The Shadow Stone ta-1

by Richard Baker

  From the center of the courtyard, a gigantic fist of red-hot rock smashed its way into the sky and shattered the castle like a man kicking apart an anthill. The towers almost exploded with the force of their destruction as Aeron deliberately battered Raedel Keep to pieces, allowing the hot fire of his rage to strike again and again. Phoros and the guards disappeared beneath tons of seething lava, crushed and burned past recognition. The white fury burned hotter in Aeron's breast as the world dissolved in raging chaos and incandescent destruction, until he lost himself completely in the storm of violence.

  Aeron awoke on the Forest's Stonemantle, weak and disoriented. The sun was red and low in the west, and the air had taken on the cool damp of evening. The dark stone bluffs around the heights gleamed with ruddy light.

  Fineghal gazed silently over the forest, wrapped in a cloak that fluttered softly in the wind. Aeron pushed himself upright, studying the elf's tall, weathered figure against the sunset.

  "Aeron! You're awake!" Eriale scrambled to her feet beside him, rubbing her arms against the damp breeze. "Fineghal wasn't sure if you would return."

  "I'm here, Eriale," Aeron said. He pressed his hand against his head and stood. "I… I think I'm all right now."

  The elven mage turned at his words. His mouth was a thin white line across his face, and he regarded Aeron with a look of such intensity that the forester took a step back. "What do you remember of your test?" he demanded.

  "I was in Raedel Keep. I watched my father hang. And then they were going to hang me. But then. ."

  "Go on."

  "I touched the magic," Aeron whispered, staring at his hands with unseeing eyes. He remembered the sweet fire singing in his heart, in his blood. "I wielded magic!"

  "Aye. And you used it to destroy Raedel Keep."

  "Assuran's tears," he breathed. "Is it truly destroyed?"

  "Why?" asked Fineghal. "Is that what you wanted? Is that the best use you can think of for the marvelous gift you possess?" The elf lord trembled with suppressed emotion. With a visible effort, he forced himself to relent. "The castle is unharmed. It was only a test, an illusion you wove for no one but yourself."

  "Did … did I pass?"

  Fineghal barked acerbic laughter. "In the sense that you demonstrated that you can grasp and wield magic, oh, yes, you passed, Aeron. You have extraordinary potential; you nearly exhausted my power in your enthusiasm to raze the castle. I never expected such strength in a stripling."

  "Is Aeron going to be a mage?" asked Eriale.

  The elven lord nodded. "He must be, Eriale. He will consume himself if he does not learn to wield his power."

  "What power?" Aeron asked crossly, rising to face the elf lord. "I've never even thought of magic before today. What's so special about me?"

  "You don't understand yet what you are," Fineghal said. His expression softened. "Whether you know it or not, most people can't do what you did; almost anyone can learn to touch the Weave, if only for a moment, but those who can truly perceive it and seize it with will alone are rare indeed. It's your elven blood, Aeron. It runs strong in your veins."

  Aeron hugged his chest, pacing away in amazement. The memory of power tantalized him, and he furrowed his brow as he tried to reach out and gather the living magic again. "But I feel nothing now," he said.

  "You will learn to see with new eyes, to hear with your heart. My spell of testing allowed you to borrow my strength, if you had it within you to touch the Weave."

  "So you'll let me stay and study with you?"

  Fineghal's expression became stern. "Yes. But you must swear to abide by my judgment of what you will learn, and when, and how you will employ your knowledge. You have great potential, Aeron, but it is potential for harm as well as good. Do you understand me?"

  "I think so," Aeron said slowly. But deep within his heart a dark, triumphant voice added, He fears me. He fears what I can do.

  "Good," said Fineghal. He held Aeron's gaze for a long moment before turning back to Eriale. "Now, Eriale, let's see you home. Your father must be worried about you." He started down from the windswept cliff.

  Aeron scrambled down after him, but Eriale caught his arm as he passed her. She gazed into his face, her open features taut with concern. "Do you know what you're doing, Aeron?"

  He attempted a reassuring smile. "Eriale, if you could have touched it, you'd understand. I have to go with him."

  She held his eyes for a long moment more and then smiled weakly. "If you think this is right, Aeron, then I won't worry about you." She caught him around the shoulders and hugged him spontaneously. "Just promise me you'll be careful."

  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? Wha
t 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 pleaded.

  Fineghal shook his head. "Alas, I cannot."

  "Have you exhausted the magic?"

