Night of The Eye

Perched on the sill of Guerrand's small room in the villa, the sea gull lazily opened one beady eye. Congratulations. You've managed to lift a teacup, something you've been able to do with your hands since you were in short pants, I'll wager.

Guerrand frowned and snatched the cup from the air to press his lips to the golden rim. 'That's not the point,' he said after taking a sip. 'Justarius says the levitate spell can be one of the most useful in a mage's repertoire.'

Zagarus opened both eyes. It's good to know that if you ever lose both arms, the bird said wryly, you'll still be able to take tea.

'I don't know why I ever let you out of that mirror,' said Guerrand with a good-natured chuckle. 'It seems you're always either making fun of me or causing trouble.' Guerrand set aside the teacup and saucer. 'What does it look like in there, anyway?'

In the mirror? repeated Zagarus dully. Like a foggy cave, only without walls. I've made it a little nicer, taken in some twigs and such for a nest.

Belize's tiny mirror had turned out to be more useful to Guerrand than even that venerable mage could have anticipated. Zagarus had made it his home, claiming it was quite comfortable, warm, and dry. It also made a perfect hiding place for the familiar when he didn't want to be seen or disturbed.

'Can you look out of it and see me?' asked Guerrand.

Afraid I'm spying on you, eh? Zagarus scratched beneath his wing with his beak. You needn't worry. There's just a flat, shimmery wall, like a mirror that's lost its silver. At best I see fuzzy outlines moving around. Most of the time you have the mirror in a sack or pocket or drawer, so I can't see even that much.

'That's it? Is there weather or light or sound?'

Zagarus blinked, thinking. It is surprisingly noisy at times, like someone walking or talking in the back of the, well, cave. I've thought about exploring, but-

'Don't,' said Guerrand firmly. 'I don't need you poking around in there and getting us both into trouble. We have no idea what's in there. In fact, if you hear any more noise, we'll keep you out entirely.'

I've been going in and out of it for months and nothing has happened, said Zagarus. I think it's safe enough.

'Perhaps you could go back in now,' suggested Guerrand curtly, 'or fly down to the harbor and eat and visit with friends. I really do need to concentrate.'

It was more important than ever that Guerrand be able to study quietly. The concept of visualization was slowly coming to him. It had been nearly two months since Justarius had first explained the discipline that, with perseverance, would one day allow him to tailor his own spells. Late that same night-near early morning-he'd finally made the change from seeing only the 'lamp' to the 'ladies,' as Esme had likened it.

The pace of his study had accelerated rapidly from that moment on. He still was not casting very many new spells, however. Due partly to the season, early autumn, Justarius had him cutting, drying, and measuring herbs and other components. He knew the name of every hillside weed and root and vegetable.

Hanging from his ceiling were drying clumps of sumac berries, poison oak leaves, and licorice root. Lining the narrow shelf that circled the room were marble apothecary bowls of split dried peas, red rose petals, powdered herring scales, and talc. On his small wooden study desk were liquid-filled glass beakers of grasshoppers and slugs, owl feathers in wine, the tongue of a snake, and the heart of a hen. Under his rope — and — straw bed were stored bags of colored sand, coarse sea salt, ground mica, powdered sulfur and garlic, and powdered rhubarb leaf. Lying about were various sticks of beeswax and pine tar, crystal rods. animal horns, magnets, and scrolls.

Being a magic-user certainly is a messy job, remarked Zagarus. I remember when there used to be room for a bird to sit down in here. Do you really need all this horrid-looking stuff?

'Horrid-looking stuff?' Guerrand snorted. 'That's rich, coming from a creature who will, I've seen with my own eyes, eat an old dead fish off the beach!'

Zagarus lifted his yellow beak imperiously. That's different.

Guerrand rolled his eyes. 'To answer your question, I don't use all of these spell components now, but Justarius says I'll need them eventually Many mages simply buy what they need from alchemists and apothecaries, but Justarius says that, aside from the exorbitant cost, a mage can never be quite sure of the quality of what he's buying.'

Justarius says, Justarius says, mimicked the bird. I don't think in all the years you were a squire I ever heard you say 'Milford says.'

'That's because I never once cared what he said.' Guerrand was absorbed in crumbling dried violets into a bowl. 'Oh, Milford was a decent enough fellow, probably a good teacher, too. I simply was never very interested in the proper way to stab another man with a lance.'

It could be useful some day, Zagarus replied. Suddenly, he craned his neck to look over his wing and out the window. Do you hear that? The festival has begun.

Guerrand strode over to the window. He could hear chimes ringing all over the city of Palanthas. Neighbors in nearby villas in the surrounding hills were ringing bells of their own. Brightly colored pennants fluttered all over the plaza, visible even from Villa Rosad beyond the old city wall.

'Yes, I guess you're right,' Guerrand said mildly, returning to his study desk. Jabbing his quill into a dark inkpot, he began to carefully scratch a few notes next to the levitate entry in his open spellbook.

Held loop, recited mathematical and verbal equations, with little success. Repeated pattern, adding somatic visualization; teacup and saucer rose with the steadiness of a suspended bucket. Again, the key seems to be visualization. Dated Boreadai, the twelfth day of Hiddumont in the year AC-

Guerrand's writing hand was abruptly pushed across the spellbook as Zagarus's great weight descended on his right shoulder.

'What do you think you're doing, you great oaf?' the apprentice demanded angrily. 'You nearly ruined my entry!' Pushing the bird unceremoniously from his shoulder, he snatched up a pinch of clean white sand from a bowl and sprinkled it over the ink to aid in drying. 'Lucky for you, the quill was nearly dry.'

I want to go to the Festival of Knights.

'So go!'

Don't you want to?

'Not particularly.'

Why not? Because you're afraid you'll run into Esme? Or worse still, that you'll see her and she'll be with Lyim?

Guerrand scowled at the bird. 'What are you now, a mind reader?'

I'm right, aren't I?

'No!' Guerrand brushed away the sand. 'And even if you were, it's a big city. It's very unlikely that I'd run into anyone I know.'

Zagarus flew back to the sill. So, what's stopping you from going? You used to enjoy the village festivals in Thonvil, as I recall. You're becoming a regular recluse here. And whether you admit it or not, you've been avoiding Esme like the plague.

Guerrand snatched up the quill again. 'I have not!'

She's asked you to accompany her to the library and a dozen other places, and you've said no every time. Yet you gad about frequently with that rascal, Lyim.

Guerrand's brows knit together in a dark, angry line over his eyes. 'You never did tell me how well you could hear inside that mirror, did you? From now on I'll remember to leave it in my room.'

With that angry retort, Guerrand turned his back on Zagarus, pointedly ignoring the bird. Zag merely remained silent, waiting.

His silence only annoyed his master. 'Look, Zag,' Guerrand said at last, whirling around, 'you know full well that I came to Palanthas to study, not to dance attendance on some flighty, fickle girl whose head gets turned by every other apprentice-' Where had that bitter nonsense come from? Guerrand asked himself. That didn't describe Esme at all.

He held his breath a moment, then let it out slowly. 'If you must know the truth, I suspect that Cormac-or possibly the Berwicks-have sent someone after me to, well, I don't think they've come to fetch me.' Guerrand