Night of The Eye

Chapter Three

Seated in a merlon, his back against a crenel, Guerrand stared blankly at the book propped against his bent knees. "So, what do you think I should do, Zagarus?" he asked his companion on the southern ramparts of Castle DiThon. The view, looking out over the strait of Ergoth, was breathtaking, but today Guerrand scarcely saw the sea.

You're asking me? I'm a sea gull, remember?

The bird's squawk echoed directly inside Guerrand's head. He looked up from the book. "Who else can I ask? Kirah has told me what she thinks." He sighed. He'd had one conversation with his sister since the viewing. They'd disagreed about running away, and Kirah hadn't spoken to him since. "Besides, Zagarus, you're not an ordinary sea gull."

You don't have to tell me that! snapped the gull. I'm a hooded, black-backed Ergothian sea gull, the largest, most strikingly beautiful of all seabirds.

Guerrand's lids drooped slowly at the gull's modest assessment. Zagarus was impressive to look at. His head was brown-black in a diagonal from the base of his small skull to his throat. His entire underside, save for his yellow legs, was snow-white. Edged with a mere sliver of white, his wings and back were the purest black. "I meant that you're my familiar."

Zagarus screeched aloud, a harsh, deep "kyeow." In the silent language of familiars, he said, How well I know my servitude.

"You know," said Guerrand slyly, "I don't believe familiars are supposed to be so ill-humored. If it were up to me, I might have chosen a sweet-tempered toad-"

Now there's a useful creature, snorted the bird, his flat beak bobbing. Easily eaten by predators, they do nothing but croak and p-

"Or," interrupted Guerrand with a chuckle, "some usefully vicious predator, like a hawk."

Trustworthy, to be sure, Zagarus said with a roll of his beady eyes.

"Or a cat."

Too sneaky. Zagarus jumped from a high, flat merlon down to the lower level. Face it, Guerrand, we're stuck with each other, 'till death do us part,' as they say in magic circles.

Guerrand laughed again. He'd never tell Zagarus the truth-that he wouldn't have it any other way. If the crotchety sea gull had been a dog, Guerrand would have said his bark was worse than his bite. Zagarus had been Guerrand's companion for some years, since the young would-be wizard had first stumbled upon the incantation for summoning a familiar in one of his father's books. That casting had been his first successful attempt to wield magic.

If I could have chosen my master, said the sea gull, pausing to nibble at an itch beneath one wing, believe me, it would have been someone who took less than ten years to become a cavalier.

"You know the reason for that," said Guerrand softly.

Zagarus felt a decidedly uncharacteristic twinge of regret. We always tease each other, Guerrand. What's wrong with you today?

Guerrand set down his book and stood, looking vacantly out to sea. "I guess I'm confused and more than a little sensitive these days."

The gull's gaze fell on to the book of tactical combat Guerrand had been reading. Confused? It looks like you've already made your decision.

Guerrand's eyes filled with anguish. "The whole situation is so tangled, I can hardly sort through it sometimes. What I know is this: Cormac has vowed to throw me out if I refuse. For myself, rank poverty doesn't concern me overmuch, but Kirah would insist on going with me, and I have no means of supporting us. I won't have her picking pockets in Gwynned."

Guerrand rubbed his face wearily. "There is also the question of family honor." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his breeches and began to pace. "The family needs me. How can I not agree to Cormac's ultimatum? I am honor bound to help the family."

Even if you're not responsible for its decline?

Guerrand's dark head bobbed. "It must be hard, perhaps impossible, for a sea gull to understand family loyalty. You leave your clutch mates at a tender age and never see them again." The human knew from the silence that he was right.

Explain to me once more why it's so important for Cormac to get this land in the dowry.

Guerrand shrugged. "Part of it, I guess, is pride. He gave over Stonecliff once, and he doesn't want to let it slip through his grasp again. Beyond that, the land is very valuable for its position at the mouth of the river."

So he's marrying you off for land.

Guerrand scowled. "Now you sound like Kirah. The Berwick's are tremendously wealthy. Though part of the bargain is that I become a full-fledged knight, I'll likely never have to raise a sword thereafter. I'll be joining the Berwick's family business as an officer at one of their trading stations somewhere. I should think of it as gaining comfort and an opportunity to travel."

