The Shadow Stone

Ten

Within a week of Lord Telemachon's passing, the Ruling Council named a young master Aeron barely knew as the new High Diviner. It was no surprise that the new ruling master was a minor senator and Soorenaran advocate who openly deferred to Oriseus in council meetings and conversations. Although Aeron had little contact with any of his fellow students, and even less with the masters now that Telemachon was gone, he slowly became aware of a growing tension in the air. After years of maneuvering, a challenge to the remote Sceptanar was growing within the halls of the college.

Oriseus spent days at a time attending to private business in his estates and lands surrounding Cimbar, and the students of the college whispered that he was building support among Cimbar's lords and generals for a move against the city's faceless king. It struck Aeron as senseless and negligent that the Sceptanar should sit idly by, watching his foe grow in strength, but the Cimbarans among the college thought nothing of it. The city's rules of succession decreed that the Sceptanar must answer any personal challenge brought against him. The king was free to crush any coup or rebellion with whatever forces he deemed appropriate, but as long as his challenger did not rise in arms against him, he could not use Cimbar's soldiers and heroes to defend his own position. Of course, Oriseus ensured that the Sceptanar abided by his own laws by building his support among the generals, the lords, and the people.

Oriseus grinned and jested when bold or contentious lords and mages demanded to know his intentions, deflecting any suggestion that he prepared to challenge the city's overlord. But the city's demagogues proclaimed his virtues and cried out for Oriseus to seize the throne and lead Cimbar to war against Akanax. It was widely known that the Sceptanar did not desire war, but the mood of the city was shifting away from its faceless overlord. Aeron fumed as the college ground to a halt, students and masters alike wasting their days in shameless rumormongering. Annoyed by the distraction, he wondered what would happen if the storm hanging over the college broke.

Lord Oriseus, as energetic and capricious as ever, resumed his duties a few days after defeating Lord Telemachon. A week after his return, he sent for Aeron. The young student found Oriseus in his spartan chambers in the Masters' Hall. He'd never seen the High Conjuror's quarters, and he was surprised by the barren walls and utilitarian furniture. Oriseus's flamboyance was carried in his face and his manner, leaving no exaggeration for his belongings. "You sent for me, Lord Oriseus?" he asked.

"Ah, Aeron! Yes, of course I did." The lean sorcerer grinned and bobbed like a servant, pulling out a chair by the narrow window for Aeron. "How are your studies proceeding? I haven't spoken to you in a couple of weeks."

"Very well, my lord," Aeron replied. "Master Sarim has been helping me with some difficult invocations."

"Indeed." A fleeting grimace crossed Oriseus's bearded features. "I was surprised to learn that Sarim had assumed Telemachon's place as your sponsor."

"I could not remain here if he hadn't."

"I would have been glad to sponsor you, Aeron. Your potential is extraordinary, extraordinary! We cannot allow you to leave." Oriseus glanced from side to side, even though they were completely alone, and leaned close. "Besides, I think things will change here soon. The college has grown too … conservative. Too hidebound by the artificial distinctions of class and wealth, instead of the real potential of the students. You are perhaps our finest example of a student whose talents far exceed the abilities of those who call themselves his betters. I see a college where the only measure of a student's standing is his power and skill, Aeron. A change for the better, I believe."

Aeron did not know how to reply to that. "I wish it were so," he laughed nervously. "I'm in favor of any arrangement that sets me level with Dalrioc Corynian."

"Yes, I suppose you would be," Oriseus said thoughtfully. "Do you recall the details of our first conversation after your novitiate examination? We talked of the Weave and the old Imaskari shadow magics."

"I remember. You hinted that the Imaskari had mastered another method for working their spells, a power that freed them of the Weave." Aeron met Oriseus's gaze. "The same power that you used against Lord Telemachon."

Oriseus smirked and rocked back on his seat. "Ah, Aeron, you cannot understand how delighted I am that someone perceived the skill of my final spell! I wondered if everyone had missed it."

"It was plain as day. You touched no Weave that I could see. Do you mean no one else noticed?"

