The Shadow Stone

Eight

No sign of the creature was ever found. Melisanda's novitiate examination was delayed by the death of the Master Abjurer, the extensive interrogations that she and Aeron endured, and the chaotic maneuverings of electing a replacement to the college's Ruling Council. Classes and lectures were suspended for a week as the masters debated, schemed, formed alignments, and broke them, and finally elevated a senator's son to the council. Students and novices alike waited nervously, although Aeron noticed that Dalrioc spent much of his time conferring with the masters. Supposedly no student had any say in how the masters managed their affairs, but the prince of Soorenar could and did make his voice heard.

A few days after the ceremony of advancement, Aeron was surprised to receive a summons from Lord Telemachon. When a High Master sent for a novice, the fish dropped what he was doing and answered the call, so Aeron trotted over to the Masters' Hall with all due haste. The hall felt silent and suspicious, still simmering with the unresolved arguments and the disturbing circumstances of Master Raemon's death. He went straight to Telemachon's chambers. "Lord Telemachon? You sent for me?"

The Master Diviner sat immersed in a sea of musty tomes, crackling yellow scrolls, and old rag-paper books stitched to wooden covers. His own personal library was quite extensive, but he had doubled its size since Aeron had last been in his chambers. Telemachon was visibly fatigued; dark bags pouched under his eyes, and he wheezed with each breath. The diviner frowned and looked up from his book. "Aeron. Have a seat."

The novice carefully cleared a leather chair and sat down. "Thank you, my lord."

"As Fineghal foretold, you have demonstrated great promise as a mage," the old wizard began. "While you still need to work on your mundane lessons, particularly your command of Untheric and Old Rauric, I understand that your spellcasting skills are without equal among the novices. Therefore, you will stand for your novitiate examination at the end of the week."

Aeron glanced up, his eyes alight. "I'm ready."

"Of course you're ready. I know that you can pass the examination easily, or I wouldn't have challenged you to attempt it. We'll observe the forms, but you need to be instructed as a student, not as a novice."

"Yes, my lord."

"I didn't expect this so soon, Aeron," Telemachon said, meeting Aeron's eyes. "But several students are about to graduate, and we expect to place some new fish soon, so there's no sense in holding you back. Most of the High Masters favored accepting you as a student based on your performance so far."

Aeron assented with a nod. He knew he could learn more as a student. . and it would incense Dalrioc Corynian if Aeron climbed from the ranks of the novices to the exalted status of student. It also meant that he could remain close to Melisanda. "I won't fail, Lord Telemachon."

The old wizard leaned back behind his desk, studying Aeron. "Are you certain you've recovered from your harrowing experience of a week ago?"

"Yes, my lord. I was not injured."

"Through auguries and divinations, we've gleaned some information about the creature that attacked Master Raemon," Telemachon said. "It was a yugoloth, a supernatural horror from black dimensions beyond the circles of the world. A powerful fiend indeed."

Aeron straightened in his seat. "How could such a creature appear in the middle of the college?"

"Obviously it was summoned here," Telemachon said, a trace of irritation in his voice. "There are a number of wizards among us capable of such a feat, which leaves us to ponder the reason of it, not the means."

"I've been told that the ruins of the pyramid are dangerous. Could Master Raemon simply have stumbled across something better left undisturbed?"

"Perhaps," Telemachon said without expression. "Yet I find it curious that a powerful mage, one of the best among us, should simply happen to be abroad in the tower's ruins on such a night, and that he should happen to disturb something, and that the thing he unleashed should happen to be a creature capable of destroying him. . and that his death should happen to occur in front of two defenseless novices, conveniently located to observe that no one else was near to rend Raemon limb from limb."

"You suspect foul play?" Aeron asked.

"Suffice it to say that I find the circumstances of Master Raemon's demise to be suspicious," Telemachon replied.

"But who would kill him, and why?"

