Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  The second he hit the sand he stumbled, tripping over the hem of his robe. A barker snatched his arm, spun him around, and slammed the bucket on his head. Don’t think about how asinine you look, Guerrand told himself. Just visualize yourself somewhere else, a peaceful, private place. In a flash—in his mind’s eye—he was alone in the silent rare-books section of the nearby library, poring over the brittle pages of some old spellbook. The crowd noise was gone. His heartbeat slowed. He could very nearly pretend this public humiliation wasn’t happening.

  Then the friend who’d engineered it spoke. “Come on, Guerrand,” said Lyim, adjusting his own bucket. “It’s all in good fun.”

  Guerrand glared at him with a single eye. “One of us is having a lot more fun than the other,” he muttered, then sighed in resignation. “All right, Lyim. I don’t have much choice but to go along with this little attention-getting stunt of yours. Let’s just not carry it on too long. We’ll whack each other a couple of times, then both fall off. With any luck we’ll be drinking a pint at your favorite pub before the barkers can gather another two contestants.”

  Allowing himself to be helped onto the austritch wearing the green banner, Lyim laughed aloud. “I’ll be drinking a pint, all right, but with Esme, while you’re still picking broom straws out of your teeth, hayseed!”

  Guerrand winced as if physically struck. “Why does everything have to be a contest with you, Lyim?”

  Lyim jammed a hand on one hip. “Why are you always so serious? You make it sound like a personal attack. But since you asked, life is a contest of power, and power is everything.” He tossed his head in a gesture that said he was tired of such serious talk. “Besides, it’s fun. Have you lost the ability to have fun in your all-consuming quest for knowledge?”

  Frowning, Guerrand considered Lyim’s words. Was it true? Was he obsessed with his studies to the exclusion of everything else? Justarius had warned him about keeping his focus while maintaining a balance. Perhaps he was taking this too seriously. After all, he’d been laughing during the previous show. If there was anything Guerrand prided himself on, it was his ability to recognize his own shortcomings and correct them. Setting his mind to it, he tried desperately to banish the dark clouds from his thoughts and to find the “Huma” in the situation. Still, it all seemed a lot funnier when someone else wore a bucket on his head and looked foolish.

  Guerrand hitched up his robe to climb onto the back of his skittish austritch. The cheers and whistles of the crowd abruptly swelled. The young apprentice discovered why, when Esme darted through the crowd and crossed the sand to his side, holding a length of rose-colored scarf.

  Smiling almost shyly at Guerrand, the young woman tied her shimmering silk next to the blue banner already about the austritch’s neck. “For good luck,” she explained. Suddenly, she sprang up on her toes and planted an impulsive kiss on his cheek through the face-opening cut in his bucket. Getting tangled in the handle, she extricated herself with a nervous laugh.

  Guerrand’s ire and embarrassment slipped away like fog in sunshine. The former squire understood, better than anyone, the significance of Esme’s gesture. He was her favorite, her champion. Guerrand gulped down the lump in his throat and managed a grateful smile, but before he could gather his wits to thank her, Esme alighted back into the crowd, leaving the apprentice to wonder what the unpredictable woman’s gesture really meant.…

  Lyim watched the exchange with eyebrows knitted into a dark, angry line. “Esme knows I don’t need luck,” he snapped. Still, he scowled at the rose scarf fluttering from the neck of Guerrand’s austritch as if he intended to strangle the bird with it.

  Lyim pranced impatiently about on the back of his own bird. “Come on, Guerrand. Everyone is waiting. Either get on the damned austritch and show us your mettle, or run back to your books and let someone with courage fight me.”

  Guerrand’s mouth pulled into a tight, angry slash at the vicious taunt. “I’ll fight you, Lyim, if it’s that important to you.”

  The former squire jumped up and slammed his weight into the modified saddle. Something about this whole situation struck a painfully familiar chord and stirred up old resentments. The saddle swayed and slopped from side to side so badly he nearly fell from the bird. His robe was tangled about his lanky legs, so he wrestled it closed above his knees. All the while, the flighty bird twirled in place until Guerrand was as dizzy as a top. The faces in the crowd passed in a colorful blur, their cheers and jeers a dissonant blend. Sweat trickled in thin fingers down his neck. The unyielding metal bucket banged against his shoulders with each of the bird’s steps. Though he couldn’t hear clearly, Guerrand suspected bets were being placed against him by the crowd.

