"Yet there are forces from beyond the circles of the world, forces that seek to insinuate themselves into our own world and poison it. The Shadow Stone, I suspect, is a manifestation of one of these forces."

Aeron shook his head. "I don't see what that has to do with me, other than to reaffirm my fears of trying to use magic. If the shadow magic is all I can reach, then it would be better if I did not cast spells at all."

"Listen to me, Aeron. When I was young, long before the fall of Calmaercor, my instructors told me of creatures their own masters had fought in the very beginning of things. Many of the old elves possessed the gift of mage sight, as you do, and they reported that the fiends and sendings they battled used no magic that we could perceive or comprehend. We often wondered where these forgotten sorcerers and monsters had found their magical power. This is how I know that the Weave is not the only way in which a spell may be crafted."

"I wonder if they knew the Imaskari," Aeron said quietly. "I learned that a few of the ancient human wizards gained the power to shape shadow magic by binding themselves to powers from the planes beyond their own. They sold their souls to master a sorcery no other beings of this world dared to touch."

"I believe it could be so," Fineghal replied. "You have touched this, Aeron, but I cannot perceive it. It is beyond me. You, however, with your human blood and your human determination, may be capable of wielding this magic."

"The shadow magic is evil," Aeron said emphatically. "Believe me, Fineghal, I know."

The elven wizard fell silent for a long time. They listened to thunder booming in the distance as a storm gathered about the mountain peaks miles away and began to descend toward the Maerchwood.

"Here is my thought," Fineghal said at last. "Magic is not 'good' or 'evil,' although some forms of magic clearly lend themselves more easily to noble purposes or sinister ones. As an elven mage, I can only perceive the Weave, the natural energy of the world around me. And since this is natural to me, it is hard to pervert into something innately evil. Similarly, magic derived from a darker source, such as the Shadow Stone, lends itself to fell purposes, and if that were the only magic one knew how to use, then eventually it would corrupt. But what if the truth lies somewhere in between?"

"You believe that I may be able to find some balance between the two?" Aeron said. "I think you're mistaken. I don't have the strength to resist the taint of magic drawn from darkness."

"Very few things are wholly good or wholly evil, Aeron. The dark Weave does not even exist for me. I cannot sense it or shape it to my hand. But you might be able to. And if this is the price you must pay for your magic, then so be it."

"What if I fail? What if it masters me instead?" Aeron whispered. "I saw what the Shadow Stone did to those who set their hands on it."

"You must decide if you are willing to take the risk." Fineghal sat down on a boulder across the path from Aeron and drew out his pouch of spellstones. "I see that you have lost your glyphwoods," he observed. "If you wish to, you may borrow my spell tokens again and begin to rebuild your collection of enchantments. I suspect there are few spells in my repertoire that would be beyond your skill now."

Aeron wavered. He could sense that Fineghal's words had an elemental truth to them. The elven magics were not enough for him, but he feared the black, seething malice of the Shadow Stone. The road to wisdom and power lay somewhere in between. With a grimace, he reached out for a spell token. "We'll see how it goes," he said. He looked down at the pebble. It was marked with the sign for the charm of invisibility. It took only a few moments to commit the symbol to his mind, locking its potential like a line of poetry held ready behind his tongue.

"You have the spell memorized?" Fineghal asked.

"I'd forgotten what it feels like," Aeron replied. He hadn't had a spell readied in months. "Now what do I do?"

Fineghal shrugged. "Cast it," he said. "With this spell, you normally weave from the spirit and the air. I do not know what other sources you may be able to tap."

"Should I try to use the shadow magic?"

The elf shrugged. "See what forces answer your call."

Aeron licked his lips, closed his eyes, and muttered the syllable that unlocked the spell's power. He stretched out his senses, seeking the delicate threads and forces that he needed to weave the spell. Instantly he realized his perceptions had changed from his earlier days. Before he'd seen the life, the light, the energy of everything around him. He'd drawn on the motion of the wind, the strength of the earth, the life-force blazing within his own breast. But now, in his mind's eye, he perceived a black echo of each of these threads. The rock beneath him was old and fissured. The wind held the telltale imbalances of the storm brewing over the mountains. Even the vital flame of his own spirit guttered with uncertainty and the frailty of his flesh.

Carefully he tried to avoid plucking the dark strings of energy, grasping only for the bright threads he'd used with impunity before. But as he seized the wind's sighing breath in his mind, he also gathered the anger of the coming storm. When he used the living energy of his mind to shape the spell, the darkness and doubt followed. Aeron struggled to disentangle them, but it was useless; light and shadow were intertwined, and the effort to part them was exhausting him. His heart thundered in his chest, and he gasped for breath, caught on the cusp of a spell that was indiscriminately drawing its power from his own body.

"Aeron! Finish it!" Fineghal shouted from a great distance. "You cannot power the spell without the Weave!"

In desperation, Aeron seized the dark with the light.

Shivering with fear at the power he touched, he wove the invisibility spell and vanished from view. Shaking with fright, he held his head in his hands, trying to understand what had happened.

"Aeron? Are you well?" Fineghal asked the night.

"I ... I think so," he answered. "Did it work?"

"You wove the spell well. I cannot see you."

"This is not so pleasant an experience as weaving a spell from nothing but the Weave," he said carefully. "It's like . . . grasping a rose that cuts with its thorns."

"Did you feel the stone's influence?"

"In a sense, yes, but I suspect the Shadow Stone merely opened my eyes to something present all along. Maybe under the stone's influence a wizard is forced to accept only the dark forces of decay and corruption." Aeron felt his voice shaking. He was maintaining the spell, but it was not an unconscious effort.

"So you did not tap any power directly from the Shadow Stone," Fineghal observed. "You simply used magical energy, both dark and bright, that exists all around us. I never suspected I stood so close to the shadow."

Aeron ended the spell and took stock of himself. He seemed unhurt, although his hands ached with cold and his muscles were weak and watery. "So the stone is not the sole source of shadow magic. It serves as a magnet, a lens of some kind, blinding you to the living Weave of our world." He leaned back, staring up into the sky. "I can't imagine what I would have seen in the world around me if I'd been fully caught by the stone's curse. All the world would have been an open grave in my eyes."

"What will you do?" asked Fineghal.

"I think I will resume my studies," Aeron said. "But more carefully this time."

* * * * *

The summer passed, lazy and golden, as Aeron worked out the forms and rules of the magic he now wielded. Fineghal helped where he could, but the noble elf was blind to half of what Aeron wrought. Aeron had to devise a new method for recording his spells, a new symbology and logic for casting them, and he had to learn how to use his power all over again.