"Aeron, your gift is unique. You are the only one with elven blood among us, and I suspect that you are the only wizard within these walls blessed with mage sight." Oriseus nodded eagerly. "Yes, I used the old magic against Telemachon. He was stronger than I expected."

There was something almost unhealthy in Oriseus's fevered eyes, the anxious intensity that kept him dancing from foot to foot, trembling and shaking like a man on the verge of a seizure. Aeron sensed danger, risk; a cold hand of caution settled over his heart. But despite himself, he was intrigued. He'd thought he understood where all the pieces fit, but now he realized that at least one part of the puzzle had eluded him. "How did you do it?" he asked quietly.

Oriseus sighed and spread his hands. "Alas, I cannot explain. How could you describe what you see of the Weave to one of your blind fellows? How could you tell a deaf man what the song of a nightingale is like?" He paced away, hands clasped behind his back. "You are brilliant, Aeron, but you lack the sense you need to wield the power."

Aeron straightened, glaring at Oriseus. "I don't understand. In our lessons, you've shown me several powerful spells that demand this shadow magic, this source of power beyond the Weave that I can reach and shape. But if I can't perceive this source of magic, you've only been wasting our time by demonstrating spells I cannot work." He snorted. "For that matter, how did you master this ancient magic in the first place?"

"I did not say that no one can perceive it, Aeron. I merely observed that at the moment you cannot. That can be rectified, if you are strong of will and do not lack courage. As far as my own expertise goes, allow me a few professional secrets for the moment. It would be easier to show you than to explain."

Fuming with impatience, Aeron scowled. "What must I do?"

Oriseus grinned and leaned close to Aeron, his dark eyes glittering like jet. "Meet me by the ruins of the Untheric pyramid tonight, an hour before midnight. You won't need any of your books, but you should prepare as many spells of protection and defense as you can manage. We may encounter some frightful dangers in our journey. Oh, and you should ready a spell of night seeing if you know of any. Wizard light may fail us."

"I have little need of seeing spells," Aeron said. He raised his hand to his almond-shaped eyes. "I've always had a knack for seeing where others cannot. Where are we going, Master Oriseus? And when will we return?"

Oriseus smiled. "Not far, my boy, not far. Only a few steps, really, but they're some of the hardest steps you'll ever take. We'll be back by morning-if we come back."

Oriseus's cryptic offer occupied Aeron's thoughts as he absently found his way from the High Conjuror's chambers. Aeron hadn't forgotten that Master Raemon had met his death in the ruins of the obelisk. Had Oriseus extended a similar offer to the Master Abjurer months ago? No trace had been found of the spell that summoned the beast to the college. . and Aeron had seen how Oriseus could work spells that no one else perceived. The High Conjuror's melodramatic admonitions did nothing to ease Aeron's mind.

He found himself standing in the mouth of the redolent paneled hall leading to Telemachon's chambers. On a sudden impulse, he turned aside, with a furtive glance, and strode over to the door. He was not yet ready to return to his quarters to await nightfall, and the disquiet in his mind demanded some action. If Telemachon knew something about Oriseus, he might have left some record among his books and notes, Aeron thought. It didn't seem wise to walk into Oriseus's circle with his eyes closed.

The door was sealed with a rune to deter casual trespassers; Aeron concentrated, sought the knot of magical energy that formed the barrier, and slipped it aside with a thought. Telemachon's chambers had been rifled but not ransacked. The disorderly mass of paper and uneven stacks of tomes had been straightened, evidence that someone other than the High Diviner had been here since his death. Aeron carefully circled the room, cataloging its contents in his mind. Nothing seemed to be missing since his last conversation with Lord Telemachon. The longer he looked, the more certain he became that something important was in this room.

He sat in the heavy carved chair behind the desk, thinking. Telemachon had believed Oriseus killed Master Raemon. Not only had he believed it, he was so certain of it that he made his accusation public and challenged the conjuror when the Ruling Council failed to act.

