The foyer resembled the entrance of the Masters’ Hall, but it seemed plainer and brighter. The masters’ building was steeped in an air of dignity and reserve, a weight of tradition that brooked no insolence. But the moment Aeron and Melisanda stepped inside the students’ quarters, they were nearly bowled over by a pair of novices bounding through the hall, attempting to tag each other with small spheres of colored light—a magician’s game of tag.
Aeron caught Melisanda by the arm and dragged her out of the path of a novice. “Is everyone this enthusiastic?”
Melisanda sniffed. “No. Baldon and Eldran appear to have suddenly lost their reason, that’s all.”
The taller lad was a freckle-faced boy several years younger than Aeron, with an unruly shock of red hair on top of his head. Panting, he skidded to a halt. “Hey, Eldran, look—a new fish! What’s your name, fish?”
The other boy spared Aeron a passing glance while he whisked the yellow sphere into Baldon’s ribs with a sweeping gesture. The glowing sphere splattered as it struck the taller boy, covering him in a golden halo. “Ha! Gotcha.” Satisfied that he’d had the better of the match, he paused to assess Aeron. He was a little younger than Aeron, too, and stood half a head shorter than he.
“Baldon, Eldran, this is Aeron Morieth, from Maerchlin. Aeron, these are two of your hallmates.”
“Hallmates?”
“Ha! What a new fish!” Baldon snorted. “How’d you get stuck shepherding this clod around, Melisanda?”
Melisanda shot him a dirty look and then turned her back on the boy. “All the novices and students are divided among the four halls in this building, Aeron. There’s an east and west wing, and each has two floors. Hallmates look out for each other. Baldon, Eldran, and I belong to Sword Hall. The others are Crown, Ring, and Scepter.”
“So that’s why you showed me around. Telemachon sent for one of my hallmates to get me settled in.”
Melisanda nodded. “Two of our students graduated recently, so we were due to get some new fish. Come on, we’ll show you to your room.”
A grand staircase of polished wood swept up from the entry hall, curving into a balcony that ringed the chamber. On one side was a doorway surmounted by a heraldic crest featuring a gilded crown; opposite it, another doorway marked by two crossed swords led into a long corridor. “Sword Hall?” Aeron asked.
Melisanda nodded. They marched about halfway down the hallway past door after door before she halted in front of one, undid the clasp, and pushed it open. The room was about five paces wide, and maybe seven deep; a narrow window looked out over the outside wall and to the barren coasts beyond the city walls. The floor was gleaming hardwood; the furnishings included a small bed, a dresser, a standing chest, a writing desk, and an empty bookshelf. “Your new home,” she announced.
“This will do,” Aeron said. To be honest, it was a far finer room than any he’d called his own in Maerchlin, but he was determined not to let his hallmates guess the truth. He shrugged his bedroll and pack from his shoulder onto the bed, drifting to the window in amazement. He’d seen too much in one day. Wandering through the city, meeting Telemachon, walking around the College of Mages … he’d never dreamed how much existed outside the small villages and wide forests of his home.
“Stand to!” barked Baldon. Aeron nearly leapt out of his boots, whirling and raising a hand to defend himself. All three of his companions faced the door, bowing.
In the doorway stood a tall, handsome youth, a red tabard and cap over his gray breeches and white shirt. He leaned against the lintel, surveying the scene, a well-pleased smirk resting on his confident face. His gaze halted on Aeron. “Please don’t tell me that this dung-toting peasant is our new fish,” he said languidly.
“Yes, sir, Lord Dalrioc,” answered Baldon. “He’s our new fish, sir.”
The young wizard straightened and advanced, a scowl settling over his features. “Haven’t they taught you anything yet, fish?”
Aeron noted the inferior pose the others had assumed and realized that Dalrioc expected him to copy them. Awkwardly he did so. “I only arrived today, my lord.”
“From what stinking midden heap, I can only imagine,” Dalrioc commented. “What idiot let you in here?”
“Master Telemachon.”
“And for what possible reason would the High Diviner allow a wretch like you to soil my hall?”
With a conscious effort, Aeron bit back a sharp retort and instead answered, “I’m here to study magic, my lord.”
