Aeron watched, mesmerized, as Phoros attacked Kestrel with a furious rain of blows, slashing and hacking with all his might. The young lord was a good swordsman, blessed with a powerful build and quick hands. Kestrel stood a foot shorter and weighed at least fifty pounds less than Raedel, and he had spent the last three months in a filthy dungeon cell. But Aeron was surprised to see that he was holding his own for a moment, displaying a surprising amount of skill and reactions even faster than Raedel's. "Time's on my side, old man," Raedel said. "Guards! Guards!"
"Aeron! The gate, before more soldiers come!" cried Eriale. She dragged at his arm, pulling him away.
"Right," he muttered. He turned his back on the duel and faced the postern gate again. Closing his eyes, he set his hand on the door and uttered a simple phrase, summoning a spell of opening to his mind. Beneath his fingertips, he felt the old, rusty lock slide and click. He set his shoulder to the door and pushed it open, a breath of cool air slipping through the widening crack. "I've got it!" he cried.
"Then get Eriale out of here," Kestrel snarled. "I can hold him a little longer." He stumbled with fatigue and bled from several small cuts, but somehow he still held Phoros Raedel at bay. The young lord tried to circle past him, only to be halted by the gleaming point of Kestrel's sword. Behind Raedel, several guardsmen had already appeared, and more were coming at a run.
"I don't think so," Raedel said. He feinted, drawing Kestrel's guard out, and smashed the forester's blade against the stone wall. On the backswing, he struck Kestrel across the scalp, sending him reeling to the ground, stunned. Phoros raised his sword, poised to run him through while his defenses were down.
"Father!" shrieked Eriale.
Without a moment's hesitation, Aeron reached out to seize the taut fabric of the Weave that surrounded him. He drew his hand over his face while pointing at Raedel, and breathed the words to a spell.
Phoros straightened with a startled cry. He reeled, stretching out to steady himself on the wall. "Curse you, Morieth! What have you done to me? I can't see!"
"Be glad I only blinded you," Aeron snapped. He reached down and helped Kestrel regain his feet. Roaring in frustration, Raedel slashed out uselessly. Even as the castle's guards pushed their way past their ranting lord, Aeron pushed Eriale through the postern, then helped Kestrel. The older man was bleeding freely from a long, shallow wound across his forehead, but he seized Eriale's arm and dragged her out into the night. Aeron slammed the postern shut and released his passage spell. Inside the heavy door, the lock clicked and reset itself. The castle's soldiers hammered on the other side, but to no avail. The postern was designed to handle any amount of pounding.
"Where now?" Kestrel asked.
"The forest," Aeron said. "They'll be on our trail in moments. We can lose them in the Maerchwood."
"Good enough for now," Kestrel replied. Helping Eriale along, they hurried away from the forbidding walls of Raedel Keep and vanished into the night.
Fleeing Maerchlin, Aeron led Kestrel and Eriale to the stream-riven gorge near the ruins where he had first met Fineghal. Aeron remembered what the elven mage had told him about the safety of the hidden vale, and it seemed as good a place as any to conceal themselves. By the time they reached the gorge, Kestrel was exhausted and Eriale was deathly ill from the sickness to which she'd fallen prey during her imprisonment.
Aeron hoped fervently that Fineghal would be waiting for them there, but the only sign he found of his teacher was a leather satchel left by their old campsite. Inside, there was a small sack of coins, a wax-sealed vial, and two letters-one addressed to him, and one to someone by the name of Telemachon of Cimbar. While Kestrel built a small fire and looked after Eriale, Aeron broke the seal on the letter with his name on it. In Espruar, it read:
Aeron,
The gold is for Kestrel to build a new home. I recommend the town of Saden, at the head of the Adder River. King Gearax of Oslin calls himself Saden's lord, but the folk there are free men who show Oslin's soldiers and constables no courtesy. They'll take Kestrel's gold with no questions asked. The potion is for Eriale; she is quite ill and should drink the entire vial immediately. Make sure she rests for two or three days before you move on.
