Feeling suddenly chilled on this warm, late-summer day, Guerrand's eyes traveled back to the black thing fluttering on the gate. The remains of the mage. He'd thought it a bird before. But now it had a much more ghastly and sinister appearance.
"That was all so long ago. Things have changed. The kingpriest is dead. I would not be afraid of the tower," boasted Lyim.
Both Guerrand and Esme looked askance.
"The pity is, some things haven't changed much," Guerrand said, thinking of Cormac. "Mages are still persecuted by those who fear what they don't understand. We saw that on the ship from Alsip," he reminded Lyim.
"Perhaps the prejudice still exists," conceded Lyim, "but our order's response to it would be different now."
"You think the mages were wrong to retreat?" asked Esme.
Lyim nodded vigorously. "Never explain, never retreat-those are words that have served me well. I would certainly never throw myself from a tower," he scoffed. "Better to stay alive to thwart your enemies."
Guerrand fell silent. He felt suddenly very weary and alone, despite Esme and Lyim's presence. Because of it, perhaps. "Esme," he said faintly, "could you please take me to our master's home now? I've… enjoyed the tour, but I'm anxious to begin my training."
"What about me?" chimed in Lyim. "Do you know where Belize resides?"
With lazy eyes, Esme smiled. She looked first at Guerrand, "I could," then at Lyim, "I do. But I can't. Justarius has instructed me to remind you of your clue,
Guerrand, but that is all. As for you, Lyim, I've not been instructed to help you."
"Wait a minute!" Lyim reached out a hand to grasp Esme's fragile shoulder. Suddenly the air sizzled, tendrils of smoke erupted, and Lyim was thrown backward almost two paces. He landed flat on his back with an ignominious "Whooff!" as the air was knocked from his lungs. His robe flew up to his face, exposing more than just a little length of bare legs.
Esme looked mildly distressed, and a touch embarrassed, as she considered the stunned mage. Even Guerrand took one limping step backward from her.
She touched a finger to the metal ring around her arm. "My bracelet is a protective device. I didn't want it, but Justarius insists that I wear it whenever I travel in the city. You can see how it would deter the unwanted attentions of beggars or suitors…" Her voice trailed off. Smothering a slight smile, she watched the proud Lyim pull himself to his feet.
"I really must be off, or Justarius will start to wonder," she said lightly. "Do you remember your clue, Guerrand? 'At morning's midlife, mark the hour, the eye is the sun, the keyhole's the tower.'"
"Wait!" cried Guerrand, stopping himself at the last second from reaching for her as Lyim had done. Esme was gone, leaving behind a curvaceous puff of rosy smoke.
"What a spitfire," sighed Lyim, brushing the dust of the sidewalk from his robes. "I could do without that bracelet, but I do enjoy a challenge."
Lyim clapped his hands together, Esme abruptly forgotten. "Now, where do you suppose Belize and Justarius live?"
Guerrand looked to the bleak tower and said wryly, "I think we can rule out the Tower of High Sorcery."
Chapter Ten
Guerrand was on his knees in the summer dining room of Villa Rosad, Justarius's palatial home. Though the morning was warm, the mosaic tile felt cold even through the rough weave of his robe. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and splashed onto the colorful squares before him.
"Thirty-three, thirty-four," he muttered aloud to help himself focus.
Three days. He'd been counting the number of differently shaped and colored tiles in this octagonal section of star-shaped mosaic for three days. Guerrand supposed he should consider it a blessing that Justarius hadn't told him to count every tile in the room, which was covered, floor, walls, and ceiling with the cool little ceramic pieces. It was the most pleasant room in the villa on a hot, late summer day in the month of Sirrimont.
Today, however, the room seemed anything but pleasant. Guerrand's knees throbbed; his lower back ached; his neck muscles burned. He could scarcely see to count through the sweat that dripped in his eyes and ran down his face. Sighing, he brushed the wet hair back from his forehead and tried to remember where he'd left off.
"Thirty-three, thirty-four…"
Guerrand heard the irregular rustle of a robe sweeping across the tiled floor and knew without looking who approached. When the sound stopped, he felt the weight of a thick hem brush his left arm. Neck held rigid, Guerrand looked out of the corner of his eyes and caught sight of a sweaty-cold metal tankard being lowered.
"Here, Guerrand." Justarius's robust voice echoed against the hard surfaces in the room. "I believe you need this more than I."
Guerrand sank back on his haunches and wiped his brow with the cuff of one sleeve. Accepting the tankard, the apprentice took a long sip of the sweetened lemon verbena water. "Thank you, master."
"How many times must I tell you to call me Justarius? Or sir, if you're so very uncomfortable with my name." He clapped the apprentice on the back. "Master makes me sound old and crotchety. That isn't how you regard me, is it?" Guerrand couldn't see the smile on Justarius's face.
"Oh, no, sir!" exclaimed the apprentice, flustered.
"You're so serious, Guerrand," said Justarius, dragging his crippled left leg behind him as he made for a chair. With a sigh, he eased himself into the straight-backed wooden seat and loosened the starched white ruff he wore at the neck of his red robe. "You must learn to find the joy in life where you can. The gods know, there is little enough of it in this world."
Guerrand took another sip of the lemon herbal tonic. "If I'm overly serious, sir," he said, "it's only because I wish to apply myself to study and learn all that I can as quickly as possible. I feel that I've lost precious time and have much to make up for."
"I applaud your determination, but what's your hurry? By declaring loyalty to the Red Robes, you've pledged your lifetime to the study of magic."
Guerrand shifted uncomfortably. "It's just that, in going to Wayreth to find a master, I had to leave behind someone who needs me, and-"
Justarius's open, friendly face hardened instantly, and his hand went self-consciously to rub his left leg. "We've all had to give up things for magic, Guerrand."
Guerrand nodded quickly at Justarius's serious tone. "Yes, I'm certain that's true." He had wondered about Justarius's limp. Esme had told him the archmage had suffered the injury during his Test, when spectral foes magically tore his left leg. According to her, Justarius had been very proud of his physical abilities and was forced to choose between prowess and magic. Guerrand had to admit that fear of failure, and not just concern for Kirah, drove him in his studies.
"Perhaps I'm a little worried th-that, well…" he stuttered, wondering how much he should reveal. "The truth is, I've failed at a previous apprenticeship."
Justarius looked momentarily startled. "To which mage were you previously apprenticed? At Wayreth you told us that you'd had no master."
Guerrand shook his dark, shaggy head vigorously. "No mage. He was a cavalier-I was training to be a cavalier. For nearly ten years." He could feel his cheeks grow crimson with shame.
To Guerrand's surprise, Justarius threw back his head and laughed. "Was it your wish to become a cavalier?"
"Not for a heartbeat."
"Then I would say you succeeded admirably in your apprenticeship, if you were able to put off your master for nearly ten years and still remain his student."
"My brother paid him to remain so."