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 you 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."