The guards exchanged a look. 'All right,' one said. 'Come with me.' Leaving his fellow behind to mind the gate, he led Aeron into the college grounds.
They followed a paved path to the southernmost building. As they climbed the shallow steps to the hall, a lean man in robes of red brocade emerged. His face was swarthy and crooked, with beetling brows, impenetrable eyes, and a bristling halo of tightly curled, oiled locks that continued into a carefully cropped beard. A fierce yellow grin seemed to be sculpted in his saturnine features, as if the greatest challenges of power and circumstance afforded him boundless amusement. 'Ho! What have we here?' he called.
'Some serf with a letter for Master Telemachon, Lord Oriseus,' the guardsman answered. 'He wants to enroll.'
'A new student?' Lord Oriseus turned his attention to Aeron, making a show of examining him from head to toe. With comic exaggeration, he tsk-tsked his imaginary findings. 'I see that the pool of undiscovered talent in this world grows shallow indeed. What's your name, lad?'
'Aeron Morieth, sir.'
'May I see the mysterious missive, good Corden?'
'Of course, Lord Oriseus.' The guard handed Aeron's letter to the magician. 'I was going to escort the boy to Master Telemachon's quarters, my lord.'
With no hint of humor, Oriseus weighed the parchment in his hand, his brow furrowed as unknown thoughts gathered behind his features. For a moment, Aeron feared that he would impulsively break the seal and read it himself, but with a sudden flourish, Oriseus returned the letter to Aeron. 'Then do so, by all means,' he replied to the guard. To Aeron, he said, 'It is irregular for a fish to find his way into our little pond with nothing more than an elven letter, but I suspect that there is more to you than meets the eye, Aeron Morieth.' With that, he sketched an outrageous bow and capered off, bubbling with a good humor that encompassed any who passed near.
'Who was that?' Aeron asked the guard, more than a little astounded by the master's exaggerated greeting.
'Lord Oriseus, High Conjuror and a senator of the city. Remember his face. He could be one of your instructors.'
'I will,' Aeron promised. He followed the guard into the hall. While the drab buildings of the college seemed to be nothing more than fieldstone barracks on the outside, the interior was much more lavishly appointed. The floors were made of gleaming hardwood; rich, dark paneling and crowded bookshelves covered the walls. High, narrow windows allowed symmetrical squares of sunlight to fall across the dark corridor. A melange of dust, oil, and aromatic wood created a subtle odor that Aeron found distinctly pleasant.
Corden led him past several chambers, mostly studies and reading rooms, to a paneled door at the end of the hall. The guard knocked at the door. 'Master Telemachon? I have a lad here with a letter addressed to you.'
'Show the boy in, good Corden.' The voice quavered with age. The guardsman gestured at Aeron and followed him in. This room was a personal study, with tall windows of leaded glass that rattled in the winter wind. A rotund, stoop-shouldered man with watery eyes and a mere wisp of white hair clinging to his wattled head sat at a small writing desk, scratching at a thick journal with a sharp quill. With a heavy sigh, he set down his pen and rose to face Aeron. Telemachon was dressed in heavy robes that resembled Oriseus's in cut and style, but his were light blue in color, and he draped a long hood of indigo around his shoulders. He eyed Aeron for a long moment and said, 'Wait outside, Corden.'
'Of course, m'lord.' The guardsman withdrew.
The old master held out his hand. 'Your letter, lad?'
'Yes, my lord,' Aeron replied. He quickly stepped forward and handed the parchment to Telemachon. 'It's from Fineghal Caillaen, of the Maerchwood.'
'Fineghal …' The master frowned. Moving over to stand in the light of one of the windows, he broke the seal and perused the letter several times. When he finished, he glanced up to meet Aeron's gaze. Aeron was surprised to see that some of the weakness and uncertainty in the older man's expression had vanished. 'You are Aeron Morieth?'
'Yes, m'lord.'
'Do you know anything of the contents of this letter?'
'No, m'lord. Fineghal only told me that it was a letter of introduction, and that I could show it to you to gain admittance to the College of Mages.'
'I knew Fineghal a long, long time ago,' Telemachon mused. 'My studies led me to his doorstep more than forty years ago. Is he well?'
'I haven't seen him in three months, but the last time we parted, he was in good health,' Aeron said.
'Good,' grunted Telemachon. He faced the door and raised his voice slightly. 'Corden!'
The door cracked. 'Yes, Lord Telemachon?'
'Bring Melisanda here, please.' Telemachon turned back to Aeron as the guard disappeared. He paced ponderously back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. 'Fineghal's taught other students before you, Aeron,' he said. 'I've never known him to send an apprentice on to study elsewhere. He finishes what he begins.'
Aeron shifted nervously. 'I wanted to learn more than he was willing to teach.'
'Oh?' The master glanced at him. 'Very well. I don't set much store by what you may or may not have done before you walked through that door. That includes any learning or skill with the art you may think you already possess.' He held up the parchment. 'Fineghal says that you must be instructed, and he cannot do it himself. For his sake, I will allow you to remain here as a student.'
Aeron let a breath of relief escape from his lips.
'Don't relax just yet, Aeron. I have no idea who you are, what you know, or what you may be capable of learning. Without Fineghal's letter, you would not be a potential student. And without his offer to compensate me for your tuition, you would not be allowed to remain.'
'Tuition?'
Telemachon smiled humorlessly. 'It is not insignificant. But I will sponsor you, since Fineghal asks it of me.'
There was a knock at the door, and a delicate Vilhonese woman about Aeron's age entered. She was short and slight, with dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. Aeron was reminded of his woodsman's garb and lack of formal learning; the girl's graceful carriage, sophisticated features, and studious expression marked her as a lady unlike any Aeron had ever known. 'Melisanda of Arrabar, Master Telemachon. You sent for me?'
'Ah, Melisanda. This is Aeron Morieth, a new student from Maerchlin. You are excused from your studies for the rest of the day; show Aeron the college grounds and get him settled in, if you please.'
The girl glanced at Aeron without expression. 'As you wish, Master Telemachon.'
The old master inclined his head to Aeron. 'I expect I shall see you in a day or two in class; I am the High Diviner, and you must begin with the basics of my art.' He returned to his writing desk, sighing as he sat down. Melisanda caught Aeron's attention and nodded at the door, but before they left, Telemachon held up his hand. 'One last thing, Aeron. I am your sponsor, so I shall be keeping a close eye on you. I advise you to devote yourself completely to your studies. More than a few students allow themselves to become. . distracted here. You would be wise to avoid their example.'
As Telemachon requested, Melisanda led Aeron to each of the buildings within the college walls, explaining each in a smooth voice with just a hint of a throaty Reach accent. Of course, the College of Mages was only a small portion of Cimbar's great university, but Aeron had already observed that the common scribes and artists who studied in the whitewashed acropolis below did not intrude upon the affairs of the wizards in their lofty perch overlooking the city. Slaves, serfs, and commoners of all descriptions might win a place in the university by virtue of talent and patronage, but the wizards' school was evidently reserved for the noble-born. Aeron didn't need Melisanda's wary glances to figure out that the college was a place of his betters. We'll see about that, he promised himself.
Melisanda started the tour with the Masters' Hall as soon as they left Telemachon's chambers. The northern half housed the college's council rooms, administrators, and the private studies of the masters. 'You won't spend much time here until you're a student, fish,' she remarked.
'I'm not a student now?' Aeron asked in surprise.
'Of course not. You're a novice-a 'fish,' as we're called. Once you've shown a command of each of the eight disciplines in the novitiate examination, you are allowed to wear the student's tabard and cap.' She looked him over
