polymorph yet?" Guerrand swallowed a laugh—it was a spell years beyond any of their abilities.

  Predictably, Lyim was oblivious to her sarcasm. He slipped a piece of cured ham from Guerrand's plate and held it high to nibble while he spoke. "The instruction is going quite well, I believe. Well enough for Belize to let me alone with his spellbooks, anyway. You remember me mentioning his published works, don't you Guerrand?" His friend nodded. "I finally have a set at my disposal. Before Belize left, he instructed me to spend a minimum of two hours each day memorizing specific spells."

  "Left?" squealed Esme. "You mean he's not even home with you?"

  Lyim unconcernedly munched the ham. "He's gone more and more these days. Even when he's at home, he's frequently locked away doing research." Lyim shrugged. "The Master of the Red Robes is a busy man."

  "He just hands you manuals?"

  Lyim grinned. "A beautiful arrangement, isn't it? Who said apprenticing was difficult? I get to live in a gorgeous villa and read the master's books, and my afternoons and evenings are my own." He put his booted feet up on the marble table and leaned back lazily with his hands behind his head. "It certainly fits in well with my style."

  Esme merely shook her head in disbelief.

  "I've already added three new entries to my own spellbook," said Lyim. "I'll demonstrate one for you both tonight, if you're good and come along with me to this wonderful little inn I know on the waterfront. It's a bit seedy, but aren't most truly interesting places? It's quite safe enough, at least for mages. Still, Esme, you should wear your arm bracelet."

  Guerrand waved him off. "I'd really like to, Lyim, but I've too much studying to do. I've an exercise that's taken me two days too long already, and—"

  Lyim looked around the peristyle. "I don't even see you reading a spellbook. What's so important that it can't wait until morning?"

  "It's this tile thing, and—"

  "I'll go with you, Lyim," cut in Esme, surprising Guerrand, "if we can stop at the library on the way."

  Lyim's handsome face lit up. "The library isn't really on the way, but for you, dear lady," he said as he stood and bowed deeply, "I would circle Palanthas twice on foot, if that were your desire."

  To Guerrand's amusement, Esme rolled her eyes. "Fortunately for you, Lyim, it isn't." Still, a smile lit her face, bespeaking her pleasure at the compliment.

  "Esme, don't you have studying to do as well?" Guerrand could not stop himself from asking her hastily.

  "If keeping Lyim occupied will prevent him from bothering you," she said lightly, "I'm happy to do it. I was intending to make a trip to the library, anyway."

  Esme stood and pushed back her chair. "Goodness, the sun is all the way across the peristyle already. I'll meet you momentarily in the atrium," she said to Lyim, "after I change into a barrel." The young woman was smirking as she strode on light feet from the room.

  "Good luck with the tiles, Rand," she called over her shoulder. "Perhaps we can discuss ladies and oil lamps further, if you're still awake when I get home." With that, she was gone, leaving Guerrand mightily confused.

  "She's a delight!" cried Lyim, looking after her with a lecherous grin. "I swear, Rand, I don't know how you get a thing done here with her to distract you all the time."

  "Unlike Belize," ground out Guerrand with thinly veiled annoyance, "Justarius expects his apprentices to study continuously. Esme and I really don't have much opportunity to see each other." Feeling the onset of an ugly mood, Guerrand touched a hand to his throbbing temples.

  "What a shame," murmured Lyim, his tone suggesting he thought it anything but. He stood with a satisfied sigh. Using the lily pond for a mirror, Lyim straightened his clothing and smoothed his hair with a hand he'd dipped into the water. "Well, I'm off. Wish me luck." Looking at his reflection in the water, he placed his feathered hat at a jaunty angle, preparing to leave.

  I wish you'd trip in a hole, Guerrand thought darkly. "You don't need luck," he snarled instead. "You're just going to an inn."

  "With a pretty lass, I might add," Lyim said brightly. He appeared at last to notice Guerrand's mood. "You seem out of sorts, chum. You know what they say, 'all work and no play makes Rand a grumpy man.' Or something like that."

  Scowling, Guerrand watched with a
mixture of envy and annoyance as the other apprentice left. Of course Esme would find him more interesting. Lyim was as handsome as Esme was beautiful. He had committed to memory three new spells, while Guerrand had not yet solved the stupid tile exercise. Esme had obviously been so embarrassed for him she'd thought it necessary to cut off his explanation. He felt his cheeks grow hot at the memory.

