She nodded. "I've learned a lot, but I'm homesick, and I don't think I'm ever going to become a great mage. It's just not my heart's desire to be the best."
"You're an excellent mage!" Aeron protested.
"No. I'm competent. I don't have the gift that you do, Aeron. You know that as well as I, it seems." With a wry smile, she pushed herself to her feet. One old tome caught her eye; she picked it up, weighing it in her hand, her brow furrowed. "What's this?"
"That? Oh, that's an Untheric translation of an old Imaskari text. Pretty dry, really."
"Imaskari? I'd heard there were some Imaskari works in the library, but I didn't know students were allowed to see them. It's not for everyone." She flipped it open and skimmed through a few pages. "The letters are familiar, but I don't know the language. You can read this, Aeron?"
He shrugged. "Master Oriseus has taken an interest in my studies. He's been helping me with a lot of the older texts. The old Imaskari knew things we don't today. They did not wield the Weave the way we do. They used another source of power to fuel their spells."
Melisanda set the book down. "I've heard nothing good about the old Imaskari spells, Aeron. Be careful. Oriseus's interest in these musty old tomes is unhealthy."
"You don't trust him?"
"Not a whit. That fool's manner he wears is nothing more than a veneer. He's laughing at all of us underneath his smile, I'm certain of it."
Aeron bridled. "Abrasive or not, Oriseus is one of the few people here who seems to give a damn about me. He's extremely talented, and I've made great strides since he began tutoring me."
"I thought you studied under Master Sarim. Why should Oriseus treat you like one of his own conjurors?"
He shrugged. "Oriseus says I have great potential. He thinks I can master spells that other students can't understand."
"Do you believe that?" she asked quietly, sinking to a hard wooden stool Aeron kept beside his desk. Her glacial eyes settled on his face, cool and distant, waiting for his answer. For the first time, Aeron noticed how tired Melisanda appeared. Her features, once lovely and perfect, now seemed to be stretched tight over an unforgiving frame, silk taut against a steel blade.
"Yes. I won't pretend to any false modesty, not where my magical skills are concerned. I've learned a lot since I was a novice, Melisanda."
She dropped her eyes. "Yes, you have, Aeron. I'll be taking ship in a couple of days for Chondath and home. It's the right time of year to find a tradesman bound for the Vilhon Reach, so I won't linger long."
Aeron stood up, scattering pages of cryptic notes, and paced nervously in the narrow space in front of his bed. He expected Melisanda's departure would wound him deeply, but instead of pain he felt only a relief. With Melisanda gone, that was one less person to whom he had to explain himself or measure his actions. A sudden thought struck him, and he stopped his pacing. "You're not leaving because of Dalrioc, are you?"
Melisanda shook her head. "No, not in that sense. He's set off in search of easier prey, I guess. I'm just tired and lonely, Aeron. That's all. Won't you wish me well?"
Aeron stared down at his feet for a moment. He was vaguely surprised by the gray and white tunic he still wore, the polished boots, the golden tabard that rustled as he moved. For a moment he wondered how the reckless young forester dressed in peasant's clothes had come to be standing in this room, surrounded by forgotten lore and ancient mysteries, heart open to the beautiful noblewoman who watched him pace. "Don't go, Melisanda. I love you, and I want you here."
"I was afraid you'd say that," she replied. "I suppose I've been wasting my breath." She stood and brushed her lips across his cheek. No warmth remained in her eyes, and she crossed her arms like iron bars between them. "I'll see you again, Aeron. Take care of yourself, and don't forget who you used to be." Then she dropped her eyes and slipped through the door.
* * * * *
Aeron emerged from his research long enough to watch Melisanda's coach clatter away through the college gates on a still and fog-shrouded summer morning. By the time the black coach disappeared in the ivy-bordered streets beyond the college walls, Aeron was already back at his studies.
For several weeks, he returned to his virtual isolation within the college walls, ignoring his fellow students and the novices who fearfully bowed any time they crossed his path. From time to time, he happened to run across Baldon or Eldran, but he tried to steer clear of his old hallmates for their own good. He knew that Dalrioc Corynian would make life hell for the fish if they were caught relaxing in the presence of a student.
