The High Conjuror turned his gaze on the Soorenaran. "And you were blameless in this incident? I think not, my prince. I shall give your recommendation all the consideration that it deserves and act accordingly. Now, come on. I don't want to hear one more word."
The moment Oriseus's back was turned, Dalrioc turned a look of bilious venom on Aeron. "I'll get you for this," he promised darkly. "If they don't expel you, leave now. It's your best chance to stay alive."
"Dalrioc!" Oriseus didn't break stride. Aeron tried to ignore the prince's threats, but he feared that Dalrioc was right. Any discipline the Ruling Council chose to impose on him was the least of his concerns.
Nine
By the ancient laws of the college, a sorcerous duel between students meant expulsion for both parties involved. Aeron fully expected to be dismissed within a matter of hours after the incident in Sword Hall, but one day passed, then two, and then a week without any summons from the Ruling Council. Finally Aeron was ordered to move from Sword Hall to Crown Hall. He hated the idea of leaving his few friends behind, but it was clear that he and Dalrioc couldn't share a hall any longer, and it was no surprise that the prince was allowed to remain where he was comfortable.
Aeron's new hallmates offered little in the way of a welcome. The novices, of course, avoided any student like the plague, and Aeron's peers in Crown Hall were not anxious to befriend someone who had earned Dalrioc Corynian's hatred.
The week after Aeron's transfer to Crown Hall, the summons he had dreaded arrived. He hurried over to the Masters' Hall and presented himself to Lord Telemachon. The old wizard was even more haggard and worn than Aeron remembered, and he rubbed his temples constantly, as if to smooth an excess of pain from his mind. "You are satisfied with your new quarters?" he grated.
"Yes, my lord. I miss my hallmates, though."
"You might have made more of an effort to get along with Dalrioc, if that is how you feel."
"Yes, my lord."
"Do you know how close you came to expulsion, Aeron?" Telemachon turned his tired gaze on the young mage. There was no good answer to this question, so Aeron shrugged uncomfortably. "It came down to a vote of the Ruling Council. As your sponsor, I abstained. So did Sarim. Naturally Corynian's friends wanted you out."
Aeron counted the High Masters in his mind. "If you and Master Sarim abstained, my lord, Dalrioc's friends hold four of the seven remaining seats. Why wasn't I expelled?"
Telemachon sighed. "The masters who feel no friendship toward the Corynians of Soorenar defended you. And Master Oriseus chose to cast his vote in your favor. So you remain here by a single vote."
"What of Dalrioc?"
The old diviner laughed humorlessly. "He was in no danger of expulsion, not with his puppets on the council. You've chosen a powerful enemy for yourself, Aeron."
"He chose me first," Aeron replied darkly.
"Hmmmph. Be glad that one of the High Masters voted his conscience. Otherwise you'd be on a hay wagon back to Maerchlin." Telemachon leaned forward on his elbows, fixing Aeron with an unblinking stare. "Had I a vote in the council, I would have expelled you despite my old debt to Fineghal. I do not believe the rules of the college are to be so lightly dishonored, Aeron. You may go."
Aeron stood and left. He paused in the door, considering an apology. Telemachon ignored him. Aeron bit back his words and stalked out of the room.
To his surprise, he returned to his new room in Crown Hall only to find Master Oriseus waiting impatiently, rifling through Aeron's notes with nervous energy. "Ah! There you are, Aeron. May I have a word with you?"
"Of-of course, Lord Oriseus," Aeron stammered.
"Good, good! Let us take a stroll about the grounds." With a broad grin, Oriseus bounded down the hall and out into the long-shadowed afternoon. Aeron lengthened his stride to keep up with the red-robed master. The Master Conjuror led him to the wedge-shaped ramparts mantling the college grounds, whirled dramatically to survey the city below, and perched on the cold stone. "I am delighted that you are still among us, Aeron," he stated, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner. "It was only by the narrowest of margins that I kept you in the college."
"So I'd heard," Aeron said. "Thank you, Lord Oriseus. I couldn't imagine abandoning my studies."
"Nor could I, Aeron. Your skill is truly extraordinary for one so young. Your gift must be cultivated; it would be a crime to let you slip from our grasp, so to speak." The master leaned back, his eyes glittering. "You chose the yellow of invocation upon your elevation."
"I felt that my talents were best suited for it, my lord."
"Oh, I am not jealous. You see, I hope to persuade you to study with me yet. May I explain?"
Aeron nodded his assent. The master stood quickly and began to pace anxiously as he spoke. "The wielding of magic," he stated, "is nothing more than common craftsmanship. A potter or woodcarver takes a raw material and then shapes it into the form he desires with his skill and labor. Well, any wizard does exactly the same thing. He takes the raw stuff of magic and uses the tools of his willpower and learning to shape the spell he needs."
"The analogy isn't perfect," Aeron observed. "The materials a craftsman works with require no special gift or skill to acquire. But not everyone has the ability to manipulate the Weave."
"Indeed! And what, may I ask, is the Weave? From where do we draw the power to wield our spells? Have you ever wondered how it is that you grasp this power, Aeron?"
"My master Fineghal taught me that it is the life of the world," Aeron replied. "A spirit or potential in all things-"
"Not true, not true," Oriseus interrupted. "I did not ask you whence magic comes. I asked you, what is the Weave by which we wield it?"
Aeron acknowledged the point. "The Weave itself is the means by which we perceive and wield the magic potential all around us, Lord Oriseus. I ask your pardon. It is easy to forget that the Weave is only the surface. Fineghal once called it the soul of magic."
"And the priests teach us that the Lady Mystra is the Weave, the divine gift bringer who makes the working of magic possible. Is that not so?" Oriseus did not wait for Aeron to answer. "Yet not all mages have acknowledged her existence or stewardship. Oh, I do not question the existence of the Weave, and the relationship between the Weave and the fabric of raw magic that underlies all things. But Mystra has been known in this land of Chessenta for perhaps four or five centuries now. Before the worship of Mystra came to Cimbar, when the Untheri held this land in thrall, we were taught that Thalatos-Thoth, in the Mulhorandi lands-was the lord of magic."
"In my classes, the philosophers state that Mystra has always held power over the Weave since the very beginning of things," Aeron replied. "Whether or not she is known and worshiped is immaterial. She chooses to make the Weave available to all, and so it is. After all, you don't need to venerate a god of fire in order to strike a flame."
"Ah! An excellent point, young Aeron. So, could you make a fire if a god of fire did not exist?"
Aeron shrugged helplessly. "I suppose so. I'm afraid that my learning in philosophy and theology is not equal to my skill in other arts."
Oriseus grinned wickedly. "On the contrary, dear boy, it simply means that you are not fettered with the age-old lies and deceptions perpetrated upon generation and generation of our youth. Allow me to rephrase the question: Could you work magic if no Weave existed?"