The Shadow Stone

Three

Aeron expected Fineghal to begin by teaching him how to summon and control the magic, but he was disappointed. In the weeks that followed, the elven mage barely spoke a word about the working of spells. After they returned Eriale to Kestrel's house and retreated into the depths of the forest, they traveled from sunrise to sunset each day. Fineghal seemed absorbed by his own thoughts, leading the way with an easy, absentminded stride that Aeron found hard to match. Baillegh ranged far ahead, bounding through the green shadows like a silver phantom.

Sometimes they rested in the vine-covered ruins of elven towers, but most of the time Fineghal passed the night in clearings beneath the open sky. By starlight or moonlight, he taught Aeron the names of the creatures and the growing things of the Maerchwood as the elves knew them when the world was young. The ancient elf rarely slept; instead, he gazed at the stars as Aeron drifted off to sleep.

Slowly Aeron learned Tel'Quessir, the elven language, and Fineghal shifted his lessons to his native tongue. "Tel'Quessir is a language made for magic," he explained one night. "It will be much easier for me to teach you when you can read and write in the runes of Espruar."

"Do all mages speak their spells in Elvish?"

"All elven mages do, and some humans. But others study ancient human sorceries and use forgotten human tongues."

Aeron sat up straight, intrigued. "There's more than one way to wield magic?"

Fineghal smiled, a ghostly expression by the clear starlight. "Oh, yes," he said quietly. "When an elf creates a spell, he beckons to the magic, calling to the Weave that surrounds us. The old human ways are different. A human wizard's words force his will upon the Weave around him, demanding compliance."

"Which way is better? More powerful?"

"I know only the elven spells, Aeron; I can't teach you human magic. Since you ask, it is my opinion that human magic is easier to employ and a more dangerous weapon than elven magic. But it exacts a greater toll."

"When will you show me how to cast a spell?"

"Be patient," Fineghal said. "You have much to learn yet." He fell silent for a long time.

The long summer of the Maerchwood passed swiftly, and the short, wet fall came over the forest, drenching the land with cool rains. Aeron and Fineghal had circled the forest several times in the months that he'd journeyed with the elven mage. From one end to the other, the Maerchwood was almost one hundred miles in length. Aeron had seen the golden Maerth Hills to the west, the fiery peaks known as the Smoking Mountains, and the wild rushing waters of the untamed Winding River. He was beginning to gain a sense of the immeasurable moods of the woodland, the pace of life in different regions and in different seasons.

Hardened by his endless trek, he could now keep up with Fineghal without trying, and he moved through the trackless maze of the forest's hidden depths with the skill and silence of a full-blooded elf. On a clear, cold day late in the season, Fineghal led Aeron to a dark, rock-walled valley in the heart of the forest, a place Aeron knew as Banien's Deep. They halted by a cold, rushing stream that tumbled out of the stony heights and into the forest below. Fineghal shrugged his slim pack from his shoulders and surveyed the clearing. "This will do," he announced.

"Why are we stopping?" Aeron asked.

"I think it's time for your first lesson."

Aeron blinked. "My first lesson? What have I been doing for the past three months?"

"Well, you've learned to speak passable Elvish, and you've learned a little about the forest. Any elf would have known these things before he began his studies," Fineghal said over his shoulder. "Now we can move on to the working of magic."

Aeron remembered the intoxication in his heart when he'd touched the Weave in Fineghal's test. He'd almost forgotten the sensation of rightness, of strength, that he'd tasted before. I will do it, he thought proudly. I will shape magic with my own hands, like one of the great wizards of old. I will do it! He scrambled to his feet, shrugging his pack to the ground. "I'm ready."

Fineghal regarded Aeron with his customary detachment. The young woodsman waited, his keen eyes hungry with anticipation. "There are two things you must do in order to work magic … to cast a spell, as humans say," Fineghal began. "First you must summon the energy for your spell. We live in a magical world, Aeron, surrounded by unseen powers and forces. Every living creature carries a spark of magic, but the very stones, earth, wind, and waters multiply this living magic a thousandfold."

"So magic comes from the land around us?"

"Yes and no. The life of the world around us is the power that makes magic possible, but it is a force without direction, without volition-unrealized potential. In order to tap this energy, we immerse ourselves in the Weave."

