Night of The Eye dom-1

by Mary Kirchoff

  I should have killed him-killed the whole family- when I had the chance, instead of simply sending him away! I left too much to chance. Belize squeezed a vial of silica until the thin glass shattered in his hand. Beads of red blood mingled with the grains of beige sand.

  The pain in his hand began to throb enough to penetrate his cloud of rage. Spying an untouched, dusty, half-filled bottle of dandelion spirits, he removed the cork, rubbed the lip clean, and took a long swallow to ease the pain. The pale yellow wine had a calming affect and narrowed his mental vision until he could think clearly again. The Master of the Order of Red Mages rinsed the sand from the cut and bound it with a scrap of cloth.

  What has this development changed, really? he asked himself. All he'd wanted was to get the knave out of Thonvil so that the wedding could not take place, and that had happened. For now, the portal was safe.

  There was still the question of what Cormac had told his brother about their visit. Did he know Belize wanted Stonecliff? Belize thought that unlikely, since Guerrand had asked him what he and Cormac had fought about. He waved that concern away.

  The fool still had his mirror, though. Belize couldn't openly make a move against Justarius's apprentice without drawing suspicion to himself. What's more, now that Guerrand wore the red robes, an unprovoked attack would be a violation of his vows. For the time being, those vows still meant something to Belize. Besides, he didn't need Guerrand dead-although the idea had appeal-just too far away to interfere.

  Maybe Guerrand left the mirror behind, Belize told himself. He couldn't inquire about it directly, for fear of bringing attention to it. Belize discounted using the mirror to scry for fear of being noticed, which would definitely draw attention to the mirror's abilities. If only there was some way he could keep an undetected eye on Guerrand DiThon, to ascertain whether the apprentice was snooping into things Belize wanted left alone.

  Suddenly, the Red Mage slapped his forehead. I've been so caught up in anger that I forgot the obvious! I can learn in an instant if the apprentice left the mirror behind, or if he carries it with him. Belize could find out exactly where the apprentice was. He tattooed every one of his possessions with an invisible sigil of his own devising that allowed him to track their whereabouts. It wasn't that he was particularly possessive or territorial. In fact, it was well known that he didn't even bother to magically protect his villa in Palanthas like most powerful mages did.

  No. Belize wasn't possessive. But he was vindictive. He did not trap his home, because the tattoos allowed him to track down unwitting thieves and kill them personally. It was so much more satisfying than coming home to the charred remains of some thief caught in the act.

  Belize was certain the young apprentice must still be in or near the Tower of Wayreth. He vaguely recalled Justarius informing him before leaving for Palanthas that their two apprentices had decided to travel north together.

  Still, he wanted to be sure. Belize paced between the rows of standing shelves that filled the back half of his laboratory. His collection of magical equipment and components was immense, but he knew precisely where to find everything. He quickly retrieved a large, shallow pewter bowl and an urn of extremely fine sand. Working quickly with practiced gestures, he filled the bowl with clear wine, then sprinkled several pinches of sand across the surface. As Belize moved his hands in a slow circle above the bowl, blowing gently on the liquid, the floating sand swirled and coalesced into an outline. The mage recognized the coastline west of the Wayreth. Slowly, more details appeared inland: the forest edge, the location of the tower, the crude road leading south from it.

  Satisfied with the map, Belize turned his hands palm up and held them still. A tiny, glowing orange point of light appeared in the center of the map, marking the mirror's location. It was approximately halfway between the Tower of Wayreth and the port city of Alsip. This was only a rough divination; Belize could eventually pinpoint the item very precisely by repeating the process with increasing detail each time. But for his current needs, this was sufficient.

  Belize leaned back, satisfied, feeling as if he were in control of things again. That realization gave him another idea. He reached for the massive, brown leather book on the shelf behind him and leafed gingerly through the fragile pages until he found the spell entry he sought.

