Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “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 feathers 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 natu
res, 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?”

  “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.