"What does that mean to me?" Aeron breathed aloud, steepling his fingers. Oriseus seemed to be one of the few friends he had in Cimbar-after all, he was the first mentor who'd seen fit to treat Aeron as an adult, to encourage him to exceed the bounds of tradition and experience. But Aeron didn't believe for a moment that the High Conjuror's patronage was completely altruistic.

Someone tried the door. Aeron froze, holding his breath. The latch fell still, and he breathed a sigh of relief-until he sensed a simple magic at work. The latch suddenly lifted itself, and the door opened. "Who's in here?" demanded the tall wizard outside. "Aeron? Is that you?"

"Yes, Sarim." Aeron slumped in the chair as the Calishite master entered and shut the door behind him.

He expected the master to be incensed by his act of breaking and entering, but Sarim showed no anger. "I detected someone tampering with my sealing mark, but I didn't expect you. What are you doing here, Aeron?"

Aeron started to answer and realized he didn't have a reason he could easily explain. "I'm not sure. I just wanted to think, I guess," he said.

"There are more accessible places for that," Sarim remarked. He cleared one of Telemachon's sitting chairs of its debris and joined Aeron, gazing around the room. "What is on your mind?"

Aeron studied Sarim for a long moment, thinking. He wanted to test himself against the ancient mysteries that Oriseus offered. . but he wasn't certain that he trusted the High Conjuror. Sarim, on the other hand, he did trust. "Oriseus has offered to show me how he worked the magic that destroyed Telemachon. He's asked me to meet him before midnight at the Broken Pyramid."

Sarim's eyes widened, and he leaned forward alertly. "Do you intend to keep your appointment?"

"Yes," Aeron said. "Oriseus says I'm one of the few students here who can understand his sorcery. I want to know how he does what he does." He offered a confident smile. "After all, I'm here to learn, aren't I?"

"Not everyone feels the same, Aeron." Sarim shook his head. "You should be wary of Oriseus's generosity."

"Why do you say that?"

The Calishite fixed his dark eyes on the young mage's face. "Aeron, you and I both know that Oriseus is the most likely suspect for Master Raemon's murder. He stood to gain from Raemon's death; Raemon was a staunch defender of the Sceptanar. Thanks to Telemachon's demise, we've all seen that Oriseus has the capability to work lethal magics that we can't understand or unravel. So let's assume that Telemachon was right, and Oriseus murdered Raemon. Why would he wish to help you understand how that might have been accomplished?"

Aeron frowned and thought for a moment. "You believe he wants to silence me? With Melisanda gone, I'm the only remaining witness to Master Raemon's death."

"Doesn't it strike you as a possibility?"

"If that's the case, why bother to show me anything at all?" Aeron replied. "We've been working for weeks on some of his conjurations and enchantments. He wouldn't have gone to all that trouble if he meant to kill me."

"Unless he deemed it necessary to gain your trust," Sarim said blackly. "What better way?"

"No, I don't believe it," Aeron answered. "I'm different, Sarim. I can become something greater than any other student here. And I mean to. Regardless of what you think of Oriseus's ethics, he can teach me lore that no other master can."

"That's your arrogance speaking, Aeron," Sarim said.

"Is it arrogance if I can back it up with ability?" Aeron said. "Sarim, I don't trust Oriseus. I'll exercise all due caution. But, if he shows me the power that slew Raemon and Telemachon, I'll have the answers to their deaths."

Sarim's eyes flashed, and he stood abruptly. "As you wish," he said. "Your studies are your own; that's the principle we live by here at the college. But they're my business, as well, since I am your sponsor and share responsibility for you. I will join you this evening to see how your lessons with Oriseus go."

"But-"

"Enough, Student Aeron!" Sarim held his gaze until Aeron reluctantly acceded. The tall mage paused a moment, then added, "Aeron, I am only interested in your safety. I do not intend to intrude more than I have to in order to be sure of Oriseus's intentions." He glanced at the window outside. "It's getting late. I'll leave you to your reflections."

Aeron watched Sarim leave, deep in thought. I never should have mentioned the tower, he grumbled in his mind. Sarim didn't need to know about my lessons with Oriseus. Then again, the High Invoker may have been right.