Now you sound like Cormac.

There was a stony silence as both realized the truth of that.

What happens to me? asked Zagarus, breaking the silence at last.

Surprised by the question, Guerrand turned to look at the bird. "Why, you'll come with me, of course. You well know the reality about familiars. We'd both probably die if we were separated for more than a few days."

So I'm to live inland.

Guerrand looked exasperated. "Hillfort is on the river. It's a major inland port. Besides, it hasn't been decided where we'll live, but all the Berwick holdings, by necessity, are near ports." His glance traveled the outline of the grim castle. "I'd be happy enough to get away from here, though."

Zagarus abruptly squawked and flapped into the air to perch atop the roof of the keep. Guerrand spun around quickly and saw Milford, Cormac's weapon master and Guerrand's tutor in the fine art of hacking people to bits. Had the man heard him speaking aloud to his familiar? Guerrand swore silently to himself, irritated that Cormac chose this time to dispatch his man for a lesson. But there was no escaping Milford now.

The burly, bearded warrior planted himself in front of Guerrand. "It's a fine view from here, young squire, but you can't sit about enjoying the air all day. You've got a piece of work ahead if you're to wear a cavalier's sword before your wedding."

So Cormac is already spreading the word, even before I've given him an official response, Guerrand thought. He had bent to Cormac's will for so long that Guerrand knew he should have expected it. With a feeling of defeat he could not shake, Guerrand dutifully stood and followed the veteran.

Guerrand was in an uncharacteristically foul mood. He kicked a large stone in the road that led to Thonvil. First he'd had a miserable session with Milford, and had seemed unable to fend off the easiest of blows. He'd actually been grateful when the session came to a premature end by a summons from Rietta.

Unbelievably, things took a downturn from there.

He was on his way to the silversmith's. Rietta had taken it upon herself to order a wedding present from him to Ingrid, his "intended." If that wasn't bad enough, he hadn't the money to pay for it.

This ploy was a common trick of Rietta's. She would commission some piece of work from a local craftsman. It was considered quite an honor to be doing work for the lord or his lady. She would send a servant to retrieve the piece, with a promise that the bill would be paid the first of the month. The first would come and go without an exchange of money.

Occasionally a merchant would send a bill to the castle, but it was always ignored. The more aggressive ones would journey in person to the castle, only to be turned away at the door and never used again, a bit of a mixed blessing. The merchants didn't talk about it among themselves, for the shame, and for fear that Rietta would somehow persuade Cormac to shut down their businesses.

Guerrand knew the ploy too well. Several merchants had confided in him, knowing they could trust the lord's brother. Some even hoped he might be able to help them, but Guerrand was certain that Rietta would only deny blame, and Cormac cared too little for the welfare of the villagers to intervene.

Why does it have to be Wilor? Guerrand thought. He had known the silversmith as long as he'd known anyone. Wilor and Rejik DiThon had been of an age. Unlike Cormac, Rejik had treated his subjects with respect and even befriended many of them. Both men had told Guerrand stories of their youthful exploits.

He hated that he was being forced to participate in a scheme he felt powerless to stop. At first when Rietta had asked him to go to the silversmith's he had refused, insisting that if she wanted the trinket, she should go herself or send a servant.

"You're not showing the proper gratitude for my thoughtfulness, Guerrand," Rietta had said. "Placing an order is one thing. However, it would be most unseemly for the lady of the castle to be seen in the village, purchasing items like a common woman. What's more," she had sniffed, "I have no servants to spare, what with the preparations for your wedding. All you have to do is show up for the ceremony. The least you can do is help out in this small way."

In the end, Guerrand agreed to go so that he could admit to Wilor the silversmith that he had no money, but he would pay him in full after his marriage.

Guerrand snorted now, remembering her words. Yes, all I have to do is be married to the Bucker Princess for a lifetime, such a small thing for the family. She and Cormac, despite their fighting, are well suited, he thought.

