The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  Telemachon waited a moment for any other remarks and rapped a small scepter against the lectern before him. “Very well. By decree of the council, Novice Aeron is raised to the standing of student, and his studies now fall under the purview of the High Master of Invocation. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, my lords,” Aeron said.

  “Come see me first thing tomorrow, Aeron,” Master Sarim added. “We will speak of your next endeavors. I look forward to working with you.”

  Aeron bowed once more and withdrew, a spring in his step. Look out, Dalrioc, he thought. I’m not your captive any longer. On his way out, he found Melisanda waiting in the antechamber. She looked anxiously at his face as he left the council rooms. “Did you pass?” she asked.

  Aeron couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “Easily. And you?”

  The Vilhonese girl smiled, too. “No problem.” With an impish laugh, she caught him by the arm, and they paraded back to the Students’ Hall, ignoring the soft spring rain that had started to fall over the college grounds.

  The elevation of novice to student was a cause for celebration, and the other Sword Hall novices swept the new students away from the college grounds to commemorate the occasion with an evening’s revelry in the city’s livelier quarter. Although he had no idea where to go or what to do, Aeron allowed the carousers to drag him along as they set out into the city.

  The night was still and damp, with a fine, cool rain drifting down in gray mist gathering on every surface. It was cold, but not bitterly so, and for a short time, the silver fog concealed the grime and wear of the city in a delicate shroud. They reeled from tavern to tavern, finally ending up in a respectable taphouse called The Rampant Lion. The college’s students and novices were familiar with many of the alehouses ringing Old Cimbar’s acropolis, and the Lion was one of their favorites.

  Inside, a merry fire crackled in the common room’s stone hearth, and dozens of merchants, officers, and ribald rakes shouted, laughed, and drank their fill. The Lion didn’t cater to the laborers and longshoremen of the docks; the patrons’ belts were heavy with silver and gold, and they paid well to drink in fine company. Aeron tried not to gawk as they pushed through the crowded room toward a private booth. His companions might have been accustomed to taverns such as The Rampant Lion, but the taproom in Maerchlin was the limit of his experience.

  “What do you think, Aeron?” asked Baldon, nudging him with an elbow. He nodded toward a dark-haired barmaid whose dress displayed her charms to great advantage. “Isn’t this a great place?”

  Aeron concentrated on pints of Threskelan ale. Although the novices were about the youngest of the tavern’s patrons, he did see a few noble rakes not much older than himself come and go through the course of the evening. After a few pints, he stopped caring. In an hour or so, the Sword Hall novices were roaring with laughter and pounding their mugs on the table for more.

  “Congratulations, Aeron,” Melisanda said. “You are no longer Dalrioc Corynian’s flogging post.” The other novices had turned their attention to a contest of bawdy songs. Her pale, fine-featured face was flushed with drink. She straightened, smoothed her dress, and stood with a little unsteadiness. “Well, the hour’s late. I think I’m going to head back to the college.”

  “Not alone, you aren’t,” he stated. “These streets aren’t safe.”

  “You might recall that I know some magic,” she said.

  “Why take chances?” Aeron rose, somewhat unevenly, and settled his tab and Melisanda’s as well. Their hallmates were just getting started and had found a couple of friendly dancing girls to hoot and holler over. Baldon, Eldran, and the others hardly even noticed as the two new students said their good-nights and found their way to the street.

  Aeron insisted on hiring a passing carriage. The cool air reminded him of just how much he had had to drink, and everything seemed too sharp, too well defined. When he turned his head his entire field of vision seemed to stagger and swim. “The university,” he ordered in a firm voice, and burst out laughing a moment later. Melisanda joined him.

  The driver rolled his eyes and flicked the reins. The carriage lurched into motion, throwing Melisanda against Aeron. That started another round of laughter as the horse’s hooves clopped on the cobblestones and wet snowflakes swirled in the air. Aeron glanced over at Melisanda. She was looking up into the warm, dark clouds overhead, ruddied by the countless lights and lanterns of the city. Her dark eyes and slender features took his breath away, and his heart hammered in his chest.