Aeron frowned, thinking. "Aren't magic and the Weave the same thing?"

"Almost, but not quite. The Weave is the soul of magic, the manifestation of all the untapped energy around us. It is the surface that we can perceive and shape to our purposes."

"I don't understand."

Fineghal steepled his long, graceful fingers before him. "A fire can be used for hundreds of useful things-warming you in the winter, cooking food, heating iron that it might be worked into useful shapes, and so on. You might say that wood contains the potential for fire, just as the world around us contains the potential for magic." The elf lord smiled and picked up a small piece of deadwood near his seat by the stream. He tossed it lightly to Aelies. "Cook your dinner with this stick."

Aeron shrugged and reached into his pouch to retrieve his flint and steel. Fineghal held up his hand and laughed. "Stop. What are you doing?"

"Getting my flint," Aeron replied, mystified.

"And why do you do that?"

"To start the wood burning, of course!"

"So, in order to release the potential within that branch, you must strike a spark. The fire within that old branch sleeps until you find a way to release it. Similarly, the Weave is the means by which the potential for magic is transformed into the shape a wizard seeks."

"I think I understand," Aeron said slowly.

"Now, wielding the Weave is only part of casting a spell. The other part is shaping the spell with your will. You've seen me gesture or heard me speak words under my breath when I work magic. I was creating the pattern for the magical energy to follow."

"You've lost me again," Aeron said bitterly.

Fineghal grimaced. "Here's another analogy. Let's say that you want to make a house. Living trees represent the unshaped potential, the raw magic, of your effort. The Weave shapes the living wood into a form you can work with, finished boards and planks ready for your hand. Finally you'll need tools and skill to work the finished wood into the form you desire. This is your spell."

Aeron nodded, imagining the work he'd put into crafting the bow strapped to his back. Magic required raw material and a tool to work it. That made sense. "Is there any difference in what kind of magic you gather or the tools you use to shape it?" he asked.

"Yes and no. The Weave is the same in all spells. But there are all kinds of purposes to which this energy may be bent-the dark magic of necromancy, the fragile veils of illusion, and so on. I have always studied the magic of wind, stone, fire, and water, the elements around us. Most of my learning lies in spells of this sort."

Fineghal pointed at the dark, cool stream beside them. "Here. Observe what I do." He fell silent, furrowing his brow in concentration. With one hand, he reached toward the water, his hand turned to one side. Aeron shivered as he felt the touch of magic at work, the cool flutter in the center of his chest. Fineghal murmured a few words in Elvish.

On the surface of the stream, a knuckle of water formed and then rose into the air, taking the shape of a slender arm and silvery hand. It hung, shimmering wetly in the air, defying gravity, as Fineghal continued to guide it with gentle motions of his hand. The watery hand reached out to touch Aeron's outstretched fingers. It felt cold and damp, but left no moisture on his hand. With a wry smile, Fineghal released his spell. The watery limb lost its cohesiveness, returning to the stream with a splash. Aeron grinned in childlike delight. "Bring it back!" he pleaded.

Fineghal shook his head. "Alas, I cannot."

"Have you exhausted the magic?"

The elf laughed. "No, not by any means. I could power a spell dozens of times greater than that with the magic that surrounds us in this place!"

"Then why can't you do it again?"

"Because I do not have that spell in my mind anymore. You see, Aeron, any wizard may speak a spell only once, and then it is gone. In shaping the magic, the tool is expended, destroyed, used up in the creation. A trained wizard, like myself, may hold dozens of spells in his mind, but each time I work magic, the shape of the spell vanishes." Fineghal glanced up, taking in Aeron's bewilderment. He sat back on his heels with a sigh. "One more analogy, then. A spell is like an arrow. Once you fire it from the bow of your mind, it is gone."

"But you can retrieve an arrow," Aeron said.

"Well, these arrows you cannot. If you have three spell arrows in your quiver, you can carry them with you indefinitely, but once you speak the words and shape the magic to give it form, a spell performs its purpose and vanishes. You'll have to make a new arrow in order to work that spell again."

"How do you do that?"