Telemachon shrugged. "That," he said, "is what we still need to learn. Although it does not escape my notice that Raemon was one of nine members of the Ruling Council, a supporter of the Sceptanar, and that he has been replaced by Andreseus, who is a lord and senator of the city. With one unfortunate encounter, the balance of power has shifted."

"You don't think one of the masters favoring the senate killed him, do you?"

The High Diviner turned a frigid gaze on Aeron, the weakness and fatigue of his manner sloughing away to reveal an iron will beneath. "Novice Aeron, it is unwise in the extreme to speak such accusations of a High Master. The affairs of the Ruling Council are not the concern of novice or student. Do I make myself clear?"

Aeron recoiled. "Yes, my lord," he muttered. "Lord Telemachon. . neither Melisanda or I had any part in this."

Imperceptibly the diviner's ire softened. "I know, Aeron. I suspect you were simply moved into place as one might move a piece on a chessboard. Some of my compatriots are not so certain of that." He settled his bulk into his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him, turning his gaze out the window. "Have you considered which colors you want to wear when you become a student?" he asked suddenly.

"No, my lord. I haven't thought that far ahead. Illusion and invocation are my strongest disciplines." Aeron paused and added, "A few weeks ago, Oriseus told me that he wanted me to consider conjuration as my school of choice."

Telemachon scowled. "Oriseus wants you, eh?"

"He said my talents lent themselves to summonings."

"Do you feel that is true?"

"No other master has encouraged me to choose another school, my lord. I hadn't wielded many conjuration spells before I came here; the spells I studied under Fineghal were invocations that relied on the elements around me, or illusions crafted from my own force of will." He shrugged. "I think I could choose any school except necromancy and do well, but I'd do best in illusion or invocation."

"I believe so, too, Aeron. Master Sarim is a good man, one of the best here. Think on the yellow of invocation."

Aeron smiled thinly. Invocation, the direct manipulation of the Weave through natural forces such as wind or fire, had always been his strong suit. "I will," he promised.

Telemachon nodded and drew his hand over his face, dismissing Aeron with a wave. "You are excused from your classes for the rest of the week in order to prepare. You and Melisanda will take the examination together, along with Briet from Crown Hall. Now go study. You have no excuse for a mediocre showing."

As Telemachon advised, Aeron secluded himself for the rest of the week, throwing himself into his studies and preparing for the examination. Traditionally the test lasted three days; most novices could not hold more than two or three spells in their mind at once, and since the test consisted of demonstrating at least one spell from each of the eight disciplines, the prospective student was allowed to rest and study the next spells he would have to cast during the course of the examination. Aeron probably could have managed all eight in a single day, but it would have sorely tested his limits, so he decided to take full advantage of the examination's generous rules.

The first morning, Aeron, Melisanda, and the third novice reported to a small chamber in the college's academic halls, where they were called upon to perform extensive translations of documents in Thorass and Untheric. Aeron passed these with fair marks, although he was allowed a chance to gain some additional credit by demonstrating his familiarity with Espruar.

In the afternoon, the three novices took turns casting spells before the assembled masters of the Ruling Council in the college's council chambers. This was the first time Aeron had set foot in the room, and he found it intimidating. The chamber was floored in dark, rich hardwood, and the masters' seats were gleaming, paneled boxes carved with ornate figures. While the college masters were sometimes less than punctual about attending other duties, the novitiate examination was considered a serious matter, and all nine High Masters were present. Oriseus offered Aeron a sly grin when his turn came, but Telemachon and the others showed no partiality.

Aeron had decided to get the more difficult spells out of the way first. He started with the only necromantic spell he'd yet mastered, a baleful spell known as the cold grasp. He performed it flawlessly. Without pause, he moved on to a basic abjuration, a barrier against evil. For his final effort of the day, he demonstrated the spell of opening, the alteration he'd used to escape Raedel Keep months ago. In all three cases, he passed with flying colors.

