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."

"So much the better, Aeron. I won't have to demonstrate the way things normally appear. Observe." Oriseus lifted the stone in his hand and muttered a few guttural words. The rock quivered and then flew out of his hand, streaking across the open courtyard to roll to rest about thirty yards distant. Oriseus smiled and twitched his hands, causing the rock to hop, frogwise, even pushing it into the air to perform great flying bounds. "What do you sense?" he asked Aeron.

The young mage frowned, extending his perception. He found nothing. He should have felt the Weave thrumming in resonance with his own mind and heart, the kindred spirit that bound all things together, but Oriseus worked his sorcery with no outward sign. "How are you doing that?" he asked.

"Doing what?" Oriseus asked innocently.

"Are you working a spell at all?"

The conjuror laughed. "Of course," he snorted. "You are simply unable to perceive the forces that I manipulate."

"Why not?"

"You are untrained in this magic," Oriseus replied. "With time, I can show you how it's done."

"This is the shadow magic you spoke of?" Aeron asked, watching in fascination. "The magic the Imaskari mastered?"

Oriseus nodded. With an exaggerated wave, he sent the stone hurling high into the air and let it plummet to the ground as he rose again. "Come see me later this week. We will begin your lessons. I think you'll be amazed at what you can do, once you learn to remove the blinders that have been placed on you." He sauntered off, whistling.

Aeron watched him go, puzzled. How did he do that? he thought. I sensed no magic at work, none at all. What does he know that I don't? He walked over to where the rock lay on the ground and picked it up. It felt strangely warm to his hand, as if it had been near a fire, and as he examined it, the edges seemed to crumble away. He hadn't realized that it was so old and worn. He studied the rock for a long moment and then let it fall to the ground.

* * * * *

Over the next few weeks, Aeron met with Oriseus only a handful of times. The High Conjuror demonstrated some complicated spells of binding and command, patterns that seemed incomplete to Aeron. It was as if the techniques allowed him to see only part of some mysterious whole, a painting that called upon every bit of willpower and knowledge as a broad palette lacking one critical color, a hue that Aeron could not yet imagine.

The cool, humid winds of Mirtul passed, giving way to Cimbar's warm, rainy summer. Cold water surging past Cimbar toward the Alamber Sea brought torrential rains every few days, and the days of sunshine between rains steamed Cimbar in sweltering humidity. Aeron retreated further into his studies, attacking every lesson with a single-minded zeal that left no room for questions of temperance or balance.

Aeron soon realized that he was not the only student Oriseus had recruited. Just as Master Sarim oversaw a half-dozen students in the school of invocation, and Oriseus also sponsored five young adepts in the red robes of conjuration, the High Conjuror had a second circle of students he tutored personally. Dalrioc Corynian was among these, but there were students who wore the green of alteration and the purple of necromancy in Oriseus's confidence. The sessions were always informal; Aeron found that Oriseus never asked him to meet him at any specific time, but waited for Aeron to come to him.

"You've told me that the Imaskari derived their magic from powers in the planes beyond this one," Aeron observed one time. "The shadow Weave is a ghost, an echo of our Weave in dark planes close to our own. Didn't the Imaskari fear the taint of evil in the sorcery they taught themselves? And aren't we treading in dangerous territory?"

"Would you be concerned if the Imaskari had learned how to make crossbows? Or catapults?" Oriseus asked.

"No. That is mundane knowledge. It isn't evil in and of itself," Aeron answered.

"Nor is magic," Oriseus answered. "It is a tool. The hand and heart that wield it define its morality."

Aeron frowned and weighed the master's words, but he could find no reply. Oriseus freely placed in his hand any knowledge he requested, and in the books and scrolls he studied, he could find no single hint that the ancient magic had ever been marked by evil. He often spent more time perusing the old tomes than the spells of invocation he was supposed to study, and his room was soon littered with scraps of yellow parchment and charcoal rubbings from unspeakably ancient tablets of stone that Oriseus kept in his private collection.

A week after Midsummer, the longest day of the year, Aeron was interrupted by a soft knock at his door. Melisanda quietly let herself in as he hurriedly straightened the tangled mess of parchment and paper that cluttered his room. "Hello, Aeron. I haven't seen you much lately."

Aeron held up his book. "I've been keeping busy. And I didn't want to make a pest of myself."

She smiled sadly and perched on the sill of the window. "Well, you haven't. You've vanished any time I've set foot within ten feet of you."

"I thought that was what you wanted."

"No, it wasn't. I wanted you to keep your distance, yes. But I didn't want you to pretend as if you'd never met me. I've missed your friendship, Aeron."

"I'm not Dalrioc Corynian. I won't force my attentions on a woman who isn't interested in me."

"Why does it come down to that, Aeron? In a college filled with arrogant men who think they deserve any woman they fancy, I thought that you'd be above that. But if that's all you see in me, you're no better than they are."

"No one here equals my skill," Aeron said coldly. "What Dalrioc Corynian and the others were given, I've had to earn. I'm proud of that, Melisanda. If you can't see-"

"Can't see what, Aeron? That I belong in your bed instead of Dalrioc's?" Melisanda hugged her knees to her chest. "I'm not a trophy for you to fight over." She fell silent for a long time.

Aeron didn't know what to say and simply waited. Finally she spoke again. "I've decided to go home."

"Home? To Arrabar?"

She nodded. "I've learned a lot, but I'm homesick, and I don't think I'm ever going to become a great mage. It's just not my heart's desire to be the best."

"You're an excellent mage!" Aeron protested.

"No. I'm competent. I don't have the gift that you do, Aeron. You know that as well as I, it seems." With a wry smile, she pushed herself to her feet. One old tome caught her eye; she picked it up, weighing it in her hand, her brow furrowed. "What's this?"

"That? Oh, that's an Untheric translation of an old Imaskari text. Pretty dry, really."