"How did he escape?"
"I told you, he used magic!"
Miroch sneered. "That wretched lout has mastered sorcery? Think of a better lie than that!" The burly nobleman sneered at Eriale. "Perhaps you need more encouragement," he said, licking his lips. "Strip her."
The guard holding her shot a disapproving look at the lord, but set his jaw and seized the homespun dress, tearing it from Eriale's shoulders. Miroch swung down from his horse and swaggered forward.
Aeron understood what kind of encouragement Miroch had in mind. With a loud cry, he sprinted forward, knife in hand. Guards whirled, searching for the source of the shout. Aeron reached the man holding Eriale and slashed his face. The guard screamed and reeled away, holding his hands to his lacerated jaw.
And the strange, dim haze that cloaked Aeron's vision began to brighten as full daylight returned. His assault on the guard had broken the spell. He was becoming visible again!
"There he is!" shouted Miroch. He drew his slender sword from its sheath and charged forward. The other men of the detail drew their own blades and advanced.
Toric's house was a mass of flames now, and the heat smothered Aeron. He glanced wildly about, faced with steel on all sides, and suddenly he knew with absolute certainty what to do. He pressed his hands together and summoned the image of fire hand to his mind, reaching out through the Weave to grasp the turbulent flames that danced and leapt in the burning house behind him.
A great jet of scorching red flames exploded from his hands, engulfing Miroch from the waist up. Aeron held the jet on the lord for only a moment, then slewed it around to drive back the guardsmen. Miroch shrieked and staggered away, his puffed coat burning like oil-soaked tinder. The guards in their mail fared better, but the blast of heat singed faces and hands. Most were incapacitated for a moment. As the jet of flame played out, Aeron reached down to seize Eriale's hand and bolted for the safety of the forest. The girl stumbled in shock, trying to cover herself with her torn dress, but she found the wits to stretch out her legs and match Aeron's pace. Behind them, Lord Miroch toppled and fell in a blazing heap.
"Aeron! Where are you going?" Eriale panted.
"I've got to get you away from here!" he answered. "You can stay with me in the forest. Come on!"
Instead, Eriale slowed and stopped, wrenching her hand back. "No, Aeron. I can't come with you."
Aeron halted, panting. The guards were mounting their horses, shouting and cursing, but they had a two-hundred-yard lead. "Come on! They'll be upon us in a moment!"
Eriale wrapped her arms around her torso and backed away from Aeron. "What have you become, Aeron? You-you killed Miroch. You've murdered a lord."
"Eriale, I did it to save you!"
The girl shuddered in horror. "Don't say that!"
Aeron threw up his arms in exasperation. "We don't have time for this, Eriale. Phoros will just throw you in prison again!"
She turned her back on him. "You'd better go."
"Eriale, I did what I had to do!" Aeron looked past her, at the horsemen coming after him. He reached forward to catch her sleeve, but she twisted away from him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Aeron cursed and retreated, watching the soldiers gallop toward them. "I'll set this right somehow, Eriale." He bolted, hurdling a stone fence and sprinting for the cover of the trees. Behind him, Eriale turned and started walking toward the count's men.
Aeron crashed into the underbrush by the forest's edge, his heart hammering in his chest. He almost ran right past Fineghal, but at the last moment, the tall elf caught him by the arm and spun him around. The look on the elven mage's face was merciless. "What have you done, Aeron?" he barked. "When did you learn that spell?"
Aeron stumbled to one knee. "Miroch was going to hurt Eriale. I had to do something!"
"So you shaped the Weave into a torrent of flame and burned him alive. Where was the justice in that?"
A spark of defiance guttered up in Aeron's heart. He glared into the elf's inscrutable face. "You were right here! If you didn't want me to defend myself, to defend the people I love, you should have acted yourself!" He surged to his feet, his anger building. "You weren't waiting for me, Fineghal. You were hiding!"
The elven mage fell silent. His eyes flicked past Aeron to the soldiers rushing into the forest, beating the brush with their sword blades. "This discussion is not over yet. Now, come! We must get away from this place." He wheeled and sprinted into the dark verdancy of the forest, vanishing almost faster than Aeron could see.
Fineghal did not speak to Aeron for days after they fled into the forest. They avoided the torch-lit manhunt with a few simple tricks of woodcraft and magic, but the wizard's features blazed with fury when Aeron tried to break the silence. Cold judgment mantled the ageless elven lord, an impenetrable barrier that Aeron dared not breach. Bitterly Fineghal moved deep into the Maerchwood, seeking the shelter of Caerhuan. Aeron trailed helplessly in his wake.
The cold white walls of the elven tower brought no relief. Fineghal spent long hours each day in the forest, speaking no word to Aeron when he came or went. Two days passed as Aeron waited for the wizard to berate or punish him. He tried to distract himself with his studies, but he had no desire to grapple with unknown magics or press the foreign shapes of spells into his mind. He was dreadfully worried for Eriale, although he hoped that his flight had won her some measure of safety. But the fearsome image that banned rest from his heart was the memory of roaring flame and the screams of Miroch as he withered and died like a moth caught in a candle.
After days of staring out over the endless torrent and the chaotic waters of the Winding River, Aeron came to a decision. He rose, returned to the tower, and carried his pouch of glyphwoods to the rocky bluff. He pulled the carving for the fire spell from his collection and weighed it in his hand, looking out over the gorge. With an anguished cry, he hurled the slender rod of wood end over end into the foaming waters.
He felt Fineghal's presence behind him as the elven lord watched the spell wood vanish in the foam. "Does that ease your heart?" he asked quietly.
"No," said Aeron. "I didn't want to kill him, Fineghal. But when I think about it, I would do it again, to keep him from hurting Eriale. Or me. What does that make me?"
"Killing is a hard thing. When you kill, you murder a small part of your own spirit. Fear the day when it does not trouble you to take a life," Fineghal said. "Taking that which you have not earned is an offense to the spirit, too."
"If I hadn't known how to cast fire hand, Miroch might have raped or killed her," Aeron rasped.
"Better that you hadn't set foot in Maerchlin. Miroch would have had no cause to trouble Eriale, no reason to fire your neighbor's house. And you would have had no reason to kill him, Aeron."
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have kinfolk in Phoros Raedel's dungeons."
Fineghal looked away, a flicker of unreadable emotion crossing his face. Emboldened, Aeron pursued him and spoke to his back. "I'm human, Fineghal. I have a heart! You may find it noble to stand watch, never interfering, but I can't do that. Not when people I care for are in danger. If that means that you've failed to teach me patience, then so be it. I wasn't meant to learn it."
"You can't deny your heritage, Aeron. You are of the Tel'Quessir." The elven lord wrapped his cloak around his shoulders against the wind and spray, his face white with anger. He measured Aeron for a long moment, and imperceptibly his gaze softened. "And yet you are human, too. Maybe you are right, Aeron. I might have found a better course for you if I had intervened. Your failure is my failure." Stretching out one arm, he breathed a few soft words and beckoned. From the white, booming rapids, a small length of wood flew, tumbling into his hand. "Take your glyphwood. The spell has been cast, and the fault does not lie here."