Dalrioc laughed harshly. “By Assuran! Why not teach a pig to sing while we’re at it?”
Despite the warning glance Melisanda shot at him, Aeron straightened and looked Dalrioc in the eye. “I’ve studied some already,” he said evenly.
“What, did some hedge wizard teach you how to make potions with bat wings and mudwort?”
“No. I had the honor to study under a great elven mage. He sent me here to continue my learning.”
Dalrioc stalked around Aeron, circling him. “Very well. Let us see you work some elven magic, new fish. Impress me with your powers.”
Melisanda raised her eyes and spoke. “Lord Dalrioc, we haven’t had a chance to explain things to Aeron. He doesn’t know any better. Please allow us to correct his abominable behavior. There’s no need to trouble yourself with such an insignificant creature.”
Dalrioc wheeled on Melisanda with such savagery that Aeron almost expected him to strike her, but at the last moment he reined in his anger. He narrowed his eyes and said, “You are not to inform me of what I may or may not find insignificant, fish. However, you are correct in observing that you have failed miserably in preparing Aeron to become a novice of the college. In reparation, the three of you may empty every chamber pot in Sword Hall three times a day for the next week. And, Melisanda, since you are so anxious to make amends, you may make my bed in the morning and turn down my covers in the evening.” Dalrioc allowed his eyes to rest on Melisanda long enough for the Vilhonese girl to flush and look at the floor.
“But it’s my ignorance, and no fault of theirs!” Aeron protested, disregarding the silent warnings of his fellows.
“Make that two weeks,” Dalrioc amended. “Each time this fish is disrespectful to me, I’ll add another.”
Aeron fell silent. He could see where this was going.
“Now, I asked you to work a spell,” Dalrioc continued. “I cannot believe that you have any worthwhile command of the art, but since you seem to think so, let’s see you prove it.” He crossed his arms and offered an indulgent smile, but his eyes were cold and hard.
“Yes, my lord,” Aeron replied. He searched through his mind for a moment, seeking something appropriate. He was fleetingly tempted to lash out with fire hand or the charm of blindness simply to see how Dalrioc would react. Instead, he chose to work the charm of invisibility. With a whisper and a quick, skillful turn of the cool currents of the Weave around him, he vanished from sight.
The novices’ eyes widened in surprise, but they held their tongues and waited motionlessly. Dalrioc, on the other hand, was visibly shocked. He mouthed a vile oath and scowled. “You know the spell of invisibility?” he said, speaking in Aeron’s direction.
“Yes,” Aeron answered. To illustrate the scope of his spell, he opened and closed one of the dresser’s drawers. “Fineghal, my old tutor, taught me the spell months ago.”
“Release it at once,” Dalrioc demanded.
Aeron did so, slowly fading back into view.
The older student glared at Aeron for a long moment, and then stomped out of the room. “Remember—two weeks of chamber pots, and more if you don’t get him squared away quickly!” he barked over his shoulder. He slammed the door shut behind him.
Melisanda, Baldon, and Eldran heaved sighs of relief. Aeron faced them. “I’ll take care of the chamber pots.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Melisanda retorted. “If Dalrioc suspects that you carried out just one pot, he’d skin us alive for disobey
ing him. Do you understand me?”
Aeron nodded slowly. “I do.”
Baldon dragged out the chair by the desk and straddled it, resignation on his face. “Well, make yourself comfortable, Aeron. We’ve got a lot to tell you about the rules of the hall.”
“Before we start, I have a question. Why was he so surprised by the spell I chose?”
To Aeron’s astonishment, all three novices laughed. “Because Dalrioc can’t work it himself,” Melisanda said. “Illusions are his weakest school. If you already know how to weave a spell as advanced as that, you won’t be a novice for long. He’ll make your life miserable for a few weeks, but you’ll be recognized as a student in no time at all.”
Seven
Aeron met the rest of his hallmates in the refectory that evening. Besides Melisanda, Baldon, and Eldran, there were eighteen more fish who shared his lowly status. Most were highborn Chessentans from all over the country, even a few from cities that were rivals or enemies of Cimbar, and a handful from other lands. By twos and threes, they drifted into the refectory, joining Aeron and his new friends at the table reserved for the novices of Sword Hall.
