steamed Cimbar in sweltering humidity. Aeron retreated further into his studies, attacking every lesson with a single-minded zeal that left no room for questions of temperance or balance.
Aeron soon realized that he was not the only student Oriseus had recruited. Just as Master Sarim oversaw a half-dozen students in the school of invocation, and Oriseus also sponsored five young adepts in the red robes of conjuration, the High Conjuror had a second circle of students he tutored personally. Dalrioc Corynian was among these, but there were students who wore the green of alteration and the purple of necromancy in Oriseus's confidence. The sessions were always informal; Aeron found that Oriseus never asked him to meet him at any specific time, but waited for Aeron to come to him.
'You've told me that the Imaskari derived their magic from powers in the planes beyond this one,' Aeron observed one time. 'The shadow Weave is a ghost, an echo of our Weave in dark planes close to our own. Didn't the Imaskari fear the taint of evil in the sorcery they taught themselves? And aren't we treading in dangerous territory?'
'Would you be concerned if the Imaskari had learned how to make crossbows? Or catapults?' Oriseus asked.
'No. That is mundane knowledge. It isn't evil in and of itself,' Aeron answered.
'Nor is magic,' Oriseus answered. 'It is a tool. The hand and heart that wield it define its morality.'
Aeron frowned and weighed the master's words, but he could find no reply. Oriseus freely placed in his hand any knowledge he requested, and in the books and scrolls he studied, he could find no single hint that the ancient magic had ever been marked by evil. He often spent more time perusing the old tomes than the spells of invocation he was supposed to study, and his room was soon littered with scraps of yellow parchment and charcoal rubbings from unspeakably ancient tablets of stone that Oriseus kept in his private collection.
A week after Midsummer, the longest day of the year, Aeron was interrupted by a soft knock at his door. Melisanda quietly let herself in as he hurriedly straightened the tangled mess of parchment and paper that cluttered his room. 'Hello, Aeron. I haven't seen you much lately.'
Aeron held up his book. 'I've been keeping busy. And I didn't want to make a pest of myself.'
She smiled sadly and perched on the sill of the window. 'Well, you haven't. You've vanished any time I've set foot within ten feet of you.'
'I thought that was what you wanted.'
'No, it wasn't. I wanted you to keep your distance, yes. But I didn't want you to pretend as if you'd never met me. I've missed your friendship, Aeron.'
'I'm not Dalrioc Corynian. I won't force my attentions on a woman who isn't interested in me.'
'Why does it come down to that, Aeron? In a college filled with arrogant men who think they deserve any woman they fancy, I thought that you'd be above that. But if that's all you see in me, you're no better than they are.'
'No one here equals my skill,' Aeron said coldly. 'What Dalrioc Corynian and the others were given, I've had to earn. I'm proud of that, Melisanda. If you can't see-'
'Can't see what, Aeron? That I belong in your bed instead of Dalrioc's?' Melisanda hugged her knees to her chest. 'I'm not a trophy for you to fight over.' She fell silent for a long time.
Aeron didn't know what to say and simply waited. Finally she spoke again. 'I've decided to go home.'
'Home? To Arrabar?'
She nodded. 'I've learned a lot, but I'm homesick, and I don't think I'm ever going to become a great mage. It's just not my heart's desire to be the best.'
'You're an excellent mage!' Aeron protested.
'No. I'm competent. I don't have the gift that you do, Aeron. You know that as well as I, it seems.' With a wry smile, she pushed herself to her feet. One old tome caught her eye; she picked it up, weighing it in her hand, her brow furrowed. 'What's this?'
'That? Oh, that's an Untheric translation of an old Imaskari text. Pretty dry, really.'
'Imaskari? I'd heard there were some Imaskari works in the library, but I didn't know students were allowed to see them. It's not for everyone.' She flipped it open and skimmed through a few pages. 'The letters are familiar, but I don't know the language. You can read this, Aeron?'