The day was warm, hot even, and far too moist. Guerrand's skintight hose clung to his bony legs, made sweat run down his thighs in tiny rivulets. He'd never cared much about his attire; clothes never seemed to fit him very well anyway. He was all knobby bones and strange angles. He particularly hated hose, far preferring the baggier trousers worn by the lower classes-and by him until he'd agreed to be married.

"You're nobility, Guerrand," Cormac had said, tossing him an armful of new, expensive-looking clothing. "If you can't act the part, the least you can do is look like a lord and a cavalier. Rietta went to a great deal of trouble on your behalf for these clothes."

Not half as much as the unpaid tailor, Guerrand mused. He shuddered now to think of the amount of coin Rietta had cheated from some unfortunate workman, probably Bartholamin, whose shop stood next to the mill. Guerrand unconsciously circumvented that part of town on his way to the silversmith's.

Winding his way along the twisted streets between the thatched houses and gardens, Guerrand was surprised at the number of villagers still wearing mourning clothes. He began to feel very self-conscious, as he and everyone else at the castle had ended their outward mourning the day before, at Rietta's order. She felt it was inappropriate to prepare for a wedding while shrouds still hung in the castle. Yet these townsfolk still grieved for his brother. Perhaps they understood better what had been lost.

Guerrand knew the way to Wilor's too well these days. He'd been there just a week before to help retrieve the impossibly heavy, elaborately decorated casket cover for Quinn. Hammered into the likeness of his brother, the beauty of the silver cover would have taken Guerrand's breath away if its necessity hadn't brought such sorrow.

Wilor didn't need a sign to advertise his product; the heavy door bearing its silver unicorn signified Wilor's trade and set his stall apart from the much more practical doors of the other merchants. Next to the door, a pair of shutters were opened up and down. Serving as an awning, the upper shutter was supported by two posts. A display counter by day, the lower shutter dropped down to rest on two short legs.

Guerrand could see Wilor's wife at a workbench inside the shop, polishing some recent pieces of work with a tan scrap of chamois. Guerrand counted eleven anvils of various size about the modest, hazy shop. Next to a small furnace, one of Wilor's two apprentices held a glowing piece of metal on an anvil, while the master hammered it with incredible speed and accuracy, never once missing the metal. The other young apprentice, his face red and glowing with sweat, held a crucible of softened silver in the furnace with a long pair of tongs, waiting for Wilor's practiced hammer.

Guerrand tugged at the ornate door and slipped into the stiflingly hot shop. Wilor looked up from his anvil and smiled at Guerrand. Sweat ran down his beet-red face, detouring around his upturned lips.

Wilor was a short but sturdy man who had developed immense strength from his vigorous life. His hairline had receded to the midpoint of his scalp, as if to get away from the ever-present heat of the furnace. The thick, red forearms exposed below his rolled sleeves took on a gruesome sheen that always reminded Guerrand of the film that formed over the fatty sections of roasted meat. What teeth Wilor still possessed looked white against the cooked expanse of his face. Whatever his troubles, Guerrand was instantly reminded that a tradesman's life was far harder than his. He was annoyed anew at a society that allowed Rietta to indulge in common thievery.

Guerrand would have been surprised to read the returned pity in the smith's mind at the moment. Guerrand, his sister Kirah, and their dead brother Quinn were too good for their family, thought the smith. Guerrand!" he cried, stepping forward to heartily clap him on the shoulder. "How are you holding up, lad?"

"Well enough, Wilor," said Guerrand with a smile more rueful than he realized. "What with the wedding preparations, we haven't had much time to think of other things."

"I've been wanting to tell you how sorry we all were about Quinn." The old smith's salt-and-pepper head shook sadly. "A finer lad you'd be hard-pressed to find."

"Thank you," Guerrand said softly, his head bowed slightly at the tribute. "I've been wanting to talk to you as well. About that coffin cover you made… It was… incredible. There's no one who can fashion metal like you, Wilor."