Somehow Melisanda and the two boys had found the time to quietly spread the news among the novices of Aeron’s arrival and his moral victory over Dalrioc. From one end of the table to the other, he was greeted with broad smiles and easy jests. Aeron was beginning to understand that adversity builds fellowship; the twenty-one—now twenty-two—fish of Sword Hall were united against the ruthless tyranny imposed by the students.
“Well, he shouldn’t have challenged me to prove myself without knowing a thing about me,” Aeron replied to their congratulations. He looked around discreetly; the masters dined at the high table, and long tables just below were reserved for the students of each of the four halls. Dalrioc held court among the Sword Hall students, laughing and conversing without a care in the world. From time to time, other students, and even a master or two, came over to speak with him. Apparently Dalrioc was a student of some importance. “Why does everyone hover around him like that?” Alies asked Melisanda.
“He’s a Corynian,” she said with a shrug.
Aeron frowned, trying to understand the significance of that statement. Then it struck him. The Corynians ruled the wealthy city of Soorenar, one of the principal rivals of Cimbar. Born to one of the highest families in Chessenta, and he’s no better than I, Aeron thought. So much for nobility. He allowed himself a moment to revel in his minor victory over Dalrioc Corynian before returning his attention to his surroundings. “I thought Soorenar fought against Cimbar and was defeated,” he said slowly. “If he’s a prince of a beaten city, why’s he so important?”
His highborn hallmates stared long enough for Aeron’s face to flush red. Melisanda eventually took pity on him. “Do you know anything of the alliances of the land, Aeron?” she asked quietly.
“I’ve never had cause to concern myself with such matters.” In rustic Maerchlin, the great alliances and intrigues had seemed a thousand miles distant. A peasant or lowborn freeholder such as Aeron was so far removed from the affairs of lords and kings that it was useless to waste thought on the matter, but here things were far different.
“Think on it, Aeron,” Melisanda said, lowering her voice. “Which cities lead Chessenta today?”
“Cimbar and Akanax, of course. Their alliance defeated Soorenar and Luthcheq. They’re the only strong cities left.”
“And with no foes to ally against, what is there to bind them together?”
“Nothing, I suppose. But what does this have to do with Dalrioc of Soorenar? His city was Cimbar’s rival before the Time of Troubles, but it’s been ruined by Akanax.”
“You forget that Soorenar was always a wealthy city,” Baldon interjected. “Its might is in the coffers of its merchants, not its strength of arms. The Corynians have rebuilt the city very quickly.”
“The alliance between Akanax and Cimbar is a thing of the past. And the fragile truce that exists now might be blown away by a strong wind. Now do you understand?” Melisanda said.
Aeron’s head swam. So Cimbar as a city-state teetered precariously between one rival—Akanax—and one enemy—Soorenar—just as the Sceptanar himself faced the opposition of the city’s demagogues and the censure of the noble senate. He nodded slowly, his eyes on Dalrioc. “Akanax and Cimbar balance in the scales. A resurgent Soorenar might tip them. And so Dalrioc holds court in Cimbar’s College of Mages.” Aeron grimaced; he couldn’t have picked a more powerful enemy if he had tried.
He methodically attacked his food for a time, mindful of his common manners. The novices ate at trestle tables at the end of refectory. The students shared smaller tables in the center of the room, and beyond the tables held by the students stood the high table of the hall, where the masters ate. Aeron counted twenty-six seats at the head of the hall, but only about half were occupied. While he watched, a master in a yellow robe paused by the table of the Sword Hall students to speak with Dalrioc. “So if Dalrioc is here to entertain offers of alliance against Akanax,” Aeron said, “why isn’t he guesting in the palace of the Sceptanar?”
“Because the Sceptanar wants no part of the Corynians or Soorenar,” Eldran replied, a little too loudly. “As soon as Soorenar chooses a side, Akanax will be forced to find other allies like Mordulkin or Airspur, and that means war all across Chessenta. But Cimbar’s senators, and even some of the demagogues, disagree with the Sceptanar’s stance. There’s talk that the Sceptanar won’t hold his seat for long.” The black looks he received from his neighbors embarassed the enthusiastic apprentice into a self-conscious silence. Flushing, he shifted in his seat and leaned closer to Aeron, lowering his voice. “Or so it’s said, anyway. Some of the masters belong to parties opposed to the Sceptanar,” he continued. “If they overthrow Cimbar’s king, who knows what might happen?”
