Night of The Eye

Chapter Thirteen

"No, Justarius." Guerrand gulped hoarsely, twirling the delicate stem of his half-filled wineglass between cold fingers. "I can't-I won't-believe Lyim was actually trying to kill me." His hand shook as he lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed the acrid, blood-red liquid.

If the subject was not enough to jangle Guerrand's nerves, the audience in Justarius's private laboratory was. Guerrand had been in Justarius's lab only twice before. The first time had been part of an orientation tour when he arrived at the villa.

The second trip had been less auspicious. Denbigh had escorted him here after the master discovered that Guerrand, in his impatience to progress, was trying to cast a spell beyond his ability. Justarius never told Guerrand how he'd learned of his attempts, or even allowed Guerrand to explain his actions. The archmage simply, curtly ordered his apprentice to stop at once and scrub the kitchen as punishment. Ever after, Guerrand remembered his master's pronouncement that very little occurred in Villa Rosad of which Justarius was unaware.

Both times Guerrand had been awed by the number of scrolls, books, and other paraphernalia Justarius managed to keep in this relatively small room. Everything was meticulously organized and catalogued in the wizard's head.

The room was more enclosed than others in the villa. It lacked the big windows and skylights so common elsewhere. There was only one small window, and the space would have been very dark if not for the floating glass globes that emitted a soft light. They hovered effortlessly in the air and could be positioned anywhere, creating perfect lighting conditions for whatever task was at hand. The room could easily be made totally lightless as well, a useful condition for some types of spell research.

The master of the villa refilled Guerrand's wineglass, then strode to the small chest-high window that overlooked the peristyle. "You misunderstood me, Guerrand. I said nothing about someone trying to kill you." Justarius's elbow was propped on the high windowsill, but his tone belied the casual pose.

"You asked me if I knew my enemies from my friends," accused Guerrand, "then what I knew about Lyim. I just assumed you meant…"

"Do you have reason to assume Lyim wants you dead?"

"Lyim? No!"

"Someone else, perhaps?"

"No!"

Justarius arched one brow. "Your tone suggests otherwise."

"I'm sorry, Justarius. My tone suggests that this discussion is making me uneasy."

"I could use a spell to determine the truth, and you wouldn't even be aware of it." Justarius sounded more apologetic than threatening. "I don't think you want me to do that."

Guerrand shook his head mutely torn with indecision. He jumped up and fidgeted with some of Justarius's component beakers on a nearby table. "If you don't think someone is after me," he asked abruptly, "why did you ask about my enemies?"

"Again, you misunderstand me."

"Then why don't you stop this cat-and-mouse game," demanded Guerrand, "and tell me what you suspect. Just what do you want from me?" He stopped, and his hand flew to his mouth in horror. "I'm sorry, master. I should not-"

"Never mind, Guerrand." Justarius moved to sit on the corner of his ornately carved mahogany desk. "Passion-anger, even-is part of a balanced character. Just guard against its becoming impertinence."

He motioned for Guerrand to sit again. "I did not intend to play cat to your mouse," he explained. "I simply wished to learn what you knew without biasing it with my own observations. I will share those with you first, if it makes it easier for you to speak."

Justarius hesitated, then spoke softly over steepled fingers. "There was magic at play in your jest with Lyim-"

"Magic?" exclaimed Guerrand. "But we were forbidden to use it! Lyim knew that as well as I." He found himself getting angry at his friend all over again. "When next I see him, I'll-"

"I don't believe Lyim was at fault," interrupted Justarius. He frowned as he hopped off the desk, then came back to the table. "You have a most unfortunate habit of jumping to conclusions, Guerrand. You would do well to curb the tendency, for that is the sort of thing that might one day lead you into a dire dilemma."

Guerrand, though still confused, had the grace to hang his head at the observation. "I will endeavor to correct it, Justarius. Please continue. I promise not to speak until you're finished."

Justarius swirled the herbs and slices of lemon in the acrid drink he favored. "As I said, I'm nearly certain Lyim was not the spellcaster. In fact, the spell was cast on him."

Justarius looked up as a sound blurted from Guerrand, who had obviously begun a question, then remembered his vow of silence.

"My guess is that the spell affected his emotions," Justarius supplied, accurately guessing the nature of Guerrand's unspoken question. "Didn't you notice the change in Lyim's attitude during the jest, his sudden burst of strength?"

