Night of The Eye

Justarius could offer him a position first. He'd felt an instant kinship with the second-ranked mage; their temperaments, as well as their philosophies about the role of magic in the world, seemed to be in sync. The only thing Belize had ever made Guerrand feel was uncomfortable. His behavior at the Tower of High Sorcery had been particularly unsettling.

'Master Belize and I are well suited because having him as my teacher has been my goal since the moment I cast my first cantrip.' Lyim stooped to stir the fire with a bent branch.

'Did he… recruit you, too?'

Lyim gave Guerrand a strange look. 'That's an odd way of putting it. I guess you could say that, in a manner of speaking. I've read and memorized everything Master of the Red Robes Belize ever wrote, all twenty-three volumes.'

'And you've got them all? Wherever did you find them?'

'I've never actually owned them, no.' Lyim dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. 'As I've said, my homeland in the eastern Plains of Dust bordered the lands of the Silvanesti elves. Elves are far more open about magic than most humans.' He chuckled. 'Actually, they like magic quite a lot more than they like humans. I worked long and hard to befriend, then bribe, a particularly unscrupulous elf into lending me the tomes from the library in his city. I transcribed some of the more interesting passages into my spell-book. Through them Belize taught me that magic is power, and power is… well,' Lyim explained, shrugging, 'power is everything.'

Lyim sat back down. 'Where did you learn enough magic to qualify as an apprentice?'

Guerrand shrugged. 'My father's library was filled to the brim with books, some predating the Cataclysm.'

'Your father's library?' scoffed Lyim, his nose elevated. 'Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, eh?'

Guerrand gave a wintry laugh. 'More title than substance. Anyway,' he said, anxious to change the subject, 'when I was quite young, I found some books with interesting symbols. I read them over and over, and before I knew it, I'd performed my first cantrip-I made my little sister's hair glow as if it were on fire.'

'These books predated the Cataclysm, you say?' Lyim whistled. 'Would I like to get my hands on some of those. I bet they contain some long-forgotten spells.'

Guerrand eyes widened. 'I never thought of that. They just seemed old and dusty to me.' He pulled up his pack to serve as a pillow. 'It sounds like we couldn't have taken more different paths to the same place. We must both utter a prayer of thanks to Habbakuk or whatever luck allowed us to survive the trip through Wayreth, as well as being accepted by the highest mages in our order.'

Lyim's eyes turned dark in the firelight. 'I don't believe in luck.' His voice was brittle. 'I've earned everything I've ever achieved. By myself. Despite the fates, you might say. And I've only just begun.'

Guerrand held up a hand. 'I meant no offense, Lyim-'

'I know what you meant,' said Lyim, his jaw tightening. 'I've seen the attitude all my life.' He screwed up his face, as if imitating someone. 'Rule number one: Without exception, nobles are better than common folk.' He ticked the concept off on a finger. 'Rule number two: A man of modest means has made nothing of himself- he's lazy and hasn't used his skills to advance his lot. But if that same man is successful, he was simply lucky.'

Guerrand fell silent. He could not dispute that what Lyim said was true. He had witnessed Lyim's rule number one. Why were Cormac and Rietta, by birthright, permitted to live in the luxury of the privileged class, while far more productive people, like Wilor the silversmith, were simply common workmen? Looking at Lyim's angry face, Guerrand realized that some men harbored greater burdens than a wicked sister-in-law's tongue.

'Well,' Lyim finished, angrily grinding a smoldering ash outside the fire circle under his boot, 'I intend to be the luckiest man ever to live.' With that, he stomped into a small ring of trees beyond the firelight.

Lyim had been gone only a few minutes, when Guerrand heard a rustling noise in the trees. He looked up, expecting to see Lyim returning from the darkness in an improved mood. But there was no one, nothing. Guerrand shrugged off the sound, attributing it to a small animal.

