magic possible. Is that not so?' Oriseus did not wait for Aeron to answer. 'Yet not all mages have acknowledged her existence or stewardship. Oh, I do not question the existence of the Weave, and the relationship between the Weave and the fabric of raw magic that underlies all things. But Mystra has been known in this land of Chessenta for perhaps four or five centuries now. Before the worship of Mystra came to Cimbar, when the Untheri held this land in thrall, we were taught that Thalatos-Thoth, in the Mulhorandi lands-was the lord of magic.'
'In my classes, the philosophers state that Mystra has always held power over the Weave since the very beginning of things,' Aeron replied. 'Whether or not she is known and worshiped is immaterial. She chooses to make the Weave available to all, and so it is. After all, you don't need to venerate a god of fire in order to strike a flame.'
'Ah! An excellent point, young Aeron. So, could you make a fire if a god of fire did not exist?'
Aeron shrugged helplessly. 'I suppose so. I'm afraid that my learning in philosophy and theology is not equal to my skill in other arts.'
Oriseus grinned wickedly. 'On the contrary, dear boy, it simply means that you are not fettered with the age-old lies and deceptions perpetrated upon generation and generation of our youth. Allow me to rephrase the question: Could you work magic if no Weave existed?'
'Of course not!' Aeron stated instantly. 'I couldn't even imagine where you would begin.'
'What would you say,' Oriseus said quietly, 'if I were to tell you that you are wrong?'
Aeron scowled at the High Conjuror, trying to gauge the master's mood. Oriseus leaned close, his grin fierce and yellow in his wide, handsome face. His dark eyes danced with an animated mischief, a formidable intellect toying effortlessly with daring, unthinkable suggestions. Whatever one might say about Oriseus and his ambitions, his cynicism, his arrogance, the man feared nothing and bent his knee to no one. 'Go on,' Aeron said.
'The Weave exists,' Oriseus said. 'It is one way to wield magic, to touch the power that sleeps in all things. Say that Mystra is the Weave, if you like to think so, or that the Weave is the soul of magic-it's all semantics, empty words for those who do not wish to accept responsibility for what they do. The Weave is, perhaps, the easiest way to wield magic. But there are restrictions, limitations, to what one may do.' The master stood abruptly and spread his arms, changing his course. 'Tell me, Aeron, what do you know of the Imaskari?'
'The Imaskari?' Taken aback, Aeron frowned, gathering his thoughts. He'd had only a few weeks of learning of this sort, but he tried to recall what he'd been told. 'They were old, perhaps the first humans to raise kingdoms. Their lands lay beyond Mulhorand, in what is now the desert of Raurin. The old empires of Mulhorand and Unther are descended from the people who fled the Imaskari kingdoms thousands of years ago.' He shivered in his tabard, suddenly chilled by the cold spring wind. 'It's said that they were mighty sorcerers indeed, sorcerers who thought they could become gods. That is all I know, Lord Oriseus.'
'Indeed. Well, the Imaskari were correct, Aeron. They wielded magic from beyond the circles of this world, magic of staggering power. And they did it without the hindrances, the limitations, of the Weave. The Imaskari spells wielded a different power, Aeron. A second theme of magic, one reserved for those with strength and will enough to command it. A completely different symbology to impose one's will upon a completely different source of power. Only the dimmest memory of this ancient way remains in the hoary texts and garbled fragments studied inside these walls. It's called shadow magic in these impoverished days.'
'Shadow magic?' Aeron turned his head to study Oriseus for a long moment. 'Why are you telling me this?'
Oriseus's artificial humor died, and his eyes grew dark and serious. 'I mean to show you what I've told you about, Aeron. You are one of the few students here who has the strength of will, the breadth of experience, to comprehend the secrets I have to share. You'll wield power few wizards living today could hope to command, learn mysteries that only a handful of mages have explored in more than a thousand years. Now will you study under my tutelage?'