  The elf laughed. "No, not by any means. I could power a spell dozens of times greater than that with the magic that surrounds us in this place!"

  "Then why can't you do it again?"

  "Because I do not have that spell in my mind anymore. You see, Aeron, any wizard may speak a spell only once, and then it is gone. In shaping the magic, the tool is expended, destroyed, used up in the creation. A trained wizard, like myself, may hold dozens of spells in his mind, but each time I work magic, the shape of the spell vanishes." Fineghal glanced up, taking in Aeron's bewilderment. He sat back on his heels with a sigh. "One more analogy, then. A spell is like an arrow. Once you fire it from the bow of your mind, it is gone."

  "But you can retrieve an arrow," Aeron said.

  "Well, these arrows you cannot. If you have three spell arrows in your quiver, you can carry them with you indefinitely, but once you speak the words and shape the magic to give it form, a spell performs its purpose and vanishes. You'll have to make a new arrow in order to work that spell again."

  "How do you do that?"

  Fineghal groaned and rubbed at his temples. "By the stars, I forgot how many questions lived inside a young human. Trust me, Aeron, we'll get to that when it's time. Let's return to my original intent in this lesson, which was to show you how to speak a spell. Do you recall the words I spoke when I made the hand of water appear?"

  Aeron thought for a moment. "Allagh-"

  "Wait, don't speak them! Even if you don't have the spell ready, it's not a good idea. Save the words for the casting. Now, did you see how I held my hands?"

  Awkwardly Aeron tried to mimic the gesture he had seen Fineghal perform. The elf reached out and corrected his posture. "With your will, you summon the magic. With the words, you shape it. And with your hand, you hold it in the place you want." He reached into his belt pouch and produced a small, smooth stone. Engraved on the stone's upper surface was a curving sign or diagram. "Here. Examine this sigil and lock its shape in your mind."

  "What's this?"

  "It's the shape of a spell. I keep most of my enchantments as sigils drawn on waterworn stones. Other wizards write them out as formulae in great tomes, or record them as long pronouncements or rhymes in old tongues. It doesn't matter, really. But this symbol, with the words and the gesture, will give you the key to unlocking the magic and making the spell."

  Aeron took the stone and peered at it. He glanced up at Fineghal, who nodded. He looked back down at the stone, studying the simple curve and whorl. "Okay, I've got it."

  "No you don't. You'll know when it's fixed in your mind." Fineghal set his back to a tree and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Stare at it intently. Forget everything around you until nothing exists but that one simple sign."

  Aeron shot another look at Fineghal, but the elf was holding up another stone, gazing at it with an absent expression on his face. He shrugged and returned his attention to his own stone. Time passed, and he almost felt that he was sinking into the one small symbol, and then finally it was in his mind, a curved bar of stone that lay just under his tongue like a word he hadn't given voice to
yet. He yelped in surprise. "Fineghal!"

  The elf looked up. "I know that look. It's in your mind?"

  "I think. . yes! Yes, it's right there."

  "The spell you've just committed to memory is a simple cantrip called water hand. Now, in order to cast the spell, you'll first concentrate on the symbol in your mind. While you do that, you'll reach out to gather a tiny bit of the Weave around you. You know what that feels like already; try to borrow some from the stream, here, since that is appropriate to the spell. Once you have touched the water's energy, speak the words and make the gesture." Fineghal paused, measuring Aeron. "Are you ready?"

  Aeron nodded. He summoned the stone's symbol to the forefront of his mind. Distantly he became aware of the play of the Weave around him-the rushing of the stream, the sighing of the wind, the green and rich vitality of the trees and grasses nearby, his own bright spark. He concentrated on the stream. The cold water seemed to wash over him, a chilling, vaguely frightening sensation. Alarmed, he barked out the words, remembering to lift his hand just in time.

  Before him, the water stirred and surged. A crude pillar of coherent liquid rose free of the stream, groping blindly as Aeron struggled to control it. It started to sag, and he desperately reached out and caught it with all of his strength. Suddenly the pillar loomed over him like a small mountain of cold water, arching toward him as he scrambled away. "Fineghal, help!" he cried. As his concentration broke, so did the spell, and a deluge of icy water drenched him completely. He spluttered and shook his head.

  "Congratulations, Aeron. You've just cast your first spell," Fineghal said, laughing. "Next time we'll work on your control. But that was well done, anyway." A wide, proud smile brightened his ancient features, and even Baillegh yelped playfully, dancing in delight.