  Aeron reached out and pulled Melisanda close, circling her slim body with his arms as he kissed her soundly. She gasped in surprise, but leaned into him for a long, perfect moment before suddenly pushing herself away. “Oh, Aeron. Why did you do that?” she said quietly.

  He gazed into her eyes until she looked away. “I love you, Melisanda. I’ve never known anyone like you.” The wine in his head and heart emboldened him, unfettering the adoration he felt for her. He leaned forward to take her in his arms again.

  Melisanda held up her hands and shied away. “No, Aeron. That’s the wine talking.”

  “No! I love you. I’ve loved you since I first set eyes on you, Melisanda.” Aeron caught her hands in his. “I’d feel the same, drunk or sober.”

  Melisanda turned her gaze to the black sweep of the harbor to their left as they climbed the steep streets leading to the college. Dim lanterns bobbed on ships at anchor, far beyond their sight. “Aeron, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. You’re my friend, and I care for you … but I don’t love you, not the way you want me to. Please, try to put it out of your mind. I couldn’t stand not having you as a friend.”

  Aeron started to speak, trying to think of something he could say to convince her that she didn’t understand, but his rational mind asserted itself through the fire in his heart. In the space of a heartbeat, the world dropped out from beneath him, leaving him with a great hollow hurt in the center of his chest and a face burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he managed.

  “I know. Let’s just forget about it.” Melisanda tried to smile, but Aeron could see the wariness in her eyes. Regardless of what she said, neither of them would simply forget what had happened.

  The coach clattered to a halt. With a sigh, the driver hopped down and offered his hand to Melisanda. She stepped away quickly, distancing herself as she wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered. The driver offered Aeron a blank shrug. “That’s twenty talents, m’lord.”

  Although it emptied his purse, Aeron didn’t even notice the lordly cost of the ride. Melisanda waited for him but did not speak as she turned and headed toward the college gate. He bowed his head and followed.

  Head pounding from an excess of strong ale, Aeron dragged himself out of bed the following morning and dressed himself. It took him a moment to get his bearings, and when he sat up and swung his feet to the cold stone floor, his head still seemed to swim a little. He buried his head in his hands and groaned as the details of his encounter with Melisanda returned to his mind. There was a hot ache in his heart that had nothing to do with the drinking he’d done the night before. I should have known I wasn’t good enough for her, he thought angrily. A high-born noblewoman! What was I thinking about? Melisanda had told him once that the college made no distinctions based on race or rank, but she’d remembered her station quickly enough.

  Aeron might have fumed in his room for hours, but a sharp knock sounded at the door. One of the college servants appeared, a gold-hued bundle in his arms. “Excuse me, Student Aeron. Your new garments, sir.” He hung a tabard of rich yellow brocade with a matching cap in Aeron’s armoire. Despite his ferocious hangover, Aeron smiled in satisfaction. The servant bowed and added, “The respects of High Master Sarim. He awaits your pleasure, sir.”

  Aeron groaned. Sarim had wanted to see him first thing! One glance at the window told him that half the morning was gone already. As the servant withdrew, Aeron rose, scrubbed his f
ace in the basin of cold water he kept by the door, and dressed. He belted the tabard over his tunic and donned the cap, enjoying the moment despite his tardiness, and then hurried out of the room.

  He found the Calishite master in one of the laboratories of the academic halls, engaged in an esoteric conversation with a young student of abjuration. Sarim was a tall, well-built man with a broad chest and a handsome coffee-hued face. “Good morning, Aeron. I see you’ve finally decided to accept my invitation.”

  Aeron bowed awkwardly. “I beg your pardon, Master, but—”

  The Calishite laughed and waved his hand. “Do not concern yourself, Aeron. I understand perfectly. The passage from novice to student is worthy of celebration, and from what I hear, you do not indulge yourself in such activities often. Come, let us walk for a while.” Aeron followed as Sarim excused himself. They stepped out into the soft, still morning, admiring the first green buds of ivy appearing on the college buildings. Sarim headed toward the open ramparts facing the sea, hands clasped behind his back. “So tell me, Aeron, why did you choose invocation?”