On the following day, his morning was consumed by an extensive oral examination on the theory, practice, and ethics of magic, administered by one of the lesser masters. Again, Aeron passed without note. That afternoon, before the Ruling Council, he cast his spells of conjuration, enchantment, and divination. Melisanda struggled with her castings that day, and the third novice, Briet, fell short in his last spell, failing the examination. He was sent back to his classes with the rest of the novices.

On the third day, Aeron suffered through an interminable grilling on the fine points of Chessentan history, geography, and lines of descent, barely passing. But he saved his best spells for that day, proving his command over illusion magics by working the charm of invisibility, and then showing his affinity for invocations by casting fire hand. When he finished, the guardsmen showed him to a small antechamber to await the council's judgment.

Fifteen minutes later, he was called back into the council chamber. Telemachon, Oriseus, and the other masters watched as Aeron bowed and announced himself. "Novice Aeron at your service, my lords," he said.

Telemachon stood slowly and glanced down at a piece of paper before him. "Novice Aeron, you have passed the novitiate examination. You no longer have any assigned classes; as a proven wizard, you may pursue your studies by arranging to study under any High Master you wish."

"Although you should keep working on your history," the sardonic Master Enchanter remarked.

Telemachon resumed. "Have you decided which discipline you will devote yourself to?"

Aeron drew a deep breath. "My lords, if the council favors it, I will study in the School of Invocation under Master Sarim." He noticed Oriseus's face darken for a moment, but the Master Conjuror quickly recovered.

The assembled masters turned to a tall, muscular Calishite in their midst. He wore yellow robes with a topaz hood draped over his shoulders. He smiled and nodded. "The Master Invoker is glad to accept Student Aeron into the School of Invocation," Sarim answered.

Telemachon waited a moment for any other remarks and rapped a small scepter against the lectern before him. "Very well. By decree of the council, Novice Aeron is raised to the standing of student, and his studies now fall under the purview of the High Master of Invocation. Congratulations."

"Thank you, my lords," Aeron said.

"Come see me first thing tomorrow, Aeron," Master Sarim added. "We will speak of your next endeavors. I look forward to working with you."

Aeron bowed once more and withdrew, a spring in his step. Look out, Dalrioc, he thought. I'm not your captive any longer. On his way out, he found Melisanda waiting in the antechamber. She looked anxiously at his face as he left the council rooms. "Did you pass?" she asked.

Aeron couldn't keep the grin from his face. "Easily. And you?"

The Vilhonese girl smiled, too. "No problem." With an impish laugh, she caught him by the arm, and they paraded back to the Students' Hall, ignoring the soft spring rain that had started to fall over the college grounds.

The elevation of novice to student was a cause for celebration, and the other Sword Hall novices swept the new students away from the college grounds to commemorate the occasion with an evening's revelry in the city's livelier quarter. Although he had no idea where to go or what to do, Aeron allowed the carousers to drag him along as they set out into the city.

The night was still and damp, with a fine, cool rain drifting down in gray mist gathering on every surface. It was cold, but not bitterly so, and for a short time, the silver fog concealed the grime and wear of the city in a delicate shroud. They reeled from tavern to tavern, finally ending up in a respectable taphouse called The Rampant Lion.

The college's students and novices were familiar with many of the alehouses ringing Old Cimbar's acropolis, and the Lion was one of their favorites.

Inside, a merry fire crackled in the common room's stone hearth, and dozens of merchants, officers, and ribald rakes shouted, laughed, and drank their fill. The Lion didn't cater to the laborers and longshoremen of the docks; the patrons' belts were heavy with silver and gold, and they paid well to drink in fine company. Aeron tried not to gawk as they pushed through the crowded room toward a private booth. His companions might have been accustomed to taverns such as The Rampant Lion, but the taproom in Maerchlin was the limit of his experience.

"What do you think, Aeron?" asked Baldon, nudging him with an elbow. He nodded toward a dark-haired barmaid whose dress displayed her charms to great advantage. "Isn't this a great place?"

