Guerrand could now see a murky glass ball of enormous proportion cradled between the points of an odd pedestal of antlers. He estimated the diameter of the globe to be nearly the length of his arm.
"Before the Cataclysm," said Justarius, "crystal balls were to mages what picklocks are to thieves. But, like most things of great value, the Cataclysm reduced nearly all of them to rubble. In the years shortly after my own apprenticeship, I rescued this one from the flower garden of a nymph. She obviously had no idea of its value, calling it her 'gazing ball' She was just as happy to gaze at the steel piece I gave her in exchange."
"What do you have to do to make it work?" breathed Guerrand, staring wide-eyed into the pastel mists that roiled within the large glass ball.
"I don't have to do anything this time. You do."
Guerrand's blue eyes snapped away from the mesmerizing mist. "I know nothing of crystal balls!"
"But you know everything about your brother Cormac and the castle in which you were raised. That's all the ball requires of you."
Noting Guerrand's skeptical look, Justarius continued. "To use the ball, simply peer into it with open eyes and concentrate on that which you want to see. It can be a person, place, or thing, but places are usually easier for beginners. With some practice, you'll be able to look for whatever you want."
Justarius held up two fingers. "Keep in mind several things, Guerrand. The more familiar the sought thing is, the easier it is to locate. It's even more important to remember that the globe feeds on your energy. If you are skeptical or fearful or distracted, it won't respond to you as well as it otherwise might."
Eager to succeed in Justarius's eyes and learn what he could of his own family, Guerrand closed his eyes briefly to chase away all distractions. Opening them again, he rubbed the orb and stared into its depths. He envisioned Cormac's study as he'd last seen it, floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, the path of worn carpeting from the door to Cormac's cluttered desk, the bright windows that overlooked the sea.
Gradually, within the mists, Guerrand caught glimpses of the image he sought, hazy at first, but slowly clearing. Anxious, he squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate as he did when spellcasting. Instantly he knew his mistake.
"You lose the image when you close your eyes," said Justarius, confirming Guerrand's suspicion. "You'll have to start all over."
Heaving a disheartened sigh, Guerrand chased away his frustration and tried again with open eyes. To his delight, the image of Cormac's study blinked into sight almost instantly. He was getting the hang of it! Unfortunately, the study was empty.
"I don't understand," muttered Guerrand. "Cormac is almost always holed up in his study."
"Try focusing on Cormac himself," suggested Justarius. "I think you can do it."
Guerrand nodded once and then tried to summon a mental picture of his brother. He was surprised to realize that, despite having lived his entire life with him, he could recall few details of Cormac's face. When he remembered their encounters in recent years, Guerrand saw his own feet, or the bottom of a port glass. It had probably been years since Guerrand had been able to meet his brother's gaze. Was Cormac's nose long or short? Eyes close- or wide-set? Guerrand had no answers. In the end, he focused his thoughts on memories of Cormac's size and stance, of his disapproving stare, of the clothing he was prone to wear.
The memory was apparently enough. With a sizzling electrical snap, Cormac's visage parted the mists, and he leaped into view inside the crystal ball. He was seated at the head of the table in Castle DiThon's seldom-used council room. A thick layer of dust coated the tabletop, except where lines had recently been traced.
Gradually Guerrand could see whose fingers and elbows had sliced through the dust. Gathered around the long table were Cormac's council of cavaliers, all the important warriors who served the lord, including Guerrand's old weapon master, Milford. While Guerrand watched, his brother leaned forward in his chair and thumped the table. A cloud of dust puffed into the air around his fist.
"Didn't I say I could take the land like that-" he snapped his fingers "-from those pompous merchants?" He pushed back his chair and stood. "I didn't need either of my brothers-the one who was foolish enough to get himself killed, or the coward who ran away. I didn't need to further taint my family's bloodlines, either. My only regret is that I didn't think of it sooner." Cormac sat again and leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and slapped his boots up on the table in a gesture of supreme confidence and satisfaction.
"In fact, the day Guerrand ran away like a thief in the night was very likely the best in the DiThon family history!" Watching, Guerrand winced. "I hereby decree that day a half year ago as a local holiday!"
Milford coughed uncomfortably, his scar pulling at his cheek. "I would advise you, sir, not to get too complacent about the seizure of Berwick land."
"Don't be ridiculous!" barked Cormac, leaning forward again with the disapproving eyes that Guerrand remembered too well. Cormac looked drunk, his nose red, his movements slow. "We snatched that land from right under their noses. They're merchants, not warriors. We needn't fear anyone we can best so easily."
"Too easily, if you ask me," said Milford under his breath.
"I didn't," snapped Cormac.
"Excuse me, Lord Cormac," said a knight named Rees. Guerrand recognized him; he lived in a village northeast of Thonvil. "It is no measure of an enemy's strength to succeed at seizing his unprotected land, leagues from their manor house, when they are away in Solamnia attending their daughter's wedding."
"Perhaps not, Rees," growled Cormac, "but it is a measure of my resolve. No one ignores Cormac DiThon and gets away with it. I was still negotiating in good faith with that fat bastard Berwick when he simply announced that all deals were off. He'd already betrothed his bucked-toothed daughter to some pretentious Knight of Solamnia!" Cormac visibly shuddered. "I simply could not let the insult go unchecked." Guerrand could also guess from Cormac's sullen expression that Rietta had chewed his ear thoroughly about the Berwicks landing a Solamnic title, while she was stuck with a petty cavalier.
"In any event," said Dalric, an old soldier Guerrand knew Cormac despised, "Berwick will almost certainly try to take back his land."
"Let him try!" barked Cormac. "Who could that bloated merchant get to fight his battle? Are the sailors from his shipping lines going to tie us in knots? Will his gardeners attack us with pitchforks?" Cormac nearly laughed himself apoplectic. He tossed back a drink.
None of his advisors raised a Up in humor.
Cormac finally realized that he was the only one laughing. Scowling, he snorted to a stop. "If you're so damned concerned, Milford, then take some men to reinforce those already posted at Stonecliff. When Berwick's sailors come to fight, we'll bloody their noses. They'll run back to their little boats, and that will be the last we ever see of them."
Milford coughed again, his face red. "Cormac, I feel compelled to point out that it's unlikely Anton Berwick will lead an attack on the land you've seized-it's worth little, anyway."
"Worthless? To him, perhaps!" cried Cormac. "That land was in my family for years! It has the best view of the strait. A fort on that location would command the bay and control all traffic up and down the river. We could make a rich living collecting tolls from that traffic, and I intend to do just that."
Milford colored further, highlighting the white scar on his face. "I meant it had little monetary value by itself. What you propose is a different matter entirely."