  Before even he knew what was happening, Guerrand swept the plate and tankards from the table in rage. The heavy marble plate cracked along a vein and fell into pieces. Fragments flew into the lily pond, scattering the large orange fish. The tankards bounced to a stop, the liquid inside splashing everywhere.

  Guerrand's hand flew to his mouth. He could scarcely believe what he'd done. It was so unlike him to succumb to anger. The sheepish apprentice stooped to collect the pieces of the broken plate, glad no one had witnessed his passionate display. Guerrand's fingers met with the cool, jagged shapes. Almost out of habit, his eyes sank shut, and he visualized each piece by gingerly tracing its edges.

  Guerrand's eyes flew open. Something inside him had changed. His mind felt clear, refreshed. He was ready to return to counting tiles. Jumping to his feet, Guerrand raced from the peristyle. This time he was certain he would see the two ladies instead of the lamp.

  Chapter Eleven

  The gilt-edged porcelain teacup and saucer lifted in scant, jerky motions from the top of the crowded desk. The delicate cup chattered against the saucer. Hearing it, Guerrand squeezed his eyes shut more tightly against distraction and grasped the small leather loop that was the material component for the spell that would lift the cup. He held the loop, had already spoken the magical words. The hitch had to be in his memorization of the spell.

  Guerrand forced his mind to focus on the mathematical equation, visualized the pattern in his mind, followed by the mental picture of a floating cup. He could almost hear a cosmic ping as all elements of the spell came together. When he opened his eyes, he wasn't surprised to see the cup and saucer floating smoothly above the table for the first time. He was, however, delighted.

  "Look, Zag! I've finally done it!"

  Perched on the sill of Guerrand's small room in the villa, the sea gull lazily opened one beady eye. Congratulations. You've managed to lift a teacup, something you've been able to do with your hands since you were in short pants, I'll wager.

  Guerrand frowned and snatched the cup from the air to press his lips to the golden rim. "That's not the point," he said after taking a sip. "Justarius says the levitate spell can be one of the most useful in a mage's repertoire."

  Zagarus opened both eyes. It's good to know that if you ever lose both arms, the bird said wryly, you'll still be able to take tea.

  "I don't know why I ever let you out of that mirror," said Guerrand with a good-natured chuckle. "It seems you're always either making fun of me or causing trouble." Guerrand set aside the teacup and saucer. "What does it look like in there, anyway?"

  In the mirror? repeated Zagarus dully. Like a foggy cave, only without walls. I've made it a little nicer, taken in some twigs and such for a nest.

  Belize's tiny mirror had turned out to be more useful to Guerrand than even that venerable mage could have anticipated. Zagarus had made it his home, claiming it was quite comfortable, warm, and dry. It also made a perfect hiding place for the familiar when he didn't want to be seen or disturbed.

  "Can you look out of it and see me?" asked Guerrand.

  Afraid I'm spying on you, eh? Zagarus scratched beneath his wing with his beak. You needn't worry. There's just a flat, shimmery wall, like a mirror that's lost its silver. At best I see fuzzy outlines moving around. Most of the time you have the mirror in a sack or pocket or drawer, so I can't see even that much.

  "That's it? Is there weather or light or sound?"

  Zagarus blinked, thinking. It is surprisingly noisy at times, like someone walking or talking in the back of the, well, cave. I've thought about exploring, but—

  "Don't," said Guerrand firmly. "I don't need you poking around in there and getting us both into trouble. We have no idea what's in there. In fact, if you hear any more noise, we'll keep you out entirely."

  I've been going in and out of it for months and nothing has happened, said Zagarus. I think it's safe enough.

  "Perhaps you could go back in now," suggested Guerrand curtly, "or fly down to the harbor and eat and visit with friends. I really do need to concentrate."

  It was more important than ever that Guerrand be able to study quietly. The concept of visualization was slowly coming to him. It had been nearly two months since Justarius had first explained the discipline that, with perseverance, would one day allow him to tailor his own spells. Late that same night—near early morning—he'd finally made the change from seeing only the "lamp" to the "ladies," as Esme had likened it.

  The pace of his study had accelerated rapidly from that moment on. He still was not casting very many new spells, however. Due partly to the season, early autumn, Justarius had him cutting, drying, and measuring herbs and other components. He knew the name of every hillside weed and root and vegetable.

