The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  Anger ignited in Aeron’s heart. When Dalrioc leaned back to kick the novice again, Aeron dropped and scissored his legs through the prince’s, toppling him to the cold stone floor. The older student flailed in anger, twisted quickly, and barked the words for another spell. With one hand, he grasped Aeron’s ankle, and a fat blue spark of energy flashed. Aeron was hurled backward as every muscle in his body spasmed at once. He crumpled against the wall, the smell of his own burning flesh in his nose. “You dare to strike me?” Dalrioc snarled, surging to his feet. “You dare?”

  Shaking his head, Aeron looked up just in time to see the prince spinning to lash a kick at his head. He held his hand up, palm outward, and spoke a single word. A circular field of gleaming force sprang from his hand, creating a lambent shield that halted Dalrioc’s kick with the mass of a stone wall. The prince recoiled, staggering back a few steps, and Aeron pushed himself to his feet, his mind racing. What next? Dalrioc was almost frothing at the mouth. He’d use any spell at his command and damn the consequences. Aeron needed to either subdue him quickly or leave … but if he fled, the prince might take out his anger on Baldon and Eldran, neither of whom could defend himself.

  Dalrioc narrowed his eyes, glaring at Aeron. Deliberately he crooked his hands and started to bark out the words of another spell. Aeron started his own enchantment, but the prince finished first. With a sulfurous stink, a small, warty thing with the jaws of a bulldog and fangs like needles appeared in the hallway. It snuffled and growled. “Kill him!” Dalrioc screamed, pointing at Aeron. The creature bunched its stringy muscles and leapt with impossible speed and precision, jaws gaping …

  … right into Aeron’s counterspell. He’d meant it for Dalrioc, but the summoned horror seemed a more immediate threat. Seizing the Weave’s delicate currents with unconscious ease, he braided them into a roaring jet of flame that burst out from his hands. It struck directly in the creature’s face, impaling it on a lance of white agony. The thing discorporated with an agonized howl. Behind the creature, Dalrioc retreated a few steps and shielded himself from the heat, but the billowing fires scorched him badly.

  Aeron blinked to clear his eyes, trying to get a good look at Dalrioc. A seething green sphere of acid came hurtling from the smoke, but Aeron’s shield still held, and the corrosive splashed harmlessly against the wall. It sizzled and smoked fiercely, adding to the stink. Aeron closed his eyes, hummed, and quickly grasped the chords of magic that flowed through the living hearts nearby, working a spell of sleep, but Dalrioc’s force of will was too great to overcome, and the prince shrugged off his attempt. With a malevolent grin, Dalrioc spoke a few harsh words and crushed Aeron’s shield with a countermagic spell. “You’ll rue the day you ever crossed my path,” he crowed. He began another spell.

  “Believe me, I already do,” Aeron replied. He was running out of options quickly. Do I dare to attack with any more deadly spells of my own? he thought. Ignoring the hot pain that burned in his injured leg, he searched desperately for the right spell. Wait … perfect! Aeron reached out and summoned the energy for a spell of blindness, and this time he beat Dalrioc to the punch. He danced aside and called, “You can’t hit what you can’t see, Dalrioc!”

  The prince howled in rage as Aeron wrested his sight away, losing the spell he was attempting to cast. He thrashed helplessly for a moment. “Damn you, Aeron! This is a coward’s trick!”

  “Well, you should have saved your counterspell instead of wasting it on my shield,” Aeron replied. “Now can we put a stop to this?”

  Dalrioc uttered a vile curse and started to speak again. Aeron realized that the prince was working another counter. I didn’t think he would commit it to his mind twice, Aeron thought. In just a moment, the prince would dispel Aeron’s charm of blindness and resume the fight.

  Aeron scowled. Enough was enough. He took three strides forward as Dalrioc finished his countermagic. The prince’s sight returned just as Aeron’s hard-driven boot caught him in the belly. Dalrioc doubled over, and Aeron delivered the best uppercut he could throw, dropping Dalrioc to the floor. Aeron stood over his fallen foe, fists raised, ready to continue if Dalrioc had any more fight left in him. “Come on!” he shouted. “Get up!”

  “That,” drawled a cold voice behind him, “will be quite enough of that.”