Wilor chuckled, his flush of pleasure unnoticeable in the ruddy, round face. "I know what you're here for today." Wilor rushed over to his wife, who was still polishing pieces of jewelry and several chalices. He held out his hand; she knew just what he was looking for. Wilor came back and unfurled his fingers. In his moist, fleshy palm lay the most exquisite piece of craftsmanship Guerrand had ever seen. Wilor smiled at the young man's indrawn breath.

"Do you like it?"

"Like it?" exclaimed Guerrand. "It's far too good for Ingr-for me," he quickly amended.

Ingrid's flaws would only be accentuated next to this exquisite necklace. The pendant was in the shape of a swooping falcon. Beneath it, a crescent moon was suspended by nearly invisible silver strands, so that the moon seemed to be floating by itself. The whole thing shone with the pale luster of moonlight.

"I took some liberties with the design," explained Wilor. "I hope Lady DiThon won't mind overmuch. She wanted the moon to be full and for the birdie to be attached to it solidlike, but I thought that would spoil the delicateness of it, don't you see. Other than them things, it's mainly the same as Lady DiThon requested."

"Don't worry, I won't let Rietta say a word against it," vowed Guerrand. He looked intently at Wilor. "That brings me to what I wanted to speak to you about. Have you been paid for the… for the work you did for Quinn?"

He knew the answer before he saw Wilor's shaggy head shake. "I'll see that you are, as well as for this stunning necklace, after the wedding." Guerrand flushed with embarrassment. "I wish I could pay you now, Wilor, but, well, I just can't." His voice trailed off. They both knew he had no funds of his own under Cormac.

Wilor's expression contained both relief and pity. "The promise of Rejik DiThon's second son will always be good enough for me." With a sly wink, he took the necklace from Guerrand's hand. "Marthe will wrap this securely for you. I'll not have my handiwork marred before it's delivered to the bride."

Guerrand smiled his thanks, but could not suppress a slight shudder at Wilor's last word. While Wilor and Marthe fussed over wrapping the gift Rietta would insist on rewrapping, the young man looked at Wilor's display of uncommissioned pieces available for sale. There were delicate necklaces, heavy armbands in the shape of intertwined serpents, brooches, and cloak fasteners. He picked up a dagger pommel in the shape of a boar's head.

"He has a way with metal, has he not?"

Guerrand jumped at the sound of the strange, yet somehow familiar, voice at his shoulder. He could hide neither his surprise nor his dismay at the sight of the man he'd last encountered outside Cormac's study.

Shorter and thicker than Guerrand, the mage was clothed entirely in blood-red robes from neck to booted feet. In the darkness of the keep's hallway, Guerrand hadn't noticed how deeply pocked was the man's face; nature had not been kind to him, nor likely his peers in adolescence. His complexion was ruddy, only several shades lighter than his robe; the skin hung loose upon the bones. The irises of his eyes were so large and dark they seemed to blot out any white, making them look as beady as a bird's. Above them were two thick, black, short, straight brows, like dashes. His chin was covered with the small, perfect triangle of a goatee. His pearl-shaped head was shaved smooth, though a shadowy stubble ringed his head in a perfect wreath.

"It's amazing what he's able to accomplish through skill and craft alone." Thin, tapered fingers with inch-long, red-tipped nails took the pommel from Guerrand's sweaty palm. "One can only imagine what Wilor could make if he could wield the powers we do."

The mage's voice was almost too soft for even Guerrand to hear. Still, the youth looked about the shop anxiously. "I don't know what you mean-I know nothing about magic," he hissed.

The mage's thick eyebrows raised. "Strange that you should assume I was speaking of magic."

Guerrand flushed. He hadn't meant to sound defensive. He knew he shouldn't be speaking to the mage at all. Guerrand looked toward Wilor and frowned. The smith and his wife were still fussing over his package. "I've some other errands to run, Wilor," he called, heading for the door before the smith could respond. "I'll just stop back later."

"I hear congratulations are in order, Guerrand," the mage pressed.

The young man paused long enough to say, "Thank you."

"You must be sorry to give up your dreams of magic to become a knight. I expect you're not very good at soldiering."

Guerrand whirled on the mage, his face livid. "I don't know who you are or why you think you know so much about me, but you're wrong."