Aeron considered the wizard's offer. Power? Magic that others cannot master? Oriseus's promises intrigued him; the High Master of Conjuration radiated confidence, puissance, under his foolish caperings. Oriseus acted like a buffoon because he could afford to. He forged his own path, and Aeron found that he wanted to enjoy that same unshakable self-assurance. Aeron scratched his chin. 'I'm interested, but what will become of my studies in invocation?'
'Study with Sarim as long as you like,' Oriseus replied. 'All I ask for is an hour or two of your attention each week. But I think you should know that you have rivals who are already delving into these secrets of which I have spoken. You showed great courage in standing against Dalrioc Corynian last week. . but it would have been unfortunate for you if he'd known then what he knows now.'
Aeron frowned. The one thing he could claim over Dalrioc Corynian was his skill with spells. He knew Oriseus was manipulating him, but he decided that he didn't care. I'll be damned if I'll let Dalrioc become a better wizard than I am, he thought. 'Very well, Lord Oriseus. When do we start?'
'This very moment, if you like,' Oriseus said. He stood, dusted off his robes, and turned to survey the surroundings. He hummed comically for a few moments, tugging at his beard as he thought. 'Aha!' he exclaimed. He took two long steps and snatched a fist-sized rock from the ground, hefting it in his hand. Returning to the battlement, he sat down beside Aeron. 'I'm going to cast a spell that will enable you to sense the magic inherent in this stone,' he said.
'I can perceive it already, Lord Oriseus. I've always been able to sense the currents of the Weave.'
The lean conjuror glanced at Aeron. 'Really?'
'It's my elven blood, I think.' Aeron closed his eyes and allowed himself to draw in the air, the cold stone under him, the distant sense of the great sea. With concentration, he felt the sleepy sense of magic imprisoned in the small stone. 'Yes, I can sense it.'
'So much the better, Aeron. I won't have to demonstrate the way things normally appear. Observe.' Oriseus lifted the stone in his hand and muttered a few guttural words. The rock quivered and then flew out of his hand, streaking across the open courtyard to roll to rest about thirty yards distant. Oriseus smiled and twitched his hands, causing the rock to hop, frogwise, even pushing it into the air to perform great flying bounds. 'What do you sense?' he asked Aeron.
The young mage frowned, extending his perception. He found nothing. He should have felt the Weave thrumming in resonance with his own mind and heart, the kindred spirit that bound all things together, but Oriseus worked his sorcery with no outward sign. 'How are you doing that?' he asked.
'Doing what?' Oriseus asked innocently.
'Are you working a spell at all?'
The conjuror laughed. 'Of course,' he snorted. 'You are simply unable to perceive the forces that I manipulate.'
'Why not?'
'You are untrained in this magic,' Oriseus replied. 'With time, I can show you how it's done.'
'This is the shadow magic you spoke of?' Aeron asked, watching in fascination. 'The magic the Imaskari mastered?'
Oriseus nodded. With an exaggerated wave, he sent the stone hurling high into the air and let it plummet to the ground as he rose again. 'Come see me later this week. We will begin your lessons. I think you'll be amazed at what you can do, once you learn to remove the blinders that have been placed on you.' He sauntered off, whistling.
Aeron watched him go, puzzled. How did he do that? he thought. I sensed no magic at work, none at all. What does he know that I don't? He walked over to where the rock lay on the ground and picked it up. It felt strangely warm to his hand, as if it had been near a fire, and as he examined it, the edges seemed to crumble away. He hadn't realized that it was so old and worn. He studied the rock for a long moment and then let it fall to the ground.
Over the next few weeks, Aeron met with Oriseus only a handful of times. The High Conjuror demonstrated some complicated spells of binding and command, patterns that seemed incomplete to Aeron. It was as if the techniques allowed him to see only part of some mysterious whole, a painting that called upon every bit of willpower and knowledge as a broad palette lacking one critical color, a hue that Aeron could not yet imagine.
The cool, humid winds of Mirtul passed, giving way to Cimbar's warm, rainy summer. Cold water surging past Cimbar toward the Alamber Sea brought torrential rains every few days, and the days of sunshine between rains