Guerrand blinked. "Of course, but I attributed it to anger over not winning as easily as he'd expected. Lyim does not like to appear the fool."

"Who but a court jester does?" Justarius shook his dark head briefly. "No, it was a spell. The questions that remain are why it was cast, and who cast it? In a city of mages, it could have been anyone. I was there, as was Esme, and every other apprentice in the city. Perhaps it was simply a mage who'd bet on the outcome and wished to guarantee victory for his favorite."

"If you truly believed that, we wouldn't be here," said Guerrand.

"Who do you think cast the spell?" asked Justarius.

Guerrand felt that cold chill up his spine as he remembered his conversation with Lyim's master and Esme. "The obvious answer is Belize. He clearly doesn't like me. Esme thinks the mage was mad because Lyim lost after he'd made such a fuss about fighting for his master."

"Highly unlikely." Justarius chuckled out loud

"Belize cares less for what others think of him than anyone I know. Frankly, I was surprised to see him at the fair at all." He shook his head firmly again. "I find it difficult to believe that Belize would risk a spell on his own apprentice, or try to kill one of his order, for such a petty emotion as pride. Still, we will not eliminate anyone from our list of suspects."

"Who else is on the list?"

"Who, indeed?" asked Justarius archly.

Guerrand drew a big breath and let it out in a rush. "Perhaps it's my family."

The answer surprised even Justarius. "Your family? You told me your brother disapproved of magic."

"Despises it," corrected Guerrand. "I believe I told you Cormac would be furious if he found out I had joined the order." Guerrand set down his wineglass. "What I didn't say was that he might be angry enough to kill me because I ran out on an arranged political marriage."

"I see."

The two men fell silent. "I have difficulty envisioning Cormac hiring a mage to track me down, but it's possible," Guerrand said at length, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I've wondered, too, if it wasn't the father of the woman I was to marry. The Berwicks run the biggest shipping line on the Sirrion Sea. I paid passage on one of their ships to Wayreth, and then to Palanthas, before Lyim and I got tossed off."

"You're saying this sort of thing has happened before?"

Guerrand nodded. He told Justarius what he'd revealed to Zagarus earlier in the day about the ambush in the hills and the incident in the alley. "I didn't mention it to you," he added quickly "because nothing ever seemed to happen at the villa, and-"

"You were afraid I would throw you out," supplied Justarius.

Guerrand looked sheepish. "The thought had occurred to me." He paused before whispering, "Will you, Justarius? Ask me to leave, that is?"

The archmage gave Guerrand a sidelong glance. "Young man, you underestimate me if you think me so easily threatened or distressed."

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Do you honestly think your brother or this Berwick fellow would go so far as to harm you over this collapsed betrothal?"

"I don't know Anton Berwick," said Guerrand, "so I can't guess at his response."

Pondering Cormac's attitudes, he grimaced. "My brother is given to deep, emotional extremes, especially when he's been drinking. And his wife is definitely the vengeful sort. I could believe that she would suggest this sort of retribution, and he would comply. Cormac probably would regret it when he sobered up, but by then it might be too late."

Justarius gave a shrug. "We can fashion all manner of guesses, or we can conjure the truth in a heartbeat," said Justarius, taking a last sip of his lemon water. "Would you like to see what's happening back at your… Thonvil, is it?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Guerrand, jumping to his feet. He knocked over his chair in his haste.

Frowning slightly, the distinguished mage waved his apprentice forward, around the chair. "Then come with me now. Do exactly as I say, and make no untoward step or gesture. Few have seen the elaborate magical ritual that I am about to reveal to you."

Scarcely breathing, Guerrand followed Justarius in silent wonder to the narrow velvet curtain Guerrand had assumed covered an alcove or bookshelf. The master's hands swept back the heavy fabric, revealing a simple, seamless birchwood door. There was no handle. knob, or knocker. Instead, at eye-height hung a recessed carving of a hideous face, very like a gargoyle's, about the size of an ogre's fist. Suddenly the eyes of the carving snapped to life.

Passage to the crystal device

Demands that entrants pay the price.

Bring the guard its sacrifice:

Fish of gold, once, twice, thrice!

While Guerrand watched, Justarius reached into his robe and withdrew three live, wiggling goldfish. The archmage popped the little orange creatures into the door guard's open, waiting mouth. Chewing noisily, with much slurping and splashing, it gulped one last time, burped loudly, then gave a delicious, sated, though still hideous, grin. The face disappeared entirely from view as the birchwood door slid into a pocket in the left wall, granting the mages passage to whatever lay behind it.