"About you being a lackluster cavalier?" The mage shook his shaved head mildly. "I don't think so."

"You know what I'm talking about!"

"Yes, but do you?"

The conversation was quickly getting out of control. Guerrand had to end it. The apprentices were starting to take notice. "If I was interested in speaking with you, which I'm not, I couldn't do it here in the middle of a village shop."

"Yes, your brother is not enamored of mages, is he? Word would surely get back to him." He tapped his whiskered chin in thought. "That's easily taken care of." The mage snapped his finger. In the blink of an eye, Wilor, his wife, and the apprentices all fell absolutely still, as if frozen in time. With a loud crash, the awnings dropped and slammed closed, cutting off the view to the street. A length of wood banged down, bolting both the door and the awnings from the inside.

"There," said the mage with satisfaction. "That ought to keep the gossips at bay for a while."

Guerrand was intrigued and annoyed at the same time. But he was more intrigued. "How did you do that?"

"Don't be coy with me, Guerrand. I'm quite certain you know the answer." He replaced the pommel in the empty space on the shelf. "You're capable of mastering such simple spells, if you haven't already."

Guerrand's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about me-and why?"

The mage's eyebrows raised in obvious amusement. "Those are two entirely different questions. Which would you have me answer first?"

Guerrand shrugged, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. "I guess you've used magic to learn about me. What I can't figure out is why."

"As you wish." He looked about the small, hot shop with undisguised disgust and wiped his brow on a long, red cuff. "Why do people work in such unpleasant conditions, when there is magic? But then, one might ask why, when there is magic, they work at all."

"Magic can't do everything!" spat Guerrand, feeling strangely defensive for the honest shopkeepers of Thonvil.

"Can't it?" The mage looked surprised, as if the possibility had never occurred to him. Brushing his hands together, he said, "Well, if we're to converse here, let's be comfortable."

With a mumbled word and a wave of his hand, the fire in the furnace dropped away to the tiniest of glows and a cool, refreshing breeze wafted through the shop. Reflexively Guerrand looked back over his shoulder. The door and shutters were still closed and barred, yet the breeze was unmistakably coming from that direction. At the same time, a bench slid out from beneath one of Wilor's apprentices and skittered across the floor to where the two men stood. The apprentice hung in the air in an impossible posture, suspended over nothing.

The magic only added to Guerrand's discomfort. He gave a glance to the mannequin-stiff silversmith and his wife, their expressions unchanged. He relaxed slightly and lowered himself onto the bench opposite the mage.

"I feel at a disadvantage in more ways than one. I don't even know your name."

"Belize."

Guerrand waited for him to continue, but the mage simply sat, staring over steepled fingernails. "All right, I'll ask again. Why have you sought me out? What do you want from me?" His eyes narrowed still further as a dark thought dawned on him. "Do you mean to blackmail me, to tell my brother I secretly practice magic?" Guerrand leaned forward angrily. "If so, I'll simply deny it! You'll get nothing from me!"

The mage threw back his head and laughed, a hideous, hiccupping sound, as if his throat were unused to the activity. "That's too absurd! I know the DiThons are penniless. As if I needed coin."

"Then why were you speaking to Cormac?"

Instantly, the mage's expression turned angry-black. "That was other business. Do not speak of it again."

"Let's stop boxing," said Guerrand. "Just tell me, what do you want from me?"

"What I want for you would be a more accurate question."

Gritting his teeth, Guerrand willed patience. After an interminable amount of time, it paid off.

"You must go to the Tower of Wayreth."

Guerrand could not have been more stunned by the pronouncement. He knew the place to which Belize referred. What hopeful mage did not? In order to learn any advanced magic, one had to go to Wayreth, enter his name on the roll of apprentices, and eventually take the Test. It was rumored to be dangerous. Yet, following any other path branded a mage as an outlaw who could be hunted and destroyed with the endorsement of a ruling council of mages. Once, years ago, Guerrand had considered making the trip. That was when he still thought there was a chance he might study in Gwynned. That hope had long since died.

"Now you're being absurd," said Guerrand. At that moment, he didn't care if Belize struck him dead for his impudence.