  Aeron turned and found himself facing Lord Oriseus. The High Conjuror’s face, normally so mobile and insincere, was fixed in an icy glare.

  “My lord! I—” Aeron began.

  “Explanations are neither necessary or desired, student. There is no excuse for this sort of behavior. Deadly spells are just that—deadly. Either one of you might have been hurt, maimed, or killed. We will not have our students brawling like common drunkards in a filthy taphouse!”

  Aeron stepped away from Dalrioc. “Yes, my lord,” he said.

  Oriseus contemptuously surveyed the scene. Baldon slumped against the wall, one hand clapped to his shoulder, eyes wide as saucers. Eldran appeared to still be unconscious. Lucky for him, Aeron thought. Dalrioc, singed, tattered, and pummeled, was just now pushing himself to his feet. Finally Oriseus turned his eyes on Aeron. There was a large charred patch on his breeches where Dalrioc had grasped his ankle and loosed his spell. And his arm stung with smoldering drops of acid. The hall itself had suffered spectacular damage. “All of you, come with me. It is clear that you need the attention of a healer.”

  “Master Oriseus, I demand that Aeron and these two louts be escorted from the college grounds immediately,” Dalrioc groaned as he climbed to his feet. “They are to be expelled at once.”

  The High Conjuror turned his gaze on the Soorenaran. “And you were blameless in this incident? I think not, my prince. I shall give your recommendation all the consideration that it deserves and act accordingly. Now, come on. I don’t want to hear one more word.”

  The moment Oriseus’s back was turned, Dalrioc turned a look of bilious venom on Aeron. “I’ll get you for this,” he promised darkly. “If they don’t expel you, leave now. It’s your best chance to stay alive.”

  “Dalrioc!” Oriseus didn’t break stride. Aeron tried to ignore the prince’s threats, but he feared that Dalrioc was right. Any discipline the Ruling Council chose to impose on him was the least of his concerns.

  Nine

  By the ancient laws of the college, a sorcerous duel between students meant expulsion for both parties involved. Aeron fully expected to be dismissed within a matter of hours after the incident in Sword Hall, but one day passed, then two, and then a week without any summons from the Ruling Council. Finally Aeron was ordered to move from Sword Hall to Crown Hall. He hated the idea of leaving his few friends behind, but it was clear that he and Dalrioc couldn’t share a hall any longer, and it was no surprise that the prince was allowed to remain where he was comfortable.

  Aeron’s new hallmates offered little in the way of a welcome. The novices, of course, avoided any student like the plague, and Aeron’s peers in Crown Hall were not anxious to befriend someone who had earned Dalrioc Corynian’s hatred.

  The week after Aeron’s transfer to Crown Hall, the summons he had dreaded arrived. He hurried over to the Masters’ Hall and presented himself to Lord Telemachon. The old wizard was even more haggard and worn than Aeron remembered, and he rubbed his temples constantly, as if to smooth an excess of pain from his mind. “You are satisfied with your new quarters?” he grated.

  “Yes, my lord. I miss my hallmates, though.”

  “You might have made more of an effort to get along with Dalrioc, if that is how you feel.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you know how close you came to expulsion, Aeron?” Telemachon turned his tired gaze on the young mage. There was no good answer to this question, so Aeron shrugged uncomfortably. “It came down to a vote of the Ruling Council. As your sponsor, I abstained. So did Sarim. Naturally Corynian’s friends wanted you out.”

  Aeron counted the High Masters in his mind. “If you and Master Sarim abs
tained, my lord, Dalrioc’s friends hold four of the seven remaining seats. Why wasn’t I expelled?”

  Telemachon sighed. “The masters who feel no friendship toward the Corynians of Soorenar defended you. And Master Oriseus chose to cast his vote in your favor. So you remain here by a single vote.”

  “What of Dalrioc?”

  The old diviner laughed humorlessly. “He was in no danger of expulsion, not with his puppets on the council. You’ve chosen a powerful enemy for yourself, Aeron.”

  “He chose me first,” Aeron replied darkly.

  “Hmmmph. Be glad that one of the High Masters voted his conscience. Otherwise you’d be on a hay wagon back to Maerchlin.” Telemachon leaned forward on his elbows, fixing Aeron with an unblinking stare. “Had I a vote in the council, I would have expelled you despite my old debt to Fineghal. I do not believe the rules of the college are to be so lightly dishonored, Aeron. You may go.”