Fineghal groaned and rubbed at his temples. "By the stars, I forgot how many questions lived inside a young human. Trust me, Aeron, we'll get to that when it's time. Let's return to my original intent in this lesson, which was to show you how to speak a spell. Do you recall the words I spoke when I made the hand of water appear?"

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.

On one occasion early in the winter, a week or so before the end of the year, Fineghal sent Aeron to the tower library to search out a text on the ancient history of the elven folk. "You've asked me enough questions about the old lands of the elves," he said. "Go read about them for yourself." With an exasperated sigh, Aeron returned to the library and began to search for the text in question.

Fineghal's library was not very well organized. The ancient elf had read every tome within, and his memory for such things was so phenomenal that he almost never needed to refer to them again. Even if he did, the elven sorcerer welcomed the excuse to ransack his bookshelves and surprise himself with what he happened across while in search of the book he really wanted. Like him, Aeron could rarely resist the urge to rummage and wander through the hundreds of tomes, plates, and scrolls.

An hour or more passed as Aeron explored the depths of Fineghal's collection, browsing through a dozen books that had nothing whatsoever to do with elven history. He'd just given up on one corner of the shelf when he spied a slender spellbook in a tooled-leather jacket. "What's this?" he asked himself. Fishing it out, Aeron moved over in front of a window and began to page through it.

The cover was marked with an unknown wizard's sigil, but the frontispiece was a thin sheet of beaten gold, stamped with arcane lettering. Aeron peered at it for a moment before he recognized the script as ancient Elvish. "Rhymes of Magic and Wonder?" he murmured. "A bardic spellbook. ." His curiosity piqued, Aeron carried the book to a table and sat down to read. He skimmed over a pair of simple spells he already knew, past a dozen or more that he didn't, and then found himself hovering over a page marked, "The Changing of Form."

The changing of form, Aeron thought. He glanced out the window, where a lonely hawk wheeled and cried over the rocky cliffs. Involuntarily he glanced at the door, even though he knew Fineghal had left the tower to walk the nearby forest. So far, Aeron had spent his time working with lesser magics until he had a number of those well in hand. But this seemed a much more formidable spell, an enchantment of some potency. I wish I'd known how to do this when Raedel and his friends set after me last summer, he thought bitterly. To turn into a bird and fly away … or to change into a bear and tear their arms off, that would be something. I'd never need to fear him again.

"Fineghal would be angry," Aeron said aloud. He hadn't attempted to lock a spell in his mind using rhymes such as this book contained; he'd only attempted the feat with Fineghal's spell tokens. He took a deep breath and composed himself, studying the long set of lyrics, trying to impress them into his memory. After an hour, he finally rubbed his eyes and admitted defeat, leaning back. It's a rhyme, he thought. Maybe you commit it to memory by reading it aloud.

Steeling himself, Aeron began to read aloud the lilting words of the spell. Even as he spoke the first words, he sensed the gentle stirrings of the Weave at work, while the printing in the spellbook vanished as he read it. He recognized two unpleasant facts at the same time: first of all, he was actually casting the spell, not committing it to memory; second, he would have to read swiftly and certainly in order to finish it before the words vanished altogether. Trying to remain calm, Aeron picked up his pace, until the words tumbled from his mouth in a high-pitched declamation that rang throughout the tower.

A shimmering emerald glow began to play over his hands and arms. Aeron kept reading, pushing his wonder and growing fear to the back of his mind. He considered abandoning the enchantment altogether, but decided that he could carry through with it. "I can do it," he muttered aloud during a break in the lyrics. Then he plunged into the last stanza, blindly channeling all his strength into the effort before him.

He spoke the last word, and his world exploded into emerald agony. Terrible pains wracked his entire body, shooting through each joint. His skin flared with pain as if liquid fire had been poured over his body. Aeron screamed, and in midshriek, his howl changed to the raucous cry of a seabird. The pain receded almost as quickly as it had started, leaving him floundering on the floor awkwardly.

He blinked his eyes, trying to make sense of his surroundings. There was something wrong with his vision; the colors were washed out, and there seemed to be a dark bar in the center of his view, making it difficult to look straight ahead. He turned his head to one side, and suddenly realized that his body had changed to that of a seagull. It worked! he thought exultantly. Experimentally he spread his wings, wondering how one actually took flight.

