Three
Aeron expected Fineghal to begin by teaching him how to summon and control the magic, but he was disappointed. In the weeks that followed, the elven mage barely spoke a word about the working of spells. After they returned Eriale to Kestrel's house and retreated into the depths of the forest, they traveled from sunrise to sunset each day. Fineghal seemed absorbed by his own thoughts, leading the way with an easy, absentminded stride that Aeron found hard to match. Baillegh ranged far ahead, bounding through the green shadows like a silver phantom.
Sometimes they rested in the vine-covered ruins of elven towers, but most of the time Fineghal passed the night in clearings beneath the open sky. By starlight or moonlight, he taught Aeron the names of the creatures and the growing things of the Maerchwood as the elves knew them when the world was young. The ancient elf rarely slept; instead, he gazed at the stars as Aeron drifted off to sleep.
Slowly Aeron learned Tel'Quessir, the elven language, and Fineghal shifted his lessons to his native tongue. 'Tel'Quessir is a language made for magic,' he explained one night. 'It will be much easier for me to teach you when you can read and write in the runes of Espruar.'
'Do all mages speak their spells in Elvish?'
'All elven mages do, and some humans. But others study ancient human sorceries and use forgotten human tongues.'
Aeron sat up straight, intrigued. 'There's more than one way to wield magic?'
Fineghal smiled, a ghostly expression by the clear starlight. 'Oh, yes,' he said quietly. 'When an elf creates a spell, he beckons to the magic, calling to the Weave that surrounds us. The old human ways are different. A human wizard's words force his will upon the Weave around him, demanding compliance.'
'Which way is better? More powerful?'
'I know only the elven spells, Aeron; I can't teach you human magic. Since you ask, it is my opinion that human magic is easier to employ and a more dangerous weapon than elven magic. But it exacts a greater toll.'
'When will you show me how to cast a spell?'
'Be patient,' Fineghal said. 'You have much to learn yet.' He fell silent for a long time.
The long summer of the Maerchwood passed swiftly, and the short, wet fall came over the forest, drenching the land with cool rains. Aeron and Fineghal had circled the forest several times in the months that he'd journeyed with the elven mage. From one end to the other, the Maerchwood was almost one hundred miles in length. Aeron had seen the golden Maerth Hills to the west, the fiery peaks known as the Smoking Mountains, and the wild rushing waters of the untamed Winding River. He was beginning to gain a sense of the immeasurable moods of the woodland, the pace of life in different regions and in different seasons.
Hardened by his endless trek, he could now keep up with Fineghal without trying, and he moved through the trackless maze of the forest's hidden depths with the skill and silence of a full-blooded elf. On a clear, cold day late in the season, Fineghal led Aeron to a dark, rock-walled valley in the heart of the forest, a place Aeron knew as Banien's Deep. They halted by a cold, rushing stream that tumbled out of the stony heights and into the forest below. Fineghal shrugged his slim pack from his shoulders and surveyed the clearing. 'This will do,' he announced.
'Why are we stopping?' Aeron asked.
'I think it's time for your first lesson.'
Aeron blinked. 'My first lesson? What have I been doing for the past three months?'
'Well, you've learned to speak passable Elvish, and you've learned a little about the forest. Any elf would have known these things before he began his studies,' Fineghal said over his shoulder. 'Now we can move on to the working of magic.'
Aeron remembered the intoxication in his heart when he'd touched the Weave in Fineghal's test. He'd almost forgotten the sensation of rightness, of strength, that he'd tasted before. I will do it, he thought proudly. I will shape magic with my own hands, like one of the great wizards of old. I will do it! He scrambled to his feet, shrugging his pack to the ground. 'I'm ready.'
Fineghal regarded Aeron with his customary detachment. The young woodsman waited, his keen eyes hungry with anticipation. 'There are two things you must do in order to work magic … to cast a spell, as humans say,' Fineghal began. 'First you must summon the energy for your spell. We live in a magical world, Aeron, surrounded by unseen powers and forces. Every living creature carries a spark of magic, but the very stones, earth, wind, and waters multiply this living magic a thousandfold.'
'So magic comes from the land around us?'
'Yes and no. The life of the world around us is the power that makes magic possible, but it is a force without direction, without volition-unrealized potential. In order to tap this energy, we immerse ourselves in the Weave.'
Aeron frowned, thinking. 'Aren't magic and the Weave the same thing?'
'Almost, but not quite. The Weave is the soul of magic, the manifestation of all the untapped energy around us. It is the surface that we can perceive and shape to our purposes.'
'I don't understand.'
Fineghal steepled his long, graceful fingers before him. 'A fire can be used for hundreds of useful things- warming you in the winter, cooking food, heating iron that it might be worked into useful shapes, and so on. You might say that wood contains the potential for fire, just as the world around us contains the potential for magic.' The elf lord smiled and picked up a small piece of deadwood near his seat by the stream. He tossed it lightly to Aelies. 'Cook your dinner with this stick.'
Aeron shrugged and reached into his pouch to retrieve his flint and steel. Fineghal held up his hand and laughed. 'Stop. What are you doing?'
'Getting my flint,' Aeron replied, mystified.
'And why do you do that?'
'To start the wood burning, of course!'
'So, in order to release the potential within that branch, you must strike a spark. The fire within that old branch sleeps until you find a way to release it. Similarly, the Weave is the means by which the potential for magic is transformed into the shape a wizard seeks.'
'I think I understand,' Aeron said slowly.
'Now, wielding the Weave is only part of casting a spell. The other part is shaping the spell with your will. You've seen me gesture or heard me speak words under my breath when I work magic. I was creating the pattern for the magical energy to follow.'
'You've lost me again,' Aeron said bitterly.
Fineghal grimaced. 'Here's another analogy. Let's say that you want to make a house. Living trees represent the unshaped potential, the raw magic, of your effort. The Weave shapes the living wood into a form you can work with, finished boards and planks ready for your hand. Finally you'll need tools and skill to work the finished wood into the form you desire. This is your spell.'
Aeron nodded, imagining the work he'd put into crafting the bow strapped to his back. Magic required raw material and a tool to work it. That made sense. 'Is there any difference in what kind of magic you gather or the tools you use to shape it?' he asked.
'Yes and no. The Weave is the same in all spells. But there are all kinds of purposes to which this energy may be bent-the dark magic of necromancy, the fragile veils of illusion, and so on. I have always studied the magic of wind, stone, fire, and water, the elements around us. Most of my learning lies in spells of this sort.'
Fineghal pointed at the dark, cool stream beside them. 'Here. Observe what I do.' He fell silent, furrowing his brow in concentration. With one hand, he reached toward the water, his hand turned to one side. Aeron shivered as he felt the touch of magic at work, the cool flutter in the center of his chest. Fineghal murmured a few words in Elvish.
On the surface of the stream, a knuckle of water formed and then rose into the air, taking the shape of a slender arm and silvery hand. It hung, shimmering wetly in the air, defying gravity, as Fineghal continued to guide it with gentle motions of his hand. The watery hand reached out to touch Aeron's outstretched fingers. It felt cold and damp, but left no moisture on his hand. With a wry smile, Fineghal released his spell. The watery limb lost its cohesiveness, returning to the stream with a splash. Aeron grinned in childlike delight. 'Bring it back!' he