Moments later, he heard the sound again. It was definitely something moving through the underbrush, beyond the reach of the fire's light. Guerrand stood and kept the flames between himself and the noise. The light shone annoyingly in his eyes, and he could see no shapes or movement that did not belong in the woods.

'Lyim, is that you?' he called, trying to appear brave, but succeeding only in turning paler than a mushroom. No reply came to reassure him.

Then Guerrand heard the sound again, behind him this time. He spun around and saw his pack, which he had been using as a pillow just moments before, rising roughly through the air, its flap opening and the whole thing bulging and moving as though someone was rummaging inside. The sight made his jaw drop, but an instant later it clenched tight in anger. If a stupid little cantrip was Lyim's idea of a joke… Everything of value that Guerrand owned was in that pack, including his spellbook and the magical mirror containing Zagarus. He scooped a large piece of flaming wood from the fire and stepped menacingly toward the strange scene.

'Lyim, just stop right now,' Guerrand called. 'You're going way too far this time.' But the invisible intruder paid no heed, continuing instead to rifle Guerrand's pack.

Growing angrier by the second, the young mage prodded the stick toward where he suspected Lyim was standing. But the weak thrust was struck aside. The force of the blow surprised Guerrand. The torch had nearly been knocked from his hand. Guerrand knew the rules of this spell. If Lyim were invisible, the blow would have made him visible again.

An icy chill ran up Guerrand's spine. 'Who are you? What are you?' he bellowed. There was no response. Fear squeezed his heart. Where in the Abyss was Lyim, and why wasn't he coming out of the woods?

With all his strength behind it, Guerrand swung the flaming log. It traveled through the air with a thick, whooshing sound before cracking into something solid. Sparks showered the area and Guerrand's pack tumbled to the ground. Still completely unsure what he was fighting, but reassured that it was physical, Guerrand swung the burning club again. This time his blow swished harmlessly through the air.

Guerrand gasped suddenly, unable to breathe. The air spun around him, raising clouds of dirt. His body was being squeezed, as if the air itself were pressing in so tightly that it might crush him. The brand dropped to the ground and rolled away while the young mage kicked and struggled against the invisible foe.

Just as suddenly, Guerrand was released. He collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Scurrying away, he saw small whirlwinds of dust weaving toward him.

'Lyim!' Guerrand yelled toward the thicket, and still there was no answer. Touching his fingers together tip- to-tip, Guerrand mumbled the words of a spell. The air about him shimmered, and then he rolled quickly to the left. As he moved, he appeared to split in half, leaving an exact image of himself in his wake. Then both Guerrands split again, creating four, and again, until there were eight Guerrands crouching around the fire. Each was identical to the original. Each one moved in exactly the same manner. There was no way for an observer to tell which, if any of them, was the real Guerrand and which were magical duplicates.

The horde of small whirlwinds paused momentarily, unsure which enemy to attack. Then they chose one, apparently at random. Again the air smashed in, swirling and crushing, until the first counterfeit Guerrand disappeared without a sound, taking with it the whirlwinds of dust.

Frantically, the seven remaining images scanned the area, trying to locate the invisible creature. When a stick snapped, all heads turned toward it, but not soon enough. A second image was crushed and destroyed before Guerrand could reach it.

The six images would last until they were destroyed, but Guerrand knew that was only a matter of time. Eventually this thing would get lucky and attack the real Guerrand. He had a dagger to fight it with, but Guerrand doubted he could survive getting close to his assailant again.

A third image was being pinned and squeezed. All five of the others turned toward the scene and pointed. Guerrand mentally prepared to cast another spell. Unable to actually see his foe, he was taking a big chance. Again he shouted the memorized words that triggered a magical release.

'Sula vigis dolibix!' Two tiny, glowing arrows appeared next to each image's outstretched finger and streaked toward the assumed target. Simultaneously the arrows disappeared in a burst of light, and a sound, like air being forced through a long tube, reverberated around the campfire. A hit! Guerrand rejoiced that the creature could be hurt, though he had run out of ideas about how to attack it.