His wing tips began to glow green. He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing but a squawk came out. The horrible agony of the change came over him again, even worse than before. In a matter of moments, his feathered wings shrank and vanished as he writhed on the floor. He thrashed his legs, but a dark, scaly coil twisted through his fading eyesight. When the pain stopped, he tried to right himself but only succeeded in rolling over. What am I now? he thought miserably. As it turned out, he didn't have time to concern himself with the question, since he started to change again almost immediately.

This time the green fire left him as some kind of mouse or rat, lost in the now titanic library. He chittered in fear and ran in a small circle, uncertain of whether he wanted to remain in this shape or to chance something worse. The spell gave him no choice, and after an eternity of bone-snapping agony, he found himself encased in an armored shell, with ridiculously tiny limbs.

Something seized him and lifted him into the air. From an impossible distance, Fineghal's face peered into his. The elf spoke, but Aeron heard not a sound. He tried to reply, but he couldn't tell if he'd even opened his mouth. With a thump, he was set down on the table, and he watched the gigantic figure gesticulate with his hands. The emerald aura flickered brightly, and Aeron endured one final transformation. When he was capable of coherent speech again, Aeron looked up shakily at Fineghal and said, "Thank you. How did you end it?"

"A simple dispelling," Fineghal snapped. "May I ask how you started it, Aeron?"

Weakly Aeron pointed at the leather-covered book. "I read it out of that tome."

Fineghal's eyes widened. "Do you have any idea how foolish that was? How easily you might have been killed? Think, Aeron! What if you had changed yourself into a fish? You would have asphyxiated right here on the floor!"

"I only wanted to see if I could do it," Aeron replied.

"Then why not throw yourself off the roof of the tower to see if you've learned to fly?" Fineghal barked.

"If you didn't want me to read some of these tomes, Fineghal, you should have warned me," Aeron retorted. "How was I to know that what I did was dangerous?"

"I placed more trust in your common sense." Fineghal snorted and turned away, examining the book. He looked at the blank page in disgust. "Do you realize that you also erased a very rare and valuable copy of that spell?"

"Erased? How?"

"It's possible to cast spells of this sort by reading them out of the book. But the magical energy must come from somewhere, so if it was not locked in your mind, it consumed itself. It is gone."

"I tried to memorize it, but I couldn't," Aeron said.

"That's simple. It was beyond your skill. That should have warned you against your course of action, Aeron." Fineghal sighed and sat down. He scratched Baillegh behind the ears, staring out the window for a long time before he looked back to Aeron. "Yet this was not entirely your fault. I too share some blame for this. I should have paid more attention to ensuring that you were aware of the dangers your studies may pose."

"I did not mean to erase your spell."

The elf lord glanced up at him. "I know you did not. But perhaps it is time for you to have a spellbook of your own. You've borrowed mine for long enough."

"I'll mark stones, like yours?"

"That depends. There are dozens of methods for recording the shape of a spell, Aeron. We taught the bards of old to keep their dweomers as poems in ancient Tel'Quessir, and many human wizards have borrowed from this tradition." Fineghal nodded at the spellbook open on the library table. "You have some passing familiarity with this now, I see."

"What's the best method?" Aeron asked.

"It depends on the wizard. I chose to mark signs on stones because it worked. . and so I carry a pouch of stones at my hip, and will do so for as long as I practice magic." Fineghal rose and moved to the door. He took down Aeron's bow from its place on the wall. "I've noticed that you are a fair hand at fletching."

"My father was a fletcher," Aeron replied. "And a bowmaker, too. Kestrel taught me some of my father's craft to help me honor his memory." He glanced at the weapon in Fineghal's hands, and the intent of the wizard's remark struck him. "Could I mark a spell on an arrow?" he wondered aloud.

"I'd use a length of wood a little shorter and stouter than an arrow's shaft, but the idea is sound," Fineghal replied. "The type of wood you choose, the way you shape it, the design you trace. . you could represent a complicated enchantment with ease."

"Do other wizards mark their spells in this way?" Fineghal smiled. "My master of old did, long years ago. He called them duarran glyphwoods." With a glance outside at the pale winter daylight, he continued. "It's an hour or two until nightfall. Why don't we see if you can find a form for the water hand in a piece of driftwood?"

