Guerrand chuckled, managing at last to find the humor in the situation. But then he remembered his promise to Justarius. He stared more intently than ever at the mosaic star, noticing and noting details he'd not seen before. He was just about to close his eyes to see how well he could visualize the colorful image in his head, when he heard another set of footsteps, light and even, in the doorway behind him.
"You'll have to forgive our master. He always forgets food," Guerrand heard Esme say. "Justarius lives on lemon water alone and thinks everyone else can, as well. I brought you a bit of cheese, cured pig, and an apricot fresh from the garden." The young woman came around to stand beside his kneeling form.
"Ah, the tile exercise," she said sympathetically, taking note of his posture and closed eyes.
Guerrand slowly opened one eye, then the other to regard her. "How long did it take you?"
The smooth, flawless skin of her cheeks flushed. "One day. But it took me five to find the villa," she added quickly.
Guerrand smiled gratefully at the nod to his ego. He'd managed to stumble upon Justarius's unmarked home in a day and a half. It had taken him a while to realize that the references to "eye" and "keyhole" in the riddle were setting up a straight line. When the "eye" of the sun was placed to the "keyhole" of the tower-the summit of the Tower of High Sorcery-the eye would be looking where the tower's shadow fell. The trick was following the tower's shadow as it moved across the city until the right time — midmorning, "morning's midlife."
"Can you give me your secrets for understanding the memorization versus visualization riddle?"
Esme smiled ruefully. "None that would really help you. I liken it to that parlor game, where you're shown a picture and asked whether you see the oil lamp or the two ladies in profile. One day the clouds seem to open up and you simply stop seeing the lamp and start seeing the ladies." She shrugged. "Or whichever way it's supposed to be."
Sighing, Guerrand took a spiritless bite of the cheese. "I fear I'll always see the lamp."
'Justarius would not have chosen you if you weren't capable of seeing both."
Guerrand studied her beautiful, guileless face for a moment and realized she spoke truthfully. "Tell me about yourself, Esme," he prompted.
"Shouldn't you still be counting tiles?"
"If I count one more ceramic square my head will explode!" Guerrand stood and lifted the tray of food she'd brought him. "I need a break," he announced. "Will you join me for lunch in the peristyle, the atrium-I don't care if we talk in the kitchen fireplace! I've got to get away from these tiles."
Laughing, Esme looped her hand through Guerrand's arm as they passed through the doorway. Villa Rosad was laid out in a rectangle, with all rooms overlooking the large open-air garden the Palanthians called a peristyle. Instantly, the feeling of closed-in coolness gave way to the warmth of the summer day in the courtyard. A colonnade of unblemished white marble entirely ringed the formal garden in the center of the villa. Through the pillars, over planters of vibrant orange and yellow wallflowers and minty lotus vine, came the sound of running water, adding to the tranquility of the setting. The air smelled moist, refreshingly green. Moss crawled between cracks in the worn-smooth paving stones beneath their feet.
Guerrand went to his favorite table, a cool, circular piece of green-veined marble supported at equidistant points by three white marble statues of lions. Tucking his long legs beneath the table, Guerrand bumped his knee against the maned head of one of the leonine figures.
"Watch out," he admonished Esme with a mischievous smile as she sat down opposite him. "The lions bite." He rubbed his knee for effect.
"It's good to see you smiling," the lovely young woman said kindly. "I believe that's one of the first smiles I've seen in the months since you arrived."
"I guess I'm out of practice," Guerrand said distantly, staring at the stream of water spewing from the mouth of a pale cherub fountain in the fishpond. "There wasn't much laughter in the castle where I grew up, at least not in the last ten years or so."
"A castle? That doesn't sound like such a bad place to grow up."
Her tone made him aware of how he'd sounded, and he was ashamed. "I never meant to imply… What I mean is, it was a comfortable enough place, just not very happy. No one in it was very happy." Especially now, after I backed out of Cormac's plans.
"You, neither?"
"Me, especially."
"And you're happier here?"
Guerrand's gaze penetrated Esme's golden eyes. "I can honestly say that I've never been happier in my life. I'm thrilled with my tiny cell of a room. I love hunkering over thick, dusty tomes in the library, and I delight in arguing with the bizarre ascetics who run it." He paused, reflecting. "But I'm happiest when I'm bent over the same ceramic tiles I've counted for days and I begin to understand why I'm doing it."
She smiled her agreement. "It's a marvelous feeling, succeeding at something everyone always told you you'd never be able to do."
Guerrand sat back, startled. "Did Justarius tell you that?"
Esme looked equally puzzled. "Why would I need Justarius to tell me my own life?"
"I don't understand-"
Esme frowned and began nibbling a nail. "What's to understand? Like most men, my father's ambitions for me began with marriage and ended with babies. Becoming a mage was a worthy enough goal, but only for his sons."
"So did they?"
"Become mages? No…" Esme looked as if she were about to explain, then thought better of it and shook her head. "No, they didn't."
Guerrand took a bite of cheese. "At least your father didn't believe that mages should be wiped from the face of the land."
Esme gave an unladylike snort. "My life might have been easier if he had." Looking at him, she asked, "I presume from your tone that your father didn't approve of mages?"
"No, it's my elder brother who thinks mages are the lowest form of life." He sank his teeth into a fuzzy apricot and swallowed a bite before continuing. "As for my father, I suspect from his library that he had more than a passing interest in magic. But it doesn't really matter now. He's been dead for ten years."
Esme's fine eyebrows raised. "About the time people stopped smiling in your castle."
Guerrand smirked with dark humor. "Kirah and I spent a fair amount of time laughing behind the backs of Cormac and his nasty wife. Does that count as smiling?"
"Kirah?" A strange look came across Esme's face. "It depends on who she is. If she's a pet, then no. However, if she's a sweetheart, or a wife perhaps?"
Guerrand threw back his dark head and laughed out loud. "A wife?" He snickered. "It's hard to imagine Kirah ever being a wife, which is a pronouncement she'd be happy to hear. Pet would come a lot closer to describing her…"
Esme's gaze was stony.
"She's my kid sister," Guerrand chortled at last, ducking from the square of cheese she threw at him for teasing her. "You'd like her, I'm certain. In an odd sort of way, you remind me of her. You're both blond. She's willful, independent, impulsive, and despises it when someone underestimates her because she's a girl. She's a scrappy little thing who looks more ragamuffin than ladylike-or even human-most of the time."
"Are you implying I don't look like a lady?"
Esme was baiting him, and he knew it. The look he gave her was so deadly serious she couldn't look away. He said the first thing that came to mind. "I think you're the most beautiful lady I've ever seen in my life." Abruptly he wished he could bite off his tongue.
When at last Esme was able to tear her gaze away, her cheeks were flushed. She tried to think of something witty, something kind to say in return, but her thoughts refused to settle. "I think I would like your sister Kirah quite a lot, Rand," she managed at last.