Night of the Eye (11 page)

With a nod of his head, Cormac instructed Milford to do just that. In moments the warrior’s massive hands were filled with a standing-bowl bearing the DiThon crest and a book of poems and reflections with Quinn’s name inked on the flyleaf.

Milford beamed at Guerrand with wide-eyed wonder. “Congratulations, young squire. You obviously perform better under pressure than you do in the training room. I’m sure the presiding cavaliers will want to discuss it, but I suspect this will qualify you for immediate knighthood. And on the eve of your wedding!” He turned to address Cormac. “What do you think, Lord DiThon?”

Cormac’s smile was unnaturally tight. “I think we could not have hoped for more. Good work, Guerrand.”

With that, Cormac began to fire orders. First, he told Kirah to get into the keep and dress properly; knowing his tone too well, Kirah scampered away with a pitying glance at Guerrand. Next he instructed several men-at-arms to take the still gagged and squirming bandits into the dungeon, where they would be questioned momentarily.

Then Cormac’s angry eyes locked on to Guerrand, who swallowed hard under the scrutiny, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll speak to you shortly in my study, Guerrand,” his brother said crisply. “I would like to privately discuss just what your unexpected actions mean to me.”

“You made me look like a fool before all my servants,
Guerrand.” Cormac’s voice was low, threatening.

“So
that’s
what made you so angry in the courtyard.” Guerrand still wore his sword, hoping a martial appearance might soften his brother’s fury. He stood, rather than sat, to get the full benefit from the prop.

“Of course,” said Cormac. “My men and I—seasoned cavaliers, all—have been searching for these bandits for days. You and a string bean of a girl—”

“That string bean is our sister.”

“Half sister.” Cormac glowered at Guerrand’s interruption. “You ride into the courtyard with them all trussed up, as if it were as easy as … as … magic.” Cormac’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “You used magic somehow, didn’t you?”

Guerrand flinched at the accusation. Not that he
hadn’t expected it, but it came sooner than he hoped.

“You look like you were dressed for battle, but I’ll wager …” Cormac bounded to his feet and prodded Guerrand in the ribs. A look that mixed satisfaction with disgust crossed his face. “You’re not even wearing armor under that tunic, as I suspected. You never had any intention of fighting.”

Cormac shook his head and paced across the room. “It all makes sense now. The bandit I questioned said you threw dirt at them, and then they fell unconscious.”

Guerrand was incredulous. “Quinn’s killers have been found, and you’re more concerned about how I did it?” He shook his head in disbelief.

Cormac drained a goblet of wine in one gulp, then held the glass up to Guerrand in a mock toast. “Congratulations,” he said, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What dark sorcerer’s spell did you use to find and bring them here, Guerrand?”

“What does it matter?” asked Guerrand. “Isn’t it enough that magic accomplished what ordinary measures could not?”

“Any good cavalier could have done the same thing! You could have called on those skills, instead of the evil secrets of magic.”

Guerrand sneered. “We both know I’m not a good cavalier. Besides, you said yourself, well-trained knights already tried to defeat those bandits and failed.

“I’ve really tried to understand your hatred of magic, Cormac,” he continued softly after a pause, “and now I finally do. It came to me suddenly that you’re no different than me or anyone else. Behind your bluster, you’re afraid of what you don’t understand.”

“I’m not afraid of anything!”

Guerrand arched one brow. “You don’t sound fearless.”

Cormac whirled on him. “How dare you? You know nothing of fear! Have you watched men die on your
sword in battle? Have you struggled to maintain the lifestyle expected of a lord with more debt than income? No, you haven’t.” He thumped his chest. “I have. And because I’ve struggled for this family—for you—your life has been easy.”

“Maybe I haven’t killed a man, or even tried to understand your struggles,” said Guerrand, “but neither do you know what my life has been like.”