Factions opposed to the Sceptanar? Foreign intrigue? Wizards shifting from party to party like children picking sides for a game of hide-and-seek? Wizardry seemed simple by comparison! Aeron chewed slowly, thinking. “How does anything get done?”
“In the college, the Sceptanar’s men decide the issues. The senators and the demagogues oppose each other, so Lord Telemachon and the other masters who support Cimbar’s king throw their weight from one side to the other,” said Melisanda. “Most of the students are noble-born, and they choose sides as well.”
“Which masters belong to which factions?”
Melisanda glanced around and lowered her voice. “You don’t want to speculate too openly, but here’s where matters stand. The High Masters of Alteration, Conjuration, and Necromancy are from families that support the senate over the Sceptanar. Five of the lesser masters from these schools are in this camp, too. Some favor peace with Akanax, and others a new alliance with Soorenar.
“The Masters of Illusion, Invocation, and Enchantment are populists who favor the Mob. Seven lesser masters in these schools stand with them. The demagogues agitate for war with Akanax and the overthrow of the Sceptanar.
“Finally, Telemachon—he’s the Master of Divination, you might recall—the Master Librarian, and the Master of Abjuration are the Sceptanar’s men. They lean toward honoring our truce with King Gormantor of Akanax.”
Aeron eyed the mages and archmages Melisanda had pointed out. “Where do we fit in?”
“Until we’re students, we don’t matter,” Baldon said. “And don’t worry about it, Aeron. It’s all scheming and double-talk. It’s not as if they’re going to start slinging spells at any moment. They’ve been at this for a very long time.”
Eldran looked up from beside him and jabbed an elbow into Baldon’s arm. “Whoops! Stop talking about it. Seara’s coming to join us.”
The camaraderie of the novices faded as a heavyset young woman in a tabard and cap of green sat down at the head of their table. She eyed the nearby novices with contempt, ignoring Aeron, then turned her attention to her dinner. Slowly the fish resumed their subdue
d conversations, taking care to ensure that Seara was not disturbed.
“Are we allowed to speak freely at the table?” Aeron asked Melisanda quietly.
“Yes, although it’s a good idea never to say anything about a student or a master when we’re chaperoned. The students take turns supervising us.”
“Why?”
“To make sure that we don’t disgrace Sword Hall by doing something that draws a master’s attention to our table,” Melisanda replied with a tight smile. “Students never brace you up when a master’s present, since it wouldn’t be proper to involve a real wizard in something so insignificant as correcting a novice’s behavior. But you can bet that students remember everything you do wrong and take it out on you later.”
After the evening meal, Aeron and his fellows returned to the Students’ Hall for a few hours’ study. Both novices and students alike had dozens of thick tomes cluttering their rooms and attacked them with desperate energy until late in the evening. Melisanda retired to her studies, but Baldon and Eldran remained in Aeron’s room to help him memorize the names of every master, as well as the students of Sword Hall. Afterward they talked late into the night while arranging Aeron’s few belongings.
Aeron found himself yawning continuously. It had been a long day, and he finally turned in after midnight. After Baldon and Eldran left, he extinguished the lamp and dropped onto the simple mattress. Although his limbs trembled with physical and nervous exhaustion, Aeron could not sleep; his mind raced as he grappled with everything that he’d seen and learned during the day. But eventually fatigue won, and he drifted off to sleep.
Over the next few days, Aeron attended his first lessons at the College of Mages. The novices of Sword Hall divided their day into a morning and an afternoon class and had formal classes and lectures eight days out of the ten-day week. Each of the disciplines of magic was discussed at least once per week by a master garbed in the colors of the school he represented. Other lectures touched on history, ancient languages, the natural world, and other arcane topics. As promised, Lord Telemachon lectured on divinations the second day of Aeron’s schooling. The old master ignored Aeron throughout the entire lecture.
The Shadow Stone Page 11
