borrows what you seek from somewhere else. Sometimes it is magical energy itself that you borrow, with an advanced spell of this sort. . but to answer your first question, somewhere in this wide world there is a rather confused squirrel wondering what just happened.'
'It almost seems unethical,' Melisanda mused aloud. 'What right do we have to wrench a creature from its native surroundings?'
Oriseus hopped up and down in delight. 'Ah, wonderful! Master conjurors have debated this very topic for years beyond counting! Truly, my little fish, you astound me this morning. But let's set aside this thorny issue for the moment, promise ourselves that we shall not injure or misuse any creature that joins us today, and proceed with the practice of this spell. For the summoning itself is not sinister, my lords and ladies. Only the purpose to which the summoner sets his guest is for good or ill!'
One by one, the Sword Hall novices worked their way through the fragmentary conjuration. Most of the students recited the words and performed the gestures correctly, but the effort to seize and wield the magic around them brought beads of sweat to their brows and grimaces of pain. Aeron felt as if he were watching tone-deaf musicians blindly plucking at an instrument's strings, hoping by dint of repetition to find the note they sought. Even Melisanda, the most skillful of the novices, frowned and seized the power necessary for her spell with a catlike lunge.
'Novice Aeron? Show us how it is done,' Oriseus directed. He wore an expression of beatific patience.
'Yes, Master Oriseus.' Aeron stood and advanced to the center of the room. He carefully pronounced the unfamiliar words while imitating Oriseus's posture and gestures. He could sense the ethereal currents of the Weave that swirled in the chilly air, the dense power that waited within the stones of the room, the fiery sparks burning in every living heart. With ease, he wove the elements together, heart racing with the brilliant clarity of magic in his mind and hands. He pictured a sea gull in his mind-there were plenty in and around the harbor-and through the magic of the spell, he felt the image in his mind spring into existence before him.
Aeron opened his eyes. In the room's center a gull stood, regarding him patiently. Unlike the creatures conjured by the other novices, it didn't waver or fade; Aeron had woven well enough to hold it effortlessly.
'Well done, Aeron,' Oriseus breathed. 'I see now why you were sent to study with us.'
Aeron accepted the praise with a scant nod. 'The spell's simple enough, but the words aren't familiar to me.'
'The words are paint and canvas, lad. You'll need to know how to use them sooner or later. But the way you make them work, that is the essence of the art!' Oriseus stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'I shall have to keep an eye on you, Aeron Morieth. Do you recall the dismissal?'
He nodded and repeated the last word of the conjuration. With a tiny portion of his mind, he released the currents of magic that held the gull in the chamber. It ghosted out of view, taking wing as it returned to nothingness. He glanced around and realized that the other novices were looking at him with open astonishment on their faces. They don't feel the Weave as I do, Aeron realized. I may not have their learning, but I can wield magic as easily as they.
The silence stretched out for a long moment, until Oriseus suddenly burst into motion, wringing his hands melodramatically and grimacing. 'Alas! Our brief time together is at an end. Next week I shall return with another conjuration for you to master. In the meantime, practice and study, practice and study!' The novices stirred and rose, shuffling to the door. Aeron turned to gather his things and join them, but Oriseus caught his arm and drew him aside. 'Where did you say you'd studied, Aeron?'
'I learned from Fineghal, the Storm Walker of the Maerchwood, a lord of the Tel'Quessir.'
'So that was Telemachon's secret.' Oriseus nodded to himself, his eyes distant. After a moment, he looked back to Aeron. 'You will not remain a novice for long. You may have to familiarize yourself with the tools of human wizardry, but you can gather and weave magic that none of your fellows can even perceive yet. It is an injustice to treat you as a novice.'
'I noticed how awkward my classmates were. But until I learn the languages they've already studied, I'll only be able to use a fraction of my talent.'
Oriseus dismissed his objections with a wave of his hand. 'When you become a student, Aeron, you will be asked to choose a discipline. Think about the tabard and cap of conjuration. I would greatly like to work with you in more advanced studies.'
'I don't know what to say, Master Oriseus.'
The saturnine master grinned. 'You do not have to decide yet, Aeron. Now, go and catch up to your hallmates. You'll need their fellowship for at least a little longer.' He bobbed his head and retreated, leaving Aeron alone in the cold stone chamber.
Cimbar's weather was cooler and wetter than that of the Maerchwood, especially in the last months of winter. The great city was raked by winds howling across the Inner Sea for weeks in a row. The novices were permitted to leave the college grounds during the days of the week's end, when no formal lessons were scheduled. From time to time, Aeron explored the old city with his hallmates, although his empty purse kept him from joining them in their more expensive revels. More often he spent his free hours engaged in relentless study, holed up in a remote recess of the college library or in an unused classroom in the academic halls, hoping to escape Dalrioc Corynian's attention by making himself hard to find.
Aeron struggled to master Thorass, Old Untheric, and ancient Rauric, the forgotten tongues that most of the college's masters used for the recording of spells. However, he excelled in the working of the phrases and fragments the masters used for practical demonstrations of spellcasting. Even schools with which he had little experience, such as necromancy or conjuration, he grasped quickly. In a matter of weeks, he caught up to and surpassed the most advanced novices among his hallmates.
It wasn't in Aeron's nature to be satisfied, not as long as the vast store of knowledge held within the college walls remained unconquered. Within a month of arriving, Aeron understood just how little he knew, how far he had to go, and instead of settling down to patiently journey into the realms before him, he decided to plunge ahead with inexhaustible energy. He was here to learn as much as he could; there was no point in attacking the task ahead with anything less than his complete and obsessive attention. With challenging studies to engage him, Chessenta's greatest city to explore, wealth and comfort enough to feel guilty about his good fortune, and associates who shared his intelligence and interests, Aeron was content for the moment.
But one inescapable condition ground him down every day: the spiteful malice of Dalrioc and the circle of students who followed in his wake. The Soorenaran prince had not forgotten Aeron's defiance at their first meeting, and at every opportunity, he found some way to make Aeron miserable. His room was inspected and found wanting on a regular basis. His knowledge of Chessentan history, lineage, law, and the inane trivia pertaining to the college and its former students was examined through dogged interrogations that exposed a weak chink in his armor. Aeron had never learned the histories and heroes' names that Dalrioc and his noble friends had been taught in childhood. Aeron was required to write out the rolls of kings and nobles hundreds of times and submit them to Dalrioc for review.
Aeron's only response was to immerse himself even further in his studies. His natural talent for wielding magic quickly earned him the admiration and envy of his fellow fish. Even Melisanda frequently sought out Aeron to help her study for her upcoming novitiate examination. Aeron lived for the chance to spend a quiet hour with her. Melisanda's face haunted his dreams, and it took all of his willpower to force these thoughts to the back of his mind when she was near.
On a bitterly cold evening two days before her test, he lingered after they'd finished going over the last of her spells, unwilling to return to his own quarters. 'Dalrioc's waiting for me; I can just feel it,' he sighed.
'I've never seen him single out a fish the way he's watching you, Aeron,' Melisanda told him. 'Dalrioc even arranges for other students to keep an eye on you when he has to attend a lecture or do some research.'
'It's working,' Aeron said bitterly. 'Sooner or later I'm going to lose my temper, and then he'll really have me.'
Melisanda offered a sympathetic smile. 'You're something completely antithetical to what he believes about the world: a commoner who is better than he.'
'I might be a better mage, Melisanda, but I don't have his wealth or his power. Why does he resent me?'
'Because Dalrioc Corynian is accustomed to being the best at whatever he turns his hand to. It's how he was