  Aeron stood and left. He paused in the door, considering an apology. Telemachon ignored him. Aeron bit back his words and stalked out of the room.

  To his surprise, he returned to his new room in Crown Hall only to find Master Oriseus waiting impatiently, rifling through Aeron’s notes with nervous energy. “Ah! There you are, Aeron. May I have a word with you?”

  “Of—of course, Lord Oriseus,” Aeron stammered.

  “Good, good! Let us take a stroll about the grounds.” With a broad grin, Oriseus bounded down the hall and out into the long-shadowed afternoon. Aeron lengthened his stride to keep up with the red-robed master. The Master Conjuror led him to the wedge-shaped ramparts mantling the college grounds, whirled dramatically to survey the city below, and perched on the cold stone. “I am delighted that you are still among us, Aeron,” he stated, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner. “It was only by the narrowest of margins that I kept you in the college.”

  “So I’d heard,” Aeron said. “Thank you, Lord Oriseus. I couldn’t imagine abandoning my studies.”

  “Nor could I, Aeron. Your skill is truly extraordinary for one so young. Your gift must be cultivated; it would be a crime to let you slip from our grasp, so to speak.” The master leaned back, his eyes glittering. “You chose the yellow of invocation upon your elevation.”

  “I felt that my talents were best suited for it, my lord.”

  “Oh, I am not jealous. You see, I hope to persuade you to study with me yet. May I explain?”

  Aeron nodded his assent. The master stood quickly and began to pace anxiously as he spoke. “The wielding of magic,” he stated, “is nothing more than common craftsmanship. A potter or woodcarver takes a raw material and then shapes it into the form he desires with his skill and labor. Well, any wizard does exactly the same thing. He takes the raw stuff of magic and uses the tools of his willpower and learning to shape the spell he needs.”

  “The analogy isn’t perfect,” Aeron observed. “The materials a craftsman works with require no special gift or skill to acquire. But not everyone has the ability to manipulate the Weave.”

  “Indeed! And what, may I ask, is the Weave? From where do we draw the power to wield our spells? Have you ever wondered how it is that you grasp this power, Aeron?”

  “My master Fineghal taught me that it is the life of the world,” Aeron replied. “A spirit or potential in all things—”

  “Not true, not true,” Oriseus interrupted. “I did not ask you whence magic comes. I asked you, what is the Weave by which we wield it?”

  Aeron acknowledged the point. “The Weave itself is the means by which we perceive and wield the magic potential all around us, Lord Oriseus. I ask your pardon. It is easy to forget that the Weave is only the surface. Fineghal once called it the soul of magic.”

  “And the priests teach us that the Lady Mystra is the Weave, the divine gift bringer who makes the working of magic possible. Is that not so?” Oriseus did not wait for Aeron to answer. “Yet not all mages have acknowledged her existence or stewardship. Oh, I do not question the existence of the Weave, and the relationship between the Weave and the fabric of raw magic that underlies all things. But Mystra has been known in this land of Chessenta for perhaps four or five centuries now. Before the worship of Mystra came to Cimbar, when the Untheri held this land in thrall, we were taught that Thalatos—Thoth, in the Mulhorandi lands—was the lord of magic.”

  “In my classes, the philosophers state that Mystra has always held power over the Weave since the very beginning of things,” Aeron replied. “Whether or not she is known and worshiped is immaterial. She chooses to make the Weave available to all, and so it is. After all, you don’t need to venerate a god of fire in order to strike a flame.”

  “Ah! An excellent point, young Aeron. So, could you make a fire if a god of fire did not exist?”

  Aeron shrugged helplessly. “I suppose so. I’m afraid that my learning in philosophy and theology is not equal to my skill in other arts.”

  Oriseus grinned wickedly. “On the contrary, dear boy, it simply means that you are not fettered with the age-old lies and deceptions perpetrated upon generation and generation of our youth. Allow me to rephrase the question: Could you work magic if no Weave existed?”

  “Of course not!” Aeron stated instantly. “I couldn’t even imagine where you would begin.”

  “What would you say,” Oriseus said quietly, “if I were to tell you that you are wrong?”