Surprisingly, his lessons with Master Oriseus came to a halt in the middle of the summer. The High Conjuror left the college on several extended trips, and he wasted not a minute in the brief days between his journeys. He simply didn't have time to spend tutoring Aeron, although all of the students in his circle suffered. Aeron didn't mind; he returned his attention to his studies in the school of invocation, beneath Master Sarim, and filled his odd hours with a redoubled attack on the old double-text he'd found in the library after Master Raemon's death.
The goal of the High Conjuror's labors became clear on a muggy evening in late Eleasias. Aeron had retired to his room to delve into his books and tomes for the night, but a clamor in the hall caught his attention. He straightened and cracked the door. The corridor was filled with students and novices. "What's going on?" he asked a passing novice.
"There's going to be a Masters' Duel," the girl replied. She curtseyed. "It's Lord Oriseus and Lord Telemachon. They're going to start any minute." Aeron dismissed her with a nod.
Oriseus and Telemachon? Aeron frowned. He'd heard of Masters' Duels, of course. Novices and students were not permitted to turn their spells on each other, but the masters were allowed to settle differences in a ritualized trial by combat, testing skill against skill. By custom, the loser left the college. It was considered to be better for an irreconcilable difference to be hammered out under strict rules of conduct than for a rift or faction to form, spreading the disagreement. Aeron shook himself free of his astonishment and joined the crowd forming on the barren lawn beyond the Students' Hall.
Oriseus stood on the city side, calm and confident, his scarlet robes resplendent in the setting sun. His dark face was split in a fool's grin. Telemachon stood with his back to the bay, leaning on a tall black staff as if his legs could not support his sagging body. His blue robes were dyed ebon by the twilight. Aeron found himself standing next to Baldon and Eldran. He whispered, "What's this about?"
Eldran glanced over nervously and smiled. "Hello, Aeron. None of the masters are saying anything, but a fish I know overheard the council meeting this morning. He said that Telemachon accused Oriseus of murdering Raemon."
"That was months ago! Why wait until now?"
Eldran shrugged. "Who knows? My friend told me that Telemachon moved to have Oriseus dismissed and charged, but the senators' faction blocked his motion. Since he couldn't have him removed by a council vote, he demanded the right to face him in a Masters' Duel."
Aeron chewed his lip as he watched the two wizards prepare for their contest. Since Oriseus's supporters controlled half the council, it didn't surprise him that the conjuror feared no dismissal. Was Telemachon's charge a political move, or had the High Diviner actually learned something that incriminated Oriseus? If anyone could reconstruct the events of that night, Telemachon could. Did Oriseus do it? The Master Conjuror had never spoken about the matter to Aeron. "What does Lord Telemachon know?" he wondered aloud.
"Shhhh! They're getting ready to start," Baldon hissed.
In the center of the field, Master Sarim signaled for silence. The excited buzz of conversation died away. Telemachon and Oriseus approached, standing about ten yards apart. The conjuror pranced and grinned, unable to contain his nervous energy. Telemachon simply waited, his face pale and expressionless. "You are familiar with the rules, gentlemen?" Sarim asked in his lilting accent.
Both wizards nodded. "Very well, then," Sarim continued. "Master Oriseus, you are the challenged party. The first casting is yours."
Oriseus sketched a flamboyant bow. He wheeled once to wave to the crowd of onlookers, his teeth flashing white in his dark face. Then he raised one hand, muttering a toneless chant under his breath. Aeron felt the flow of power that snapped to the conjuror's outstretched arm as he expertly demanded power from the Weave of the muggy air around him. A crackling blue nimbus sprang into sight around Oriseus. With an odd snickering laugh, the conjuror pointed at Telemachon and sent a lashing bolt of cerulean energy dancing away from his aura. Acrid ozone reeked in the air.
The High Diviner planted his staff in the ground, took a half step back, and shouted a quick word that was too potent for Aeron's mind to grasp. The dancing bolt of energy swerved from his heart and struck the staff instead, grounding with a shower of sparks and an angry roar.
Oriseus's first thrust parried, Telemachon readied his counterstroke. With businesslike precision, the diviner barked a phrase of forgotten words that resounded with contained power. Aeron sensed the intangible tendrils of the Weave as Telemachon turned Oriseus's own life-force against him. Aeron had a sudden impression that Oriseus's skeleton was shining through his flesh and robes, scorching hot inside his body.