He stood, pushing himself up from the desk. Halfheartedly he began to rummage through the stacks of paper and flip idly through the tomes. Many were incomprehensible to him; Master Telemachon had had a full lifetime of learning, and Aeron couldn't even begin to make sense out of most of his research. One book, marked by a twisted serpent sigil, caught his eye. He picked it up, skimmed a few pages, and found a slip of yellowed parchment caught between two leaves, covered in Telemachon's crabbed handwriting. It was a column of letters beside strange, curving marks and dots.

He struggled to place it for a moment, chewing his tongue. Wait! The Rauric scroll, the yugoloth's bracelet! It's the same lettering! Aeron dropped the book and clutched the scrap of paper in his hands, peering at it. The letters were in ancient Rauric, arrayed in a single row. One mark or whorl stood under each. He realized that he was looking at a letter-for-letter conversion-the key he needed to understand what was in the mysterious scroll he'd taken from the library months ago.

Should I take this to Sarim? he thought. He hardly even considered the notion before dismissing it out of hand. He'd see what he could make of it first. If Sarim confiscated it or demanded the old Rauric scroll, Aeron would never know what was hidden within. He folded the parchment, slipped it into his sleeve, and hurried back to his own chambers, sealing Telemachon's room as he left. The shadows were growing long as he crossed the quadrangle; the afternoon was fading to dusk.

In his chamber, he bolted the door and sat down with the old scroll. The Rauric text was a circuitous, meandering narrative by an old scholar named Derschius. Aeron had assumed that it was a straight translation of the mysterious second column of writing, but now he suspected something else entirely. In fact, now he thought that it might not have anything to do with Derschius's work. Ancient scribes had often scraped or written over older texts, especially if they didn't seem useful. Derschius had probably had no better idea than Aeron what the other column of text said.

Ignoring the scribe's scratchings, Aeron looked carefully at the first lines of the odd text. On a piece of blank paper, he carefully copied the symbols in the exact sequence, leaving plenty of space between each line. Then, using the key he'd found in Telemachon's office, he searched for each symbol's corresponding letter. When he had finished the first line, it read, "The Chants of Arcainasyr, as declaimed by Macchius the Ebon Flame."

"It's an artificial alphabet," he breathed in amazement. The words themselves were in ancient Rauric, but each letter had been replaced by an arbitrary symbol. Macchius, or whoever had dared transcribe the chants, had invented the cipher to mask its contents. Aeron frowned, wondering what in Faerun he was looking at. Nothing in the title meant anything to him.

And it can't be completely artificial, he realized. The markings on the yugoloth's bracelet matched these symbols. They have power, significance. It's not a mundane fabrication to hide this text only. Aeron set his pen to the tip of his tongue, thinking. Deciphering the old scroll might be dangerous. If the symbols could bind a yugoloth, they could certainly carry curses as well. "Well, I won't know until I start," he said aloud. He pulled out a sheet of common parchment and set to work by the yellow light of the late afternoon, his pen scratching in the stillness of his chambers.

At the appointed hour, Aeron set down his pen. Pale and shaken, he rolled up the chants and, after a moment's thought, stuffed them into an unmarked scroll tube, stashing a simple text on alchemy over it to conceal its presence.

It didn't seem like a good thing to leave lying around. Absently, he dressed and stepped out into the cool night. The late summer heat had finally broken, and the night was cool, windy, and damp, with scudding clouds concealing a crescent moon.

He hadn't had a chance to make a complete translation of the scroll, and he doubted he would ever finish the work. The chants deserved to be left in obscurity. Aeron understood exactly where the ancient Imaskari had found their power, and it sickened him. Each chant was a litany of destruction, a hateful incantation of decay and foulness. Many were framed as prayers to nameless deities who had poisoned the ancient world with lies, shadows, and war.