Guerrand took two steps into darkness behind Justarius before the archmage stopped them both. Slowly Guerrand's eyes adjusted, and he determined that the room was circular and exceedingly small, no wider than three men abreast. Justarius was so close to him that he obscured most of the view.

A dim light filtered down from high above. Looking up, the apprentice mage caught his breath at the sight of the most intricately pieced pane of stained glass he had ever seen. The narrow chamber felt like a life-size kaleidoscope. At first Guerrand thought it a colorful model of the lacy petals of the wild carrot flower, but the pattern was not that random. In fact, it was somehow familiar.

"The constellations," supplied Justarius, following his gaze to the colored glass some two stories above them. "See Gilean, there in the middle?" Justarius tried to raise his arm to point, a difficult move in the cramped silo. "He's the book-shaped constellation.

Gilean is the patriarch of maintaining a balance in the universe. That's why he's between Paladine and the Black Queen. Gilean holds the Book of Tobril, which contains all the knowledge possessed by the gods.

"Of course, you can see Solinari, of Good magic. By now your magical skills should be developed enough to easily reveal the red moon, Lunitari, to you, as well. We can only hope that you'll never have the sight for the black moon, evil Nuitari."

"But if I'm to be truly neutral, shouldn't I be able to see both sides, Evil and Good?"

"Seeing both sides of an issue and viewing the gods are two different things," explained Justarius. "Only mages who wear the black robes can see Nuitari in the night sky." Justarius hitched up his robes, sat down, and slid around a half-circle bench that followed the curve of the far wall. Jerking his head, Justarius indicated Guerrand should follow him. The apprentice quickly complied.

Guerrand could now see a murky glass ball of enormous proportion cradled between the points of an odd pedestal of antlers. He estimated the diameter of the globe to be nearly the length of his arm.

"Before the Cataclysm," said Justarius, "crystal balls were to mages what picklocks are to thieves. But, like most things of great value, the Cataclysm reduced nearly all of them to rubble. In the years shortly after my own apprenticeship, I rescued this one from the flower garden of a nymph. She obviously had no idea of its value, calling it her 'gazing ball' She was just as happy to gaze at the steel piece I gave her in exchange."

"What do you have to do to make it work?" breathed Guerrand, staring wide-eyed into the pastel mists that roiled within the large glass ball.

"I don't have to do anything this time. You do."

Guerrand's blue eyes snapped away from the mesmerizing mist. "I know nothing of crystal balls!"

"But you know everything about your brother Cormac and the castle in which you were raised. That's all the ball requires of you."

Noting Guerrand's skeptical look, Justarius continued. "To use the ball, simply peer into it with open eyes and concentrate on that which you want to see. It can be a person, place, or thing, but places are usually easier for beginners. With some practice, you'll be able to look for whatever you want."

Justarius held up two fingers. "Keep in mind several things, Guerrand. The more familiar the sought thing is, the easier it is to locate. It's even more important to remember that the globe feeds on your energy. If you are skeptical or fearful or distracted, it won't respond to you as well as it otherwise might."

Eager to succeed in Justarius's eyes and learn what he could of his own family, Guerrand closed his eyes briefly to chase away all distractions. Opening them again, he rubbed the orb and stared into its depths. He envisioned Cormac's study as he'd last seen it, floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, the path of worn carpeting from the door to Cormac's cluttered desk, the bright windows that overlooked the sea.

Gradually, within the mists, Guerrand caught glimpses of the image he sought, hazy at first, but slowly clearing. Anxious, he squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate as he did when spellcasting. Instantly he knew his mistake.

"You lose the image when you close your eyes," said Justarius, confirming Guerrand's suspicion. "You'll have to start all over."

Heaving a disheartened sigh, Guerrand chased away his frustration and tried again with open eyes. To his delight, the image of Cormac's study blinked into sight almost instantly. He was getting the hang of it! Unfortunately, the study was empty.

"I don't understand," muttered Guerrand. "Cormac is almost always holed up in his study."

"Try focusing on Cormac himself," suggested Justarius. "I think you can do it."

