Guerrand was intrigued and annoyed at the same time. But he was more intrigued. “How did you do that?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Guerrand. I’m quite certain you know the answer.” He replaced the pommel in the empty space on the shelf. “You’re capable of mastering such simple spells, if you haven’t already.”
Guerrand’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know so much about me—and why?”
The mage’s eyebrows raised in obvious amusement. “Those are two entirely different questions. Which would you have me answer first?”
Guerrand shrugged, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. “I guess you’ve used magic to learn about me. What I can’t figure out is why.”
“As you wish.” He looked about the small, hot shop with undisguised disgust and wiped his brow on a long, red cuff. “Why do people work in such unpleasant conditions, when there is magic? But then, one might ask why, when there is magic, they work at all.”
“Magic can’t do everything!” spat Guerrand, feeling strangely defensive for the honest shopkeepers of Thonvil.
“Can’t it?” The mage looked surprised, as if the possibility had never occurred to him. Brushing his hands together, he said, “Well, if we’re to converse here, let’s be comfortable.”
With a mumbled word and a wave of his hand, the fire in the furnace dropped away to the tiniest of glows and a cool, refreshing breeze wafted through the shop. Reflexively Guerrand looked back over his shoulder. The door and shutters were still closed and barred, yet the breeze was unmistakably coming from that direction. At the same time, a bench slid out from beneath one of Wilor’s apprentices and skittered across the floor to where the two men stood. The apprentice hung in the air in an impossible posture, suspended over nothing.
The magic only added to Guerrand’s discomfort. He gave a glance to the mannequin-stiff silversmith and his wife, their expressions unchanged. He relaxed slightly and lowered himself onto the bench opposite the mage.
“I feel at a disadvantage in more ways than one. I don’t even know your name.”
“Belize.”
Guerrand waited for him to continue, but the mage simply sat, staring over steepled fingernails. “All right, I’ll ask again. Why have you sought me out? What do you want from me?” His eyes narrowed still further as a dark thought dawned on him. “Do you mean to blackmail me, to tell my brother I secretly practice magic?” Guerrand leaned forward angrily. “If so, I’ll simply deny it! You’ll get nothing from me!”
The mage threw back his head and laughed, a hideous, hiccuping sound, as if his throat were unused to the activity. “That’s too absurd! I know the DiThons are penniless. As if I needed coin.”
“Then why were you speaking to Cormac?”
Instantly, the mage’s expression turned angry-black. “That was other business. Do not speak of it again.”
“Let’s stop boxing,” said Guerrand. “Just tell me, what do you want from me?”
“What I want for you would be a more accurate question.”
Gritting his teeth, Guerrand willed patience. After an interminable amount of time, it paid off.
“You must go to the Tower of Wayreth.”
Guerrand could not have been more stunned by the pronouncement. He knew the place to which Belize referred. What hopeful mage did not? In order to learn any advanced magic, one had to go to Wayreth, enter his name on the roll of apprentices, and eventually take the Test. It was rumored to be dangerous. Yet, following any other path branded a mage as an outlaw who could be hunted and destroyed with the endorsement of a ruling council of mages. Once, years ago, Guerrand had considered making the trip. That was when he still thought there was a chance he might study in Gwynned. That hope had long since died.
“Now you’re being absurd,” said Guerrand. At that moment, he didn’t care if Belize struck him dead for his impudence.
But the mage was unmoved by the response. “My … observations tell me you have learned as much as you can without a proper master.”
“Do you think so?” The long overdue praise dropped the last vestiges of Guerrand’s guard, even made him overlook the intrusion of being the subject of Belize’s scrutiny. He could scarcely keep the butterflies of excitement from fluttering in his chest. He leaned forward eagerly. “I haven’t had a proper teacher, or any, even.” He laughed giddily. “I’ve taught myself from several spellbooks I found in my father’s library, before he died. Cormac scarcely reads—he never even knew they were there.”
“It’s not uncommon for hopeful mages to come to the tower with very little training. Few have learned as much as you, however. But if you go to Wayreth, you’ll be apprenticed to a learned mage who would teach you more than you can even imagine now.”
