Belize frowned suddenly. "This form is annoying." He sucked in a deep breath and held it, his ruddy pocked face growing darker. Suddenly, his head sprang from the tentacle. The mage's red-robed body appeared beneath it as he floated gently to earth nearby. He snapped his fingers, and a large, ironbound chest materialized behind him.
"Where's Esme?" demanded Guerrand from the confines of the tentacle cage.
Belize reached into the neckline of his gold-embroidered robe and extracted a chain from which dangled a small figure. The mage held the figurine out to the apprentice as if tempting a horse with a carrot.
Even in the dim light, Guerrand could see that the figure was identical to Esme as he had last seen her, right down to the splint on the left leg. The figurine was too minutely detailed, its likeness too perfect, to have been carved by any craftsman. Guerrand knew at once that it was, indeed, Esme.
"Is she-"
"Dead?" supplied Belize. "Not yet."
Guerrand lurched forward to reach through the bars for the leering mage. Rows of grasping suckers drew him back and held him fast against the tentacles. Another of the hideous appendages flicked its tip and slipped beneath the flap of Guerrand's pouch, obviously searching for something. Guerrand struggled against the rubbery limb to no avail.
"Where have you hidden the mirror?" Belize demanded when the tentacle pulled back without it. "I should have had it back long ago when I dispatched the invisible stalker after you and that wretched apprentice Par-Salian saddled me with."
"So you have been trying to kill me!" exclaimed Guerrand. "The invisible creature, the thugs in the marketplace… But why?" he breathed. "Why did you encourage me to go to the tower if you wanted me dead?"
"I fanned your magical desires because my plans required you to disappear. If you had married, your brother would have torn down these plinths before tonight. Your death would simply have been a happy accident." Dismissing Guerrand as a threat, the mage turned to the chest on the ground behind him.
Enraged, Guerrand seized the hilt of his sword and slashed through a swath of tentacles, severing them. Blood and ichor splashed everywhere. He charged through the gruesome opening in the cage, sword held toward Belize's back.
Without looking up, the archmage held a hand over his shoulder. Guerrand felt a tingling in his right hand. He dropped the sword just as it turned into a leafy green stick.
"Are you a knight today or a wizard?" Belize inquired, chuckling. "We both know you have no talent for either."
"You know nothing of me," Guerrand said evenly. "I'm not the same rube you sent to Wayreth."
"Perhaps I have misjudged your skills." Belize appeared to be considering the possibility. "For instance, I didn't expect a witless first-time traveler to survive the long trip to the tower, and yet you did."
Guerrand gritted his teeth. Belize was toying with him, like he would a fly in a web, baiting him into attacking again to increase the thrill of the kill. But Guerrand would not give him the satisfaction of reacting.
"Frankly," Belize continued, his tone artless, "my greatest underestimation of you came earlier, when I gave you the mirror. I fully expected you to track down the men it revealed, but I was equally certain you would get yourself killed by them. After all, they had murdered your brother, and he was a fine cavalier." The mage shrugged. "Then again, I had ensorceled the thugs to slay him to prevent the first union."
Guerrand's every muscle went taut as the words sank in. Belize killed Quinn… The apprentice's head felt like it was exploding. He was so dizzy he could hardly stay on his feet.
"I can see I've surprised you," the mage said slickly. He looked toward the sky and moved to push back the heavy lid of his trunk. "But then, life is full of surprises."
Guerrand's head instantly cleared of everything but thoughts of revenge. The archmage was tall, but not well muscled; if Guerrand could drive him to the ground and quickly pin Belize's arms, he might be able to protect himself from the terrible spells at the wizard's command and plunge his dagger through the man's heart. Possessed by the vision, Guerrand charged again at the mage's back.
But Guerrand's speed was not equal to his enemy's cunning and experience. Belize spun and faced him, then thrust his left hand forward. Guerrand stopped and ducked, expected an attack spell. But the breeze only kicked up on the hilltop again, bending the tall grasses, dashing Guerrand's hair into his eyes. The apprentice brushed it back in time to see Belize throw a dingy gray cloth between them. The cold wind blew from all directions, tossing the glove about. Suddenly the thing leaped into the air and hung there, jerking and pulsing with a pale, inner light. In a heartbeat the glove became a hand, stretched to the size of a man, and continued growing until it loomed high above the apprentice.
Guerrand stepped to his left. The hand shifted smoothly with him. He jumped to the right, but again the enormous hand mirrored his movement, keeping itself exactly between Guerrand and Belize. However Guerrand moved, he could not get around the monstrous palm.
Guerrand snatched the dagger from his belt and plunged it hilt-deep into the giant palm. When he drew it back the shining blade was darkened with blood, which streamed down the hand and dripped to the grass. But the magical thing seemed in no way diminished.
"The Night of the Eye is upon us," Guerrand heard Belize say. "I can waste no more time sparring."
Guerrand dropped to his stomach and steeled himself for the spell that would finally kill him. To the amazement of both mages, there came instead a nerve-shattering squawk as a white bird flashed out of the dark sky and smashed against Belize's ribs. The startled wizard stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his trunk. The bird flapped about Belize's head, then shot away, upward into the sky.
Guerrand would recognize that squawk anywhere. Zagarus! The apprentice leaped to his feet and waved the bird toward him. His heart soared when he saw the figurine of Esme clenched between his familiar's webbed feet.
However startled, the older wizard was far from stunned. Even as he fought to maintain his balance, Belize sent a sizzling arrow of light shooting from his extended fingertip. Sparks flashed in the sky, the sea gull shrieked in pain, and Belize knew the missile had hit its mark.
But Zagarus was not the only victim. Guerrand's fate was magically linked to his familiar's. Clutching his side in agony, the apprentice tumbled to the ground.
Chapter Eighteen
Hiking along the moonlit shore of the strait, Lyim whistled "Three Sheets to the Wind." He'd just learned the ditty from a sailor at the Dorcestars, a two-room guest house along the route between Thonvil and Hillfort. The apprentice had spent several enjoyable days there since the victory at Castle DiThon, locked in the pale, fleshy arms of the host's daughter, waiting for word of the next merchant ship headed south. Flushed with ale and passion and victory, the apprentice erupted in song:
Sing as the spirits move you,
Sing to your doubling eye,
Plain Jane becomes Lovable Linda
When six moons shine in the sky.
Taking the last swig from the bottle Nivi had tearfully sent to keep him warm, Lyim turned bleary eyes skyward to the white and red moons, remembering distantly that the black one would align with them tonight. Strange, he thought, that I should learn this song on a Night of the Eye. Art did imitate life. Lyim's voice rose again in the chill night air:
Sing to a sailor's courage,
Sing while the elbows bend,