“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 south 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.
“Some serf with a letter for Master Telemachon, Lord Oriseus,” the guardsman answered. “He wants to enroll.”
“A new student?” Lord Oriseus turned his attention to Aeron, making a show of examining him from head to toe. With comic exaggeration, he tsk-tsked his imaginary findings. “I see that the pool of undiscovered talent in this world grows shallow indeed. What’s your name, lad?”
“Aeron Morieth, sir.”
“May I see the mysterious missive, good Corden?”
“Of course, Lord Oriseus.” The guard handed Aeron’s letter to the magician. “I was going to escort the boy to Master Telemachon’s quarters, my lord.”
With no hint of humor, Oriseus weighed the parchment in his hand, his brow furrowed as unknown t
houghts gathered behind his features. For a moment, Aeron feared that he would impulsively break the seal and read it himself, but with a sudden flourish, Oriseus returned the letter to Aeron. “Then do so, by all means,” he replied to the guard. To Aeron, he said, “It is irregular for a fish to find his way into our little pond with nothing more than an elven letter, but I suspect that there is more to you than meets the eye, Aeron Morieth.” With that, he sketched an outrageous bow and capered off, bubbling with a good humor that encompassed any who passed near.
“Who was that?” Aeron asked the guard, more than a little astounded by the master’s exaggerated greeting.
“Lord Oriseus, High Conjuror and a senator of the city. Remember his face. He could be one of your instructors.”
“I will,” Aeron promised. He followed the guard into the hall. While the drab buildings of the college seemed to be nothing more than fieldstone barracks on the outside, the interior was much more lavishly appointed. The floors were made of gleaming hardwood; rich, dark paneling and crowded bookshelves covered the walls. High, narrow windows allowed symmetrical squares of sunlight to fall across the dark corridor. A melange of dust, oil, and aromatic wood created a subtle odor that Aeron found distinctly pleasant.
Corden led him past several chambers, mostly studies and reading rooms, to a paneled door at the end of the hall. The guard knocked at the door. “Master Telemachon? I have a lad here with a letter addressed to you.”
“Show the boy in, good Corden.” The voice quavered with age. The guardsman gestured at Aeron and followed him in. This room was a personal study, with tall windows of leaded glass that rattled in the winter wind. A rotund, stoop-shouldered man with watery eyes and a mere wisp of white hair clinging to his wattled head sat at a small writing desk, scratching at a thick journal with a sharp quill. With a heavy sigh, he set down his pen and rose to face Aeron. Telemachon was dressed in heavy robes that resembled Oriseus’s in cut and style, but his were light blue in color, and he draped a long hood of indigo around his shoulders. He eyed Aeron for a long moment and said, “Wait outside, Corden.”
“Of course, m’lord.” The guardsman withdrew.
The old master held out his hand. “Your letter, lad?”
“Yes, my lord,” Aeron replied. He quickly stepped forward and handed the parchment to Telemachon. “It’s from Fineghal Caillaen, of the Maerchwood.”
“Fineghal …” The master frowned. Moving over to stand in the light of one of the windows, he broke the seal and perused the letter several times. When he finished, he glanced up to meet Aeron’s gaze. Aeron was surprised to see that some of the weakness and uncertainty in the older man’s expression had vanished. “You are Aeron Morieth?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Do you know anything of the contents of this letter?”
“No, m’lord. Fineghal only told me that it was a letter of introduction, and that I could show it to you to gain admittance to the College of Mages.”
“I knew Fineghal a long, long time ago,” Telemachon mused. “My studies led me to his doorstep more than forty years ago. Is he well?”
“I haven’t seen him in three months, but the last time we parted, he was in good health,” Aeron said.
“Good,” grunted Telemachon. He faced the door and raised his voice slightly. “Corden!”
The door cracked. “Yes, Lord Telemachon?”
“Bring Melisanda here, please.” Telemachon turned back to Aeron as the guard disappeared. He paced ponderously back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “Fineghal’s taught other students before you, Aeron,” he said. “I’ve never known him to send an apprentice on to study elsewhere. He finishes what he begins.”
Aeron shifted nervously. “I wanted to learn more than he was willing to teach.”
“Oh?” The master glanced at him. “Very well. I don’t set much store by what you may or may not have done before you walked through that door. That includes any learning or skill with the art you may think you already possess.” He held up the parchment. “Fineghal says that you must be instructed, and he cannot do it himself. For his sake, I will allow you to remain here as a student.”
Aeron let a breath of relief escape from his lips.
“Don’t relax just yet, Aeron. I have no idea who you are, what you know, or what you may be capable of learning. Without Fineghal’s letter, you would not be a potential student. And without his offer to compensate me for your tuition, you would not be allowed to remain.”
“Tuition?”