Guerrand nodded once and then tried to summon a mental picture of his brother. He was surprised to realize that, despite having lived his entire life with him, he could recall few details of Cormac's face. When he remembered their encounters in recent years, Guerrand saw his own feet, or the bottom of a port glass. It had probably been years since Guerrand had been able to meet his brother's gaze. Was Cormac's nose long or short? Eyes close- or wide-set? Guerrand had no answers. In the end, he focused his thoughts on memories of Cormac's size and stance, of his disapproving stare, of the clothing he was prone to wear.

The memory was apparently enough. With a sizzling electrical snap, Cormac's visage parted the mists, and he leaped into view inside the crystal ball. He was seated at the head of the table in Castle DiThon's seldom-used council room. A thick layer of dust coated the tabletop, except where lines had recently been traced.

Gradually Guerrand could see whose fingers and elbows had sliced through the dust. Gathered around the long table were Cormac's council of cavaliers, all the important warriors who served the lord, including Guerrand's old weapon master, Milford. While Guerrand watched, his brother leaned forward in his chair and thumped the table. A cloud of dust puffed into the air around his fist.

"Didn't I say I could take the land like that-" he snapped his fingers "-from those pompous merchants?" He pushed back his chair and stood. "I didn't need either of my brothers-the one who was foolish enough to get himself killed, or the coward who ran away. I didn't need to further taint my family's bloodlines, either. My only regret is that I didn't think of it sooner." Cormac sat again and leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and slapped his boots up on the table in a gesture of supreme confidence and satisfaction.

"In fact, the day Guerrand ran away like a thief in the night was very likely the best in the DiThon family history!" Watching, Guerrand winced. "I hereby decree that day a half year ago as a local holiday!"

Milford coughed uncomfortably, his scar pulling at his cheek. "I would advise you, sir, not to get too complacent about the seizure of Berwick land."

"Don't be ridiculous!" barked Cormac, leaning forward again with the disapproving eyes that Guerrand remembered too well. Cormac looked drunk, his nose red, his movements slow. "We snatched that land from right under their noses. They're merchants, not warriors. We needn't fear anyone we can best so easily."

"Too easily, if you ask me," said Milford under his breath.

"I didn't," snapped Cormac.

"Excuse me, Lord Cormac," said a knight named Rees. Guerrand recognized him; he lived in a village northeast of Thonvil. "It is no measure of an enemy's strength to succeed at seizing his unprotected land, leagues from their manor house, when they are away in Solamnia attending their daughter's wedding."

"Perhaps not, Rees," growled Cormac, "but it is a measure of my resolve. No one ignores Cormac DiThon and gets away with it. I was still negotiating in good faith with that fat bastard Berwick when he simply announced that all deals were off. He'd already betrothed his bucked-toothed daughter to some pretentious Knight of Solamnia!" Cormac visibly shuddered. "I simply could not let the insult go unchecked." Guerrand could also guess from Cormac's sullen expression that Rietta had chewed his ear thoroughly about the Berwicks landing a Solamnic title, while she was stuck with a petty cavalier.

"In any event," said Dalric, an old soldier Guerrand knew Cormac despised, "Berwick will almost certainly try to take back his land."

"Let him try!" barked Cormac. "Who could that bloated merchant get to fight his battle? Are the sailors from his shipping lines going to tie us in knots? Will his gardeners attack us with pitchforks?" Cormac nearly laughed himself apoplectic. He tossed back a drink.

None of his advisors raised a Up in humor.

Cormac finally realized that he was the only one laughing. Scowling, he snorted to a stop. "If you're so damned concerned, Milford, then take some men to reinforce those already posted at Stonecliff. When Berwick's sailors come to fight, we'll bloody their noses. They'll run back to their little boats, and that will be the last we ever see of them."

Milford coughed again, his face red. "Cormac, I feel compelled to point out that it's unlikely Anton Berwick will lead an attack on the land you've seized-it's worth little, anyway."

"Worthless? To him, perhaps!" cried Cormac. "That land was in my family for years! It has the best view of the strait. A fort on that location would command the bay and control all traffic up and down the river. We could make a rich living collecting tolls from that traffic, and I intend to do just that."

Milford colored further, highlighting the white scar on his face. "I meant it had little monetary value by itself. What you propose is a different matter entirely."

Cormac slammed a hammy fist on the table. "There you have it, then. Berwick won't waste the money trying to get it back. Stop frowning so, Milford."