Aeron concentrated on pints of Threskelan ale. Although the novices were about the youngest of the tavern's patrons, he did see a few noble rakes not much older than himself come and go through the course of the evening. After a few pints, he stopped caring. In an hour or so, the Sword Hall novices were roaring with laughter and pounding their mugs on the table for more.

"Congratulations, Aeron," Melisanda said. "You are no longer Dalrioc Corynian's flogging post." The other novices had turned their attention to a contest of bawdy songs. Her pale, fine-featured face was flushed with drink. She straightened, smoothed her dress, and stood with a little unsteadiness. "Well, the hour's late. I think I'm going to head back to the college."

"Not alone, you aren't," he stated. "These streets aren't safe."

"You might recall that I know some magic," she said.

"Why take chances?" Aeron rose, somewhat unevenly, and settled his tab and Melisanda's as well. Their hallmates were just getting started and had found a couple of friendly dancing girls to hoot and holler over. Baldon, Eldran, and the others hardly even noticed as the two new students said their good-nights and found their way to the street.

Aeron insisted on hiring a passing carriage. The cool air reminded him of just how much he had had to drink, and everything seemed too sharp, too well defined. When he turned his head his entire field of vision seemed to stagger and swim. "The university," he ordered in a firm voice, and burst out laughing a moment later. Melisanda joined him.

The driver rolled his eyes and flicked the reins. The carriage lurched into motion, throwing Melisanda against Aeron. That started another round of laughter as the horse's hooves clopped on the cobblestones and wet snowflakes swirled in the air. Aeron glanced over at Melisanda. She was looking up into the warm, dark clouds overhead, ruddied by the countless lights and lanterns of the city. Her dark eyes and slender features took his breath away, and his heart hammered in his chest.

Aeron reached out and pulled Melisanda close, circling her slim body with his arms as he kissed her soundly. She gasped in surprise, but leaned into him for a long, perfect moment before suddenly pushing herself away. "Oh, Aeron. Why did you do that?" she said quietly.

He gazed into her eyes until she looked away. "I love you, Melisanda. I've never known anyone like you." The wine in his head and heart emboldened him, unfettering the adoration he felt for her. He leaned forward to take her in his arms again.

Melisanda held up her hands and shied away. "No, Aeron. That's the wine talking."

"No! I love you. I've loved you since I first set eyes on you, Melisanda." Aeron caught her hands in his. "I'd feel the same, drunk or sober."

Melisanda turned her gaze to the black sweep of the harbor to their left as they climbed the steep streets leading to the college. Dim lanterns bobbed on ships at anchor, far beyond their sight. "Aeron, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. You're my friend, and I care for you. . but I don't love you, not the way you want me to. Please, try to put it out of your mind. I couldn't stand not having you as a friend."

Aeron started to speak, trying to think of something he could say to convince her that she didn't understand, but his rational mind asserted itself through the fire in his heart. In the space of a heartbeat, the world dropped out from beneath him, leaving him with a great hollow hurt in the center of his chest and a face burning with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he managed.

"I know. Let's just forget about it." Melisanda tried to smile, but Aeron could see the wariness in her eyes. Regardless of what she said, neither of them would simply forget what had happened.

The coach clattered to a halt. With a sigh, the driver hopped down and offered his hand to Melisanda. She stepped away quickly, distancing herself as she wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered. The driver offered Aeron a blank shrug. "That's twenty talents, m'lord."

Although it emptied his purse, Aeron didn't even notice the lordly cost of the ride. Melisanda waited for him but did not speak as she turned and headed toward the college gate. He bowed his head and followed.