But the mage was unmoved by the response. "My… observations tell me you have learned as much as you can without a proper master."

"Do you think so?" The long overdue praise dropped the last vestiges of Guerrand's guard, even made him overlook the intrusion of being the subject of Belize's scrutiny. He could scarcely keep the butterflies of excitement from fluttering in his chest. He leaned forward eagerly. "I haven't had a proper teacher, or any, even." He laughed giddily. "I've taught myself from several spellbooks I found in my father's library, before he died. Cormac scarcely reads-he never even knew they were there."

"It's not uncommon for hopeful mages to come to the tower with very little training. Few have learned as much as you, however. But if you go to Wayreth, you'll be apprenticed to a learned mage who would teach you more than you can even imagine now."

Belize was speaking as if the deed were as good as done! Guerrand had seen apprentices all his life, like those here in Wilor's shop. As a squire, he was an apprentice of sorts. But he knew little about magical apprenticeship, and even less about the Test.

"What's the Test like?" he asked, now that he had the chance to learn of it. "Is it as dangerous as I've heard? Long? Costly?"

Chuckling, Belize held up his hands as if to fend off the barrage of questions. "Slow down. First, the Test is different for everyone, tailored to the entrant. Second, it is always difficult. Third, it can last for days, or minutes, depending on the ability of the mage. Fourth, the cost is only that the mage must pledge his life to magic."

"Mages have passed the Test in minutes?"

"I did not say they passed."

Guerrand looked for Belize to continue, but the mage did not. "What happens to those who fail?"

"Failure means death."

Guerrand blinked. "Do many fail?"

"Only the weak and unready."

Guerrand stood to pace around his chair. "Why me?"

"You might think of me as a recruiter," said Belize. "I seek to increase the role and status of magic in the world by finding and nurturing worthwhile mages. It is my way of giving something back to the art that has been my entire life. And I have some influence with the council. I could certainly put in a good word for you."

"Do you take apprentices?"

Belize responded with no hint of apology. "No, I'm not well suited to it. I have many other responsibilities, and I spend too much time… traveling."

Guerrand was not sure what he had expected, but he felt somehow let down, awkward for having asked. "Well, then," he stumbled, "where and when must I go to apprentice to a learned mage?"

"Immediately."

"You mean immediately after my wedding."

"I mean today-tomorrow at the latest."

The shock on Guerrand's face was clear. "But that's impossible!" he gasped. "You know I'm to be wed in four days. Surely it can wait until after that."

"You will be starting a completely new life, and the life you now live will be wiped away. As an apprentice, you would have no way to support a wife and no time to spend with her. From what I've heard of your betrothed, she would not even consider working in a scullery to pay her own way. And what would be the point of marrying, just so you could immediately abandon your new wife?" A slight smile creased Belize's face. "Besides, I doubt your brother Cormac would stand for that.

"As for your family," Belize continued, folding his arms across his chest, "think how much more valuable to them you might be, returning home as a skilled wielder of magic. Marrying this woman from Hillfort will ease your brother's problems only temporarily. If you marry for Cormac's sake, are you providing him with a permanent solution or simply curing a symptom? Like a tourniquet around the neck of a beheaded man."

Guerrand winced at the inevitable image. "You know nothing of Cormac's problems!"

Belize arched a thick brow. "Do you?"

Guerrand sighed. "So you're telling me that I would do my family a greater service by backing out of my pledge to marry?"

"I've said only that you should go to Wayreth and become apprenticed to a real master. It is the only way you will advance."

The mage leaned forward, putting his face quite close to Guerrand's. "The Tower of Wayreth is a powerfully enchanted place. It is in the southwestern forests of the Qualinesti elves, but it can be found only by those who have been specifically invited. I am inviting you. That is a privilege that will not last indefinitely, and it may not be extended again." Belize paused, expressionless, and sat back. "But your life path is for you to choose. Many men are happy as merchants."

Guerrand could see easily what Belize was doing, and he resented it. Belize had reawakened a hope that Guerrand had long ago suppressed. Yet, it was all as impossibly far from his grasp as ever-farther, even. Cormac would never release him from the agreement to marry, and he could not simply slip away afterward or take Ingrid along.