The young man stood, his face glowing. “Since Father died, I’ve toed the line—” he poked his brother’s beefy shoulder “—
your
line—as best I could for the sake of family honor, because that’s what Father taught me I must do. And I’ve been at your mercy because you held the purse strings, such as they are. I’ve even given up pursuing the one thing I always wanted, the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

Guerrand’s expression was beyond bitter. “I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning, Cormac—maybe the most important thing I’ve ever understood.” He stood straight and tall before his brother for the first time. “Now that Quinn’s dead, I’m the only male DiThon with a sense of family honor—or any honor at all.” Guerrand unbuckled his sword belt and threw it on the floor.

Cormac’s eyes narrowed in barely contained anger. “I will overlook your impudent remarks because soon our differences will no longer matter. You’ll be living at one of Berwick’s lavish estates, and I’ll still be here, scraping along as best I can. I feel certain that one day, perhaps when you have children of your own, you will understand the sacrifices I’ve made on your behalf.

“And now, we’ll speak no more in anger,” Cormac announced with forced brightness. “So that we may peaceably draw to a close the years we have lived together, I forgive you the night’s indiscretion. In an oddly convenient twist, you’ve provided the Council of Cavaliers with an excuse to knight you. In a matter
of days you’ll be married, and all this magic nonsense will be behind you.” Cormac poured more of the ruby-colored wine into his glass, then splashed some into another snifter. Turning with a strained smile, he held out the second glass to his half brother.

Guerrand stared at it for a moment. Cormac nudged the glass closer to Guerrand’s face, until the crimson wine was all that the youth could see.

“Take it, Guerrand. Let’s drink a toast to your impending wedding—and knighthood.” When Guerrand hesitated, Cormac pressed the wine on him one last time. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”

Guerrand came to life and slapped away the glass and with it the patronizing suggestion. The crystal crashed to the floor and shattered, splashing Cormac’s boots with the blood-red liquid. “You’ll forgive
me
?” Guerrand shrieked. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said! Well, hear this. I
won’t
feel better just because you say so. I’ll no longer do
anything
just because you say so.” Guerrand snatched up his sword and stomped toward the door, kicking the broken glass from his path. “I’m done with bowing and scraping for some misplaced sense of duty.”

“Wh-What do you mean?”

Hearing the fear and desperation in Cormac’s voice, Guerrand howled with laughter. Poor, pathetic, deluded Cormac. As if the return of some rocky land could restore all that he’d lost through incompetence. “I’m not sure what I mean, Brother.” Giving the door a satisfying slam in Cormac’s red face, Guerrand strode down the corridor toward his room.

He was whistling.

Something darted out of the shadows and grabbed the young man’s hand, startling him. “Rand!” he heard his nephew’s voice cry softly. “Kirah says you captured Quinn’s killers. I knew you were a better cavalier than my father said.”

Guerrand gave Bram a warm smile. “You’re half right, Bram. It’s true we captured the rotters, but I’ll forever be a lousy cavalier.”

How a couple could produce such different children as Bram and Honora was beyond Guerrand’s comprehension. He was just glad they had. He had long suspected Bram had a bit of magical talent in the area of herbs, so he’d intentionally stayed away from him, for Bram’s own sake. He knew that Cormac and Rietta saw more similarities to Guerrand in Bram than they liked, and he did not wish to make the boy’s life harder. The boy … Guerrand realized with a start that Bram was nearly the age Quinn had been when he’d left on crusade. Just a half decade younger than Guerrand, Bram was closer in age to his uncle than Guerrand was to his own brother Cormac. The gulf seemed much wider, somehow.

Bram was puzzled by his uncle’s obtuse answer. “Then how did you and Kirah catch them?”

“It’s a long story better told when we’re both older.” Guerrand found himself hugging his nephew’s already broad shoulders fiercely, which surprised them both. He realized now that he’d spoken incorrectly about being the only male DiThon with a sense of honor. He only hoped Bram would be able to hold on to his. “You’re a good person, Bram. Remember to always do what you know in your heart is right.”

