Night of The Eye

The young man paused long enough to say, "Thank you."

"You must be sorry to give up your dreams of magic to become a knight. I expect you're not very good at soldiering."

Guerrand whirled on the mage, his face livid. "I don't know who you are or why you think you know so much about me, but you're wrong."

"About you being a lackluster cavalier?" The mage shook his shaved head mildly. "I don't think so."

"You know what I'm talking about!"

"Yes, but do you?"

The conversation was quickly getting out of control. Guerrand had to end it. The apprentices were starting to take notice. "If I was interested in speaking with you, which I'm not, I couldn't do it here in the middle of a village shop."

"Yes, your brother is not enamored of mages, is he? Word would surely get back to him." He tapped his whiskered chin in thought. "That's easily taken care of." The mage snapped his finger. In the blink of an eye, Wilor, his wife, and the apprentices all fell absolutely still, as if frozen in time. With a loud crash, the awnings dropped and slammed closed, cutting off the view to the street. A length of wood banged down, bolting both the door and the awnings from the inside.

"There," said the mage with satisfaction. "That ought to keep the gossips at bay for a while."

Guerrand was intrigued and annoyed at the same time. But he was more intrigued. "How did you do that?"

"Don't be coy with me, Guerrand. I'm quite certain you know the answer." He replaced the pommel in the empty space on the shelf. "You're capable of mastering such simple spells, if you haven't already."

Guerrand's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about me-and why?"

The mage's eyebrows raised in obvious amusement. "Those are two entirely different questions. Which would you have me answer first?"

Guerrand shrugged, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. "I guess you've used magic to learn about me. What I can't figure out is why."

"As you wish." He looked about the small, hot shop with undisguised disgust and wiped his brow on a long, red cuff. "Why do people work in such unpleasant conditions, when there is magic? But then, one might ask why, when there is magic, they work at all."

"Magic can't do everything!" spat Guerrand, feeling strangely defensive for the honest shopkeepers of Thonvil.

"Can't it?" The mage looked surprised, as if the possibility had never occurred to him. Brushing his hands together, he said, "Well, if we're to converse here, let's be comfortable."

With a mumbled word and a wave of his hand, the fire in the furnace dropped away to the tiniest of glows and a cool, refreshing breeze wafted through the shop. Reflexively Guerrand looked back over his shoulder. The door and shutters were still closed and barred, yet the breeze was unmistakably coming from that direction. At the same time, a bench slid out from beneath one of Wilor's apprentices and skittered across the floor to where the two men stood. The apprentice hung in the air in an impossible posture, suspended over nothing.

The magic only added to Guerrand's discomfort. He gave a glance to the mannequin-stiff silversmith and his wife, their expressions unchanged. He relaxed slightly and lowered himself onto the bench opposite the mage.

"I feel at a disadvantage in more ways than one. I don't even know your name."

"Belize."

Guerrand waited for him to continue, but the mage simply sat, staring over steepled fingernails. "All right, I'll ask again. Why have you sought me out? What do you want from me?" His eyes narrowed still further as a dark thought dawned on him. "Do you mean to blackmail me, to tell my brother I secretly practice magic?" Guerrand leaned forward angrily. "If so, I'll simply deny it! You'll get nothing from me!"

The mage threw back his head and laughed, a hideous, hiccupping sound, as if his throat were unused to the activity. "That's too absurd! I know the DiThons are penniless. As if I needed coin."

"Then why were you speaking to Cormac?"

Instantly, the mage's expression turned angry-black. "That was other business. Do not speak of it again."

"Let's stop boxing," said Guerrand. "Just tell me, what do you want from me?"

"What I want for you would be a more accurate question."

Gritting his teeth, Guerrand willed patience. After an interminable amount of time, it paid off.

"You must go to the Tower of Wayreth."

Guerrand could not have been more stunned by the pronouncement. He knew the place to which Belize referred. What hopeful mage did not? In order to learn any advanced magic, one had to go to Wayreth, enter his name on the roll of apprentices, and eventually take the Test. It was rumored to be dangerous. Yet, following any other path branded a mage as an outlaw who could be hunted and destroyed with the endorsement of a ruling council of mages. Once, years ago, Guerrand had considered making the trip. That was when he still thought there was a chance he might study in Gwynned. That hope had long since died.

"Now you're being absurd," said Guerrand. At that moment, he didn't care if Belize struck him dead for his impudence.

But the mage was unmoved by the response. "My… observations tell me you have learned as much as you can without a proper master."

"Do you think so?" The long overdue praise dropped the last vestiges of Guerrand's guard, even made him overlook the intrusion of being the subject of Belize's scrutiny. He could scarcely keep the butterflies of excitement from fluttering in his chest. He leaned forward eagerly. "I haven't had a proper teacher, or any, even." He laughed giddily. "I've taught myself from several spellbooks I found in my father's library, before he died. Cormac scarcely reads-he never even knew they were there."

"It's not uncommon for hopeful mages to come to the tower with very little training. Few have learned as much as you, however. But if you go to Wayreth, you'll be apprenticed to a learned mage who would teach you more than you can even imagine now."

Belize was speaking as if the deed were as good as done! Guerrand had seen apprentices all his life, like those here in Wilor's shop. As a squire, he was an apprentice of sorts. But he knew little about magical apprenticeship, and even less about the Test.

"What's the Test like?" he asked, now that he had the chance to learn of it. "Is it as dangerous as I've heard? Long? Costly?"

Chuckling, Belize held up his hands as if to fend off the barrage of questions. "Slow down. First, the Test is different for everyone, tailored to the entrant. Second, it is always difficult. Third, it can last for days, or minutes, depending on the ability of the mage. Fourth, the cost is only that the mage must pledge his life to magic."

"Mages have passed the Test in minutes?"

"I did not say they passed."

Guerrand looked for Belize to continue, but the mage did not. "What happens to those who fail?"

"Failure means death."

Guerrand blinked. "Do many fail?"

"Only the weak and unready."

Guerrand stood to pace around his chair. "Why me?"

"You might think of me as a recruiter," said Belize. "I seek to increase the role and status of magic in the world by finding and nurturing worthwhile mages. It is my way of giving something back to the art that has been my entire life. And I have some influence with the council. I could certainly put in a good word for you."

"Do you take apprentices?"

Belize responded with no hint of apology. "No, I'm not well suited to it. I have many other responsibilities, and I spend too much time… traveling."