The letter is for Telemachon, a Master of the College of Mages at the university in Cimbar. If you wish to continue your studies, go there and present the letter to him. He knows me of old and will allow you to study there. I fear that I have nothing more to teach you; perhaps you will find what you seek there.
— Fineghal
Aeron read Fineghal's letter over and over again. He knew he had defied Fineghal by returning to Maerchlin, but in his heart, he had never believed that the elven mage would end their association over the issue. Humans made mistakes and knew how to forgive the mistakes of others, but in the final test, Fineghal was inhuman and unfathomable, driven by emotions and memories that Aeron could only guess at. His journey into the ancient wisdom of the Tel'Quessir was over. Elven blood or not, Aeron's path lay somewhere else.
In the days that followed, Eriale recovered completely from her illness, and Kestrel regained his strength and quick smile in the sunlit glades of the forest. While his adopted father and sister hunted, fished, and made themselves comfortable in Fineghal's refuge, Aeron attempted several journeys to the places that Fineghal and he had visited. There was no sign of the elven lord, and even Caerhuan was deserted and empty. He returned to the vale of the waterfall after the last trek, weary and bitter.
Eriale tended a small fire by the rushing stream, a pair of dressed rabbits at her side, while Kestrel sat across from her, carefully straightening and paring an arrow shaft. Both looked up as Aeron splashed across the cold stream and joined them. "Any luck?" asked Kestrel, watching Aeron shrug off his pack.
"Not a sign of him," Aeron replied. "When Fineghal doesn't wish to be found, he won't be found."
Father and daughter exchanged a look. Eriale turned to face Aeron. "We've decided that it's time to move on," she said. "Fall's coming on, and we'll want to raise a house while the weather's still warm."
"Saden's a good town," added Kestrel. "I passed near there when I was a soldier in the Overking's army, maybe twenty years ago. Lots of good timber and land." Aeron nodded absently, not really paying attention. The old forester studied his face for a long moment. "You're coming?"
Aeron glanced up at him. He hadn't thought that far ahead. "I don't know," he said. Over the past two weeks, he'd lost himself in his wanderings through the forest. He knew that Fineghal could not teach him anymore, but he'd hoped to at least see him face-to-face again, to justify his actions, to persuade the elf to allow him one more chance to continue his studies. He didn't think he could go back to the simpler life he'd known before the day he'd met the elven wizard. "It would have been better if I'd never met Fineghal," he said aloud. "I'd never have known what I stood to lose."
"What have you lost, Aeron?" Eriale asked softly.
He threw his hands in the air. "You couldn't understand."
The girl's face hardened. "Try me."
Aeron bit back a sharp retort. Kestrel and Eriale did not deserve his anger. . nor did Fineghal, to be honest. He'd made his own decisions. He'd pursued Fineghal that first day, begging the elf to show him how to work the magic. And the wizard had warned him from the beginning that Aeron lacked the patience, the temperament, to follow the Tel'Quessir path.
"Imagine that you discovered one day that you lived near the sea, and that it was your heart's desire to become a sailor. You find someone who can teach you what you need to know, and you learn enough to sail within a mile or so of the shore. You don't have the skills yet to voyage wherever your heart would take you, but you can smell the strange far lands on the wind, you can feel the waves telling you of the places they might take you, and before you is the great wide sea, with nothing but your own inexperience and limitations to keep you from great voyages. Then you find that you will not be permitted to learn the last of what you need to know. So there you sit, a
t the shore, the sea always in your sight to taunt you with the thoughts of what might have been."
Eriale fell silent. She weighed Aeron's words, her eyes dark with reflection.
Kestrel stopped his work and turned a long, thoughtful gaze on Aeron. "Some would say that it would be better to get up and leave the seashore, in that case," he said. "Return to wherever it was you first came from and content yourself with being the person you were born to be."
"I don't know if I can do that."
"I've told you before of my days in the Overking's army, before Morieth's Revolt. They were good days, with stout comrades and a battle or two I fought in and survived. But the time came for me to lay down my arms and go home, and I did. Yet I knew many soldiers who never really went home. Oh, they returned to their farms and towns and took up their trades again. But in their hearts, they still lived in the days of their youth. And they were sadder for it, Aeron, because they couldn't find the spirit for life they'd had before, and they spent their days trying to recall it." Kestrel returned to his knife work. "We could use your help, Aeron. I'll have land to clear, timber to cut, a house to raise. In my experience, good hard work is the cure for a lot of ailments."