  "Burning incense and horn carved into a crescent shape," he mumbled aloud. He needed both items to cast the spell, and he found them near each other on a shelf. With the components tucked inside his robe, Belize continued reading the spell notes, following along with a red-tipped fingernail.

  Once given a task, this creature from the elemental plane of air is relentless. It pursues its assigned duty until it either fulfills its summoner's command or is defeated and driven back to its home plane. It is a faultless tracker, able to detect any trail less than a day old or follow directions that take it hundreds or even thousands of leagues away. It is invisible, noiseless, scentless.

  Perfect. Belize gingerly closed the spellbook. He would return to Wayreth to be nearer the apprentice when he cast the spell. He would need to leave the sanctity of the tower to summon the invisible stalker. Belize would instruct the creature to do what it must to retrieve the mirror in Guerrand's possession. If that meant it had to kill him, fine. Traveling with Guerrand, his own apprentice-was Lyim his name? — would come under suspicion, not Belize. It all fell into place.

  Belize was feeling downright joyous as he prepared to travel through the mirror and return briefly to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. Abruptly his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he'd eaten nothing this day and had drunk only dandelion spirits. The spell allowed him one day to send the stalker after its quarry. There was plenty of time, then, for dinner before he summoned the relentless creature to terrorize the apprentices.

  Chapter Eight

  "Get ourselves to Palanthas?" growled Lyim, glaring across the courtyard at the closed door of the foretower. He and Guerrand had been escorted outside the tower's gold and silver entry gates. "What does that mean? We've already found our way here, which was no small task. Where's the reward for that?"

  Just then, the door of the foretower opened again. A dwarf, dragging a charred body by the armpits, crossed the flagstone courtyard of the tower complex and elbowed past Guerrand and Lyim to get through the gates.

  Startled, the two apprentices jumped back and watched as the dwarf turned left and followed the outer wall to the north. Just past the small guard tower on the northernmost point of the triangle, the dwarf dropped the dead mage, who'd obviously failed his Test, within the shelter of the trees. Dusting off his hands, the dwarf snatched a shovel propped against a trunk and began to dig at a furious pace, sending earth flying to twice his height.

  "The reward was that we were allowed to live to find the Tower of High Sorcery," Guerrand said quietly. Shivering, he watched the ignominious burial. He deliberately looked away; his glance fell on the trail the dead mage's heels had left in the dirt. "I suspect that our apprenticeships will simply be a warm-up for the Test. Let's just hope we don't suffer the same fate when we return to take ours."

  Having just spent a fortnight making his way to Wayreth, Guerrand was neither surprised nor disturbed by the order to travel to Palanthas. With such a short deadline-a scant month-he wasn't going to waste any time. To determine the time, Guerrand looked toward the sun above the twin towers that comprised Wayreth. It was early afternoon, though he didn't know the day, had no idea how long he'd actually been in the tower.

  The newly appointed apprentice adjusted his pack more comfortably on his left shoulder and set off, tripping over the hem of his unfamiliar, coarsely spun red robe. Red-faced, accustomed to the ease of the trousers he still wore beneath the robe, Guerrand hitched up the heavy garment with one hand and took smaller strides to the south, following the eastern wall.

  "Where are you going?" demanded Lyim, jogging after him, his own pack slapping his back.

  "To Palanthas, of course."


  "I know that! But how are you going to get there? Do you have a map? A ring of teleportation, perhaps?"

  Guerrand laughed. "No, I haven't either of those things. I traveled most of the way here by ship. While on board, I got a look at the captain's map. If I remember correctly, Palanthas is far to the north, above Solamnia."

  "Then why are we walking south?"

  The two novice mages came to the southern corner of the triangle. The forest rose up like a tall, green wall. "I don't know why you are, but I intend to retrace my steps to Alsip." Guerrand angled off slightly to the southwest and entered the line of trees, where the canopy was highest. "From there," he continued, "I hope to take a ship all the way to Palanthas."