Head pounding from an excess of strong ale, Aeron dragged himself out of bed the following morning and dressed himself. It took him a moment to get his bearings, and when he sat up and swung his feet to the cold stone floor, his head still seemed to swim a little. He buried his head in his hands and groaned as the details of his encounter with Melisanda returned to his mind. There was a hot ache in his heart that had nothing to do with the drinking he'd done the night before. I should have known I wasn't good enough for her, he thought angrily. A high-born noblewoman! What was I thinking about? Melisanda had told him once that the college made no distinctions based on race or rank, but she'd remembered her station quickly enough.

Aeron might have fumed in his room for hours, but a sharp knock sounded at the door. One of the college servants appeared, a gold-hued bundle in his arms. "Excuse me, Student Aeron. Your new garments, sir." He hung a tabard of rich yellow brocade with a matching cap in Aeron's armoire. Despite his ferocious hangover, Aeron smiled in satisfaction. The servant bowed and added, "The respects of High Master Sarim. He awaits your pleasure, sir."

Aeron groaned. Sarim had wanted to see him first thing! One glance at the window told him that half the morning was gone already. As the servant withdrew, Aeron rose, scrubbed his face in the basin of cold water he kept by the door, and dressed. He belted the tabard over his tunic and donned the cap, enjoying the moment despite his tardiness, and then hurried out of the room.

He found the Calishite master in one of the laboratories of the academic halls, engaged in an esoteric conversation with a young student of abjuration. Sarim was a tail, well-built man with a broad chest and a handsome coffee-hued face. "Good morning, Aeron. I see you've finally decided to accept my invitation."

Aeron bowed awkwardly. "I beg your pardon, Master, but-"

The Calishite laughed and waved his hand. "Do not concern yourself, Aeron. I understand perfectly. The passage from novice to student is worthy of celebration, and from what I hear, you do not indulge yourself in such activities often. Come, let us walk for a while." Aeron followed as Sarim excused himself. They stepped out into the soft, still morning, admiring the first green buds of ivy appearing on the college buildings. Sarim headed toward the open ramparts facing the sea, hands clasped behind his back. "So tell me, Aeron, why did you choose invocation?"

"I felt it was my strongest school, my lord."

"When we are alone, you may call me Sarim. I do not stand on formality." He flashed an easy grin at Aeron and continued. "I have seen that you are very skilled, Aeron. But I want to know why you think that invocations are your strong point. You could have done well in any school."

"Invocation is. . direct," Aeron said slowly. "The spells of this school are tangible, forces you can touch with your hands and shape with your will. Fire, wind, ice, and energy are all weapons. You can measure yourself by the control and discipline you achieve in wielding them."

Sarim glanced at Aeron. "I will not measure you by those standards, Aeron."

"No, but I will."

"That is your right." The Master Invoker paused by the stair that led down to the harbor landing, looking out over the city. "As a student, Aeron, you are free to pursue any endeavor that catches your interest. Read any text you wish, seek any knowledge that appeals to you. Set your own hours. The only limits placed on your learning are those that you choose for yourself. Once a quarter, you will stand before a board of masters to explain the studies you intend and to demonstrate that you continue to progress. I consider it advisable for you to meet with me or the other masters of invocation, Lady Silna or Master Derrin, two or three times a week, but if you offer me good enough reason, I will set aside even this minimal requirement."

"What should I study?" Aeron asked.

"Whatever you like, as long as it is within your skill." Sarim turned a serious look on Aeron.

"When do I start?" Aeron asked.

"Today is as good a day as any," Sarim replied. "I will meet you in the academic hall two hours after noon to show you the basics of a few advanced wind spells I don't think you've seen yet. Between now and then, I think you should visit the library and spend some time reading up on your history. And you might also call on some of the other masters and arrange for lessons in the fields you feel you need to work on."

Aeron grimaced. That was a full week's work right there! And he understood that Sarim had offered him this schedule to help him get his feet under him. Within a month, he'd be expected to keep himself this busy. But even as the specter of long nights and days upon days in the library intimidated him, he also felt some deep part of his heart igniting to the challenge. No waiting for his slower classmates to catch up to him; no time wasted in lectures that reviewed what he already knew; the freedom to attack any topic that caught his interest. His grimace spread to a smile. "I'll be ready," he promised Sarim.