Belize was speaking as if the deed were as good as done! Guerrand had seen apprentices all his life, like those here in Wilor’s shop. As a squire, he was an apprentice of sorts. But he knew little about magical apprenticeship, and even less about the Test.
“What’s the Test like?” he asked, now that he had the chance to learn of it. “Is it as dangerous as I’ve heard? Long? Costly?”
Chuckling, Belize held up his hands as if to fend off the barrage of questions. “Slow down. First, the Test is different for everyone, tailored to the entrant. Second, it is always difficult. Third, it can last for days, or minutes, depending on the ability of the mage. Fourth, the cost is only that the mage must pledge his life to magic.”
“Mages have passed the Test in minutes?”
“I did not say they passed.”
Guerrand looked for Belize to continue, but the mage did not. “What happens to those who fail?”
“Failure means death.”
Guerrand blinked. “Do many fail?”
“Only the weak and unready.”
Guerrand stood to pace around his chair. “Why me?”
“You might think of me as a recruiter,” said Belize. “I seek to increase the role and status of magic in the world by finding and nurturing worthwhile mages. It is my way of giving something back to the art that has been my entire life. And I have some influence with the council. I could certainly put in a good word for you.”
“Do you take apprentices?”
Belize responded with no hint of apology. “No, I’m not well suited to it. I have many other responsibilities, and I spend too much time … traveling.”
Guerrand was not sure what he had expected, but he felt somehow let down, awkward for having asked. “Well, then,” he stumbled, “where and when must I go to apprentice to a learned mage?”
“Immediately.”
“You mean immediately after my wedding.”
“I mean today—tomorrow at the latest.”
The shock on Guerrand’s face was clear. “But that’s impossible!” he gasped. “You know I’m to be wed in four days. Surely it can wait until after that.”
“You will be starting a completely new life, and the life you now live will be wiped away. As an apprentice, you would have no way to support a wife and no time to spend with her. From what I’ve heard of your betrothed, she would not even consider working in a scullery to pay her own way. And what would be the point of marrying, just so you could immediately abandon your new wife?” A slight smile creased Belize’s face. “Besides, I doubt your brother Cormac would stand for that.
“As for your family,” Belize continued, folding his arms across his chest, “think how much more valuable to them you might be, returning home as a skilled wielder of magic. Marrying this woman from Hillfort will ease your brother’s problems only temporarily. If you marry for Cormac’s sake, are you providing him with a permanent solution or simply curing a symptom? Like a tourniquet around the neck of a beheaded man.”
Guerrand winced at the inevitable image. “You know nothing of Cormac’s problems!”
Belize arched a thick brow. “Do you?”
Guerrand sighed. “So you’re telling me that I would do my family a greater service by backing out of my ple
dge to marry?”
“I’ve said only that you should go to Wayreth and become apprenticed to a real master. It is the only way you will advance.”
The mage leaned forward, putting his face quite close to Guerrand’s. “The Tower of Wayreth is a powerfully enchanted place. It is in the southwestern forests of the Qualinesti elves, but it can be found only by those who have been specifically invited. I am inviting you. That is a privilege that will not last indefinitely, and it may not be extended again.” Belize paused, expressionless, and sat back. “But your life path is for you to choose. Many men are happy as merchants.”
Guerrand could see easily what Belize was doing, and he resented it. Belize had reawakened a hope that Guerrand had long ago suppressed. Yet, it was all as impossibly far from his grasp as ever—farther, even. Cormac would never release him from the agreement to marry, and he could not simply slip away afterward or take Ingrid along.
Guerrand felt crushed, as if he had reached the mountaintop only to slip and fall all the way back to the valley. He had felt the exhilaration, but it could never really be his. “Thank you for your interest in me, Belize, but what you suggest is not possible.” He stood, his head hanging.
“Nothing is impossible where magic is concerned,” said Belize. “You simply have to open your eyes to the possibilities.”
Depressed and confused, Guerrand waved away the mage’s latest riddle. “This affects too many people for me to decide now, by myself.”