  By tugging the ends of the blue banner, he managed at last to keep the bird from spinning. Guerrand righted his blurred sight by focusing on his opponent. With a sinking heart, he could see instantly why the crowd would choose Lyim as the victor. From the first time he’d met Lyim, Guerrand had thought he looked more like the dashing cavalier of a bard’s story than a mage. Tall, muscular, with the perfect proportions of a classical statue, Lyim did not seem like someone who spent his time in dark rooms reading books. Guerrand wondered if Lyim had any training in combat.

  He had little time to ponder the answer, as the two attendants came forward and tugged the austritches to opposite ends of the field. Guerrand’s man asked for his name and homeland, nodded, then skipped away to the middle of the field, where he was joined by Lyim’s squire.

  “On the blue bird, we have Guerrand of Northern Ergoth, apprentice in the House of Justarius!” His half of the crowd dutifully cheered.

  “And on the green bird is Lyim of Rowley, apprentice to Belize!” Lyim preened and put on airs, and the entire crowd roared its support.

  “Just one rule, gentle mages,” said the barker. “This is a festival supported by the Knights of Solamnia. Though we make light of their pride, we respect their tradition of honor. Therefore, you will fight fairly and refrain from using magic in your contest.”

  Guerrand could see disappointment in Lyim’s face, but he himself felt nothing. It hadn’t occurred to him to use magic anyway.

  Waiting for the signal to start, Guerrand felt the cold sweat on his neck again, an achingly familiar feeling. Hot day, blue sky, sunshine beating metal, the jeering crowds, the waiting. The waiting. Guerrand finally was able to place it.

  The tournament during Guerrand’s fourteenth year. Milford, Guerrand’s weapon master, had insisted despite the youth’s protests that the only way to train at jousting was to plunge right into a tournament. “You’ll come through in the heat of battle. This will make a man out of you. It worked for your brother Quinn.”

  The difference was that Quinn, a true-born cavalier, had welcomed the chance, as Lyim did now, while Guerrand dreaded it. Milford had not even bothered to hide his disgust when Guerrand had been knocked from his horse by his opponent before he’d even managed to secure his own lance. Milford had even robbed him of the joy of saying, “I told you so,” by suggesting first that Guerrand had defeated himself. In the end, Guerrand had the ultimate victory: he was never again entered in a tournament.

  He was snapped away from the thought when he saw Lyim charging directly at him. Before Guerrand could move, Lyim swung the broom around. The austritch lurched a little past Guerrand, and Lyim’s broom connected with Guerrand’s back. The blow to the kidneys nearly knocked Guerrand from his bird and chased the wind from his lungs. Struggling for breath, he wrapped his fingers around the bird’s neck and hung on.

  Laughing, Lyim pranced away to his end of the field, rousing his section of the crowd. He turned his bird and charged again, broom held tight to his side.

  Guerrand grasped the ends of the blue ribbon like reins. Instinct kicked in. He dug his heels into the austritch as he would a horse, then yanked the stunned bird’s head around at the last moment to dodge the blow from Lyim’s broom-lance. Squawking, the austritch could only comply with Guerr
and’s confident commands.

  Lyim’s broom swept over Guerrand’s ducked head, causing the crowd to hiss and cheer. Guerrand straightened in the saddle and waved.

  Lyim pulled his charging bird around and gave Guerrand a grudging nod of respect through the opening cut in his bucket. Whooping, Lyim drove his heels into his bird’s ribs and charged again. Guerrand was ready for him and raised his own lance, parrying Lyim’s blow easily. Instead of the usual loud ting of metal against metal, the long broom handles collided with a dull thwack. The recoil sent both apprentices shaking. Guerrand let the tremors run through him without resisting and recovered more quickly than Lyim, who was obviously still shaking in the corner to which he’d withdrawn.

  Lyim’s look of cocky overconfidence dimmed to grim determination when he began the next charge. Guerrand’s cavalier training, however ineffective against a true knight, allowed him to easily parry Lyim’s attempts to reach him with the broom. Belize’s frustrated apprentice dashed by him again, red-faced, weapon flailing. Guerrand’s retainers led his section in a riotous cheer.