Because he loved Kestrel as his father, Aeron made himself think about the forester's words, but he couldn't bring the image into focus; every cell in his body seemed to shrink away from the prospect. He reached into the pouch at his waist and removed the wax-sealed letter marked "Telemachon," weighing it in his hand.
I've got to try it, he realized. "I'm sorry, Kestrel, Eriale. My road doesn't lead to Saden."
Six
A cold, gusty wind blew across the bright waters of the Inner Sea as Aeron disembarked in the crowded dock district of the city of Cimbar. The great city was a marvel beyond Aeron's comprehension. Everywhere he looked, myriads of people seethed and swarmed, engaged in a thousand activities. The docks were cluttered with the ships of many lands, and the broad roadstead within the city's seawalls was crowded with more riding at anchor, a floating forest of masts and spars. Drifting along with the press of people, Aeron shouldered his pack and headed into the city.
Dodging through the crowd, Aeron climbed up a steep hillside. Cimbar sprawled across several low hills that met the Inner Sea between two high, proud headlands about a mile apart. Aeron soon discovered that he'd landed in the part of town known as New Cimbar, which clustered around the western headland and its apron of hills. This was the commercial district, covering almost twice the territory of Old Cimbar around the eastern headland.
From Aeron's vantage high on the flanks of the hills of the new city, he could make out several majestic monoliths rising over the Old City, great pyramids of crumbling stone that towered over the white palaces and forums of the city's center. "What are those?" he asked one passerby, a merchant's tout carrying a thick ledger crammed full of cryptic notes.
"The pyramids?" The fellow gave Aeron an odd look. "New in town, eh? The biggest one is the Great Temple of Gilgeam, deserted by the Untheri when Tchazzar drove them back to their own lands four hundred years ago. It's naught but a landmark now. The little ones surrounding it are temples and shrines built to honor Untheri gods, back when Gilgeam was master of this land."
"Are any of them still in use?" Aeron wondered.
"No, not by the Untheri," the tout laughed. "Some of the philosophers hold their schools by the minor pyramids, and many of the city folk use them as meeting places and places of debate. You can see the Sceptanar's palace there by Gilgeam's pyramid."
Even in provincial Maerchlin, Aeron had heard of the Sceptanar. The faceless ruler of Cimbar, the Sceptanar was reputed to be a mighty mage and was considered one of the few kings strong enough to claim the title of Overking of all Chessenta. Aeron studied the alabaster citadel of the city's king for a long moment. To his surprise, a great dark crowd clustered around the palace gates, roiling and clashing in a sea of discontent. "There's some kind of riot going on over there," he said with some alarm.
The merchant shook his head, disappointed but not concerned. "The Mob," he said. "The demagogues have been stirring them up, claiming that Tchazzar the god-king will return someday and depose the Sceptanar."
Even though Aeron was half a mile from the scene, he could hear the dim roar of hundreds of voices shouting, and smoke drifted skyward from unseen fires. "Why don't the Sceptanar's soldiers disperse them?"
"Cimbar balances on three legs, lad. The Sceptanar, the baseborn Mob, and the noble senators, who look after their own pockets. If the Sceptanar backs the Mob into a corner, they'll burn the whole city to spite him, and the high senators will step in to pick up the pieces. No, the Sceptanar knows that it's his task to look for enemies outside of Cimbar's walls, and until the demagogues actually try to overthrow him, he'll let them be. Our city has more pressing concerns than hooligans and rabble-rousers."
Aeron stared. The great city, overrun by rioters in the streets while its overlord watched idly-he never would have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. He felt acutely conscious of his rural upbringing; nothing in Maerchlin had prepared him for this. He let his eye rove past the Sceptanar's palace across the old acropolis. On the seaward side of the hill from the king's palace, a jagged stump of an obelisk speared the sky like a broken sword blade, barely clearing the skyline of gleaming buildings opposite him. "What's that jagged building?" he asked.