The weapon master leaned forward, placing his elbow on the table. "We've all agreed-" Milford tossed his head to include the other cavaliers at the long table, all of whom looked down at their hands "-Berwick will not tolerate either the insult, after what happened with Quinn and Guerrand, or the placement of a toll on river traffic. He'll demand retribution. It is our collective opinion that he'll lead an attack against the village of Thonvil, or, more likely, Castle DiThon itself."

Cormac's eyes turned black with anger. "You've all agreed?" He jumped to his feet. "Perhaps you'd all like to join his forces-if you haven't already!" Cormac's hands clenched into fists, and he swept an arm across the table, scattering wine-filled glasses to the floor. "All of you be damned!" With that the lord stormed from the room, leaving his council in a cloud of newly raised dust.

Guerrand's concentration dissolved with Cormac's angry departure, and the images in the crystal ball slipped into pastel mist. He couldn't have watched more, anyway. The apprentice turned worried eyes to Justarius.

The master's eyebrows raised appreciatively. "As you say, he is… emotional. But why the frown? Apparently your brother has been too busy to send an assassin after you. In fact, he sounds delighted you're gone."

"The assassin concerns me less than my family," Guerrand said softly. "I'm afraid Cormac's obsession with Stonecliff is blinding him to the safety of his family and the people under his protection. I'd hoped that my leaving would force him to abandon his plan to extort tolls from the Berwicks. Clearly he's going ahead with it in the most disastrous manner possible."

Guerrand snapped around suddenly and turned his eyes on Justarius. "Will the globe show me Anton Berwick?"

"If you can picture him, perhaps."

"I've only seen him once or twice, but I've got to try," said Guerrand. "I must know if he's planning to retaliate."

"You might also learn if Berwick has sent anyone after you," suggested Justarius.

Guerrand wrapped his arms around the cool crystal globe and bade his mind recall the brief glimpses of Anton Berwick he'd gotten across the dim mourning chamber on the day of Quinn's viewing: short and round, balding, a scarlet tunic edged in green, leggings bagging at the knees.

Guerrand looked between his outstretched arms as a fuzzy image began to form. He could scarcely see the face, but from the general body shape, Guerrand knew it was Berwick. The squat merchant stood with a tail, armored man whose upper lip bore the unmistakable mustache of a Knight of Solamnia. Though Guerrand could see little more in the mists, their voices were clear.

"The plans are moving apace, sir," said the knight to Berwick. "Notices have been posted in all the ports in which your ships dock. Within a fortnight, we can expect mercenaries to begin arriving. After a short training period, we'll be in a position to lure the DiThons into defending the land they've pilfered, then we'll attack their castle while it's lightly defended."

"When will your comrades be arriving from Solamnia?"

"Any day now," said the knight.

Guerrand, his worst fear confirmed, had heard enough. He let the image in the crystal ball lapse, scarcely able to believe the danger in which Cormac had so blithely placed his family. And all for pride and money. Cormac had but a handful of cavaliers to defend against hired men-at-arms and who knew how many knights? Chances were, it would be a slaughter.

Kirah… Visions of his little sister came unbidden to mind. His arms were still on the ball. Guerrand turned his head slightly and looked into the shimmering globe. He saw his scrappy sister huddled among the pillows on the window seat in her room. She'd never looked so forlorn. In her hand, she clutched a twisted scrap of parchment.

"Who's that?"

"My sister," gulped Guerrand. "She's the one I promised I'd return for."

"What's that she's holding?"

Guerrand knew, without seeing his own script, that

it must be the note he'd left her on the night of his departure for the Tower of High Sorcery. He stared, unblinking, at her crystal-clear image, wishing he could touch her for a moment and reassure her.

"Justarius, I've got to go back and warn them of the Berwick's plans," Guerrand said softly, his eyes focused on Kirah's image.

"Look away from the crystal ball, Guerrand," his master said gently, lifting the apprentice's arms from its surface. "You're suffering mental strain from having watched too long. I told you it draws its power from the viewer, especially a novice. For your own sake, you must look away now or risk losing your mind to the globe."

Reluctantly, Guerrand let his arms be pulled from the cool, leaded glass globe. He felt a physical pain when the image of Kirah disappeared. Guerrand dug his fists into his eyes. "Thank you, I didn't realize."

He turned bleary eyes on his master. "This doesn't change my need to warn them. I must ask you for a short recess from my studies-a month, perhaps. I know it's a great deal to ask, but surely you can understand."