He shrugged. 'Master Oriseus has taken an interest in my studies. He's been helping me with a lot of the older texts. The old Imaskari knew things we don't today. They did not wield the Weave the way we do. They used another source of power to fuel their spells.'
Melisanda set the book down. 'I've heard nothing good about the old Imaskari spells, Aeron. Be careful. Oriseus's interest in these musty old tomes is unhealthy.'
'You don't trust him?'
'Not a whit. That fool's manner he wears is nothing more than a veneer. He's laughing at all of us underneath his smile, I'm certain of it.'
Aeron bridled. 'Abrasive or not, Oriseus is one of the few people here who seems to give a damn about me. He's extremely talented, and I've made great strides since he began tutoring me.'
'I thought you studied under Master Sarim. Why should Oriseus treat you like one of his own conjurors?'
He shrugged. 'Oriseus says I have great potential. He thinks I can master spells that other students can't understand.'
'Do you believe that?' she asked quietly, sinking to a hard wooden stool Aeron kept beside his desk. Her glacial eyes settled on his face, cool and distant, waiting for his answer. For the first time, Aeron noticed how tired Melisanda appeared. Her features, once lovely and perfect, now seemed to be stretched tight over an unforgiving frame, silk taut against a steel blade.
'Yes. I won't pretend to any false modesty, not where my magical skills are concerned. I've learned a lot since I was a novice, Melisanda.'
She dropped her eyes. 'Yes, you have, Aeron. I'll be taking ship in a couple of days for Chondath and home. It's the right time of year to find a tradesman bound for the Vilhon Reach, so I won't linger long.'
Aeron stood up, scattering pages of cryptic notes, and paced nervously in the narrow space in front of his bed. He expected Melisanda's departure would wound him deeply, but instead of pain he felt only a relief. With Melisanda gone, that was one less person to whom he had to explain himself or measure his actions. A sudden thought struck him, and he stopped his pacing. 'You're not leaving because of Dalrioc, are you?'
Melisanda shook her head. 'No, not in that sense. He's set off in search of easier prey, I guess. I'm just tired and lonely, Aeron. That's all. Won't you wish me well?'
Aeron stared down at his feet for a moment. He was vaguely surprised by the gray and white tunic he still wore, the polished boots, the golden tabard that rustled as he moved. For a moment he wondered how the reckless young forester dressed in peasant's clothes had come to be standing in this room, surrounded by forgotten lore and ancient mysteries, heart open to the beautiful noblewoman who watched him pace. 'Don't go, Melisanda. I love you, and I want you here.'
'I was afraid you'd say that,' she replied. 'I suppose I've been wasting my breath.' She stood and brushed her lips across his cheek. No warmth remained in her eyes, and she crossed her arms like iron bars between them. 'I'll see you again, Aeron. Take care of yourself, and don't forget who you used to be.' Then she dropped her eyes and slipped through the door.
Aeron emerged from his research long enough to watch Melisanda's coach clatter away through the college gates on a still and fog-shrouded summer morning. By the time the black coach disappeared in the ivy-bordered streets beyond the college walls, Aeron was already back at his studies.
For several weeks, he returned to his virtual isolation within the college walls, ignoring his fellow students and the novices who fearfully bowed any time they crossed his path. From time to time, he happened to run across Baldon or Eldran, but he tried to steer clear of his old hallmates for their own good. He knew that Dalrioc Corynian would make life hell for the fish if they were caught relaxing in the presence of a student.
Surprisingly, his lessons with Master Oriseus came to a halt in the middle of the summer. The High Conjuror left the college on several extended trips, and he wasted not a minute in the brief days between his journeys. He simply didn't have time to spend tutoring Aeron, although all of the students in his circle suffered. Aeron didn't mind; he returned his attention to his studies in the school of invocation, beneath Master Sarim, and filled his odd hours with a redoubled attack on the old double-text he'd found in the library after Master Raemon's death.