  Aeron scowled at the High Conjuror, trying to gauge the master’s mood. Oriseus leaned close, his grin fierce and yellow in his wide, handsome face. His dark eyes danced with an animated mischief, a formidable intellect toying effortlessly with daring, unthinkable suggestions. Whatever one might say about Oriseus and his ambitions, his cynicism, his arrogance, the man feared nothing and bent his knee to no one. “Go on,” Aeron said.

  “The Weave exists,” Oriseus said. “It is one way to wield magic, to touch the power that sleeps in all things. Say that Mystra is the Weave, if you like to think so, or that the Weave is the soul of magic—it’s all semantics, empty words for those who do not wish to accept responsibility for what they do. The Weave is, perhaps, the easiest way to wield magic. But there are restrictions, limitations, to what one may do.” The master stood abruptly and spread his arms, changing his course. “Tell me, Aeron, what do you know of the Imaskari?”

  “The Imaskari?” Taken aback, Aeron frowned, gathering his thoughts. He’d had only a few weeks of learning of this sort, but he tried to recall what he’d been told. “They were old, perhaps the first humans to raise kingdoms. Their lands lay beyond Mulhorand, in what is now the desert of Raurin. The old empires of Mulhorand and Unther are descended from the people who fled the Imaskari kingdoms thousands of years ago.” He shivered in his tabard, suddenly chilled by the cold spring wind. “It’s said that they were mighty sorcerers indeed, sorcerers who thought they could become gods. That is all I know, Lord Oriseus.”

  “Indeed. Well, the Imaskari were correct, Aeron. They wielded magic from beyond the circles of this world, magic of staggering power. And they did it without the hindrances, the limitations, of the Weave. The Imaskari spells wielded a different power, Aeron. A second theme of magic, one reserved for those with strength and will enough to command it. A completely different symbology to impose one’s will upon a completely different source of power. Only the dimmest memory of this ancient way remains in the hoary texts and garbled fragments studied inside these walls. It’s called shadow magic in these impoverished days.”

  “Shadow magic?” Aeron turned his head to study Oriseus for a long moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Oriseus’s artificial humor died, and his eyes grew dark and serious. “I mean to show you what I’ve told you about, Aeron. You are one of the few students here who has the strength of will, the breadth of experience, to comprehend the secrets I have to share. You’ll wield power few wizards living today could hope to command, learn mysteries that only a handful of mages have explored in more than a thousand years. Now will yo
u study under my tutelage?”

  Aeron considered the wizard’s offer. Power? Magic that others cannot master? Oriseus’s promises intrigued him; the High Master of Conjuration radiated confidence, puissance, under his foolish caperings. Oriseus acted like a buffoon because he could afford to. He forged his own path, and Aeron found that he wanted to enjoy that same unshakable self-assurance. Aeron scratched his chin. “I’m interested, but what will become of my studies in invocation?”

  “Study with Sarim as long as you like,” Oriseus replied. “All I ask for is an hour or two of your attention each week. But I think you should know that you have rivals who are already delving into these secrets of which I have spoken. You showed great courage in standing against Dalrioc Corynian last week … but it would have been unfortunate for you if he’d known then what he knows now.”

  Aeron frowned. The one thing he could claim over Dalrioc Corynian was his skill with spells. He knew Oriseus was manipulating him, but he decided that he didn’t care. I’ll be damned if I’ll let Dalrioc become a better wizard than I am, he thought. “Very well, Lord Oriseus. When do we start?”

  “This very moment, if you like,” Oriseus said. He stood, dusted off his robes, and turned to survey the surroundings. He hummed comically for a few moments, tugging at his beard as he thought. “Aha!” he exclaimed. He took two long steps and snatched a fist-sized rock from the ground, hefting it in his hand. Returning to the battlement, he sat down beside Aeron. “I’m going to cast a spell that will enable you to sense the magic inherent in this stone,” he said.

  “I can perceive it already, Lord Oriseus. I’ve always been able to sense the currents of the Weave.”

  The lean conjuror glanced at Aeron. “Really?”

  “It’s my elven blood, I think.” Aeron closed his eyes and allowed himself to draw in the air, the cold stone under him, the distant sense of the great sea. With concentration, he felt the sleepy sense of magic imprisoned in the small stone. “Yes, I can sense it.”