Oriseus had once asked him how humans wielded magic through the Weave and dared him to imagine a way in which a sorcerer could wield magic without touching the Weave. Now Aeron knew. Creatures such as the yugoloths-and even fouler things-came from beyond the circles of the world. The sorcerer-lords of the Imaskari had won their power by binding dark spirits of the planes beyond in their own bodies, gaining unspeakable power at the cost of their souls. Just as the Weave was tied to the life of the world, shadow magic was intertwined with forces of chaos and decay that fed on the world.

Aeron hoped that there was a chance that he had misunderstood Oriseus, that in the forgotten lore of the old Imaskari mages he'd found something clean, a redeemable power, but he didn't think it likely. He had to go through with his appointment to make sure that what he suspected was true. If it was not, then he had no reason to fear Oriseus. But if it was, the scroll of Macchius and Oriseus's own words would damn him.

He circled the ruins slowly until he spied a faint light bobbing in the darkness ahead. "Hello? Lord Oriseus?" he called, advancing slowly.

"Here, Aeron," the conjuror replied. He emerged from the tumbled heap of cold stones, holding a blue-glowing staff in front of him. The eerie light shadowed his features in a macabre fashion. Oriseus grinned fiercely, stalking forward. "Are you ready?"

Aeron closed his eyes, hoping that he could conceal his true fears from the High Conjuror. "I am," he answered. Behind Oriseus, Aeron noticed several other cloaked shapes waiting, students and some of the younger masters. Dalrioc Corynian glared at him with ill-disguised contempt, but held his peace. Aeron took an involuntary pace backward, glancing at Oriseus. "What are the others doing here?"

Oriseus shrugged. "You are not my only student, Aeron. Here we all are equals. Now, let us be about our night's work."

"And what exactly is that, Lord Oriseus?" From the shadows of the tower's ruins stepped Master Sarim, dressed in his yellow robes. "You won't mind if I attend, will you?"

"Master Sarim. This is an unexpected surprise." Oriseus's face was inscrutable in the darkness, but Aeron could sense the irritation in his voice. The conjuror glanced at the ring of students and sorcerers behind him as if to ferret out the individual who'd informed Sarim of their meeting time.

"I won't interfere with your lesson, Oriseus," Sarim continued. "Go on. Pretend I'm not here."

To Aeron's surprise, Oriseus's face split into an ingratiating grin. "Of course, Master Sarim. We are honored by your presence. I shall proceed." He turned away and took a few steps into the cracked rubble that mantled the pyramid. Exchanging silent looks, Aeron and the others followed in a rough semicircle. The lean sorcerer halted suddenly, stooped, and brushed dirt and overgrowth from a red-black slab gleaming among the stones. "Help me clear this," he instructed, and two of the nearest students knelt to assist. In a few moments, they'd uncovered a man-sized stone that didn't match any of the rubble or foundation stones nearby.

"What's that?" demanded Dalrioc Corynian. He hadn't bothered to get his hands dirty with the work.

"Our portal," Oriseus answered. "Tonight we will walk in the plane of shadow. This is one of those rare places where the walls between the worlds are thin enough to part with nothing more than an act of will."

Sarim raised an eyebrow. "A dangerous place to visit, Oriseus. Is this wise?"

"My lesson lies within," Oriseus retorted. "Do you object?" The Calishite fell silent, although Aeron could sense his concern and agitation. Oriseus turned to the other mages present. "Any of you who wish to depart now may go. This is the time to leave if you have second thoughts."

Satisfied that no one was leaving, Oriseus returned his attention to the slab of cold stone, speaking over his shoulder. "Stay close to me when we enter, and do not stray from the path I choose. Master Sarim is correct in observing that the shadow plane is dangerous, and you must be very careful."

No one required any more clarification. Dalrioc cleared his throat and asked, "When does the portal open?"

"When the light of the waning moon falls on this stone. That is why I left it covered with dirt." Oriseus stared up into the sky, watching the passing clouds. "Ah, here we go. The moon will emerge in a minute. When it does, I shall go first. The rest of you follow one by one, waiting two or three heartbeats each."