  Hanging from his ceiling were drying clumps of sumac berries, poison oak leaves, and licorice root. Lining the narrow shelf that circled the room were marble apothecary bowls of split dried peas, red rose petals, powdered herring scales, and talc. On his small wooden study desk were liquid-filled glass beakers of grasshoppers and slugs, owl feathers in wine, the tongue of a snake, and the heart of a hen. Under his rope — and — straw bed were stored bags of colored sand, coarse sea salt, ground mica, powdered sulfur and garlic, and powdered rhubarb leaf. Lying about were various sticks of beeswax and pine tar, crystal rods. animal horns, magnets, and scrolls.

  Being a magic-user certainly is a messy job, remarked Zagarus. I remember when there used to be room for a bird to sit down in here. Do you really need all this horrid-looking stuff?

  "Horrid-looking stuff?" Guerrand snorted. "That's rich, coming from a creature who will, I've seen with my own eyes, eat an old dead fish off the beach!"

  Zagarus lifted his yellow beak imperiously. That's different.

  Guerrand rolled his eyes. "To answer your question, I don't use all of these spell components now, but Justarius says I'll need them eventually Many mages simply buy what they need from alchemists and apothecaries, but Justarius says that, aside from the exorbitant cost, a mage can never be quite sure of the quality of what he's buying."

  Justarius says, Justarius says, mimicked the bird. I don't think in all the years you were a squire I ever heard you say 'Milford says.'

  "That's because I never once cared what he said." Guerrand was absorbed in crumbling dried violets into a bowl. "Oh, Milford was a decent enough fellow, probably a good teacher, too. I simply was never very interested in the proper way to stab another man with a lance."

  It could be useful some day, Zagarus replied. Suddenly, he craned his neck to look over his wing and out the window. Do you hear that? The festival has begun.

  Guerrand strode over to the window. He could hear chimes ringing all over the city of Palanthas. Neighbors in nearby villas in the surrounding hills were ringing bells of their own. Brightly colored pennants fluttered all over the plaza, visible even from Villa Rosad beyond the old city wall.

  "Yes, I guess you're right," Guerrand said mildly, returning to his study desk. Jabbing his quill into a dark inkpot, he began to carefully scratch a few notes next to the levitate entry in his open spellbook.

  Held loop, recited mathematical and verbal equations, with little success. Repeated pattern, adding somatic visualization; teacup and saucer rose with the steadiness of a suspended bucket. Again, the key seems to be visualization. Dated Boreadai, the twelfth day of Hiddumont in the year AC—

  Guerrand's writing hand was abruptly pushed across the spellbook as Zagarus's great weight descended on his right shoulder.

  "What do you think you're doing, you great oaf?" the apprentice demanded angrily. "You nearly rui
ned my entry!" Pushing the bird unceremoniously from his shoulder, he snatched up a pinch of clean white sand from a bowl and sprinkled it over the ink to aid in drying. "Lucky for you, the quill was nearly dry."

  I want to go to the Festival of Knights.

  "So go!"

  Don't you want to?

  "Not particularly."

  Why not? Because you're afraid you'll run into Esme? Or worse still, that you'll see her and she'll be with Lyim?

  Guerrand scowled at the bird. "What are you now, a mind reader?"

  I'm right, aren't I?

  "No!" Guerrand brushed away the sand. "And even if you were, it's a big city. It's very unlikely that I'd run into anyone I know."

  Zagarus flew back to the sill. So, what's stopping you from going? You used to enjoy the village festivals in Thonvil, as I recall. You're becoming a regular recluse here. And whether you admit it or not, you've been avoiding Esme like the plague.

  Guerrand snatched up the quill again. "I have not!"

  She's asked you to accompany her to the library and a dozen other places, and you've said no every time. Yet you gad about frequently with that rascal, Lyim.

  Guerrand's brows knit together in a dark, angry line over his eyes. "You never did tell me how well you could hear inside that mirror, did you? From now on I'll remember to leave it in my room."

  With that angry retort, Guerrand turned his back on Zagarus, pointedly ignoring the bird. Zag merely remained silent, waiting.

  His silence only annoyed his master. "Look, Zag," Guerrand said at last, whirling around, "you know full well that I came to Palanthas to study, not to dance attendance on some flighty, fickle girl whose head gets turned by every other apprentice—" Where had that bitter nonsense come from? Guerrand asked himself. That didn't describe Esme at all.

  He held his breath a moment, then let it out slowly. "If you must know the truth, I suspect that Cormac—or possibly the Berwicks—have sent someone after me to, well, I don't think they've come to fetch me." Guerrand turned back to his desk, though he really didn't feel like studying anymore.