  Guerrand surprised himself with how much he remembered about jousting, when he’d never really paid much attention to the lessons. For his part, Lyim had demonstrated more determination than skill. Guerrand was certain he could continue to dodge Lyim’s ill-timed blows all day, eventually wearing him out. While he had no interest in defeating and humiliating his friend, he knew Lyim would never be satisfied with anything less than total victory. Guerrand was hard-pressed to visualize a happy ending to this for both of them.

  Guerrand wasn’t the only one surprised by his knowledge. Lyim was regarding Guerrand with what could only be interpreted as a look of betrayal, as if Guerrand, and not Lyim, had somehow instigated the situation. It was obvious things weren’t going as Lyim had expected.

  In that instant, Guerrand finally understood what he should have realized from the start. Lyim had pulled him from the crowd, not because he believed he offered a true challenge, or even to teach Guerrand to take himself less seriously. The truth was, Lyim had seen his friend as an easy mark, someone he could easily defeat. Strangely, Guerrand felt more anger at himself for being so naive, than at Lyim, who made no pretense of what he was.

  The crowd was beginning to turn against Lyim, and both apprentices knew it. A half-chewed apple core sailed through the air and bounced off Lyim’s bucket. The proud apprentice felt it and watched the core fall to the sand beneath his feathered mount. He looked first to Esme at the edge of the field, who gave him a pitying stare. Lyim’s gaze traveled to Guerrand, and his expression changed in a blink from humiliation to hate.

  The atmosphere in the ring altered in that instant. It became still, deathly still, as if no one in the crowd even dared breathe. A lone locust buzzed in a nearby treetop. Time seemed to stop. Guerrand could see Lyim exchanging glances with Belize, who looked greatly displeased with his apprentice. The tension vibrating between them appeared to give off a visual heat wave.

  Knowing Lyim’s need for approval from his revered master, Guerrand felt his first flicker of pity for the friend he had envied so often. Guerrand waited, unsure how to draw this display to an end without simply falling from his bird. What was he waiting for? A sign of resignation from Lyim? Perhaps, Guerrand told himself, the ever-resourceful young mage would find a way to joke them both out of this.

  Guerrand didn’t have long to wait. The crowd erupted again as Lyim launched another charge, his expression anything but humorous. His handsome lips were drawn back in a feral grimace. There was no light of recognition, no light at all, behind his eyes. Hunkered over the austritch, with his long, dark hair escaping the confines of the bucket, Lyim looked like a charging bull.

  He reached Guerrand, who parried with his broom-lance and easily fended off Lyim’s attack. This time, the blows packed a much greater punch. Instead of riding past, he stopped his bird in front of Guerrand’s and began to feverishly pummel Guerrand with the broom. Front, back, shoulders, he moved twice as swiftly, though not more skillfully, than before. Lyim seemed to have found an overlooked store of strength and was drawing heavily on it.

  Stunned by the viciousness of the attack, Guerrand bent low and clung to the austritch’s neck, just trying to stay on the creature. One well-placed blow landed square on his right shoulder and knocked him halfway off the austritch, but Guerrand’s determination kept him clinging by his heels. Between swings, he slithered back into the saddle, yanked the bird’s head to the right with the blue scarf, and managed to spur his mount beyond the reach of Lyim’s broom-lance.

  “Now who’s taking this too seriously?” gasped Guerrand, his breathing ragged from his efforts to stay on the austritch. “This is supposed to be a game, not a fight to the death!”

  Lyim considered Guerrand through narrowed, unfocused eyes. Spurring his animal, he reached out with the broom and deliberately swatted Guerrand’s bird on the thigh. Feathers flying, squawking wildly, the austritch ran off like a beheaded chicken. It took all of Guerrand’s riding skill to stay on the beast and calm it down.

  Even the attendants seemed concerned by Lyim’s unscrupulous action. One hastened over to within earshot of Belize’s apprentice. “This is a friendly contest of honor, sir. Please refrain from blows to the birds, if you will.”

  Lyim’s answer was to swing out with his long-handled broom and smash the attendant in the side of his unprotected head, dropping him, unconscious, to the sand.

