Night of The Eye

to the floor and shattered, splashing Cormac's boots with the blood-red liquid. 'You'll forgive me?' Guerrand shrieked. 'You haven't heard a thing I've said! Well, hear this. I won't feel better just because you say so. I'll no longer do anything just because you say so.' Guerrand snatched up his sword and stomped toward the door, kicking the broken glass from his path. 'I'm done with bowing and scraping for some misplaced sense of duty.'

'Wh-What do you mean?'

Hearing the fear and desperation in Cormac's voice, Guerrand howled with laughter. Poor, pathetic, deluded Cormac. As if the return of some rocky land could restore all that he'd lost through incompetence. 'I'm not sure what I mean, Brother.' Giving the door a satisfying slam in Cormac's red face, Guerrand strode down the corridor toward his room.

He was whistling.

Something darted out of the shadows and grabbed the young man's hand, startling him. 'Rand!' he heard his nephew's voice cry softly. 'Kirah says you captured Quinn's killers. I knew you were a better cavalier than my father said.'

Guerrand gave Bram a warm smile. 'You're half right, Bram. It's true we captured the rotters, but I'll forever be a lousy cavalier.'

How a couple could produce such different children as Bram and Honora was beyond Guerrand's comprehension. He was just glad they had. He had long suspected Bram had a bit of magical talent in the area of herbs, so he'd intentionally stayed away from him, for Bram's own sake. He knew that Cormac and Rietta saw more similarities to Guerrand in Bram than they liked, and he did not wish to make the boy's life harder. The boy… Guerrand realized with a start that Bram was nearly the age Quinn had been when he'd left on crusade. Just a half decade younger than Guerrand, Bram was closer in age to his uncle than Guerrand was to his own brother Cormac. The gulf seemed much wider, somehow.

Bram was puzzled by his uncle's obtuse answer. 'Then how did you and Kirah catch them?'

'It's a long story better told when we're both older.' Guerrand found himself hugging his nephew's already broad shoulders fiercely, which surprised them both. He realized now that he'd spoken incorrectly about being the only male DiThon with a sense of honor. He only hoped Bram would be able to hold on to his. 'You're a good person, Bram. Remember to always do what you know in your heart is right.'

This strangely timed advice confused Bram even more. He looked at the older man oddly as they separated, then strode down the hallway toward the staircase. 'I'll remember, Rand,' he called just before disappearing from sight.

Guerrand hastened toward his room. The hand he placed on the latch was shaking. By the time he got inside, the anger that had held him up before Cormac had burned away like fuel oil. He felt weak-kneed and wanted only to collapse; he would have if his armor had not been still spread across his bed, where he had left it the night before.

Guerrand slipped off his gauntlets. He shook the left one gently, letting the shard of magical glass slide onto a free space on the bed. His fingers met with the cool, smooth surface of Belize's mirror. For reasons he didn't quite understand, he avoided looking into the glass, placing the shard behind the washing bowl on his table.

He quickly cleared the bed and pulled off his tunic, breeches, and boots. Then Guerrand sank into the down quilt on his bed. His exhaustion was less of the body than of the mind, and yet the body was beyond tired, too, having skulked around and ridden on horseback all night. He half suspected Cormac would come pound on the door and try to continue the argument. Perhaps his elder brother was trying out some new-found wisdom. Guerrand thought it more likely that Cormac didn't know what to do and was discussing Guerrand's 'abominable behavior' with Rietta, who would likely arrive any moment to set him straight.

The problem is, he thought, unable to stifle a groggy yawn, I'm no longer sure which way is straight.

'Kyeow!' You look like something out of the Abyss!

Guerrand's eyes flew open. Propping himself up on one elbow, he squinted toward the tall, narrow window that overlooked the strait. Guerrand held a hand up to shield his eyes from the orange light he knew meant it was early evening; he'd slept the day away. His familiar stood on the sill, as if outlined by fire.

'Oh, hello, Zagarus.' Guerrand rubbed the sleep from his eyes, more than a little surprised that Cormac had left him alone all day.

The black-backed sea gull leaped from the sill in one bound and strode across the room on his sticklike yellow legs. Hopping onto the bed, he took one step across the feather tick and, with a webbed foot, kicked Guerrand in the ribs.

'Oww!' cried Guerrand as he rolled away, more startled than hurt by the rubbery little foot. He glared at the sea gull. 'What in Habbakuk's name is the matter with you?'

That, said the sea gull with an imperious tilt to his beak, is for having the biggest adventure since I've been your familiar and not telling me about it. He looked almost petulant, with his wings folded before him. I had to hear it from those preposterous pelicans who live out on Full Moon Point. It was humiliating!

'Let me assure you, my evening wasn't fun either.' For Zagarus's sake, he swallowed a smile. 'I'm sorry, Zag. I didn't tell you last night because I intended only to get proof that these men were Quinn's killers. Besides, I was afraid you'd tell Kirah and you'd both want to come along.'

So you took Kirah!

'That wasn't my idea. She was spying and followed me to the stable. I either had to leave her on the moor or take her along to keep her quiet.' Guerrand swung his legs out of bed and sat up, rubbing his neck. 'I should have left her, too, because she almost got us killed!'

Zagarus's wings lifted in a shrug. Sounds to me like you should thank her. Now you're going to be a knight after all, just as you'd agreed.

'I don't want to be a knight!' Guerrand said furiously. He was tired of living a lie. The lie would just continue in a different place, with different people. He snatched up Ingrid's silver necklace from the small table on which it lay and squeezed it as if to crush it. 'And I don't want to be married to Ingrid Berwick.'

What do you want? Zagarus asked, his voice unnaturally soft inside the human's head.

The question surprised Guerrand. In recent years he'd spent more time thinking about what he didn't want. He sucked in a breath. Had he used Cormac's hatred of magic as an excuse to protect himself from failing? Guerrand had long ago convinced himself it wasn't his fault he'd not been allowed to study as a mage. And if he never tried, he'd never fail.

Guerrand picked up the small fragment of mirror behind the washbowl. 'I want to be a mage. I want to become apprenticed to a mighty wizard and eventually take the Test at Wayreth.'

What? It was more an exclamation of startlement than a question.

Guerrand told Zagarus of his meeting with Belize. He described his wonderment at the spells the mage had used so casually, told him of the thrill he'd felt when Belize invited him to Wayreth. Last, he set the mirror on the table and explained its role in capturing Quinn's killers.

The bird flapped over to the table and pushed the mirror with his foot. This little thing showed you where the bandits were?

'Easy, now,' admonished Guerrand, extending his hand. 'I don't want it broken.'

Zagarus cocked his feathered brown-black head to the left and closed one eye. Does it do anything else?

'Frankly, it hadn't occurred to me that it could,' Guerrand admitted. The young man peered at the mirror closely. 'Do you suppose I can use it to see anything I want?'

You're the mage-in-waiting, replied Zagarus. His attention was riveted on a beetle crawling across the table toward the mirror. Tentatively, the insect felt its way onto the glass. As it approached the center, Zagarus struck, his head darting down to snatch up the hapless bug.

But instead of striking the glass, as he expected, Zagarus's beak closed around the beetle and kept on going. He froze, wide-eyed. Zagarus could feel the beetle squirming slightly against his tongue, and so he swallowed the tasty morsel. He could see his eyes reflected clearly in the mirror, which was practically touching his forehead. But he couldn't see his beak; it was inside the mirror!