Instantly, Belize’s ruddy face darkened. He stood abruptly, knocking over the bench. “You must discuss this with no one! Especially not your family. Use your head!” He turned and strode impatiently into the shop, then spun back to Guerrand. “Your brother would actively prevent you from going. For your own sake, talk to no one.”
Guerrand turned to leave, then remembered the necklace. He moved to take the wrapped package from the frozen hands of Marthe. The delicate present to his bride-to-be felt like a lead weight. “Good day,” Guerrand mumbled as he passed Belize on the way to the still-barred door.
Belize bowed his shaved head curtly. “I would like to lighten your mood by adding a gift of my own, to show you that I mean you only good fortune. This is for you and, indirectly, your family, not your intended.”
“That’s not necessary—” Guerrand interrupted, only to be cut off himself.
“You’re not interested in justice for your murdered brother?”
Guerrand stopped in his tracks. “You can’t know how to find those bandits.” His frown deepened, and he turned slowly. “Unless—”
“You’re a suspicious lad, aren’t you?” Belize seemed amused. “No, I’m not secretly the ringleader of a band of cutthroats. I have far more interesting ways to spend my time.” The mage pulled something from the depths of his red robe and held it up to the flickering light. A palm-sized fragment of mirror caught a beam shining through the smoke hole and reflected a shaft of light painfully into Guerrand’s eyes.
“Magical glass. It’s a useful little item, one that I’m sure any master wizard could acquaint you with. It will show you the location of your brother’s killers.”
Could it be true? wondered Guerrand. Even if it was, how could he tell Cormac where the robbers were, without revealing where he’d gotten the information? If Guerrand said someone in the village gave him a tip, Cormac would either discount it as rumor or demand Guerrand produce the informants. As if impatient, the mirror glinted in Guerrand’s eye again.
He had to look, if only for Quinn.
Belize tipped the mirror slightly toward Guerrand, to afford him a better view. At first he saw only the reflection of his own eyes and nose in the small glass. He stared, but the image didn’t change.
Embarrassed, Guerrand finally asked, “Do I have to say or do something special? It doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Just concentrate,” Belize murmured. “Concentrate on your memory of your brother.”
Guerrand renewed his effort, this time trying to think of nothing but Quinn as he looked into the mirror. He envisioned his brother as he had last seen him alive, two years before, wearing his gleaming armor and sitting astride his gaily decorated horse as he set out for war, adventure, and plunder. Slowly an image swirled in the mirror, forming a picture of a small campsite. Three vague figures sat around a low, smokeless fire, eating provisions or tending their weapons. He recognized the spot as a pleasant hilltop in the woods, only a few leagues from Thonvil. But as his thoughts strayed from Quinn, the vision swirled away.
“H-how do I know they’re really the ones who killed Quinn?”
Belize slipped the small mirror into Guerrand’s palm. “I’ve commanded it to continue showing you where they are. Use it to track them down and get proof. Give it to someone else if you’re afraid.
“And now, I bid you farewell.” With a quick wave of his arms, Belize released the spells on the shop and its occupants. In that one gesture, the breeze stopped, the fire came back to life, the awnings and doors flew open, and Wilor, his wife, and apprentices began to move again. Belize was gone.
Wilor looked slightly puzzled until he saw the package in Guerrand’s hands. “There it is! Strange, I don’t remember handing it to you.” He shook his head and smiled to himself. “Must be getting old.” With that, Wilor returned to the apprentice and the anvil to finish the work he’d been at when Guerrand arrived.
As Guerrand hurried from the shop, he couldn’t decide which item in his hands weighed him down more, the mirror or the wedding present.
“What am I doing?” Kirah heard Guerrand mumble. Yes, what on Krynn was Guerrand doing, she wondered from her hiding place behind a haystack in the stable. It was all very mysterious. Why was Guerrand, who didn’t even like horses, saddling one in the middle of the night?