Aeron looked up at the sky. Overhead, the dark cloud glowed silver along its trailing edge, and through wisps of dark mist, the luminous crescent appeared. He glanced back at the stone. Silver light rippled and flowed as if the rock had suddenly become a liquid mirror. Oriseus waited a moment to let the shimmering settle, then stepped onto the stone. It was as if he stepped into a puddle of shining water, slowly sinking to his knees, his waist, his chest, and then vanishing silently as the silvery moonstuff closed over his head. Although each man there was a mage, no one was untouched by Oriseus's feat. After a brief hesitation, Dalrioc Corynian pushed himself forward and plunged into the shadow pool, flailing for his footing but sinking out of sight. One by one, they all followed, leaving Aeron and Sarim to the end.

They paused at the brink of the portal and exchanged a glance. "Do you still wish to do this, Aeron?" Sarim asked.

The fear he'd suppressed all night threatened to overwhelm Aeron; all his instincts railed against following Oriseus into the stone. His feet were rooted to the ground, and cold sweat trickled down his back. This is a fine time to come to my senses, he thought. "We're here," he answered. "I have to see this through."

"Very well," Sarim said. He stepped onto the stone and glided through it, a luminescent ghost in the moonlight.

With a determined grimace, Aeron set his foot on the silvery surface of the stone and stepped into it, sinking slowly into the cold light as if the stone were bottomless. As he slid into the portal, a chill, sharp as a razor, climbed his body, so intense that his feet ached with cold by the time he had sunk to his chest. His heart surged with panic, and he desperately gulped for air as his head sank under the moon mirror, leaving nothing but a ripple in his wake.

When Aeron opened his eyes again, he was standing beneath a starless sky, far hills on the horizon limned by an eldritch glow. Bitter air seared his nose and throat, drying the tears in his eyes. He still stood on the acropolis, but the hill was different. Below him, crowded Cimbar had vanished, leaving only a handful of spare lights glimmering faintly along a sluggish, leaden bay. The topography was not quite correct; there was less water, and the hills seemed steeper and more forbidding. Overhead, the cold skies were empty of all but a few dim and hateful stars.

"Come, Aeron. This is no place to dawdle."

Aeron turned at the sound of Oriseus's voice. It took him a moment to understand what he saw. The High Conjuror beckoned from within a tall shadow, silhouetted against a looming shape that towered into the night sky. Oriseus was shrouded in a violet aura, a faint flickering light that stemmed from the power of his will and the skill of his magic. Marching toward the great dark shape, each of the other mages was similarly marked, although the color and strength of their auras varied. Aeron glanced down at his bone-white hands and found a delicate blue faerie light dancing over his skin. The sight fascinated him, and he stared in frozen wonder, the unnaturally still and frigid air slicing through his chest with each breath.

The conjuror frowned with impatience and repeated his summons, holding out his hand. "Aeron, the others have gone ahead to the temple. Come on."

"The temple?" Aeron asked, puzzled. He took two steps toward Oriseus, the cold, hard ground crunching beneath his boots. He looked past the red-robed master, and his heart stopped. Behind Oriseus, the Broken Pyramid stood intact, looking as it must have centuries ago. No other building of the college, or even the city, was mirrored within the shadow, but the pyramid stood, a stark and inescapable monolith beneath the eternal dark. His jaw fell open. "It stands again!"

"It never fell here. That is the way of the shadow. It remembers things lost to the daylight, places long gone, people long dead. In some places, it even holds the memory of what might have been. The city below is ephemeral, a vanity of no importance. But the pyramid is quite real here, Aeron." Oriseus stepped forward and took Aeron's arm in a firm hand, steering him into line. "This is the least of the wonders I have to show you today, lad. Now follow me."

Nodding mutely, Aeron fell behind the others, trudging to a dark and narrow door in the pyramid's flank while his mind reeled numbly. Oriseus moved on to shepherd them all within, watching vigilantly. Aeron spared one more look for the sere hilltop, stretching out with his senses, searching for something more than the empty cold that surrounded him. His unease was growing by the moment, a hopeless panic that frightened him all the more because he could not pinpoint its source. Something was terribly wrong here.