Guerrand felt crushed, as if he had reached the mountaintop only to slip and fall all the way back to the valley. He had felt the exhilaration, but it could never really be his. "Thank you for your interest in me, Belize, but what you suggest is not possible." He stood, his head hanging.

"Nothing is impossible where magic is concerned," said Belize. "You simply have to open your eyes to the possibilities."

Depressed and confused, Guerrand waved away the mage's latest riddle. "This affects too many people for me to decide now, by myself."

Instantly, Belize's ruddy face darkened. He stood abruptly, knocking over the bench. "You must discuss this with no one! Especially not your family. Use your head!" He turned and strode impatiently into the shop, then spun back to Guerrand. "Your brother would actively prevent you from going. For your own sake, talk to no one."

Guerrand turned to leave, then remembered the necklace. He moved to take the wrapped package from the frozen hands of Marthe. The delicate present to his bride-to-be felt like a lead weight. "Good day," Guerrand mumbled as he passed Belize on the way to the still-barred door.

Belize bowed his shaved head curtly. "I would like to lighten your mood by adding a gift of my own, to show you that I mean you only good fortune. This is for you and, indirectly, your family, not your intended."

"That's not necessary-" Guerrand interrupted, only to be cut off himself.

"You're not interested in justice for your murdered brother?"

Guerrand stopped in his tracks. "You can't know how to find those bandits." His frown deepened, and he turned slowly. "Unless-"

"You're a suspicious lad, aren't you?" Belize seemed amused. "No, I'm not secretly the ringleader of a band of cutthroats. I have far more interesting ways to spend my time." The mage pulled something from the depths of his red robe and held it up to the flickering light. A palm-sized fragment of mirror caught a beam shining through the smoke hole and reflected a shaft of light painfully into Guerrand's eyes.

"Magical glass. It's a useful little item, one that I'm sure any master wizard could acquaint you with. It will show you the location of your brother's killers."

"Could it be true?" wondered Guerrand. Even if it was, how could he tell Cormac where the robbers were, without revealing where he'd gotten the information? If Guerrand said someone in the village gave him a tip, Cormac would either discount it as rumor or demand Guerrand produce the informants. As if impatient, the mirror glinted in Guerrand's eye again.

He had to look, if only for Quinn.

Belize tipped the mirror slightly toward Guerrand, to afford him a better view. At first he saw only the reflection of his own eyes and nose in the small glass. He stared, but the image didn't change.

Embarrassed, Guerrand finally asked, "Do I have to say or do something special? It doesn't seem to be working."

"Just concentrate," Belize murmured. "Concentrate on your memory of your brother."

Guerrand renewed his effort, this time trying to think of nothing but Quinn as he looked into the mirror. He envisioned his brother as he had last seen him alive, two years before, wearing his gleaming armor and sitting astride his gaily decorated horse as he set out for war, adventure, and plunder. Slowly an image swirled in the mirror, forming a picture of a small campsite. Three vague figures sat around a low, smokeless fire, eating provisions or tending their weapons. He recognized the spot as a pleasant hilltop in the woods, only a few leagues from Thonvil. But as his thoughts strayed from Quinn, the vision swirled away.

"H-how do I know they're really the ones who killed Quinn?"

Belize slipped the small mirror into Guerrand's palm. "I've commanded it to continue showing you where they are. Use it to track them down and get proof. Give it to someone else if you're afraid.

"And now, I bid you farewell." With a quick wave of his arms, Belize released the spells on the shop and its occupants. In that one gesture, the breeze stopped, the fire came back to life, the awnings and doors flew open, and Wilor, his wife, and apprentices began to move again. Belize was gone.

Wilor looked slightly puzzled until he saw the package in Guerrand's hands. "There it is! Strange, I don't remember handing it to you." He shook his head and smiled to himself. "Must be getting old." With that, Wilor returned to the apprentice and the anvil to finish the work he'd been at when Guerrand arrived.

As Guerrand hurried from the shop, he couldn't decide which item in his hands weighed him down more, the mirror or the wedding present.