Within a week, Aeron had carved his first three glyphwoods. As winter slowly slipped away and the rains of spring returned to the Maerchwood, he struggled to master as many of Fineghal's signs as the elf lord would allow, adding to his store of knowledge. With painstaking care, he crafted a sturdy leather pouch to hold the duarran and wove simple spells of preservation and protection over the growing collection.

Despite Aeron's progress, or perhaps because of it, Fineghal began to exercise more control over the spells that Aeron chose to study. A number of the elf lord's sigils marked spells of war, enchantments that could wreak grievous harm to the wizard's enemies by fire, lightning, ice, or subtle terrors of the mind. But Fineghal discouraged Aeron from these enchantments, giving him instead spells of learning, concealment, and evasion. Aeron ached to wrestle with more difficult topics, but Fineghal simply deflected him with more reading, more research, and quiet challenges to learn more of the forest around him.

Finally Aeron openly broached the matter as they gathered their traveling gear and prepared to leave Caerhuan for the summer. "I would like to study some new spells," he told Fineghal. "The incandescent missile, or maybe the charm of blindness."

Fineghal considered in silence as he pondered which of his books to take with him. "Those are dangerous enchantments," he said at length.

"I'm ready for them. They're within my skill."

"I do not doubt that, Aeron. I suspect you have learned your lesson about tampering with magic beyond your abilities. However, I question the wisdom of teaching you spells of that sort."

"Why? I wouldn't use them wrongly."

Fineghal gave up on the bookshelf and turned his full attention to Aeron, his face taut and serious. "Some would say that any use of those spells is wrong. Wielding magic as a weapon demonstrates shortsightedness, a weakness of the will. There is always a better way."

"But many of your spells are meant for battle," Aeron said. "No one would dare raise his hand against you."

Fineghal snorted. "I learned the greater portion of those many years ago, Aeron, when I was not so old or wise as I am now. And my skill in battle, such as it is, has provoked more fights than it's deterred."

"If I do find myself in a fight, wouldn't it be common sense to know a spell or two that can end it quickly? I don't want to be able to kill people with a word. I just want to know that I can defend myself if I have to."

"Answer me this, Aeron: If you had no spell that could serve as a weapon, would you seek out a fight or avoid it?"

Aeron snorted. "Avoid it, of course."

"That's why I'm hesitant to teach you spells that might lead you into a fight you can't win. If you know you cannot prevail, you'll make sure that you don't find yourself in a dangerous situation. In my experience, if you give a boy a sword, he starts thinking that it's the answer to any problem that comes along." Fineghal glanced away, rubbing his temple. "You're young yet, Aeron. Despite your best intentions, you're impulsive and rash. I'd rather not encourage these traits if I can help it."

"You've used your magic in battle before, haven't you?" Aeron pressed. "Were you wrong when you did that?"

"I won't be baited, Aeron," Fineghal said sharply. "The matter is closed. Now, make certain that you have packed the books you wish to study over the next few weeks."

Aeron bit off his response and stomped away. Some mage he'd be if he was beaten to a bloody pulp by the first brigand to corner him, a headful of safe and useless spells in his mind!

He resolved to change Fineghal's mind one way or another. For the next few weeks, he badgered the elven lord several times a day on the topic, until even Fineghal's elven patience began to wear thin. The unfinished argument soured Aeron's taste for elven lore, and their wanderings in the Maerchwood's golden glens and green hills became a series of tedious hikes and silent, tense evenings by the campfire. Aeron knew his limits. He was capable of mastering the enchantments in question and had the common sense not to use them unless he had to. Fineghal's suspicion and reticence abraded his nerves and challenged him to show that he was more advanced than the elf lord believed.

The festival of Midsummer approached, a time of dancing and celebration in Aeron's home. For the first time in his studies, loneliness crept into his heart. Even though his mind was fully engaged each and every day with the boundless learning Fineghal offered him, Aeron still missed Kestrel and Eriale. I'd be a dead man if I returned to Maerchlin and Phoros caught me, he decided. But what if I could ensure that I wouldn't be caught? I could come and go as I pleased.