As the final weeks of winter passed, Aeron immersed himself in his new studies. He had few other alternatives. As a student, he was strongly discouraged from associating with those who had been his friends when he was a novice. Since he'd advanced so quickly, there weren't any students he had known as a hallmate, other than Melisanda. Given the cold rift between them, Aeron couldn't stand to be in the same room with her.

Spring came fully to Cimbar as the month of Ches passed. The city was scoured by winds even more fierce than those that had whipped over the barren rock in the depths of winter, but these winds were warm and heavy with rain, not sharp and dry. Wet snow and freezing rain gave way to endless showers, leaving the college grounds a black mire that could pull off a boot if one stepped from the cobbled paths. Aeron began to grow restless, anxious to feel the warm sun on his face again. He'd been immured within the college's dark stone halls for almost five months now.

On the first day of Mirtul, Aeron found himself studying into the late hours of the evening. He finished struggling through a recent copy of an old Mulhorandi text on the wizards of ancient Raumanthar and wandered over to the library to replace it. The musty smell of old books, the endless aisles of gleaming wooden shelves, and the unearthly silence of the chamber always soothed him. He'd come to know the place well in his months at the college, and these days he probably spent more time here than he did in his room. Absently he made his way to the shelf from which he'd taken the treatise and put it back.

Aeron had run across some interesting references in the book. Although the modern copy was only about a century old, the original manuscript had been penned a few years before the wars that destroyed Raumanthar more than fourteen centuries ago. He searched the nearby shelves for some of the texts mentioned by the ancient Mulhorandi writer, with little luck. He turned his attention to the extensive scroll racks along one wall of the library. Aeron flinched at the imposing wall full of scroll cases, but he patiently set to work.

After a long hour of examining librarians' cryptic notes, Aeron finally tracked down one of the scrolls he sought. He pulled it from its place in the rack with care; it was as long as his forearm and weighed ten pounds or more. He carried it over to a table in a dark corner and spread it out to make sure he'd got the right one. The text was in a language he'd never seen before. "What in Faerun?" he murmured. It seemed that the wrong scroll had been placed in the case.

Aeron shrugged and started to roll up the parchment again, thinking that he would bring the matter to the attention of the Master Librarian in the morning. Then his eye fell on a cryptic set of marks at the top of the page. The runes were oddly curved and punctuated with weird whorls and dots. He frowned. Something about the writing seemed familiar, although he was certain he'd never seen any example of this language in print. Where could he have seen something like this?

His heart lurched in his chest and he gasped in shock. He remembered where he'd seen it, all right-gracing the dull silver band that circled the claw of the creature that killed Master Raemon! The ominous runes in front of his eyes returned his thoughts to the frigid night in the ruins of the pyramid. He glanced around involuntarily to see if any monstrous things lurked in the dark aisles between the bookshelves, but the library was silent and empty.

With trembling fingers, he unrolled more of the parchment. "What is this?" he whispered. The familiarity of the runes was one thing, but without any idea of the language, he had no idea what they meant. He scanned ahead, despairing of ever solving the riddle-and then he saw his key. A second column of text began, running parallel to the unreadable glyphs. A translation into Old Rauric! I might be able to read it, Aeron thought.

Quickly he bundled up the new scroll he'd found, stuffed it under his cloak, and hurried out of the library. Aeron returned to his room and spread out the Rauric text, rummaging for some rag paper and a quill to begin his transliteration of the document.

In less than ten minutes, he gave up, his heart sinking. The scroll was encrypted in some unknown cipher. Whatever knowledge the mysterious runes and whorls held, it was not meant to be read casually. Aeron frowned, trying to decide what to do.

Blam! A massive fist rocked Aeron's writing desk through the wall, stunning him. Angry and frightened voices replaced the laughter outside. "What in the world are they up to out there?" he wondered aloud. He rose and stuck his head out the door.