The conjuror grunted and staggered back, wisps of smoke escaping from his lips. "I didn't think you had the ruthlessness to wield such a spell, Telemachon," he gasped. He dropped to one knee, but through sheer effort of will, he managed to raise a field of negation that broke Telemachon's fiery grip on his bones.
The old diviner wheezed with fatigue, but Oriseus was not in much better shape. The conjuror took a long moment to catch his breath, stood up on unsteady feet, and with determination called out a summoning. A lean, powerful beast with bone-edged jaws appeared on the ground between Oriseus and his foe. Aeron recognized it from his studies-a leucrotta, a dangerous monster of the northlands. Students and novices alike retreated from the field of battle, pushing back four or five nervous steps. Oriseus raised his hand and sent the creature at Telemachon in a bounding leap, its jaws gaping wide.
The diviner started to speak a spell that would destroy the monster, but it was too swift for him. It seized him in its jaws and, with a quick twist of its head, sent him sprawling, his left arm raked to the bone. Telemachon shrieked and scrabbled backward awkwardly, his girth preventing him from escaping. The leucrotta darted in to finish him, but from some hidden reserve of strength, Telemachon managed to cough out a word of dismissal. Even as its jaws snapped at his face, the leucrotta disappeared, banished back to whatever place it had come from. In the sudden silence, Telemachon whimpered in pain and flailed to find his feet, but somehow he did so. "I cry foul! No summonings are allowed in the duel, not unless the creature is bound and controlled!"
"The creature was under my control," Oriseus retorted.
"You cast no binding spell upon it," Master Sarim observed from the side.
"Had you watched my spell carefully, you would have seen that I bound the monster as I summoned it." Oriseus grinned suddenly. "It's a refinement I worked out a long time ago. Now, have you had enough, Telemachon? You can end the duel by yielding."
Blood dripped from Telemachon's mangled arm, but defiance blazed from within the old man's heart. "No, I'm not done yet," he said. "It's my turn, I believe."
He took two steps forward to his staff, still stuck upright in the ground, and seized it in his good hand. Blue energy crackled and snapped as Telemachon summoned the first spell that Oriseus had cast back from the ground. He shouted a long spell of rolling, brittle words. The staff disintegrated in his hand, and the blue nimbus disappeared, sinking back into the ground again. But a moment later, a brilliant column of energy exploded under Oriseus's feet, ravening skyward as the spell burst free of the earth. Oriseus was bathed in white-hot power, his flesh blistering and bursting wherever the blue-white energy touched him. He reeled back and fell in a smoking heap.
Aeron blinked the afterimage from his eyes, stunned. Oriseus was dead; he had to be. No one could have survived that. But to his amazement, the sizzling wreckage stirred and slowly rose. Oriseus was badly injured, but Aeron could detect the fraying remnant of a sorcerous halo that had protected him from the worst of the blast.
Oriseus's cheerful manner was gone, replaced by deadly hate. "Again you surprise me," he croaked through blackened lips. "Let me show you how it's done, old man."
Oriseus began to weave a spell, his hands turning and flashing as he muttered a cold and inhuman invocation. Aeron strained forward, trying to see what Oriseus was doing, but he could not sense the Weave at work. The delicate web of earth, air, fire, and water remained untouched. Even Oriseus's own life-force was undimmed by his efforts. Aeron realized that the conjuror was employing the shadow magic, the power he'd shown to Aeron on that afternoon on the ruined ramparts. A clot of darkness formed in the air in front of Oriseus, growing larger as his chant continued. How does he do that? Aeron wondered.
Oriseus cried out with an inarticulate shout and released the sphere. The darkness darted forward, leaving streaming shadows in its wake as it arrowed toward Telemachon. The Master Diviner raised a barrier of gleaming light, but the dark sphere punched through it like a spearpoint through thatch. It engulfed the portly wizard, seeming to crumple the substance of his body as if he were a paper doll consumed by an unseen flame. Telemachon's screams were swallowed by the thing that destroyed him. In a matter of moments, nothing remained of the High Diviner.