Fineghal was still in the habit of setting off by himself for a day or two, leaving Aeron in the campsite they'd last moved to. For months now, he'd allowed Aeron to keep one or two of his spellstones at a time in order to create a glyphwood of his own based on Fineghal's token. Over the spring, Aeron had recorded a dozen spells in this way, including a minor illusion that could change the appearance of an object. This was the key element in his plan.

The green, humid heat of Flamerule found wizard and student in the cascade-misted glen where Aeron and Eriale had met Fineghal. After a few days of exploring the nearby area and discussing elven history by night, Fineghal decided to cross the forest to check on the western woodlands. "I may rest under a different tree every night for my spirit's ease, but I roam the Maerchwood to watch over it as well," he said as they rested by the stream that evening. "I have a feeling that trouble's brewing near Oslin, and I'd better go look into it."

"Can I come?" Aeron asked hopefully.

Fineghal shook his head. "No. I mean to travel fast and return within a day or two. And to be honest, I want to strike a little fear into the hearts of those bandit lords who are cutting into the forest, and it's better if I don't have to watch out for you as well. You'll be fine here."

"Hmmmph. I guess so." Aeron's heart skipped as he realized that this was the opportunity he'd waited for. Calming himself, he asked, "May I study the spider's climb while you're away? I'd like to carve another glyphwood."

Fineghal glanced up absently. "Of course. I should have no need of it. Help yourself."

Aeron stood, dusted off the seat of his breeches, and moved over to the pouch that held Fineghal's spells. The wizard had set it down near his bedroll. Deliberately suppressing the urge to steal a guilty look over his shoulder, Aeron spoke the word of passage necessary to open the pouch and reached within, feeling for the desired stone. His fingers brushed over the cool blue slate that held the spell of spider's climb.. and moved on to grasp the stone called the fire hand. He removed both stones, concealing the fire stone in his sleeve.

From his left sleeve, he removed a red, egg-shaped rock that was a perfect duplicate for fire hand. He'd used his spell of seeming to create the fake earlier that day. Unless Fineghal actually examined that particular stone, he'd never detect Aeron's theft. Shaking like a leaf, he closed the pouch and straightened.

"Find it?"

Aeron gave Fineghal a nervous smile and showed him the blue stone marked with the climbing spell. The second spellstone was hidden in his sleeve. "Right here. I think red maple would suit it well."

"For your glyphwood? Yes, that should work." If Fineghal suspected anything, he showed no outward sign of it, and with no further words, he returned his attention to the smooth stones of the spell he readied. Aeron quickly retreated to his place by the fire, his heart pounding. He was horrified by his own audacity, but now that he had taken this step, he'd have to work fast to copy both spells before Fineghal returned.

At length, Fineghal dropped the stones he held back into his pouch, picked up his few belongings, and whistled to Baillegh. The white wolfhound shook herself and stood, tail wagging. "No time like the present, as humans are wont to say," Fineghal said. "Be careful not to stray too far from the vale, Aeron. You're near Maerchlin, and you never know when one of the lord's men might be about. I should be back in a day or two." He touched his hand to his brow in the silent farewell of the elves and vanished into the starlit night.

Aeron waited an hour, to make certain that Fineghal was well on his way. When he was sure that he wouldn't be caught, he slipped fire hand from his sleeve. The stone seemed a hot accusation in his hand. With a scowl, he silenced his reservations and began his work. If he finished the fire spell but didn't master the spider climb, he could tell Fineghal that he'd had trouble with the translation, gaining an extra few days to finish his study of the spell sigils. "I'll need a wood that burns clean and hot," he murmured, considering the spellstone. "A dry old bit of deadwood, maybe hickory. And I'll need to find a way to keep it away from the rest of my glyphwoods." He couldn't ever let Fineghal see the duarran he'd make from the stolen stone.

Of course, there was also the question of how he would smuggle fire hand back into Fineghal's pouch without alerting the wizard. Cold apprehension gripped Aeron's heart as he realized the depth of his duplicity. It might have been a petty theft, one that would do Fineghal no harm at all, but the elven lord trusted him. Stilling the protests of his conscience, Aeron stood and began to search for a suitable length of wood.