"I'm never casting that spell again."
"You may have need of it someday, Aeron. It is foolish to forget what you have learned." Fineghal passed one hand over the duarran and dried it with a simple magic. Then he handed it to Aeron.
Aeron looked at the glyphwood for a long time before returning it to his pouch. "I'm going to go back. I can't let Phoros Raedel terrorize Eriale and Kestrel any longer."
"Aeron, you can't defeat Raedel."
"You could, Fineghal," Aeron said bitterly.
"Whether or not that is true, I will not attempt it. It would be reckless and irresponsible of me."
"So you'd unseat a bandit lord in Villon, but the one in Maerchlin is beneath your notice?"
Fineghal's eyes flashed. "I live to serve Calmaercor, Aeron. Baerskos of Villon pillaged the old places of my people, and so I acted. But I refuse to endanger the land I guard by setting my hand against Phoros Raedel, his master in Oslin, and behind him, the Overking of Akanax."
"Then I'm on my own," Aeron snorted.
"I beg you: Do not throw away your life in an attempt to end Phoros Raedel's."
The young forester shook his head. "Whatever it takes, I mean to get Kestrel out of Raedel's dungeons. If Kestrel escapes, Eriale and he can leave Maerchlin. They've no other kin there. Would you be willing to find a place for them, maybe in Saden or Rodanar? Or is that interfering?"
Fineghal's voice was frigid. "Yes. I would help them, Aeron. But be warned that I will no longer teach you if you wield your magic against Raedel. I did not share my knowledge with you so that you could spite your enemies. You have it within your grasp to do much more than that." He wheeled and strode away, raising his hand for Baillegh. The hound shot one mournful look at Aeron and then trotted after her master.
Aeron watched Fineghal leave, shaking with suppressed emotion from the confrontation. To his surprise, the elven lord halted and glanced at him one more time. "I must tend to the eastern meadows for a few days," he called. "Stay here and study what you will. I am not accustomed to being castigated by half-human striplings, but I will overlook the words you spoke in anger if you, too, put it in the past. Or, if that does not suit you, then go to Maerchlin and do what you think you must. But if I return and find that you are not here, Aeron, you will not be welcome in Caerhuan again."
Five
Aeron remained on the bluff, deep in thought, until the sun sank into the west, staining the cold waters below with a thousand brilliant colors. Fineghal's parting words troubled him greatly. The elf lord was not given to exaggeration. Never to study magic again. . Aeron couldn't bear the thought. He'd been changed by the year he'd spent under Fineghal's tutelage. He was not the simple woodcutter's lad he'd once been. Magic engaged his mind, his heart, on a level so intimate and demanding that it had become part of him. And he'd come to understand that he was only scratching the surface of what he might someday learn.
But on the other horn of his dilemma, Aeron could not stand by and let Phoros Raedel exact his vengeance by striking at Kestrel and Eriale. As far as he was concerned, Aeron had given Regos and Phoros exactly what they deserved when he wounded them last summer, and even Miroch's death had been nothing more than self-defense. But as long as Phoros Raedel was the lord of the land, the young tyrant was free to do anything he liked in order to secure his own brand of justice. Six dozen swordsmen in Castle Raedel ensured that Raedel could interpret the law any way he cared to. What choice did Aeron really have?
He turned and headed back to the tower, thinking of what he could do to even the odds against Raedel. Fineghal had told him to study what he would; as long as he was going to defy the wizard's will, he might as well stretch the letter of Fineghal's parting words. As night fell, Aeron let himself into the tower's library, searching for Rhymes of Magic and Wonder. The spell of shapechanging was still far beyond his abilities, even if it hadn't been erased by his carelessness, but there were plenty of other spells that might lie within his ability in the old bardic text. I'll need every edge I can get if I hope to pull this off, he thought. I might be rash by Fineghal's standards, but that doesn't mean that I can't take the time to do this right.
He found the text where he'd left it. Lighting a lamp with a simple cantrip Fineghal had taught him almost a year ago, Aeron sat down and began to page through the spellbook, looking for the enchantments he'd need.
Aeron worked at a feverish pace, refusing to allow exhaustion or emotion to distract him. Now that he'd chosen his course, he intended to follow it no matter what the consequences. Although he hated to waste the time, he forced himself to sleep on the second night, readying himself for the day to follow.
In the gray hours before dawn, ten days after his confrontation with Miroch and the Raedel armsmen, Aeron rose and found himself alone in Caerhuan still, with no sign of Fineghal. He turned to the glyphwoods he'd prepared and settled down to commit the spells to memory. Within an hour, he'd mastered six spells at once, a feat he'd never managed before. The minor victory felt cold and empty.
With his spells readied, Aeron stuffed his pack with provisions, shouldered his bow, and set off for Maerchlin. The village was a good forty miles or more from Caerhuan, and he used the elven run that Fineghal had taught him to cover half the distance by the time the sun set. Now that he was on his way, he was eager to press forward and get on with it, but again he made himself lie down and rest while the moon sank beneath the horizon and the darkest part of the night went by.
Before dawn, he woke and gathered his things, setting off for the village to the north. He ran easily for hours, stripped to the waist to stay cool in the sticky warmth of the day. Sweat streamed from his brow and glistened on his back.
Late in the afternoon, he arrived at the edges of Maerchlin. The fields were tall and ripe, corn and grain higher than his head. Aeron deliberately avoided Kestrel's homestead, deciding not to risk an encounter with guardsmen or trackers watching over the place. He settled down under the shadows of the wood, a mile around the village from his old home, and rested from his travels.
Eventually the long, hot afternoon faded into a warm dusk. By twos and threes, the townsfolk sought out their homes as the light failed. Aeron waited until the sun had been down an hour or more before he finally stirred from his hiding place. "Time to get started," he told himself. Standing in the shadows beneath the trees, he dusted himself with sand and murmured the words to the invisibility spell. As before, the dweomer seemed to immerse him in a smoky, dark glass. For a moment Aeron feared that the spell's effect might ruin his own vision, too, but slowly his eyes adjusted. Confident in his concealment, he moved into the town.
First he ventured through back lanes and empty pastures to Kestrel's house, coming up on it from the town. Lights showed through the windows, but he spotted a pair of dark-clothed guards keeping watch over the house from a short distance. Aeron frowned and slid forward silently, passing Raedel's soldiers without a sound. He crouched by the open window and peered inside.
To his surprise, Shiela Goldsheaf and her husband Toric were sharing a small crock of stew in the hearthroom. Aeron glanced around to make sure that the guards were out of earshot, then whispered, "Shiela? It's Aeron. Stay where you are and keep your voice low. The guards haven't seen me."
The stout matron looked up in amazement and returned her attention to her stew. "You shouldn't have come here, Aeron," she said. "You're to be killed on sight here."
In the darkness, he smiled. "I'll take pains not to be seen. Kestrel's still in the castle dungeons?"