  "Then I'll accompany you," announced Lyim, quickening his steps to match Guerrand's pace. The path allowed only single-file travel. The grass was ankle deep and thick with dew that quickly soaked the hems of their robes. "We can travel together and watch each other's backs. You know what they say-two heads are better than one."

  "Is that what they say?" Guerrand asked archly, tossing a half grin over his shoulder. Truthfully, he welcomed the plan, thinking it might be good to have company. Besides, it would seem foolhardy to traverse wilderness and over seas to the same city and not travel together.

  "Well, that's settled then," said Lyim. "Do you mind if I sing? It will help to pass the time." Without waiting for an answer, he began to sing in a voice that was deep and clear, his song the sounds of the forest itself:

  Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected

  Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,

  Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent

  As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

  Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,

  The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders

  With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.

  Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.

  And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,

  Beneath these branches no shade, for shade is forgotten

  In the warmth of the light and the cool smell of the leaves

  Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green.

  Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,

  Here at the world's imagined edge, where clarity

  Completes the senses, at long last where we behold

  Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent.

  Where the tears are dried from our faces, or settle,

  Still as a stream in accomplished countries of peace,

  And the traveler opens, permitting the voyage of light

  As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

  Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected

  Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,

  Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent

  As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

  "That was… perfect," breathed Guerrand. "It was as if you captured the essence of the forest."

  "I didn't, but Quivalen Sath did." Guerrand recognized the name of the renowned bard, though he had never heard this song. "It's called, appropriately enough, 'The Bird Song of Wayreth Forest.' I've known it for years-it was a particular favorite of a bard who spent a great deal of time at the inns along the King's Road back home. Growing up in a near-desert, I never really thought I'd have the chance to sing it in a forest, let alone here."

  "The desert? Where's that?"

  "The northern Plains of Dust, in the east," said Lyim. "It's not far from the lands of the Silvanesti elves."

  "The closest I've ever been to an elf was the one with us in the tower," remarked Guerrand. The second the admission was out of his mouth, he wished he could take it back. He didn't want the other mage to know what a sheltered life he'd led.

  The road forked once, and they bore left. After some time they came through the edge of the forest. Ahead lay a village, a cluster of huts on the west side of the path.

  "Windkeep," announced Guerrand, pushing their pace. The two red-robed mages hastened past the wondering eyes of the children of the small village. Just south of the last hut, the road forked again, the southerly path leading into rolling land of intermittent forest. The westerly branch skirted fields of nodding, golden grain to the south, and tall, wild grasses to the north. Guerrand turned to the westerly path.

  "How far is this Alsip, anyway?" asked Lyim.

  "It's at least a five-day hike to the coast." Guerrand squinted toward the sun, low in the sky now. "If we hurry, we can make Pensdale before darkness falls."

  "Five days?" Lyim stopped in his tracks. "That'll use up nearly a third of the time we have to get to Palanthas!"

  Guerrand stopped and shrugged his red-draped shoulders. "I know, but there's nothing to be done about it. We haven't horses, only feet."

  Lyim tapped his chin in thought. "Yes, but maybe we can make our feet move faster." He slipped his pack from his shoulder and rummaged around in it. Pulling a thin book from the depths, he licked the ball of his thumb and flipped through the pages. Stopping on one, he ran his finger down the edge until he found what he was looking for. Lyim read the paragraph with great concentration, tapped it once, then closed the spellbook with a decisive snap.

  Lyim replaced the book in his pack and retrieved something he held in his closed palm. Parting and pushing back his robe, Lyim slipped a small knife from a leather strap on the inside of his left thigh.

  "What are you doing?" asked Guerrand. The other apprentice appeared to be whittling on a fuzzy piece of root, his eyes closed in concentration. "Lyim, what spell are you casting?"

  Before Guerrand could press him further, Lyim's eyes flew open. A satisfied smile raised his perfectly shaped lips. "There. It's done."