The Weave, he realized. It's gone. The stony earth was cold and dead, the air still and lifeless. The spark, the flame of the living world was missing here. No magic, no life, existed for him to perceive. Yet as he adjusted to his surroundings, he sensed the barest trickle of magic. The shadow held the merest whisper of the Weave, but it was not entirely desiccated.

As Aeron turned his attention to the pyramid, he became aware of a dark, hot energy suffusing the structure, a tangible emanation of potency that he could sense as surely as if he turned his face to the sun during the day. It streamed and coiled away from the obelisk like a leaping flame, invisible and silent, yet fraught with unearthly power. The thick, ancient stones could barely contain the raging conflagration within. The sensation terrified Aeron, yet he hungered to feel the black warmth on his face, to stand unharmed in the dark pyre and tame the power.

Aeron scrabbled forward after the others, eagerly moving to view with his own eyes the wonder hidden within the stone tomb. He didn't even spare Oriseus a glance as he passed between the blank door and felt himself pulled down the long, silent corridor of worked stone that led within. He trailed Dalrioc Corynian as the circle of sorcerers wound through the lightless labyrinth of the pyramid's innards, spiraling downward through winding stairs and echoing chambers until they reached a chamber set beneath the center of the structure. Midnight power thrummed in the stones under his feet.

Oriseus pushed the door open, leading the way into a wide, low vault of dark stone and squat columns. Arched galleries circled the room, and intricate bas-reliefs defaced the walls, but Aeron had no eye for these. The stone in the center of the room seized his attention.

It was a simple thing, an uneven shard of smooth, glossy black rock about the size and shape of a horse's skull. A weird lambent light danced in its ebon depths. It was bound in rune-carved iron bands, suspended in a rude circular stand of black metal. The mages surrounded it in an even circle five paces wide. For a long moment they gazed on it in silence, unable or unwilling to speak. Finally Master Sarim wrenched his gaze away. "Oriseus? What is it?"

The High Conjuror did not reply immediately. He stepped close and laid a hand on the cool rock, his face absent. Finally he answered. "Thousands of years ago, the Imaskari arose, first of all men to walk in this world. Unfettered by the powers and restrictions of gods, they had nothing to defy their understanding, their comprehension. The glories of Netheril and fallen Raumanthar were mere reflections of the first mages, the sorcerer lords who mastered magic in that forgotten age.

"And so the Imaskari ruled vast lands thousands of years before the rise of Mulhorand, of Unther, of Netheril and the other ancient kingdoms of man. They roamed the planes, building portals to a thousand times and worlds. And so they aroused the ire of the petty gods who rule over this sphere. These powers sought to bring down the Imaskari by withholding the Weave from them. The lords of the Imaskari thus turned to a source of magic from beyond this world, a source of magic that they could wield without answering to the rude demipowers of this sphere. They brought the Shadow Stone into this world, establishing a link or conduit through which they could draw on an energy that exists outside all time and space."

Oriseus circled the stone, studying the mages one by one. "This stone represents that which existed before anything else existed. It is a symbol, a link to the blind and voiceless power that was displaced from our sphere in the very beginning of things. It did not save the Imaskari, but with this they slew gods when the world was young."

Oriseus looked up at them, his eyes glinting. "Here, my fellows, is the strength that even gods fear. Set your hand on it and it is yours. You need only ask."

Aeron closed his eyes, his face flushed with the energy that danced before him. Oriseus had once told him that the Weave was the spirit, the soul of the world. The stone was something else, a void or vacuum that injured the world by its very existence. It was potential without purpose, eager for the hand and mind to guide it. With nothing more than his intuition, Aeron understood that once he touched the stone with his will and sight, he would be able to call upon its power anywhere, anytime, joined by an ethereal link to something that defied distance and hesitation. He shuffled closer a half-step, drawn by the power.

Ahead of him, Dalrioc Corynian broke the ranks of their circle and boldly stepped forward, an arrogant sneer on his face. "Very well, Oriseus. I ask." He moved to stand beside the stone, studying it without a hint of hesitation. Dalrioc reached out and set his hand on the glossy rock and stood petrified, enraptured, his face twisted in a rictus of astonishment as the black energy coursed over him, freezing him in his grasp.