As he expected, Baldon and Eldran were at the bottom of it. The far end of the hall was smoking with an acrid reek, and the walls and floor were marked with sooty streaks. A couple of small fires burned up and down the hall, adding to the smoke and stink. Aeron looked at Baldon. "What was that?" he asked.

"Oh, sorry, Aeron. Eldran and I were trying to work a spell, and-"

"I can see that. What happened?"

"I mispronounced a word, and he tried to correct me in the middle of the invocation." Baldon grinned sheepishly. "We got a little more than we bargained for."

"I'll say you did, you goat-brained fish!" Roaring in anger, Dalrioc Avan strode out of the smoke, his fine garb smoking from several burned patches. Aeron started to laugh at the comical scene, but the guffaw died in his throat when he saw the look in Dalrioc's face. The older student was enraged beyond reason. With contempt, he raised his hands and barked a harsh syllable, sending streaks of magical energy darting at both novices. Eldran was struck in the midsection; he clutched his belly and dropped to his knees, groaning. Baldon tried to twist away, but the streaking energy curved to follow him and charred a fist-sized patch of his shoulder. He screamed, staggering against the wall.

"Dalrioc! Have you lost your mind? That spell can kill!" Aeron found himself in the middle of the hall, facing the prince, before he even realized he'd moved. "For Azuth's sake, they're just novices! They didn't mean it!"

"Out of my way, peasant!" Dalrioc bellowed. "I'm going to see that they never befoul my hall again!"

"I agree that they should be punished, Dalrioc, but not with deadly force," Aeron began.

The Corynian prince ignored him and pushed by. He seized Eldran by the shoulders, raised him from the floor, and kicked him in the belly, right where his spell had struck. Eldran coughed and crumpled, retching. Dalrioc drew his foot back to kick the novice on the ground.

Anger ignited in Aeron's heart. When Dalrioc leaned back to kick the novice again, Aeron dropped and scissored his legs through the prince's, toppling him to the cold stone floor. The older student flailed in anger, twisted quickly, and barked the words for another spell. With one hand, he grasped Aeron's ankle, and a fat blue spark of energy flashed. Aeron was hurled backward as every muscle in his body spasmed at once. He crumpled against the wall, the smell of his own burning flesh in his nose. "You dare to strike me?" Dalrioc snarled, surging to his feet. "You dare?"

Shaking his head, Aeron looked up just in time to see the prince spinning to lash a kick at his head. He held his hand up, palm outward, and spoke a single word. A circular field of gleaming force sprang from his hand, creating a lambent shield that halted Dalrioc's kick with the mass of a stone wall. The prince recoiled, staggering back a few steps, and Aeron pushed himself to his feet, his mind racing. What next? Dalrioc was almost frothing at the mouth. He'd use any spell at his command and damn the consequences. Aeron needed to either subdue him quickly or leave … but if he fled, the prince might take out his anger on Baldon and Eldran, neither of whom could defend himself.

Dalrioc narrowed his eyes, glaring at Aeron. Deliberately he crooked his hands and started to bark out the words of another spell. Aeron started his own enchantment, but the prince finished first. With a sulfurous stink, a small, warty thing with the jaws of a bulldog and fangs like needles appeared in the hallway. It snuffled and growled. "Kill him!" Dalrioc screamed, pointing at Aeron. The creature bunched its stringy muscles and leapt with impossible speed and precision, jaws gaping. .

. . right into Aeron's counterspell. He'd meant it for Dalrioc, but the summoned horror seemed a more immediate threat. Seizing the Weave's delicate currents with unconscious ease, he braided them into a roaring jet of flame that burst out from his hands. It struck directly in the creature's face, impaling it on a lance of white agony. The thing discorporated with an agonized howl. Behind the creature, Dalrioc retreated a few steps and shielded himself from the heat, but the billowing fires scorched him badly.