Justarius rubbed his own face wearily. Guerrand could see that he was carefully weighing his response. "I understand the desire, but I cannot grant your request."

"What?"

Justarius didn't blink. "You recall when first I selected you to be my apprentice?" Guerrand nodded grudgingly. "I informed you when you accepted my offer to join the Order of the Red Robes that you were pledging yourself to magic, and magic alone. Magic will not tolerate distractions in the minds of its wielders, particularly during the critical apprentice years."

Guerrand's anger flared. "You mean you won't tolerate it! You can't stand the thought that I am loyal to anyone but you!"

Justarius's eyes narrowed just slightly. "If you think that, then you have much to learn about me, and even more about the commitment you made to magic. I am but a facilitator for learning the Art, Guerrand. I gain no personal prestige, no additional power for teaching you. I do it for magic, to increase its presence in our world, because my loyalty is to magic."

"You may forbid me to return and warn my family," said Guerrand, "but you can't stop me from doing it."

"I've forbidden you nothing, Guerrand," the archmage said evenly. "Your apprenticeship is not a prison sentence. You still have free will. But I can, and I would, stop you from returning here. If you choose to leave, your spot would be immediately and irrevocably filled."

"How can you ask me to forsake my family?" Guerrand demanded, his body shaking with frustration.

"Didn't you make that choice when you left for the tower?" When Guerrand winced, Justarius added more gently, "I ask you only to remain loyal to magic, and your study of it."

"But it's the same thing!" cried Guerrand, his fingers gripping the table edge. "I swore an oath to Kirah-if ever she needed me-I would know it and return."

Justarius heaved a sigh. "Only you can decide which vow is more important to you. In your guilty deliberations, I suggest you consider these things, as well. Would Cormac believe you if you returned with news that, through magical means, you've learned of a surprise raid by the Berwicks? He has already heard of that possibility proposed by his own advisors and rejected it. Would he listen more closely to you, after the way you left?"

"He's not mad about that." Guerrand looked defensive. "You heard him-he's almost happy that I left."

"Only because he believes he's got his coveted land anyway. I suspect that your brother's ire would quickly return once he remembered that your departure necessitated its seizure. Under any circumstances, he would not welcome your magical assistance."

Guerrand frowned his frustration. "Are you trying to dissuade me from going?"

"We have all had to make sacrifices for our art, Guerrand." Justarius gave his apprentice's arm a reassuring pat. "Lest you think you are casting your family to the wolves, realize, too, that the gods have plans that we mortals may never know or understand."

"Are you saying that it doesn't really matter what we decide, the gods will do as they like with us?"

"Not at all," said Justarius, with a single shake of his dark head. "I've said I believe in free will. But I also believe that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the outcome is in our favor, sometimes against. Frequently we never see the result at all." He stood and pulled Guerrand to his feet. "Right now, we are seeing the result of too much to think about all at once. Go rest, and I'll have Denbigh send some food to your room."

As Guerrand shuffled, numb, through the birch-wood door, he heard Justarius mumble behind him, "That leaves one other question unanswered, the one we initially sought. If neither your brother nor Berwick has sent someone after you, then who rigged the joust? More important, why?"

Guerrand stopped in Justarius's study and turned, surprised that he had forgotten all about that. "Do you suspect someone?"

Justarius calmly swallowed the last of his lemon tonic. "I suspect everyone and I suspect no one. Which is why, for your own safety, you mustn't tell a soul that we suspect someone wants you harmed."

That's easy, Guerrand thought as he left the room. I understand little enough to tell.

Dispirited, Guerrand toed a seashell lodged in the fieldstone-and-dirt quay. He'd taken Justarius's advice, returned to his room, and tried to eat the roast groundhog and fresh pomegranate Denbigh had brought him on a tray. Though it had smelled delicious, Guerrand found he had as little appetite as answers to his dilemma. And so he'd wandered down to the waterfront to watch the ships come and go, as he often had back in Northern Ergoth.

When Guerrand pondered the choices before him, his chest felt as if a huge cord encircled it and was being pulled ever tighter, until he could scarcely breathe. There was no answer that allowed him to emerge whole. If he left to warn his family, he was again sacrificing his desires-his future-to his family, when only Kirah seemed to care for his wishes. It had taken him a score of years to summon the courage to escape that intolerable situation. Justarius would never take him back, and it was most unlikely he would secure another master, let alone one as respected as the archmage.

