Justarius wagged a finger and shook his head. "Unh-unh, but you're close. I'm trying to get you to visualize."
Guerrand's expression told Justarius that the apprentice saw little distinction between the two.
"Guerrand," he murmured, "the difference is as wide as an ocean! Your understanding of it will determine whether you'll progress beyond the simple spells that can be cast by anyone who can read, like the ones you knew when you came here."
Justarius thrust the tip of his walking stick to the center of the star. "Most masters will tell you that memorization is everything-Belize would say that. They're all wrong. Or at least only partially right. It is true that anyone who is able to memorize the right combination of words, gestures, and materials can cast a spell. Your brother who loathes magic could do it, if he chose to."
The archmage used both hands to shift his crippled leg. "But if you wish to rise above those who practice magic by rote, you must have more than a cursory understanding of how magic works. Let me give you an example: You can mindlessly repeat the words of a ballad, or you can truly hear their meaning. You must have a passion for that understanding, not just for the power such magic can provide. Only then can you tap into the extradimensional source of energy from which true magic springs."
Guerrand's head was starting to reel, yet he was fascinated. Justarius looked into his eyes and judged that he could take still more.
"The proper performance of magic-even one spell-is as taxing to the mind as rowing a longship alone would be to the body. Illogical mathematics, alchemical chemistry, structured linguistics… The mage must use these disciplines to shape specific, twisted mental patterns that are so complicated and alien to normal thought that they defy the conventional process of memorization. Confounding this further, he must account for subtle changes like seasons, time of day, planetary motions, position of the moons, that sort of thing. Rote memorization cannot accommodate these changes. But a passionate understanding of the workings of magic, achieved through the use of visualization, can. The reward after years of study-the advantage of this discipline-is the ability to combine disparate elements to create new spells."
"I had no idea it was so complicated," said Guerrand faintly.
Standing with difficulty, Justarius scratched his head. "I must be slipping in my advancing age," he said, backing away one faltering step. "I can see I've given you almost too much to think about."
"I will think about it-all of it," Guerrand promised. "Passion for the magic, not the power," he repeated solemnly.
"That's the key," nodded Justarius. "And now I've turned you all somber again. Think about it for a while if you must, then go row a longship or something to balance out your mind and body." With that, Justarius limped toward the archway of the summer dining room. Suddenly he snapped his fingers, stopped, and turned.
"One last thing, Guerrand," said the mage. "Please instruct your familiar to not treat the villa like the bottom of a bird cage. Denbigh has been complaining."
Guerrand's eyes went wide. How did Justarius know about Zagarus? Sea gulls circled and strutted about the villa constantly, and he'd been extremely careful not to single Zagarus out in any way. In fact, Zag spent most of his time in the mirror, except when Guerrand let him out in the confines of his room. Zagarus would then fly out the window to feed.
"How did you know?"
Justarius had been watching with amusement as Guerrand deliberated. "If a mage wishes for a long life, there is very little that happens in his home about which he is unaware," he said, idly twisting the plain gold band around his right index finger. "You would be wise to remember that."
Noting Guerrand's expression of shame, the mage added, "Buck up, lad. I'm not criticizing. You were right to not tell me about your bird. A mage should protect the identity of his familiar, since it makes him vulnerable. Frankly, I was impressed that you were able to master the spell that summons a familiar in the first place. It reaffirms my initial opinion of you."
Justarius turned again to the archway, dragging his left leg behind him. "Before you get too full of yourself, just remember the droppings, or Denbigh will have both our heads."
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.