Guerrand had seemed unusually distant this afternoon. Though they weren’t exactly speaking, she’d watched him through the tunnels, seen that he’d gone to the village that afternoon to retrieve a trinket for his bride. Hoping that there was still a chance she could talk him into running away, she’d hidden in the tunnel outside his room earlier. She’d been trying to screw up the courage to go in and make peace with him, when he had launched into a very mysterious sequence of activities.
First, he donned his leather and mail armor, then, apparently changing his mind, took it off again, very thoughtfully. Next he pulled on a baggy tunic and trousers and a pair of stiff, high boots. Dressed, he recited some quick prayers to Habbakuk, took his sword and dagger down from the wall, and slipped out the door.
Intrigued, Kirah had followed him, creeping around in darkened corners, slipping silently down the staircase after him. The keep was dimly lit, everyone else asleep, or at least retired for the night. She’d been more than a little surprised to find that the stable was his destination. Now Kirah settled back to watch her brother struggle the headstall of a bridle over the horse’s head and set the bit in its mouth.
“I must be crazy,” Guerrand growled to himself, “but what else can I do?” With a soul-felt grunt, he tossed the saddle over the roan’s back. Once the saddle was cinched in place, he hung a small, round shield from the pommel and buckled on his swordbelt and dagger.
The sword looked as proper on Guerrand as a third arm, mused Kirah. Her brother was no knight, despite his best efforts and Cormac’s insistence. Where in the Abyss was he going in the middle of the night with weapons? Worse still, how was she to follow with him on horseback? Kirah was puzzling through that while Guerrand put the finishing touches on his gear and then swung lightly up onto the horse.
Suddenly Guerrand fell still in the saddle. His eyes misted over and closed gently. Grasping his right eyelashes between thumb and forefinger, he gave a tug. Guerrand pulled from his pouch a sticky wad of gum into which he pressed the eyelashes. The young girl’s heart constricted. She alone in Castle DiThon, save Zagarus the sea gull, recognized when Guerrand was about to cast a spell. She had no idea what it would be, but if the spell took h
im away from the stables, she might never know.
Watching her brother closely, guessing when he’d progressed too far to halt the spell, Kirah silently sprang from her place behind the bales and launched herself onto the rump of the startled horse. Guerrand and the horse beneath them both disappeared from her sight, though she could feel them. Looking for her own arms, she realized she couldn’t see herself, either!
“What—who’s there?” squealed a startled Guerrand.
Before Kirah could respond, she became disoriented and nearly toppled from the horse. Her spindly young arms flailed and finally latched around Guerrand’s waist.
“Kirah?” he demanded. “In the name of Habbakuk, what are you doing here?”
For once in her young life, Kirah didn’t know how to answer. She’d never heard Guerrand sound so angry. “I—I’m sorry, Rand. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said as meekly as she was capable. “I was worried about you and was simply trying to find out what you’re doing.”
“Don’t use that innocent, little-lost-girl tone on me,” Guerrand snarled. “You have no idea what you may have done by interrupting me.”
“Then why don’t you just tell me. Where are you going? Why the invisibility spell?”
“I should dump you off here,” Guerrand muttered, ignoring her questions. He shifted in the saddle. “In fact I think I’ll do just that. It would serve you right.”
“If you do, I’ll tell the entire keep you turned yourself invisible and ran off into the night!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Guerrand gasped. He thought it unlikely Kirah would betray him, and yet she was willful enough to suggest the blackmail. Guerrand twisted around painfully to look in the direction of her voice, though he couldn’t see her, either. “Someone should have spanked you years ago, Kirah.”
“They tried. It didn’t help.” Kirah’s voice had regained its normal lilt, edged with smugness. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re up to or not?”
Frustration burned behind his eyes. He’d slipped away without telling Zagarus of his plans, because he knew the bird would somehow let them slip to Kirah. And here he still had to deal with his wayward sister. He loved Kirah too well to just dump her, unprotected, in the dark and run, though he was annoyed enough with her to do just that. She deserved worse. The snoopy little scamp deserved to be dipped in honey and tied to a tree. She had no idea how she was wasting precious time and fouling up his plans. Yet, she could be reasoned with. Perhaps if she knew what she was ruining, she’d see the wisdom of returning quietly.
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