Just then, a familiar-looking sea gull skidded across the dirt road with a harsh, deep "kyeow."

"Oh, hello, Zagarus," Guerrand said lifelessly.

And a cheery hello to you, too, said the bird, springing on webbed, yellow-green feet to Guerrand's side. Is Justarius working you too hard?

"If only that were the problem. I could just stay up later, work a little harder. No," he said with a rueful shake of his shaggy head, "it's not that simple."

Tell me about it. Maybe I can think of a solution. He ruffled up his chest feathers. I am, after all, a hooded, black-backed Ergothian sea gull, the largest, most strikingly beautiful and intelligent of all seabirds.

In no mood for the gull's ego or humor, Guerrand nevertheless noted drolly the addition of the word "intelligent" to Zagarus's favorite description of himself. Still, he knew the bird would want to know if Kirah were in danger, and so he told Zagarus of the visions in the crystal ball and the choice he had to make.

You're right. It's not simple. What do you think you'll do?

Guerrand sighed. "I wish I knew."

Say, Zagarus said suddenly. I could fly back and tell-

"Who? Cormac?" scoffed Guerrand.

No, the sea gull said, annoyed at the interruption. I could tell Kirah. She'd believe me.

"And who would believe her? Besides, you know the rules regarding separation of familiar and master. You can't possibly fly fast enough to get there and return within a week, which is the longest we could survive a separation."

The gull reluctantly nodded his black-and-white head.

Angry, frustrated, Guerrand kicked a shell he'd worked loose, and it flew into the hull of an upturned fishing boat.

"Guerrand!" The apprentice mage's head snapped up at the familiar voice. He nodded a silent, edgy greeting to Lyim. Zagarus squawked a hasty retreat.

"What a surprise to find you at the waterfront," said the other apprentice. "I thought you preferred the solitude of your tiny room in the hills."

"You'd be surprised to learn that I come to the quay frequently for the familiar sound and scent of the sea. Not-" Guerrand smirked as he continued "-for the clamor of bawdy barmaids and the smell of stale ale."

Lyim shrugged good-naturedly. "To each his own familiarity." He nodded toward where the shell had struck the boat. "And why is Palanthas's most composed apprentice so agitated today? Could this anger be residual from the Knight's Jest?"

Guerrand waved the question away. "Truth to tell, that fiasco had nearly slipped my mind."

Lyim touched a hand gingerly to his posterior. "Would that I could forget it." He jerked his head toward the Lonely Mermaid Tavern. "I was just about to speed the process with the aid of the aforementioned ale. Care to join me?"

Guerrand shook his head. "No, thanks. I've too much to ponder to confuse things with ale."

Lyim squinted closely at his friend. "You aren't still angry with me, are you, Guerrand? Look, I have no idea what came over me on that field, truly I don't." Lyim pulled off his feathered cap. "I've been asleep these hours since Belize took me back to Villa Nova. You'll be happy to know I received quite a tongue-lashing from him upon waking, too."

"That doesn't make me happy, Lyim."

The other apprentice, staring out to sea, appeared not to hear him. "I've tried since to sort through it, Guerrand, but still it makes little sense to me. Frankly, it seems more dreamlike than real." He shook his head as if to send the confused images away on the salty sea breeze.

Guerrand considered his friend with mixed feelings. He could answer a part of Lyim's confusion with one simple sentence: someone cast a spell on you. But he remembered Justarius's warnings to tell no one. Though Guerrand trusted Lyim, answering his question would only raise more complicated ones. He didn't know what to say, so Guerrand said nothing.

The two friends stood in an awkward, guilty silence. Lyim took a shuffling step toward the tavern. Both men looked over suddenly at the sound of three boisterous sailors, dressed in baggy trousers and sleeveless tunics, striding down the quay. One sailor, older than his companions, held a roll of parchment. The others, both young and fresh-faced, hustled along at his side, trying to get a look at the document in his hand. The sailors came to a stop at a nearby lantern post by the busiest pier on the waterfront. Pushing back his eager cronies, the first sailor held the parchment up and secured it with square nails, top and bottom, to the rough beam.

One of the young sailors whistled shrilly. "Four steel pieces a day for mercenary work in Northern Ergoth! How hard can it be to squash some local lord there? Nothing but kender and dark-skinned peasants, I hear tell. A fortnight's easy work, and you're fifty steel richer!"

His head was slapped by the other youth. "That's fifty-six steel, you moron!"