  “Lyim!” gasped Guerrand, “what’s the matter with you?” His friend’s expression was blank, totally devoid of emotion or recognition. He simply sat, as if waiting for instructions.

  A horrified gasp rose from the crowd. The other attendant scrambled out on his haunches and dragged his fallen comrade to the sidelines, anxiously watching the motionless Lyim all the while.

  Looking at his friend’s face, Guerrand concluded that Lyim’s excessive pride had robbed him of self-control. Guerrand was past pleading or compromise; he had to stop the other apprentice before anyone else was hurt.

  Guerrand nudged his austritch backward, his face set as grimly as his opponent’s. Couching the broom under his right arm the way he’d been taught to use a lance, Guerrand lowered his head, leaned forward, and charged straight at Lyim. Unfazed, Lyim urged his own mount toward Guerrand, swinging his broom wildly. Guerrand dipped his broom beneath Lyim’s and rammed it squarely into his opponent’s right shoulder. The broom splintered, sending Lyim to the ground.

  Guerrand stopped his austritch immediately and yanked off the bucket helm. Throwing it and the broken broom far away, he slid from the bird and ran to where Lyim lay, moaning and rolling in the sand. The noise of the crowd had raised to a fever pitch.

  Kneeling in the sand, Guerrand was relieved to see no blood where his broom had struck Lyim. Still, Guerrand was worried. He knew from experience just how hard Lyim had been hit, with little protection. He plucked the metal bucket from his friend’s head and cradled him in his lap.

  Lyim’s eyes cleared of confusion, and he appeared to recognize Guerrand again. The apprentice sounded stunned. “What happened?” he muttered, shaking his head. Wincing, Lyim reached up with his left hand and massaged his sore shoulder.

  “You don’t remember?” gasped Guerrand. “You tried to kill me, and nearly succeeded with your own attendant!”

  Guerrand would have continued the recounting, concluding with a good tongue-lashing, if he hadn’t felt a booted foot on his fingers in the sand. Guerrand’s gaze followed the foot up, past the neck of the red robe, and he shivered.

  “I’ll take my apprentice now, if you’re quite finished batting him around,” Belize said quietly. “He needs my immediate care.”

  It was Guerrand’s first meeting with Belize since the tower at Wayreth. Flustered as usual in the wizard’s presence, the young man merely gulped, “Yes, of course,” without even thinking to correct the master of the order’s interpretation of events.

  Esme rushed up at that moment a
nd saw the stare Belize gave Guerrand. Watching anxiously as the master mage lifted their friend, her voice was a high squeak. “Is Lyim’s wound serious? He’ll be fine, won’t he?”

  Belize’s frightful stare remained on Guerrand, as if that apprentice had asked the question. “I hardly see how that’s your concern,” he said, his purple lips barely moving in the circle of his tiny mustache and goatee. “I had high hopes for you, young man,” he said to Guerrand, “but you’re proving to be a terrible disappointment.” With that, he hitched Lyim more securely in his arms, closed his coal-black eyes, and was gone. The space where he and Lyim had been was filled with red, sulfurous smoke.

  “By the gods, he’s creepy,” whispered Esme, squinting as she waved away the acrid-smelling smoke. “Don’t let him bother you, Guerrand. Belize has no idea the progress you’ve made in your studies. He’s just embarrassed that Lyim lost, after making such a big deal of fighting for him.” She took Guerrand’s arm in both her hands and began to steer them through the crowds. “It’s natural for him to blame you, though it was clearly all Lyim’s idea.”

  Guerrand nodded absently, though he secretly wondered if there wasn’t something else he could have done to stop his friend.

  “If Belize is that condescending as an instructor,” continued Esme, “I can’t fathom how Lyim tolerates him. No wonder he never seems displeased that Belize is gone so often.”

  Guerrand only half heard her. Belize’s parting words had sent a chill running up his spine, a chill that Esme’s consoling chatter could not discharge. Hadn’t old Nahampkin from Thonvil often said that such a chill meant someone was walking on your grave? Guerrand couldn’t describe the feeling as fear, but more as a vague apprehension. It did not speak well for his future in the Order of the Red Robes to be disliked, however unfairly, by the master of the order.