This strangely timed advice confused Bram even more. He looked at the older man oddly as they separated, then strode down the hallway toward the staircase. “I’ll remember, Rand,” he called just before disappearing from sight.

Guerrand hastened toward his room. The hand he placed on the latch was shaking. By the time he got inside, the anger that had held him up before Cormac had burned away like fuel oil. He felt weak-kneed and wanted only to collapse; he would have if his armor
had not been still spread across his bed, where he had left it the night before.

Guerrand slipped off his gauntlets. He shook the left one gently, letting the shard of magical glass slide onto a free space on the bed. His fingers met with the cool, smooth surface of Belize’s mirror. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, he avoided looking into the glass, placing the shard behind the washing bowl on his table.

He quickly cleared the bed and pulled off his tunic, breeches, and boots. Then Guerrand sank into the down quilt on his bed. His exhaustion was less of the body than of the mind, and yet the body was beyond tired, too, having skulked around and ridden on horseback all night. He half suspected Cormac would come pound on the door and try to continue the argument. Perhaps his elder brother was trying out some newfound wisdom. Guerrand thought it more likely that Cormac didn’t know what to do and was discussing Guerrand’s “abominable behavior” with Rietta, who would likely arrive any moment to set him straight.

The problem is, he thought, unable to stifle a groggy yawn, I’m no longer sure which way is straight.

* * * * *

“Kyeow!”
You look like something out of the Abyss!

Guerrand’s eyes flew open. Propping himself up on one elbow, he squinted toward the tall, narrow window that overlooked the strait. Guerrand held a hand up to shield his eyes from the orange light he knew meant it was early evening; he’d slept the day away. His familiar stood on the sill, as if outlined by fire.

“Oh, hello, Zagarus.” Guerrand rubbed the sleep from his eyes, more than a little surprised that Cormac had left him alone all day.

The black-backed sea gull leaped from the sill in one
bound and strode across the room on his sticklike yellow legs. Hopping onto the bed, he took one step across the feather tick and, with a webbed foot, kicked Guerrand in the ribs.

“Oww!” cried Guerrand as he rolled away, more startled than hurt by the rubbery little foot. He glared at the sea gull. “What in Habbakuk’s name is the matter with you?”

That
, said the sea gull with an imperious tilt to his beak,
is for having the biggest adventure since I’ve been your familiar and not telling me about it
. He looked almost petulant, with his wings folded before him.
I had to hear it from those preposterous pelicans who live out on Full Moon Point. It was humiliating!

“Let me assure you, my evening wasn’t fun either.” For Zagarus’s sake, he swallowed a smile. “I’m sorry, Zag. I didn’t tell you last night because I intended only to get proof that these men were Quinn’s killers. Besides, I was afraid you’d tell Kirah and you’d both want to come along.”

So you took Kirah!

“That wasn’t
my
idea. She was spying and followed me to the stable. I either had to leave her on the moor or take her along to keep her quiet.” Guerrand swung his legs out of bed and sat up, rubbing his neck. “I should have left her, too, because she almost got us killed!”

Zagarus’s wings lifted in a shrug.
Sounds to me like you should thank her. Now you’re going to be a knight after all, just as you’d agreed
.

“I don’t want to be a knight!” Guerrand said furiously. He was tired of living a lie. The lie would just continue in a different place, with different people. He snatched up Ingrid’s silver necklace from the small table on which it lay and squeezed it as if to crush it. “And I don’t want to be married to Ingrid Berwick.”

What
do
you want?
Zagarus asked, his voice unnaturally
soft inside the human’s head.

The question surprised Guerrand. In recent years he’d spent more time thinking about what he
didn’t
want. He sucked in a breath. Had he used Cormac’s hatred of magic as an excuse to protect himself from failing? Guerrand had long ago convinced himself it wasn’t
his
fault he’d not been allowed to study as a mage. And if he never tried, he’d never fail.