The older sailor who'd posted the notice added, "I hear the Berwicks are prompt payers, too." He thumped his chest. "I'm going to sign on. Can't make that kind of money at sea." With that, the three men scurried off toward the Lonely Mermaid, still talking about the notice.

With a sharp ache in his chest, Guerrand watched them go. He wondered darkly, distantly, if they would be the ones to slay his family.

"Northern Ergoth," muttered Lyim, scratching his head. "Isn't that where you're from?" Guerrand squeezed his eyes shut and nodded numbly. "Do you know anything about the notice?"

"Too much," Guerrand acknowledged wearily without thinking.

"The local lord… wouldn't that be your brother?" asked the other apprentice.

"Look, Lyim," Guerrand said, backing away, "I really can't talk about this."

Lyim's hand flew up to clasp his friend's arm, holding him tight. "All right, I'll do the talking. Your family is in trouble, and you're angry. That's understandable. What's not is why you're still in Palanthas. When are you returning to help them?"

"Help who?" Guerrand asked, avoiding Lyim's eyes.

"Come on, Guerrand, I'm not stupid. I understand why you feel you can't trust me, but…" He regarded his friend through one eye.

Lyim's tactics crumbled Guerrand's resolve. "I can't go back!" he confessed.

"What do you mean? Your family won't let you?"

Guerrand shook his head miserably. "They don't know where I am, or that Berwick means to attack them."

Lyim caught on quickly. "It's Justarius, isn't it? He won't let you leave to help them." Incredulous, Lyim shook his head. "Does he mean to tear you in two, choosing between him and your family?"

Guerrand found himself in the odd position of defending his master. "He requires me to be true to my vow. Besides, he hasn't forbidden me to go, only told me what the consequences would be for me here."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." Guerrand looked to the notice on the post. "And I haven't much time to decide."

Lyim's eyes shifted from side to side as he considered something. He snapped his fingers. "Let me go to Northern Ergoth and at least warn your family. I could help them, if it came to that."

"What?" exclaimed Guerrand, scarcely believing his ears. "What would you tell Belize?"

Lyim's expression turned eager with enthusiasm as he warmed to the idea. "I'll tell him nothing. Then I won't be violating any rule like Justarius's, will I? Besides, Belize won't even notice I'm gone. He told me after my tongue-lashing that he's retreating for weeks of meditation and work on his newest book of spells." Lyim waved it away. "He does that all the time."

"But what'll you do at Castle DiThon? Who'll you talk to? You're a stranger! Why would they listen to you?"

"Give me some credit, will you?" said Lyim. "I'll come up with some convincing story about, I don't know, being in the Berwick's hire, then defecting out of a sense of justice, or some such rot. They'll have no choice but to believe me." He shrugged. "If they don't, I'll be there to help your family magically. You know my magic is better than yours."

Guerrand snorted. "Cormac would no sooner let you employ magic than kiss him."

Lyim grabbed Guerrand by the shoulders. "That's the beauty of this whole plot! They don't know me from the great wizard Fistandantilus. No one has to know I'm using magic!" He frowned at his friend. "Now stop trying to think of reasons it won't work and tell me what I need to know to make it work."

Guerrand shook his head vigorously. "It's more than I can ask of you, Lyim."

"You didn't ask. I offered." Lyim looked at him slyly from the corners of his eyes. "You got a better plan, or are you just going to let them die?"

Guerrand stopped shaking his head, slowly softening to the idea. Lyim was right about them believing a stranger over him, and also about his spellcasting abilities. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the perfect solution, when moments ago there had been none. Guerrand would be able to keep his apprenticeship, and his family stood a better chance with Lyim. Guerrand peered closely at the other apprentice. "Why would you do this for me?"

"I'd be doing it for me," he corrected Guerrand, his tone unusually earnest. "Maybe it'll help me feel like I've atoned for my behavior at the Jest." He shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. "Besides, I could use the field practice-it's tiresome learning spells I have no occasion to use."

Awash with relief and affection, Guerrand gave his friend a grateful smile. "Then I accept your offer."

Whooping his victory, Lyim slapped an arm around Guerrand's shoulders and hustled him toward the tavern. "You can buy me a drink while we come up with a plan of action. It would help to devise a quicker means of travel than the mercenaries who are signing up, but that seems unlikely. Is there anyone I could trust with the truth? A servant, a sibling…?"