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.

Aeron scowled at the elf's amusement and began to wring out his shirt. "I'll get it right next time. You'll see!"

* * * * *

In the months that followed, Aeron practiced the speaking of spells over and over again under Fineghal's tutelage. The fall of that year, the one later named the Year of the Helm, was long and glorious, with bright, clear days and cold, starry nights. Aeron virtually ignored it. He drove himself to master each cantrip and enchantment that Fineghal demonstrated, refusing rest until he'd conquered anything the elven mage placed before him. A hidden flame or spark in his spirit that he'd never suspected ignited with the thirst to excel, flaring like a brilliant hunger.

Fineghal viewed magic as an art, an expression of harmony with nature, concerning himself with the why of things. Aeron's intelligence and temperament ran in a different direction. He aspired to an unfailing technical perfection, always asking how something could be done. Fineghal endured his apprentice's intense drive with patience and grace.

As the good weather finally came to an end and the ceaseless rains of Uktar descended over the Maerchwood, Fineghal and Aeron settled for the winter in a lonely white tower overlooking the white waters of the Winding River. It was the only one of the ancient watchtowers still standing, and it served as Fineghal's home. The wizard called it Caerhuan, the Storm Tower. The narrow windows of the tower's study looked out over the green, spray-misted gorge, and its paneled walls were carved with intricate woodland scenes by long-vanished elven craftsmen.

By the ceaseless crescendo of the river below and the rattle of cold rain against elven glass, Aeron devoured every scrap of knowledge that Fineghal shared with him. As he'd promised, he learned swiftly and gained in skill. He was blessed with an instinctive grasp of the Weave, a graceful and easy command of the flow of magic around him. He lacked only the knowledge of the spells to unlock this gift, and one by one he drove himself to learn their names, their purpose, and the details of their working.

Aeron learned that the price a wizard paid for his power lay in endless hours of studying spells, casting them briefly, and returning to the tedious process of memorization again. While he could not retain the shape of a spell once he spoke it, the record remained in Fineghal's collection of enigmatic glyphstones. "The most powerful of my spells require dozens of sigil-marked stones, each of which must be studied in exact order to lock the spell's shape in my mind. At any given time, twenty to thirty are in my memory," Fineghal explained, "So you might say that I own more arrows than I can carry. I must decide which I will take with me before I set out on a journey."

Aeron grimaced. "I have a hard time keeping more than three or four simple ones straight," he said.

"You are still a novice, Aeron. There is much you have yet to learn." Fineghal drew one of his stones from his pouch and held it between his fingers, lost in a moment of reverie. "In time, you will need to shape your own spell-books. You cannot rely on mine forever." Absently he stared out the window, falling into a silence that lasted for the rest of the day.

As the months passed, Fineghal proved to be a patient but silent tutor. When Aeron asked questions, the ageless elf directed him to the ordered shelves of his library. It was not unusual for Aeron to pass days at a time without seeing Fineghal; sometimes the wizard ventured out of the tower to walk the forest's eastward slopes, Baillegh at his heels, while on other occasions, he fell into absent reveries that lasted for hours at a time.

While the young forester spent many hours poring over old elven histories and discussing the nature of magic, it was not in Aeron's nature-or Fineghal's, for that matter-to spend too much time indoors. From time to time, the elven lord allowed Aeron to set aside the books for a few days and accompany him on his treks through the forest. Under the early morning frosts of winter, the forest was breathtakingly beautiful, alive with the constant trickle of ice and water from every branch and rocky face.