"That's the Broken Pyramid, once the stronghold of the Untheri mages who ruled Cimbar. It's said that the Untheri shattered it themselves rather than allow it to fall into our hands when Tchazzar led us against them. Those buildings nearby are the university."
"The university? That's where I'm going."
"You don't strike me as a philosopher or sage, so you must be an artisan. What is your craft?"
"You misunderstand me. I intend to study at the College of Mages."
The merchant snorted. "If you say so. You'll want to head for that building there on the seaward point of the acropolis." The stump of the Broken Pyramid was ringed by a low wall and several bland stone buildings covered by brown vines. The elevatation isolated the tower and its surroundings from the city proper; its nearest neighbors appeared to be a small number of walled palaces that shared its lofty vantage, and then the cluttered streets of the docks and merchants' homes. "I'll leave you to your studies," the merchant said, "although you shouldn't consort with wizards, lad. Magic is dangerous stuff."
More dangerous than armed bands pillaging in the streets? Aeron thought to himself, but he thanked the merchant and let the last remark pass without argument. He descended into the broad, sun-warmed thoroughfares of the city's center and made his way into Old Cimbar. Here the buildings were generally smaller and built closer together, constricted by the remnants of ancient city walls that had been pulled down and moved farther outward as the city grew over the centuries. Keeping his eye on the pyramids marking Cimbar's eastern border, Aeron circled well clear of the Sceptanar's palace and wound his way up the steep, doubled roads that climbed Old Cimbar's acropolis.
At the top, Aeron got his first good look at the college. There weren't many trees or buildings on the hilltop to block the howling north wind of late Marpenoth, and his cloak fluttered and snapped behind him as he gazed over the grounds. Cimbar's great harbor fell away behind him, with its moored ships and maze of docks and piers. The hill was only a couple of hundred yards wide, and past the college Aeron glimpsed the rough brown foothills of the coastline arcing eastward along the Inner Sea.
The wind drew tears from his eyes, but he stood motionless, absorbing every detail. Once, long ago, a fortification here commanded the entrance of Cimbar's harbor. A low stone rampart of great age edged the hilltop. Long buildings of rough stone blocks formed a wide quadrangle, with a large, impressive hall of some kind in the center. A six-foot wall of the same fieldstone ringed the buildings, broken by a couple of wrought-iron gates.
To his right, the ruins of the Broken Pyramid stood to the sou
th of the college buildings, a tumbled mound of weed-grown rubble that divided the mages' school from the rest of the university and Old Cimbar below. He could feel the Weave that surrounded the place, the subtle demands of existing spells, the bright surges of spells being worked nearby even as he watched, and the dim remembrance of unimaginable power in the ruins of the pyramid.
After a long moment, Aeron shook himself and set off for the nearest gatehouse. Two soldiers in gleaming breastplates stood guard, sheltering inside the small building. As Aeron approached, they barred his way. "Halt and state your business," said one.
"I'm here to study at the college," Aeron answered.
The guards laughed. "If I had a silver talent for every waif that marches up here to become an archmage, I'd be a wealthy man," one remarked. "Go away."
"I have a letter of introduction," Aeron said. "Can you tell me where to find Telemachon?"
"That would be Master or Lord Telemachon to you, pup," growled the second guard. "Let's see it."
Aeron reached into his tunic and pulled out the letter Fineghal had left for him. The parchment had a golden gleam in the afternoon light. He handed it to the guard.
The guard scrutinized the letter. "What's this chicken scratching?" he said, pointing at the name.
"It's written in Espruar. Elvish."
The guards exchanged a look. "All right," one said. "Come with me." Leaving his fellow behind to mind the gate, he led Aeron into the college grounds.
They followed a paved path to the southernmost building. As they climbed the shallow steps to the hall, a lean man in robes of red brocade emerged. His face was swarthy and crooked, with beetling brows, impenetrable eyes, and a bristling halo of tightly curled, oiled locks that continued into a carefully cropped beard. A fierce yellow grin seemed to be sculpted in his saturnine features, as if the greatest challenges of power and circumstance afforded him boundless amusement. "Ho! What have we here?" he called.
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