Telemachon smiled humorlessly. “It is not insignificant. But I will sponsor you, since Fineghal asks it of me.”
There was a knock at the door, and a delicate Vilhonese woman about Aeron’s age entered. She was short and slight, with dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. Aeron was reminded of his woodsman’s garb and lack of formal learning; the girl’s graceful carriage, sophisticated features, and studious expression marked her as a lady unlike any Aeron had ever known. “Melisanda of Arrabar, Master Telemachon. You sent for me?”
“Ah, Melisanda. This is Aeron Morieth, a new student from Maerchlin. You are excused from your studies for the rest of the day; show Aeron the college grounds and get him settled in, if you please.”
The girl glanced at Aeron without expression. “As you wish, Master Telemachon.”
The old master inclined his head to Aeron. “I expect I shall see you in a day or two in class; I am the High Diviner, and you must begin with the basics of my art.” He returned to his writing desk, sighing as he sat down. Melisanda caught Aeron’s attention and nodded at the door, but before they left, Telemachon held up his hand. “One last thing, Aeron. I am your sponsor, so I shall be keeping a close eye on you. I advise you to devote yourself completely to your studies. More than a few students allow themselves to become … distracted here. You would be wise to avoid their example.”
As Telemachon requested, Melisanda led Aeron to each of the buildings within the college walls, explaining each in a smooth voice with just a hint of a throaty Reach accent. Of course, the College of Mages was only a small portion of Cimbar’s great university, but Aeron had already observed that the common scribes and artists who studied in the whitewashed acropolis below did not intrude upon the affairs of the wizards in their lofty perch overlooking the city. Slaves, serfs, and commoners of all descriptions might win a place in the university by virtue of talent and patronage, but the wizards’ school was evidently reserved for the noble-born. Aeron didn’t need Melisanda’s wary glances to figure out that the college was a place of his betters. We’ll see about that, he promised himself.
Melisanda started the tour with the Masters’ Hall as soon as they left Telemachon’s chambers. The northern half housed the college’s council rooms, administrators, and the private studies of the masters. “You won’t spend much time here until you’re a student, fish,” she remarked.
“I’m not a student now?” Aeron asked in surprise.
“Of course not. You’re a novice—a ‘fish,’ as we’re called. Once you’ve shown a command of each of the eight disciplines in the novitiate examination, you are allowed to wear the student’s tabard and cap.” She looked him over and smiled. “I don’t suppose you have any idea of what the disciplines are, do you?”
“Abjuration, alteration, conjuration, divination, enchantment, illusion, invocation, and necromancy, Lady Melisanda,” Aeron replied. “I know them better by their elven names.”
Melisanda raised an eyebrow. “I see you have some learning already. And you don’t have to call me ‘lady.’ All novices are equals in the college. You should defer to a student—they’re the ones who wear the tabards and caps over their tunics. ‘Lady’ or ‘sir’ is appropriate for them. And, of course, show deference to any of the masters. They dress as Telemachon does, although in different colors depending on the discipline they favor.”
“I noticed that Telemachon and another master wore hoods,” Aeron said. “What does that mean?”
“The hood marks Telemachon as one of the Ruling Council, the High Diviner. The highest master in each discipline sits on the council. I don’t know who introduced you to him, but he knew who to talk to. Any one of the High Masters can sponsor new novices just by saying so.” She gazed at Aeron in frank appraisal. Aeron shifted his feet nervously. After a long moment, she released him with a curt nod. “Well, come on, fish. I can’t afford to spend all day leading you about.”
“How many masters, students, and novices are there?”
Melisanda frowned, counting in her mind. “There are nine masters on the Ruling Council, plus another nineteen masters who don’t sit on the council. Memorize their names and faces as soon as possible. There are forty-one students right now, and eighty-seven novices. Eighty-eight now, including you.”
“Not every novice succeeds in becoming a student?”
“No. About half of the novices can’t pass the novitiate examination.” She grimaced. “My own examination is scheduled for three weeks from today. I’d hoped to spend the day studying for it. I’m still uncertain of the invocation and necromancy spells I intend to cast.”
Leaving the Masters’ Hall, Melisanda led Aeron into the open plaza in the center of the college. Over the next hour, she showed him the East and West Halls and the great library in the center of the square. East and West were the college’s instruction buildings, filled with classrooms, lecture halls, meeting rooms, and laboratories; since it was now the middle of the afternoon, many of these rooms were in use. Melisanda didn’t interrupt any classes or lectures to introduce Aeron, but she quietly pointed out any masters they encountered.
By the time they left West Hall, the blustering wind had increased to gale force, and the temperature had dropped precipitously. They hurried into the last of the college’s five buildings, a plain building pitted by row after row of narrow slitlike windows. “The Students’ Hall,” Melisanda said. “This is your home for as long as you stay here.”
The Shadow Stone Page 10