  “I felt it was my strongest school, my lord.”

  “When we are alone, you may call me Sarim. I do not stand on formality.” He flashed an easy grin at Aeron and continued. “I have seen that you are very skilled, Aeron. But I want to know why you think that invocations are your strong point. You could have done well in any school.”

  “Invocation is … direct,” Aeron said slowly. “The spells of this school are tangible, forces you can touch with your hands and shape with your will. Fire, wind, ice, and energy are all weapons. You can measure yourself by the control and discipline you achieve in wielding them.”

  Sarim glanced at Aeron. “I will not measure you by those standards, Aeron.”

  “No, but I will.”

  “That is your right.” The Master Invoker paused by the stair that led down to the harbor landing, looking out over the city. “As a student, Aeron, you are free to pursue any endeavor that catches your interest. Read any text you wish, seek any knowledge that appeals to you. Set your own hours. The only limits placed on your learning are those that you choose for yourself. Once a quarter, you will stand before a board of masters to explain the studies you intend and to demonstrate that you continue to progress. I consider it advisable for you to meet with me or the other masters of invocation, Lady Silna or Master Derrin, two or three times a week, but if you offer me good enough reason, I will set aside even this minimal requirement.”

  “What should I study?” Aeron asked.

  “Whatever you like, as long as it is within your skill.” Sarim turned a serious look on Aeron.

  “When do I start?” Aeron asked.

  “Today is as good a day as any,” Sarim replied. “I will meet you in the academic hall two hours after noon to show you the basics of a few advanced wind spells I don’t think you’ve seen yet. Between now and then, I think you should visit the library and spend some time reading up on your history. And you might also call on some of the other masters and arrange for lessons in the fields you feel you need to work on.”

  Aeron grimaced. That was a full week’s work right there! And he understood that Sarim had offered him this schedule to help him get his feet under him. Within a month, he’d be expected to keep himself this busy. But even as the specter of long nights and days upon days in the library intimidated him, he also felt some deep part of his heart igniting to the challenge. No waiting for his slower classmates to catch up to him; no time wasted in lectures that reviewed what he already knew; the freedom to attack any topic that caught his interest. His grimace spread to a smile. “I’ll be ready,” he promised Sarim.

  As the final weeks of winter passed, Aeron immersed himself in his new studies. He had few other alternatives. As a student, he was strongly discouraged from associating with those who had been his friends when he was a novice. Since he’d advanced so quickly, there weren’t any students he had known as a hallmate, other than Melisanda. Given the cold rift between them, Aeron couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her.

  Spring came fully to Cimbar as the month of Ches passed. The city was scoured by winds even more fierce than those that had whipped over the barren rock in the depths of winter, but these winds were warm and heavy with rain, not sharp and dry. Wet snow and freezing rain gave way to endless showers, leaving the college grounds a black mire that could pull off a boot if one stepped from the cobbled paths. Aeron began to grow restless, anxious to feel the warm sun on his face again. He’d been immured within the college’s dark stone halls for almost five months now.

  On the first day of Mirtul, Aeron found himself studying into the late hours of the evening. He finished struggling through a recent copy of an old Mulhorandi text on the wizards of ancient Raumanthar and wandered over to the library to replace it. The musty smell of old books, the endless aisles of gleaming wooden shelves, and the unearthly silence of the chamber always soothed him. He’d come to know the place well in his months at the college, and these days he probably spent more time here than he did in his room. Absently he made his way to the shelf from which he’d taken the treatise and put it back.

  Aeron had run across some interesting references in the book. Although the modern copy was only about a century old, the original manuscript had been penned a few years before the wars that destroyed Raumanthar more than fourteen centuries ago. He searched the nearby shelves for some of the texts mentioned by the ancient Mulhorandi writer, with little luck. He turned his attention to the extensive scroll racks along one wall of the library. Aeron flinched at the imposing wall full of scroll cases, but he patiently set to work.