Aeron paused, waiting and watching while, one by one, the other students and masters stepped forward to join Dalrioc beside the stone. As each touched the gleaming black surface, he ceased to move, straining to contain and master the power that exceeded him.

Oriseus's face contorted with unholy glee. His eyes flashed living darkness. With the light touch of his hand on the stone, he directed the fearsome black energy as it coiled and smothered each mage who approached. His expression appalled Aeron, and for the first time, he allowed himself to sense what he'd known from the moment he felt the stone's influence.

It reeked of evil.

It was powerful and majestic, a conflagration of energy that defied his senses. But it stained him to stand so close to it. There was a conscious malevolence behind its splendor, an ancient, aching hunger that shrieked for Aeron's willing soul. He knew that if he set his hand on the dark stone, he would be lost forever, consumed and filled with something older than time and unspeakably, irredeemably evil.

As if waking from a dream, Aeron gasped and threw a panicked glance around the cold stone chamber. Cold and hateful light seared his eyes, leaving painful afterimages that blinded him. Across the room, Master Sarim-the last who had not touched the stone besides Aeron himself- staggered forward, his teeth bared and eyes staring vacantly, fighting with every ounce of his dying will to resist the stone's greedy pull. It was not enough. Marching like a broken doll, he was jerked to his knees and thrown prostrate before the black talisman, betrayed by his own muscle and bone. He whimpered in terror as the energy surged forward to devour him.

Aeron had thought the room silent, but now he became aware of a crackling, snapping sound as violet energy whirled and darted in a sickly aura around the rune-marked ring. The roaring deafened him, but now he heard clearly the mindless yammering, the moans and shrieks, the insane howls of the mages who stood transfixed by Oriseus's will and the sinister font of energy. How could I not have sensed this? he thought. How could I have been so blind?

"Again you are last, Aeron," Oriseus called, voice clear and strong above the din. "Join us. You are part of our circle now."

Stark terror jolted Aeron into action at Oriseus's words. He took two steps back, not in defiance, but in weakness. "No," he whispered, horrified. "No."

Oriseus smirked, confident of his victory. "You wanted power, Aeron. You left your home behind to come to the college. You desired the strength to shield yourself from harm, to strike down your enemies. Well, here it is. Stand with me and you will carve your name on the heart of the world. None will stand against you. None!"

"This isn't what I wanted," Aeron said in a small voice.

Oriseus snorted. "You've wanted this all your life, boy. More than anything, you want to be the one people fear. Come.. you are damned already." The conjuror raised his hand, and Aeron felt his feet slog forward, dragging him toward the stone's fatal embrace. In horror, he tried to will his feet to stop, but his body refused to obey.

In blind panic, Aeron reached into the recesses of his memory and seized a spell of translocation, a spell he'd barely grasped just a few short days ago. In the daylight world, under perfect conditions, it strained his abilities to the utmost to work the enchantment. Here, it was completely beyond his skill. But desperation lent him the strength to gasp out the words that keyed the spell, and in his mind, he unfettered the complex sigil that defined its form.

His own life-force was the merest fraction of the power the dimension leap required. Yet there was no Weave to work the spell. The stones were cold and lifeless, the air still and dead. The only power Aeron could tap was the dark inferno before him, and in his terror, he seized it and channeled it before he realized what he was doing. The dark energy seared him with a cold taint; he gagged in revulsion, as if grave dirt had been shoved beneath his skin. It sank frigid fingers into his belly and knotted under his ribs, drowning him in madness even as the chamber whirled away in shadow and mist.

Aeron caught one last glimpse of Master Oriseus's startled face as his spell wrenched him out of the Shadow Stone's chamber and hurled him through the vast, lightless void between the worlds. The darkness wormed its way through his veins, creeping into his heart with tendrils of cold fire. Unable to withstand another moment of the venomous assault, Aeron's mind slipped into the shadows and reeled away into the night.