Aeron blinked to clear his eyes, trying to get a good look at Dalrioc. A seething green sphere of acid came hurtling from the smoke, but Aeron's shield still held, and the corrosive splashed harmlessly against the wall. It sizzled and smoked fiercely, adding to the stink. Aeron closed his eyes, hummed, and quickly grasped the chords of magic that flowed through the living hearts nearby, working a spell of sleep, but Dalrioc's force of will was too great to overcome, and the prince shrugged off his attempt. With a malevolent grin, Dalrioc spoke a few harsh words and crushed Aeron's shield with a countermagic spell. "You'll rue the day you ever crossed my path," he crowed. He began another spell.

"Believe me, I already do," Aeron replied. He was running out of options quickly. Do I dare to attack with any more deadly spells of my own? he thought. Ignoring the hot pain that burned in his injured leg, he searched desperately for the right spell. Wait. . perfect! Aeron reached out and summoned the energy for a spell of blindness, and this time he beat Dalrioc to the punch. He danced aside and called, "You can't hit what you can't see, Dalrioc!"

The prince howled in rage as Aeron wrested his sight away, losing the spell he was attempting to cast. He thrashed helplessly for a moment. "Damn you, Aeron! This is a coward's trick!"

"Well, you should have saved your counterspell instead of wasting it on my shield," Aeron replied. "Now can we put a stop to this?"

Dalrioc uttered a vile curse and started to speak again. Aeron realized that the prince was working another counter. I didn't think he would commit it to his mind twice, Aeron thought. In just a moment, the prince would dispel Aeron's charm of blindness and resume the fight.

Aeron scowled. Enough was enough. He took three strides forward as Dalrioc finished his countermagic. The prince's sight returned just as Aeron's hard-driven boot caught him in the belly. Dalrioc doubled over, and Aeron delivered the best uppercut he could throw, dropping Dalrioc to the floor. Aeron stood over his fallen foe, fists raised, ready to continue if Dalrioc had any more fight left in him. "Come on!" he shouted. "Get up!"

"That," drawled a cold voice behind him, "will be quite enough of that."

Aeron turned and found himself facing Lord Oriseus. The High Conjuror's face, normally so mobile and insincere, was fixed in an icy glare.

"My lord! I-" Aeron began.

"Explanations are neither necessary or desired, student. There is no excuse for this sort of behavior. Deadly spells are just that-deadly. Either one of you might have been hurt, maimed, or killed. We will not have our students brawling like common drunkards in a filthy taphouse!"

Aeron stepped away from Dalrioc. "Yes, my lord," he said.

Oriseus contemptuously surveyed the scene. Baldon slumped against the wall, one hand clapped to his shoulder, eyes wide as saucers. Eldran appeared to still be unconscious. Lucky for him, Aeron thought. Dalrioc, singed, tattered, and pummeled, was just now pushing himself to his feet. Finally Oriseus turned his eyes on Aeron. There was a large charred patch on his breeches where Dalrioc had grasped his ankle and loosed his spell. And his arm stung with smoldering drops of acid. The hall itself had suffered spectacular damage. "All of you, come with me. It is clear that you need the attention of a healer."

"Master Oriseus, I demand that Aeron and these two louts be escorted from the college grounds immediately," Dalrioc groaned as he climbed to his feet. "They are to be expelled at once."

The High Conjuror turned his gaze on the Soorenaran. "And you were blameless in this incident? I think not, my prince. I shall give your recommendation all the consideration that it deserves and act accordingly. Now, come on. I don't want to hear one more word."

The moment Oriseus's back was turned, Dalrioc turned a look of bilious venom on Aeron. "I'll get you for this," he promised darkly. "If they don't expel you, leave now. It's your best chance to stay alive."

"Dalrioc!" Oriseus didn't break stride. Aeron tried to ignore the prince's threats, but he feared that Dalrioc was right. Any discipline the Ruling Council chose to impose on him was the least of his concerns.