  Guerrand frowned; he could scarcely understand Lyim, he spoke so fast. "What's done?" His own voice startled him; it, too, was impossibly fast.

  "The haste spell." Lyim replaced the pack on his shoulder. "This way?" He snapped his head toward the southwest. "Hurry now, the spell won't last forever." With that, Lyim set off at a run and within heartbeats was a crimson blur.

  Guerrand found himself running at an impossibly swift speed after the other red-robed apprentice. The wind whistled past his ears and whipped his hair as if he were on horseback. This is what it must feel like to be a horse, thought Guerrand. He felt anxious, restless, driven, as if he'd drunk too much chicory. He had to run to release the energy.

  Dust kicked up by Lyim's fleet heels stung Guerrand's eyes and made him choke. He angled off slightly to avoid Lyim's trail of dirt. He felt none of the usual side effects of running, like a stitch in the side or cramped legs, or even labored breathing. Adrenalin drove his legs up and down with the even, measured pace of a long-distance message runner. Guerrand got a mental picture of the bird's-eye view of the two young mages sprinting down the road like fleeing deer, red robes hitched up, packs slapping their backs.

  Guerrand craned his neck around to look at the village of Windkeep receding in the distance. They had traveled perhaps a half league in mere minutes. At this rate, they'd pass Pensdale and make it to the coast in two days, instead of five. He'd seen more magic in these-he still didn't know how many-days, than in all his years before. He wondered if his awe for it would ever fade. This haste spell was simply amazing! Guerrand resolved to ask Lyim to teach it to him the first chance they had.

  They had not been running long when Guerrand noticed he was closing the gap with Lyim. He pushed himself harder, as if it were a game, until he was nearly abreast with the other apprentice. Abruptly the incredible feeling of energy drained away, and he was seized with the very pain in his right side he'd been surprised not to feel before. His feet slowed to the last kicking, dragging steps of a marathon runner and he stopped, clutching his side. Guerrand bent over double, and the breath rushed
from his lungs in great heaving gulps. Sweat popped out in beads on his forehead and between his shoulder blades. He couldn't seem to catch his breath for long minutes.

  Finally, Guerrand stood, red-faced, and gave Lyim, who was similarly distressed, a questioning glance. "That's it?" he gasped. "That's all the longer the spell lasts?"

  Lyim looked rueful. "I believe so, yes." Wincing, he rubbed the stitch in his own side.

  "By the gods, I feel awful!" Guerrand dropped to the ground in a heap and put his head between his knees to keep from fainting.

  "Urn," muttered Lyim awkwardly, "that would be because you've aged a year."

  Guerrand's sweat-drenched head snapped up. "What did you say?"

  Lyim scratched his temple. "The haste spell ages you by a year… because of sped-up maturation processes," he explained stiffly.

  Eyes dark with anger, Guerrand looked over his shoulder to Windkeep, still visible behind them, then back to his fellow apprentice mage. "You took away a year of my life for half a league?"

  "I'd never cast the haste spell before and wasn't really sure how far we'd get," Lyim explained sheepishly.

  "So you thought you'd just try it out on me?"

  "At least I did something," he said with a sidelong look at Guerrand. "I still think it was a good idea. I could see in your face you thought so, too, until we stopped running."

  "That was before I knew the price!" Guerrand poked Lyim in the shoulder. "Don't ever cast a spell on me again without asking me first." They fell into an awkward silence, catching their breath.

  After a time, Lyim withdrew a waterskin from his pack, took a pull, then handed it to Guerrand in a conciliatory gesture. "Now what?" he asked, wiping his mouth while Guerrand took a swallow.

  "Now we walk to Pensdale," said Guerrand, standing. "With a little luck, we'll be there by Highmoon." He dusted off his robe. "I have no desire to make camp out here in the grasslands. There's scarcely even a tree to be seen." With that, Guerrand eased the cramps from his calves, then set off down the road again.