  After a long hour of examining librarians’ cryptic notes, Aeron finally tracked down one of the scrolls he sought. He pulled it from its place in the rack with care; it was as long as his forearm and weighed ten pounds or more. He carried it over to a table in a dark corner and spread it out to make sure he’d got the right one. The text was in a language he’d never seen before. “What in Faerûn?” he murmured. It seemed that the wrong scroll had been placed in the case.

  Aeron shrugged and started to roll up the parchment again, thinking that he would bring the matter to the attention of the Master Librarian in the morning. Then his eye fell on a cryptic set of marks at the top of the page. The runes were oddly curved and punctuated with weird whorls and dots. He frowned. Something about the writing seemed familiar, although he was certain he’d never seen any example of this language in print. Where could he have seen something like this?

  His heart lurched in his chest and he gasped in shock. He remembered where he’d seen it, all right—gracing the dull silver band that circled the claw of the creature that killed Master Raemon! The ominous runes in front of his eyes returned his thoughts to the frigid night in the ruins of the pyramid. He glanced around involuntarily to see if any monstrous things lurked in the dark aisles between the bookshelves, but the library was silent and empty.

  With trembling fingers, he unrolled more of the parchment. “What is this?” he whispered. The familiarity of the runes was one thing, but without any idea of the language, he had no idea what they meant. He scanned ahead, despairing of ever solving the riddle—and then he saw his key. A second column of text began, running parallel to the unreadable glyphs. A translation into Old Rauric! I might be able to read it, Aeron thought.

  Quickly he bundled up the new scroll he’d found, stuffed it under his cloak, and hurried out of the library. Aeron returned to his room and spread out the Rauric text, rummaging for some rag paper and a quill to begin his transliteration of the document.

  In less than ten minutes, he gave up, his heart sinking. The scroll was encrypted in some unknown cipher. Whatever knowledge the mysterious runes and whorls held, it was not meant to be read casually. Aeron frowned, trying to decide what to do.

  Blam! A massive fist rocked Aeron’s writing desk through the wall, stunning him. Angry and frightened voices replaced the laughter outs
ide. “What in the world are they up to out there?” he wondered aloud. He rose and stuck his head out the door.

  As he expected, Baldon and Eldran were at the bottom of it. The far end of the hall was smoking with an acrid reek, and the walls and floor were marked with sooty streaks. A couple of small fires burned up and down the hall, adding to the smoke and stink. Aeron looked at Baldon. “What was that?” he asked.

  “Oh, sorry, Aeron. Eldran and I were trying to work a spell, and—”

  “I can see that. What happened?”

  “I mispronounced a word, and he tried to correct me in the middle of the invocation.” Baldon grinned sheepishly. “We got a little more than we bargained for.”

  “I’ll say you did, you goat-brained fish!” Roaring in anger, Dalrioc Avan strode out of the smoke, his fine garb smoking from several burned patches. Aeron started to laugh at the comical scene, but the guffaw died in his throat when he saw the look in Dalrioc’s face. The older student was enraged beyond reason. With contempt, he raised his hands and barked a harsh syllable, sending streaks of magical energy darting at both novices. Eldran was struck in the midsection; he clutched his belly and dropped to his knees, groaning. Baldon tried to twist away, but the streaking energy curved to follow him and charred a fist-sized patch of his shoulder. He screamed, staggering against the wall.

  “Dalrioc! Have you lost your mind? That spell can kill!” Aeron found himself in the middle of the hall, facing the prince, before he even realized he’d moved. “For Azuth’s sake, they’re just novices! They didn’t mean it!”

  “Out of my way, peasant!” Dalrioc bellowed. “I’m going to see that they never befoul my hall again!”

  “I agree that they should be punished, Dalrioc, but not with deadly force,” Aeron began.

  The Corynian prince ignored him and pushed by. He seized Eldran by the shoulders, raised him from the floor, and kicked him in the belly, right where his spell had struck. Eldran coughed and crumpled, retching. Dalrioc drew his foot back to kick the novice on the ground.