The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  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 spellbooks. 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.